The Riddle of the Lost Lover (11 page)

In this eastern edge of Suffolk the roads were not as travelled as those in the Home Counties, nor the houses as numerous, but the villages were charming and the country folk kindly. The land was low for the most part, but not flat, rising into occasional gently rolling hills. On this bright morning Vespa followed a lane that was lined by thorn hedges and trees. It would have been deeply shaded during the summer months, but today most of the trees lifted obligingly naked branches that did not shut out the welcome December sunshine. He came to the crest of a rise dignified by an impressive flush-flint and stone church, and as he rode down the slope he entered what was more a town than another village: a prosperous wool town by the look of the people and carts bustling about.

He raised his hat to a lady and a little girl passing by in an open carriage. The lady looked away, and the child stared unsmilingly. He was accorded the same treatment when he nodded to two men loading a cart outside a mercantile warehouse, and an old gentleman in smock and gaiters positively glared at him. It was the first time he'd encountered an unfriendliness that bordered on the hostile. The folk hereabouts appeared to have a distrust of strangers; possibly they took him for a Riding Officer—certainly smuggling was widely practiced along this coast.

Corporal raced past, his little legs flying. Vespa caught a whiff of woodsmoke and cooking; a laden waggon rumbled by, the waggonner scanning him with cold suspicion. ‘Brrr!' thought Vespa, and wondered whether the proprietor of the whitewashed inn up ahead would deign to serve him luncheon. The street dipped into a watersplash through which the grey horse trod daintily. Corporal had been obliged to swim across and as the street turned uphill once more he trotted towards a pump, at which point he paused and looked back for his master.

A young gentleman stood beside the trough, watering his mount. Vespa's glance flickered over the high-crowned hat tilted at a rakish angle, the fashionable riding coat and leathers, the gleaming boots and long-necked spurs, and came to rest on the tall chestnut horse. It was a handsome thoroughbred with a glossy coat and a long and waving mane and tail. It was also, in his opinion, a shade short in the back and too much inclined to twitch and dance about. ‘All nerves and show,' he judged.

It was then that Corporal decided to shake himself.

For a small dog the amount of displaced water was remarkable. The young exquisite was liberally showered. He sprang aside and collided with his nervous mount which promptly shot into the air as if levitated, sending its owner into an ungainly sprawl. The elegant wet garments became muddy wet garments.

Noting from the corner of his eye that several grinning passers-by had stopped to watch, Vespa rode up and dismounted. “I'm so sorry,” he began, limping to the rescue.

The victim fairly sprang to his feet. His well-cut features were scarlet and twisted with wrath. Cursing, he aimed one of his glossy boots at Corporal. “Damned little
cur!
” he howled.

“Hey!” Vespa's helping hand became a firm tug and the kick landed only glancingly.

“Is that—that apology for a dog—yours?” roared the victim.

As cool as the other man was enraged, Vespa drawled, “I see only an apology for a gentleman.”

Somebody hooted.

The dandy's bloodshot eyes narrowed. His heavy riding whip flailed at Vespa's head.

A lithe sway, an iron grip and a heave, and the infuriated young man was flat on his back again.

“Cross-buttocked!” howled an exultant voice. “Limp or no, he cross-buttocked him, by grab!”

“Neat as ever I did see,” confirmed another.

Vespa turned to take up the reins of his grey, and Corporal scuttled quickly to his side. Vespa bent to inspect him, but the little dog didn't seem badly damaged.

“'Ware, sir!”

He straightened at the warning yell. The dandy had regained his feet and although he tended to sway, was lunging into another attack. Growling ferociously, Corporal charged forward and got a good grip on a now considerably less glossy boot.

“Confound the—mangy cur!” The young man's hand plunged into the pocket of his riding coat and emerged holding a small pistol.

“Corporal—
up!
” said Vespa sharply.

The dog released the boot. The pistol shot reverberated in the small valley of the street, and Corporal flew into Vespa's arms.

A small crowd had gathered. There were shrill screams, cries of “Shame!” and “Play fair!”

A matron wearing a splendidly laced cap cried, “
Disgraceful
behavior! To try and kill a poor little doggie!”

“You're damned lucky I didn't hit you, fellow! Whoever you are,” advised the dandy rather thickly, and with an uneasy glance around the ring of condemning faces.

Vespa set Corporal down. “If I weren't particular about my acquaintanceships, I'd give you my card.” He took out his purse. “Your aim is as uncontrolled as your temper. But since my dog did dampen you a trifle, I'll pay for your garments to be cleaned.” He tossed a half-crown contemptuously, and was mildly surprised when this unpleasant but undoubtedly aristocratic individual caught it with a quick snatch.

A ripple of scorn went up from the onlookers.

The dandy said ungraciously, “It's a small part of what you owe me. If you weren't—were not—crippled, I'd call—you out! Be damned if I—'f I wouldn't.”

“You'd not get me out,” said Vespa. “I only fight gentlemen, and never when they're ‘up in the world.'”

Again, the reddened eyes were lit with rage. “I'm not drunk, d-damn you!”

“Go home!” shouted a youthful voice from the edge of the crowd, and other voices were raised:

“You ain't welcome here, Mr. Keith!”

“Go back to the ‘big smoke'!”

“Maybe we should show 'un the way, mates!”

“Aye! At the tail of a cart!”

