The Riddle of the Lost Lover (35 page)

Vespa thought, ‘And kept available for your friends!'

The roof and walls were propped and nailed more or less together again, the branch hauled back in place and another branch added to brace it and conceal a hole in the wall. Manderville and his lordship led the cart-horses off to the peasant's hut, and Consuela worked beside Vespa to obliterate the ruts left by the heavy wheels.

“When people conceal things, my Captain,” she said, wielding a large rake industriously, “other people are apt to imagine much worse things.”

It was true. And it would be kinder to tell her now than to let her go on dreaming her dreams of their happy future. He slanted a quick glance at her face; none too clean after this hectic day, the wet dark curls straggling about her flushed cheeks, and her blue eyes watching him with such trust and devotion. No complaints that she was tired and cold and her clothes wet from the rain; no moans about missing her Grandmama, or the need for her maid and a comfortable bed and a chance to bathe and change clothes. She was the bravest and loveliest creature he had ever known, and he loved her so much it was an ache inside him.

His jaw set, and he went on raking with swift angry strokes. How could he tell her their last hope was gone? How could he bring her such grief—especially now when her beloved
Nonna
was not here to comfort her? Besides, he did not really
know
that his suspicions were justified. Suppose it developed that his lordship was an innocent dupe? After all, he'd been ready enough to leave the treasure waggon—perhaps he wasn't aware of what the roof contained. But that was grasping at straws, of course, and a foolish attempt to delude himself. There were too many pieces that fit the puzzle, too many coincidences for there to be any—

Consuela leaned on her rake and pushed back a curl that had tumbled down her forehead. “What has he done, Jack?”

Startled, his eyes flashed to her face again.

“My poor dear,” she said tenderly. “Don't you know yet that you cannot hide your sorrows from me? Oh, I admit you do very well at concealing your feelings from others. But when you are distressed, I can feel it. And you have been deeply distressed ever since Lord Kincraig's waggon almost fell over. Something happened then, I know it. Won't you tell me? Perhaps I can help.”

A lump came into his throat and his eyes blurred. He said brokenly, “My precious little Signorina … I don't deserve—”

“Capitaine! Capitaine!”
Pierre galloped down the slope at reckless speed, knees flying. “Bad … people! A great black coach with … with the coachman and a footman in black livery. The coachman was that seasick pirate from … the ship!”

“Ti Chiu!” whispered Vespa. “Then Monteil's found us! Outriders?”

“
Oui, mon Capitaine!
There are two other men besides.”

“The same pair we chased off yesterday?”

The boy's eyes became very round. “But—yes, sir! With the grey horses. How did you know?”

“They're coming here?”

“No. They went on past, but the great giant coachman looked this way. Oh, but my heart it stand still! And the black and white man he put his head out of the window and give a shout, and the great giant slowed the coach. But then he saw it, and I saw his face, and I thought, ‘No, Sergeant Pierre! He is very afraid. He will not come here!' And I was right! He drove on. Fast. Just as I knew!”

“What did he see?” asked Consuela curiously.

The boy led the way from the yard and pointed up the slope towards the lane. “There! That is what frightened the giant! I did not see it when first we came, but it is why this farm died and why nobody comes here!”

Vespa said, “It's another of the menhirs.”

“Where?” asked Consuela, “I do not see it.”

“There, by the sycamore trees. And it's one of the larger specimens.”

At first, she could only discern the trees, but then she realized that the shadows in the centre were not shadows, but instead one of the great standing stones left by the ancient people. “How fascinating they are,” she said.

“And how lucky we are that Imre Monteil's coachman is superstitious,” said Vespa. “But he's much too close. We daren't give him another chance.”

He managed to imbue them with his sense of urgency, and very soon they were back on the lane. This time Kincraig had volunteered to drive the carriage, noting kindly that poor Manderville was worn out from his cold and lack of sleep. He had obtained excellent directions from his peasant friend, he said, and now knew the quickest route to the coast. “A most excellent fellow! He was even able to tell me where a likely fishing boat lies at anchor.”

Riding Bruine beside the coach, Vespa said, “Was he, indeed. And did his excellence cost you enormous largesse, my lord?”

