The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (26 page)

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” argued Duncan Tiele, picking up the refugee and stroking it, awakening gritty purring sounds. “He brought us luck tonight, you have to admit.”

“Nonsense,” jeered Valerian, walking away. “If you are so foolish as to believe such stuff, you’re the one should adopt the wretched little brute. You’ll need plenty of luck tomorrow!”

Tiele grinned, and as Valerian passed, slipped the adoptee onto the back of his black stallion.

Cranford watched the cat cling desperately to Walker’s saddle blanket “Poor little mog,” he muttered. “Finchley gave it a hard kick that likely will put an end to it. If it survives, I’ll take it back to the Manor. My aunt will take it in, I’m sure.”

Glendenning said, “I think you’ve just found another mouth to feed, dear boy! Now, what the deuce are we going to do with the nags? Can’t leave ’em out in the rain the night before the race!”

This problem was solved by the host, who fortunately had an old barn in his back field that was now used for storage and was still fairly weather-proof. Grooms and ostlers were summoned,
the various horses were led to their temporary quarters, and a generous sum was collected to pay the men who were to guard the animals through the remaining hours of darkness.

Very few occupants of the Golden Goose slept late the following morning. Cranford was up and dressed by seven o’clock, and already the old inn was full of movement and bustle. The few hours of sleep had refreshed him, and aside from a burn on his right forearm, bruised ribs and a dull headache, he was little the worse for the night’s violence.

He opened the side door and stepped into an early morning heavy with clouds, and chill air that was stirred by occasional icy gusts. A few men were gathered about the charred remains of the barn. He joined them to look at the ruins, grimly aware that he had been meant to perish there and wondering which of the contestants was so desperate to win as to be willing to incinerate Sudbury, himself, and some very fine horses. So far as he was aware, Finchley had been first and very fast on the scene. Nor had Roland Mathieson lost any time in rescuing Rumpelstiltskin. Valerian also had arrived promptly to lead out his black stallion. Any one of them, having foreknowledge of the fire, could have come quickly to the rescue of his own mount. Yet it was difficult to believe that any gentleman, even so unpleasant an individual as Gresford Finchley, would have put the other horses at such terrible risk.

He made his way across the field to the makeshift stables. The skies were lighter now and the ground was comparatively dry, but there was a misting on the air and banking clouds on the horizon held a promise of rain to come.

Inevitably, his thoughts dwelt on last night’s fire. It was possible, of course, that the guilty party was an unscrupulous individual with large wagers riding on the outcome of the race. He dismissed that possibility at once, however, reasoning that
had he or any of the horses been killed, the Steeplechase would almost certainly have been postponed or cancelled, which would not please a gambling enthusiast.

In the temporary stables, ostlers and grooms were busy; Roland Mathieson’s splendid chestnut stallion was being fussed over by two grooms. A man cursed angrily and sprang from a stall, barely eluding the bared teeth of the tall bay gelding who lunged after him. Gresford Finchley’s mount was showing its ferocity once again. “Like man, like beast,” thought Cranford. A fine black was in the adjoining stall, its coat gleaming in the light of the lanterns as a groom combed the silken mane. The man nodded respectfully to Cranford, who said, “Mr. Valerian’s mount, no? Why is he called Walker?”

“On account of the way he moves, sir. Picks up his hooves high, sorta like he goes on springs.”

“I’ve seen him run. He’s very fast.”

The groom nodded and said with a grin that Flyer might have been a better name for the animal.

There was no sign of either Tio or his mare, but Cranford was pleasantly surprised to see a heavily veiled lady chatting with Sudbury while he brushed Tassels. Coming up beside her, he said, “You’re early abroad, ma’am.”

“Good morning, lieutenant.” Miss Mary Westerman turned to him and put out her hand and he held it briefly. “Yes. I knew His Grace meant to arrive early, so I dragged my poor aunt from her bed and bullied her into accompanying us. Sudbury has been telling me what transpired last night. Who would want to do so wicked a thing?”

The groom showed a very red face to his employer, then averted his eyes.

Cranford said, “I wish I knew, ma’am. Certainly, they didn’t draw the line at murder. How do you go on today, Sudbury?”

The groom looked crestfallen and muttered sheepishly that he was willing to swear the ale was “right as rain” when he’d carried it to the barn. “Some artful cove must’ve slipped something
into the tankard whilst I was busy with Tassels. Sorry I am, sir. I should’a been more careful.”

The mare butted her head against Cranford affectionately, and he stroked her and assured her that she looked very well this morning. “You had no way of knowing there were murderers about,” he told his groom. “Did you catch sight of anyone lurking near the barn? Or someone showing an unusual interest in Tassels?”

Sudbury said he’d noticed no suspicious characters.

Mary put in, “You would be hard put to it to find anyone who was not interested in Tassels, Mr. Cranford. She is so much admired. I came here to wish her well, and now can only be thankful you were unharmed.”

Although her features were hidden, there was a warmth to her voice and he could picture her pretty smile. He said lightly, “We thank you. Though I fancy we’re not the only recipients of your good wishes.”

“True.” Her tone was cooler now. “I had words with Roland Mathieson’s Rumpelstiltskin, and I have to say I think him your most formidable competition.”

She knew perfectly well that he’d not teased her about Mathieson’s horse, but to persist would probably embarrass her, so he asked instead if she had already breakfasted.

Aware that she had been spared, and grateful for that courtesy, Mary answered, “No. And I am absolutely famished.”

“I never allow my well-wishers to be famished,” he declared, offering his arm.

Taking it, she murmured, “Are you not afraid of public opinion? Despite this stupid veil I may very well have been recognized. Even if I am still incognito, you will be criticized for accompanying a fast woman who dared attend such a male gathering as this.”

