The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (38 page)

“I fear it, sir. She has no fortune, nor, so far as I’m aware, any rich relatives. But she is a lovely young woman, and there are those today who can demand a high price for stolen English girls.”

Sir Simon, who had been watching Cranford, said, “May I ask what you have there?”

“’Tis one of the beads Miss Mary lost on Quail Hill.” Cranford handed it to the invalid.

“So what has been done about the poor girl?” demanded Gervaise, snatching up a superbly tailored riding coat.

“Every able-bodied man for miles around is searching for her. I was seeking her myself until I saw you, and—Jupiter! Damned if I havent forgot! Two other men were hard after you, Gervaise!”

“That curst alleged ‘pedlar,’ I suppose! Did I give them the slip, or do they wait outside to take my father? I warn you—”

“Oh, have done! I’m not here to betray Sir Simon. Indeed, I will do all I may to help you both. But I must first go and see if Miss Mary has come home.”

Sir Simon said, “I rather doubt that, I’m afraid. If the lady had a necklace of beads like this, she is a wealthy woman. This is an extremely old stone. I wonder you did not notice the strange forms and inscriptions engraved on the surface.”

Piers said intently, “You think ’tis from ancient time, sir?”

“I would guess it is from a very ancient time, and more than likely came from a burial mound. A complete necklace like this would be worth a small fortune. And if there is a barrow, or mound—heaven only knows the riches it may contain!”

“Then may the Lord help her,” groaned Cranford.

“Deuce take me for a gudgeon,” said Gervaise. “I could have wed an heiress!”

V
alerian said worriedly, “I don’t like leaving him so often. Were it not for Mistress Hoylake, I would not dare take the risk.”

The two young men were making their way along a dark tunnel-like passage so narrow that they had to walk single-file, Valerian in the lead, holding a lantern, Cranford following, and Tassels thudding along in the rear. Cranford had been considerably relieved when Sir Simon had told him there was a less perilous entrance to his sanctuary and a smaller cave which they had equipped as a makeshift stable for Walker. They had retrieved Cranford’s beloved mare, leading her through the large caves and into this tunnel that sloped gradually upward.

“Am I permitted to know who is Mistress Hoylake?” he asked. “She seemed a very kind lady, but has she to stay hid in the caves all the time?”

“Fancying me to be a merciless tyrant, are you?” snapped Valerian. “Well, I ain’t! And you may believe the lady is perfectly content to be there. And to be safe.”

“Ah. She is a Jacobite?”

“Her son is. She sheltered him, for which she could lose her head. My father was able to whisk her son to safety with the aid of a very gallant gentleman who called himself Lingun Doone—which is not his real name, so do not be thinking to sell it to—”

“His real name being Geoff Delavale.”

“Sapristi!”
Valerian turned an astonished face. “You know?”

“I know. He chances to be a very good friend of my brother-in-law, and since I have as yet not sold his head to the Army—”

“You are not likely to do so now—which places your own head at risk, you realize? But, of course, you are already at risk, crying friends with that hot-headed rebel Glendenning.”

“You were saying your father rescued Mrs. Hoylake’s son. Were there others?”

“Many others. I’ll have you know my sire is a prodigious gallant gentleman.”

“I have always thought that. I’m very glad to find that you appreciate him. No, don’t fly into the boughs. Tis a tribute to your acting skill that you have convinced all London you despise the gentleman.”

Valerian was silent a moment, then said with quiet dignity, “He is the most courageous and selfless man I shall ever know.”

“I envy you. We scarcely had time to know our father. But you surely don’t plan that he stay forever in the cave. What do you mean to do?”

“Get him over to France—or Italy—as soon as may be. The lady also. Careful here, there are fallen rocks… Mistress Hoylake has her own skill; she is a splendid nurse. But our desperate flights and often miserable hiding-places have brought about relapses. We came nigh to losing him again last autumn.”

Cranford said thoughtfully, “Last autumn. That would be when rumor had it you were sharing an Italian villa with your latest bird of paradise.”

“The gossip-mongers have their uses. In point of fact, I was finding this place, smuggling my father here, and bringing
Mistress Hoylake to him, whereby he goes along better. But he is still very weak.” A pause, then he said rather too heartily, “I dare to believe he will improve when he can get out in the fresh air and sunshine.”

“I have no doubt he will. Perry did, you know. It was touch-and-go with him several times, but he’s quite recovered now and is soon to be wed in fact.”

“So our great-uncle told me. Speaking of which, Cranford, the fact that you now so graciously admit our kinship changes nothing. I trust you understand that.”

“In what way? You still mean to challenge me to a duel?”

“Blast your eyes! You know very well what I mean! Your supercilious attitude towards me—”

“Supercilious! Contemptuous, rather. Which you earned with your clever masquerade!”

“Even so, in public you shall have to continue to regard me as though I were something less than a slug. And another thing—when Cordelia Stansbury is wed, it will be to
me
, so do not cherish empty hopes.”

Cranford said grimly, “Well see about that. But we have to find her first!”

