The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (5 page)

As a child the boy had been stolen by gypsies. His early years had been nightmarish, but his attempts to run away had resulted in such cruel retaliation that he’d given up hope. A kind-hearted man, much respected in the tribe for his artistic abilities, had “adopted” him, given him his own name, and a love of books. For a while he’d been protected, but as he grew into young manhood, his eager pursuit of knowledge and cultured way of speech had irritated many; his reluctance to steal caused him to be viewed with suspicion; and his dark good looks, while winning the hearts of several girls in the tribe, had earned him the increased enmity of the men. In desperation he had at length succeeded in escaping, but had been close to starving when a chance encounter with Peregrine Cranford had led to his being taken into that young ex-soldier’s service.

Of late, Peregrine’s involvement in diplomatic affairs, and his approaching marriage, made it necessary for him to spend much time in London. Piers, in need of a man with the potential to take on the duties of steward at Muse Manor, had offered Florian the position. Peregrine had protested with much indignation,
but he was aware that Florian was happier in the country than in the great City. When the youth’s loyalty had caused him to refuse the offer he yearned to accept, Peregrine relented and encouraged him to make the move. Since then Piers had been well pleased by the young fellow’s industry and intelligence, and he’d made such progress that he was already assuming some of the duties of steward.

Even as Cranford ran up, a swipe of Grover’s large fist sent Florian reeling. Cranford ran to steady him and demanded furiously that the big groom control his temper. “Had you not been hogging the entire lane, you’d not now be in this predicament!”

“And did your pretty gypsy know how to handle the ribbons,
Lieutenant
, sir, there would be no predicament!”

Cranford turned to face the owner of that harsh and belligerent voice. “My coachman—who is not a gypsy—knows more about horse-flesh than your clumsy bully will ever learn, Finchley,” he responded coldly. “What a pity you do not instruct your people on the unwisdom of schooling a frightened horse with a whip.”

Major Finchley was a stout individual of late middle age and choleric disposition. He stamped closer, his intense dislike of Piers Cranford causing the hue of his habitually red face to deepen. “I’ve a whip of my own,” he bellowed. “And I give you fair warning, Cranford: If that gypsy whelp you call a servant dares cast his greasy eyes in my daughter’s direction again, I’ll use it to flay him raw; be damned if I don’t!”

“Nonsense.” said Cranford contemptuously, and glancing at Grover, snapped, ’Tend to your cattle, fellow—and try if you can make your master proud of your skill. Which I doubt.”

“Curse your insolence,” snarled Finchley. “Don’t use that tone to me, or—” Incoherent, his clenched fist lifted.

Grover grinned hopefully and stepped beside his employer.

Florian, pale and his mouth bloodied, all but sprang closer to Cranford.

The contrast between the opponents was marked, Cranford and Florian looking slight compared to the bulk of the major and his groom.

Standing very straight as Grover raised the heavy horsewhip, Cranford drawled, “Threats, Finchley? Rate your marksmanship high, do you? Or does your temper outweigh your instinct for self-preservation?”

The Major started. Losing some of his colour, he said uneasily, “Think to trick me into a duel, do you? Well, you’ll not succeed, damn your eyes, for I’ll not fight over a filthy gypsy.”

“Indeed?” Cranford enquired curiously, “What will you fight over, I wonder?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, curse you!”

“What a pity that I cannot wait for you to reach a decision. Come, Florian. We mustn’t hang about like this.”

Finchley sent more insults after them as they walked back to their coach, but both the whip and his volume had been lowered.

“You called his bluff, sir,” said Florian admiringly as he opened the carriage door.

“They’re a pair of bullies, and bullies retreat when someone faces up to them. But you’ll do well to heed his warning, my lad, and restrain your admiration for his daughter. Both the Major and the charmless Grover would be happy to do you a mischief.”

Florian said a meek “Yes, sir,” and climbed back onto the box.

The bank manager’s office was very quiet now, only the shifting coals of the small fire disturbing the silence. It was a mellow, pleasant sort of room, the panelling and the mahogany furnishings reflecting the dignity of its function and imparting an air of polite affluence but not luxury. Cranford thought inconsequently that it smelt like the lair of a bank manager.

A gust of wind rattled the casements. He glanced out at the lowering skies of early afternoon. It was raining again.

He knew that Seequist watched him, and he had a hold on his temper now. Meeting the man’s anxious eyes, he said slowly, “Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me why I must see my great-uncle before you will confirm the loan? I am not under the hatches, I believe?”

“No, no, Mr. Cranford. Your credit is as good as ever, I promise you.” Mr. Seequist was a stout individual, but his clothes were well-tailored and from the buckles on his shoes to his discreetly unpretentious wig he was neat as a pin. He had cultivated a jovial, almost avuncular manner, but today his laugh was as strained as his smile. He said carefully, “But—since his lordship is Executor of your parents’ estate—”

“He
was
until I attained my majority,” said Cranford impatiently. “At which point he became our adviser.” An adviser in absentia, he thought cynically, for General Lord Nugent Cranford had been much too busy with his own affairs to concern himself with problems at Muse Manor.

“As you say, sir.” Mr. Seequist removed his spotless spectacles and concentrated on cleaning them with his handkerchief. “The thing is, you see—an oversight, no doubt—but since we have never received notice of the termination of the Trust…” He shrugged, put on his spectacles again, and spread his pudgy hands apologetically. “You can—ah, understand our predicament. I feel sure you and your brother will have discussed the enlarging of your estate with his lordship, and it will need only—”

“You mistake it. I have not discussed the matter with Lord Nugent. Nor do I propose to enlarge our estate.”