He said with a chuckle, “Yes. Only think how my reputation will be enhanced. You ladies love a rake, do you not?”

She stiffened. “If you mean Valerian…”

“I hadn’t, but it would certainly—Look out!”

They were strolling past a railed partition which now served as a stall for Major Finchley’s tall bay. Mary’s veil had fluttered over the side and the bad-tempered animal made a grab for it. Cranford jerked Mary away but the big horse had torn the veil from her hat.

A groom, leaning against a post and chewing on a straw, laughed.

Cranford said sharply, “Return the lady’s veil, if you please.”

“Beggin’ yer pardin, sir,” said the groom, his impertinent gaze fixed on Mary, “but it’s more’n I dare do ter go in with that ugly brute. A man-killer he be!”

Stepping closer, Cranford snapped, “Remove your greasy stare from the lady, at once, or I’ll throw you in there!”

The groom glanced at him, read the menace in the icy blue eyes and fled.

Cranford took up a rake that had been left propped against the wall and climbed over the stall’s low gate.

Watching the restless stamping of the big animal, Mary cried anxiously, “No, no! Pray do not! The damage is done, and I don’t need—”

Cranford thought, ‘Oh, yes, you do!’ and stepped inside.

The veil lay crumpled in the right front corner. The bay tossed his proud head about, pawed at the floor and snorted menacingly. “Easy, lad,” said Cranford. Continuing to talk soothingly, he edged towards the veil, while keeping one eye on the horse and a firm grip on the rake.

The animal began to prance about and the ears were laid back.

Cranford reached for the veil, hearing Mary whisper, “Oh—my heavens!”

Teeth bared, the big bay plunged at him. He held the rake high and said sternly, “Down, you rogue!” The animal halted and edged back, as if confused, and Cranford added, ‘Yes, I
know you’re a fine fellow, and I mean you no harm, so be at ease and behave as you ought.”

The great eyes watching him were fierce still, but the ears twitched erect again.

Still talking softly, Cranford took up the veil and backed towards the gate.

A harsh voice roared, “What the
devil
are you doing to my horse, damn you?”

It was all the high-strung animal needed. It gave a nervous jump and, squealing with rage, reared high. The ears lay flat against the head once more, the eyes glared hatred, and two lethal iron-shod hooves flailed at this puny man-creature who’d dared to challenge him.

Cranford ducked, then made a leap for the gate. He felt a rush of air beside his ear and a tug at the shoulder of his coat. Mary screamed, then he was over and Finchley and a scared-looking groom were attempting to control the animal’s fury.

Mary sobbed, “Oh, Piers! Oh, Piers!” and threw herself into his arms.

The groom said in a very shaken voice, “Cor, sir! That were—it were close, that were!”

Finchley bellowed, “Curse you, Cranford! If you’ve interfered with my poor brute, I’ll have you disqualified, be damned if I don’t!” He went stamping off, passing Horatio Glendenning who ran up, saying wrathfully,
“Must
you persist in taking such confounded risks, Piers? Of all the reckless chawbacons I ever knew!”

Cranford scarcely heard any of them, most of his awareness centering on the surprisingly pleasurable sensation of holding Miss Mary Westerman close in his embrace.

Muffled against his cravat, she said, “Are you hurt? He tore your coat…”

“But not me, fortunately. Now I wish you will replace your veil, ma’am, else you’ll not dare come back to the inn for breakfast.”

Mary took the veil and rearranged it with hands that shook. “And his—his hooves nigh caught your head! If they had—”

“They didn’t,” he said firmly “And you know the saying—” Smiling down at her, he offered his arm and patted the small hand that rested on it. “‘A miss is as good as a mile.’”

“Perhaps, but my heart missed several miles, I think! Pray do not take such risks. I am very frail, you know.”

He chuckled. “I’ve noticed.”

Glendenning complained, “Well, you don’t notice me! Am I allowed to accompany you?”

His face suddenly very red, Cranford said, “But—of course, Tio. As if we’d exclude such a hungry fellow.”

The viscount grunted, but brightened when Mary slipped her free hand through his arm and said cheerfully, “The more the merrier, eh, Mr. Piers?”

Cranford smiled but did not comment.

Breakfast was served in a parlour the duke had reserved, enabling both ladies to discard hats and veils. Glendenning joined them, his rich sense of humour endearing him to Mrs. Lucretia, who lost no time in advising him that he was “prodigious droll.”

Cranford joined in the conversation cheerfully, but he was concerned for Tio’s safety and determined to make a last effort to persuade him not to ride. He decided that the best time to make the attempt would be when the meal was over and they were returning to the stables. His plan was foiled, however, when Roland Mathieson took Glendenning aside as they left the inn and a moment later he himself was approached by Henry Shorewood, who warned that Gresford Finchley meant mischief. “Keep your wits about you, friend,” the barrister cautioned. “The Major ain’t the type to play fair if he fancies someone stands in his way.”

“D’you mean he fears I’ll win the race?”

Shorewood strolled off, tugging at his lop-sided wig and
thereby rendering it more lop-sided than ever. “That,” he said over his shoulder. “Among other things.”

That the dismal weather of this grey morning had not kept people away was very evident. The low hill which had been designated the starting point of the race was crowded with every conceivable type of vehicle, from luxurious coaches to farm waggons. Men of every style and condition mingled and jostled good-naturedly. Makeshift awnings had been erected to shelter the more elegant of the spectators, while the common folk contented themselves with hooded cloaks or broad-brimmed hats. Vendors moved through the throng loudly proclaiming the purity and deliciousness of their sweetmeats, cakes and biscuits; the damp air was enriched by the spicy smell of roasting chestnuts, and some enterprising gypsy youths were doing a brisk trade offering for a groat squares of sacking to “pertect yer noble nobs and dicers.”