“It is my opinion your wits are to let,” grumbled Valerian, standing with the horses and watching Cranford scramble down from the top of the rise. “Look at you! You cannot even command your feet! When did you eat or sleep last?”

“Your father’s cognac has stood me in good stead.”

“Or made you so lushy you don’t know what you’re about! Why are we on Finchley’s estate? You told me the Hall had already been searched. If Mary were there she would have been rescued long since.”

“If she had been there. Tis my belief the Major would not want his daughter to know of his infamous behaviour and has Mary hid somewhere close by.”

“Now what are you about? Do you mean to leave the horses here? Why?”

“So that we can keep watch from the top of the rise.” Following his example, Valerian secured Walker to a nearby shrub, and said, “Why would the old duffer take such a risk as to kidnap a lady of Quality? He don’t know about the precious necklace, so what would he stand to gain?”

“He very probably does know about the necklace. His daughter Laura and Mary are bosom bows, don’t forget. If Mary told Laura about the beads and Laura chanced to mention it to her father, he may very well have put two and two together.”

Valerian gave a disparaging snort as they walked up the rise side by side. “You give the malevolent Major higher marks for intelligence than do I. Nor did his daughter impress me as being needle-witted. Laura… Hi! Ain’t she the lady your gypsy steward fancies?”

“Yes. And she may not be clever, but Laura Finchley has a kind heart and is a charming young woman.”

“Not charming enough to risk hanging for, in my humble opinion.”

“Florian did not kill Grover, though he had plenty of provocation. And nor is he the only man to admire Miss Finchley’s charms.”

“So I’ve heard. Among them, another of your odd retainers, if somewhat indirectly.”

Cranford turned and looked at him. “Now what do you imply? Young Peale perhaps, or Sudbury?”

“I don’t imply. I state. And I refer to our great-uncle’s bastard.”

“What the devil—”

“Did you not know?” Valerian laughed softly. “Why do you suppose a proud man like General Lord Nugent Cranford would keep a gardener who is short of a sheet?”

“If you mean Herbert Turner, he is an excellent gardener
and the son of my great-uncle’s housekeeper—”

“And our great-uncle! Oh, never look so taken aback. These things happen. If you paid heed to
ton
gossip you would have learned one or two of our family’s more lurid secrets. If you don’t believe me, ask your valet. Blake knows. Young Turner was crying on his shoulder Monday. I chanced to see them when I was cutting across your pristine acres to visit my father, after the race.”

“And—Turner was really distraught?”

“Nigh hysterical, I thought. Almost, I felt sorry for the poor clod.”

Cranford said nothing, but his tired mind was slowly fitting the pieces together. Grover had tormented Herbert Turner for years… poor Herbert had always worshipped Laura Finchley and knew of her unhappy home life… and Blake, the boy’s uncle, had left his service very abruptly shortly after Grover’s murder…

“What are you staring at down there?” demanded Valerian. “Whose hovel is that?”

“The late Sidney Grover lived there.”

“Finchley gave his groom a cottage of his own? That’s odd.”

“Especially odd for a clutchfist like the charming Major. It might serve him to keep Mary there. The local people are superstitious and would very likely have drawn back from searching the home of a murdered man.”

“But if he does have her, why has there been no ransom demand?”

“I doubt he would risk such a move. He may believe she knows the location of the barrow.”

“If
there is such an article. My father is brilliant, never doubt it, but he could be mistaken.”

“Or he could be right, which would explain everything. There are rumours that Finchley is deep under the hatches. He has a surfeit of pride and loves his estate, and if he is really rolled up, I think he’d stop at nothing to lay his hands on a
possible fortune in ancient jewels and artifacts.”

“I thought all buried treasure belonged to the crown—but if, as you say, he is really desperate, he’d find a way to conceal…My God! He may be trying to force Mary to tell him where to find it! Come on!”

Whirling about, he ran down the slope, tore Walker’s reins free and sprang into the saddle.

Coming up with him, Cranford caught at the stallion’s bridle. “Wait! We don’t know how many may be down there! We’ll do Mary no favour if we are outnumbered. Better to take them by surpri—”

“Surprise—hell!” snarled Valerian, and was off, up the rise and down the far side, riding towards the cottage at the gallop.

Groaning anathemas on his reckless cousin, Cranford followed.

“I do not understand why you keep me waiting for so long.” Sitting on the shabby sofa before the hearth in this cheerless parlour, Mary complained, “Tis freezing in this dirty cottage. What is behind that half-wall? The scullery?”

Gresford Finchley nodded. “And wash-house. Though I doubt Grover ever washed anything.”

“I believe you.” She shivered. “Can you not light a fire at least?”

Finchley spread his large hands and said with an ingratiating grin that he had sent his men out to find firewood. “Poor Sid Grover was an indifferent housekeeper, I own.”

“Yes, but you have only just arrived. And if, as you claim, your daughter is so desperate to see me, why has she not come? The groom who brought me her message said ’twas a matter of life and death, so I came at once. But ’tis past dinnertime. I am hungry and my aunts will be worried.” Standing, she said firmly, “I must get home, Major Finchley. When Laura comes—”