Kincraig laughed. “What a cynic!”

“What's a ‘cynic'?” asked Pierre, who had claimed a seat on the box.

“I am,” said Vespa dryly. “And we should put 'em along now, sir. It's liable to rain again at any minute, and there's little enough daylight left.”

Kincraig cracked the whip, the horses leaned into their collars and the coach bounced and jolted over a surface poor to begin with, but made worse by potholes and mud.

The afternoon was drawing in and Vespa's hope to drive through the night had to be abandoned when the clouds darkened and an icy rain began to patter down once more. He shouted, “Hold up a minute, sir. Our sergeant must go inside, else we'll have him down with a cold also!”

The boy was wet and shivering and raised no objections. Vespa swung him from the box and handed him in to Manderville. Consuela looked wan and tired, but she had a smile ready, and set to work at once to dry Pierre's curls.

Vespa asked, “Are your pistols loaded, Paige?”

Manderville nodded. “Trouble?”

“Perhaps not, but I've twice thought someone was behind us.”

“We'll have to stop, even so, old fellow. Won't be able to drive after dark. Not one of us knows these roads.”

Another half hour and Vespa saw a ribbon of smoke rising above a rolling hill some distance ahead. If it came from the hearth of an inn, it might be their last chance of shelter for the night.

He called, “My lord, are there are any inns or
pensions
along—”

There came a high-pitched metallic twang. It was an evil sound, and one he knew. For an instant of stark terror his mind warned that a crossbow bolt could go right through the back of the carriage! Dreading to hear a scream, he heard instead a choking cry. His gaze flashed to the box. The reins had slipped from Lord Kincraig's hands and he was slumping forward.

Rage seared through Vespa. He leaned perilously from the saddle and caught the leathers. Drawing the team to a halt, he turned Bruine and rode to the window.

“Help his lordship!” he shouted, then drove his spurs home.

It was a hurt the little mare had not expected from this man. Ever faithful, she sprang into a gallop. Vespa crouched low over the saddlehorn, retribution in his heart, pistol in one hand, the wind whipping at his face and his narrowed eyes fixed on the distant rider who had left the lane and now plunged at reckless speed across the meadows.

15

There was no doubt in Vespa's mind but that the fleeing assassin was one of Duncan Keith's hired bullies and that he was now making a frantic dash to rejoin his comrades. The awareness and with it the knowledge that he himself might very well be riding straight into an ambush did not for an instant weigh with him. All that mattered in the white heat of his fury was that he bring down this cowardly murderer.

His quarry left the lane and headed across country. Vespa followed, not slackening his speed. The assassin turned and glared back at him. It was a costly move for at that moment his mount stumbled. He was a good horseman and retained his seat and the animal recovered almost at once, but the distance between them had shortened. A moment later the useless crossbow was flung aside. Again, the assassin turned. Vespa saw the flash before he heard the shot, followed by the hum of a bullet whizzing past. They topped a rise and he saw the gleam of water below. The other man was looking back to see if his shot had gone home, and he turned too late to avoid the lake.

With a howled curse, he wrenched at the reins. Frightened and confused, his horse tried to change direction only to flounder and go down with a tangle of legs, a shrill neigh of fright and a great splash.

Vespa was on the bank then, pulling Bruine up and hurling himself after his adversary who had been thrown a short distance from the shore.

The water was like ice. It was hip deep when he reached the assassin, but the man seemed dazed and was evidently finding it difficult to stand.

“Murderous cowardly swine!” Vespa pushed his head under the water.

Strengthened by terror the assassin fought and struggled madly. He succeeded in breaking free and his head shot from the surface. Vespa grabbed his hair and forced him down again, avoiding the arms that flailed in frenzied attempts to beat him away. The desperate struggles weakened, and then ceased. Vespa let his head come up and he sagged, choking for breath and gasping out faint pleas not to be drowned. The temptation to deal him just such a fate was strong, but Vespa wanted information. Dragging the half-conscious rogue by the hair, he waded to shore. His prisoner tried feebly to crawl out, but he was too weakened. Vespa hauled him onto the grass and kicked him onto his back.