“Er—but I understood you to say—”

“Yes—well, it
will
enlarge the estate in a sense, I suppose, though the parcel I’m after was once Muse Manor property. Furthermore, my brother knows nothing of this, and I do not want him approached in the matter.”

Seaquist’s eyebrows went up.

Again, Cranford strove to control his irritation. The man was an old friend and was bound to protect the bank, after all; no need to get starched up about it. He said levelly, “Peregrine is soon to be wed. I want him to have the river parcel. It’s been his lifelong dream to build a house of his own on Quail Hill when he married.”

“Ah.” Seequist beamed. “A happy occasion. I felicitate him. Your wedding gift, eh? What a splendid surprise it will be.”

Cranford took up his gloves. “Does that clarify the matter, then? You will approve the loan? I am nigh eight and twenty, as you know, Seequist, and I assure you the Trust has long since been terminated.”

“Of course, of course.” The bank manager rose and came around the desk to shake the hand of this young man for whom he harboured a deep admiration. Opening the door, he said gently, “All we will need, Mr. Cranford, is a clarification from General Lord Nugent, and we can proceed.”

A few minutes later, watching from the window as Cranford’s coach splashed through drenched Basingstoke, Mr. Seequist shook his head ruefully.

“Proper vexed, he was, sir,” murmured his assistant, carrying a sheaf of papers into the office. “Not like the Lieutenant to swear.”

“We may be thankful it was Piers Cranford I’d to deal with,” said Seequist, turning from the window. “If it had been that young hothead, Sir Peregrine, you’d have heard a deal more language, and a sight sooner!”

“I fancy he’s off to see the General. Then he’ll come back, eh, sir? You don’t think hell take offence?”

“I hope not.” Mr. Seequist took up the top letter and looked at it unseeingly. “I’d no choice in the matter, but I would hate to lose his business—or his friendship. For such a young fellow to be saddled with the responsibilities he’s had to cope with all these years… He saved his twin’s life during the Rebellion,
did you know? Went back from the retreat at Prestonpans, crossed enemy lines to find him, then carried him out, got him home and managed to keep him alive when we all thought Peregrine was doomed. The estate was heavily encumbered and ’tis thanks to his efforts it wasn’t lost to them. He’s worked like a Trojan to keep things running smoothly—or at least to make it appear that way.”

“Is it not—er, ‘running smoothly’ sir?”

“Let us say, rather, that it has been a close-run thing. I honestly thought several times he was dished and would never be able to keep the property, but he juggled this, and manoeuvred that, and somehow hauled them out of the River Tick. It was an impressive feat for so young a man. I doubt his family knew the half of it… I just hope there’s not a cockroach in his ale, is all.”

His assistant watched him curiously. “Do you believe something is seriously amiss, sir?”

Mr. Seequist summoned a smile and declared in a rather hollow voice that he never entertained gloomy thoughts.

T
he following afternoon was ushered in by a blustery wind that carried occasional flurries of cold rain. Once again seated on the box of Piers Cranford’s rather shabby coach, Florian tucked his chin into the scarf about his throat and narrowed his eyes against a chilly gust as he guided the chestnut pair towards Mayfair. It was a pity, he thought, that they’d had to leave Muse Manor, but the Lieutenant—he still thought of Cranford by his military title although he’d left the service two years ago—had been in a fine rage yesterday when they’d reached the country home of his illustrious great-uncle, so it was perhaps as well they’d been advised that General Lord Nugent Cranford was not in residence, and was instead occupying his Town house.

This philosophical outlook came less easily to Cranford. Seequist’s polite but immovable request for a letter from his great-uncle had at first astonished, then infuriated him. The General, in his typically high-handed fashion, had likely deemed it unnecessary to remind the bank of the full details of the Trust. Irritated as he was, he knew he would have to tread
carefully around the old fellow. General Lord Nugent had been decidedly testy of late. A distant relative of his late wife had tricked him into an involvement with the infamous League of Jewelled Men, and in all innocence he had enabled that traitorous group to further their plans. It was all smoothed over now, of course, but Lord Nugent had bitterly reproached himself for having been gulled. TU have to bear that in mind and keep calm’, thought Cranford. He tried always to be polite to his seniors, but this confounded stumbling block with the loan was enough to—No. He would be calm and not allow his temper to get the best of him.

He glanced idly at the passing traffic, noting that Florian was driving with his usual skill. Didn’t want the horses slipping on London’s wet cobblestones; a grand fellow with a horse was Florian.

The coach slowed, and here they were at last, pulling into the porte-cochère beside the General’s imposing Mayfair house, and the footman running to open the door of the carriage.

In the warm hall, Spiers, his great-uncle’s elderly butler, pink and round and unshakeable, greeted him with his customary suavity and assisted him to remove his cloak. He was advised that Lord Nugent would be pleased to see the Lieutenant. Perhaps he would care to wait in the morning-room?

Cranford knew the signs. “Another caller, Spiers?”

“As you say, sir.” The morning-room door was swung open. Spiers bowed and withdrew but not before Piers had glimpsed the twinkle in the faded brown eyes.

The morning room, a rather spartan chamber, was brightened by a small fire and two branches of candles. A tall young man was sprawled in a chair before the hearth. He turned his head and peered over his shoulder.