The face was pale and half covered by strands of wet hair. But even in the fading light there was no mistaking him.

“You accursed fool,” panted Vespa. “You've just murdered your own father!”

*   *   *

“But—m'sieu,” wailed the proprietor, wringing his bony hands and trotting along the narrow passage beside Vespa, “you both are very wet! And it is that I have floors, you comprehend! And rugs, m'sieu! They will be ruined, m'sieu!”

“Where are my friends?” Vespa had tied Keith's hands and now used the crossbow he'd retrieved to prod him towards the stairs of this small hedge-tavern.

“I cannot,” moaned Keith, swaying drunkenly. “I shall … fall down.”

“Then I'll have the pleasure of kicking you until you get up,” said Vespa grittily. “I saw our carriage in your yard, host,” he added. “Don't make me drag this carrion up your stairs to no purpose!” He flourished the crossbow and the host recoiled eyeing the weapon in horror.

“No, m'sieu! I mean—yes, m'sieu! The poor gentleman is above-stairs and my girl but a minute ago finished washing the blood from the floor, and now, m'sieu—”

“You will be well paid.”

At these magical words the host brightened. “It will be the second door to your right hand, m'sieu. Madame Lannion, my wife, is with the young lady.”

Vespa nodded and urged Duncan Keith on. “Move, dog's meat!”

The stairs were steep and winding. At the top the second door in a short passage was partly open and Vespa shoved Keith inside.

Manderville and a tall middle-aged woman, Madame Lannion no doubt, were bending over the bed. Kincraig lay on his side with his eyes closed, the crossbow shaft still transfixing his right side just below the armpit. Consuela, pale but composed, was taking his lordship's shirt as the woman cut it away. She looked up when Vespa entered, and said unsteadily, “Thank God you've come!”

“Is he still alive?” asked Vespa.

She nodded, staring at Keith.

Vespa experienced an overpowering sense of relief, but there was a lot of blood and, remembering his lordship's medicine bottle, he knew death lurked nearby.

Manderville turned his head. “Caught the bastard, did you?” he said, forgetting the presence of ladies. “I wonder you troubled to fetch him back, if—” He broke off, staring at Keith. “Good Lord! It wasn't
him?
”

“My murderous half-brother.” Vespa shoved Keith hard and the man staggered to the wall and slid down it to sit sprawling on the floor.

Consuela gasped, “Oh! How wicked!”

“Yes. A new low point in depravity, would you say?” Advancing to the bed, Vespa asked low-voiced, “How bad is it?”

“The poor gentleman is not so bad as wouldn't be better without all the evil words and violence,” said Madame Lannion severely. Glancing at Vespa, she saw the crossbow and uttered a muffled shriek. “Ugh! Take that wicked machine from my house!”

Pierre, who had been perched in the window-seat, jumped up and volunteered to take the crossbow away.

Vespa handed him the weapon and looked up to find Kincraig's eyes on him. “I'm very sorry, my lord,” he said gently, bending over the bed. “I knew we were followed. I just didn't think it was this particular group of ruffians.”

Manderville sneezed and went into a bout of coughing, and Madame Lannion eyed him uneasily, then handed another strip of cloth to Consuela and stood straight. A handsome woman with a proud face and a splendid bosom, she met Vespa's anxious gaze levelly. “This I do not at all like,” she said. “I help the Gentlemen where I can, but—” she shrugged, “This young man is ill, and—”

“Who—me?” Manderville wheezed indignantly, “Sound as sixpence!”

“—and I will not be responsible for the death of the Carpet Collector,” Madame swept on. “You must tend him yourselves.”

She had said ‘the Gentlemen'—the widely-used term for free-traders. Vespa took a chance. “I was counting on you, ma'am. Paul said if I came this way I must stop and say good day.”

She checked. “Paul? You know Paul Crozon?”

“I but left him two days since. He was with Jules and Léon and the rest, and his nephew sends you his love.”

“Ho!” she said with a flash of her dark eyes. “That one! A rascal is what, and will grow up to be as foolish as his Papa. Ah, but this changes matters, Monsieur…?”