‘Mr. Keith' glared at them, but it was clear their antagonism was growing. He swung into the saddle and wheeled his mount so hard that Vespa was almost caught by the chestnut's plunging head. With a snarled threat to ‘have the law on the l-lot of you yokels,' the ill-tempered dandy spurred to a gallop and beat an inglorious retreat.

Vespa, however, found himself surrounded by now-beaming faces. He was patted on the back, informed that “We took ye for Mr. Keith's friend, sir!” and was borne into the White Horse Inn very much the conquering hero.

The tap was a cheerful place, mellow with age, and ringing with talk and laughter. Vespa's limp was not mentioned again, but his tidy victory over the evidently much disliked Mr. Keith was a cause for celebration. A tankard of ale was pressed into his hand, and he was begged to reveal his identity.

Before he could respond, a deep voice shouted, “Jack Vespa! As I live and breathe!”

A bronzed young giant with unruly red hair, a black patch over one eye and a broad grin pushed his way through the throng, and swept Vespa into a crushing hug.

“Calloway!” gasped Vespa. “Let be, you old warhorse before my ribs are powder! I thought you were dead! What the deuce are you doing up here?”

Lieutenant Sean Calloway, late of the 71st Highlanders, roared a laugh that rattled the casements. “Farming, Captain, sir! And if it's any consolation, I was
sure
you were dead!” In response to shouts of enquiry, he turned to the gathering and introduced “Captain Jack Vespa, who was an aide-de-camp to Lord Wellington.”

Vespa's intent to remain incognito was foiled, but he could scarcely blame this old friend, and he reacted smilingly to the admiring and awed exclamations and the inevitable questions of the company until Calloway broke in to ask, “What the deuce have you done to have caused such a fuss in this quiet corner of England?”

“Cap'n knocked down that there Keith gent, Mr. Calloway, sir,” supplied a very wizened little old man. “Wanted doin' for ages'n ages. Cap'n done it. Tidy. Eh, lads?”

During the chorus of agreement Vespa gathered that ‘Young Mr. Keith' was ‘proper high-in-the-instep,' that he had ‘too much Lun'on in his ways,' and ordered folk about ‘like we was dirt under his feet.'

Calloway laughed. “If that ain't just like you, Jack! Always up to your neck in some kind of imbroglio! Come over here and sit down, I want to know what you've been about since Vitoria. I got my come-uppance at that little rumpus, as you see.”

“Yes. It must be a beastly nuisance for you.”

“Oh, well. I'm alive, which is more than you could say for a lot of my poor fellows. Or for that fine brother of yours, eh? You must miss him.”

Vespa stared rather fixedly at his tankard, then said quietly, “Very much. We're the lucky ones, Sean, even if you don't see quite as well nowadays, and I don't run quite as fast.”

They adjourned to an inglenook by the blazing fire and for a little while enjoyed mutual recollections of their army days and the comrades they'd served beside. The local people relived and chuckled over the morning's encounter, the name ‘Keith' being bandied about frequently. Vespa asked at length, “Who is this fellow who's made himself so unwelcome here?”

“Be dashed if I know. I'm fairly new to the county. My mama inherited a small farm here and has been good enough to hand it over to me. She thought I'd soon tire of it, I suspect, but I'm not a Town beau, and country life suits me. I did hear that Keith has a boat moored somewhere along the coast. Don't know if it's truth, but if it is he likely runs tubs or such-like and passes through here en route back to London. He's no local, that's certain.”

“Know most of the locals, do you?”

“Most.” The solitary blue eye slanted at Vespa shrewdly. “Why?”

“I'm trying to locate a gentleman. I understand he has an estate in the county, but the devil's in it that I don't know his name.” Calloway stared, and he added, “It's a commission my mother sent me just before she sailed for South America. Unfortunately, her letter was rain-damaged and all I have is a most urgent message for the old fellow. I feel I have to try to deliver it, but I've little to go on.”

“Gad! Your best chance, surely, would be to contact some of the local squires, or the clergy.”

“It would, of course. But—well, to say truth, Sean, the matter's of a rather delicate nature, and…” Vespa shrugged.

“Ah. Family business, eh? Well, I wish I could give you an assist. Have you no other description at all?”

“Only that he also owns a castle in Scotland.”

Calloway scratched his red head and frowned thoughtfully. “A castle in Scotland … hmm. Now what did I hear about…? I know! It was my great-aunt! You don't know the lady, I think. Gad, what a chatterbox! Kindest heart in the world, mind you, but—Well, at all events, she was rattling on to my father about an old friend whom she and my great-uncle used to visit at one time. She was enormously impressed by his estate, which is up near the Cambridgeshire border. Delightful place, to hear her tell it, and with a superb rose garden. There was some sort of family trouble years ago, and the gentleman sort of dropped out of sight. Sounds to me as if he's short of a sheet. Hardly ever in England. I'm sure my aunt said he has a place in Scotland, but whether it's a castle or not, I couldn't tell you.”

Jubilant, Vespa exclaimed, “It sounds very promising, Sean! Why do you say he's short of a sheet?”

“Well, it seems he don't spend much time in Scotland, either. Two jolly fine homes, and what must he do but waste his life flitting about the world searching for a mythical rug or some crazy thing. Poor old fellow must be in his dotage, or—”

“That's
him!
” cried Vespa, giving his friend a clap on the back that rattled his teeth. “You've found him for me, bless your clever old red nob! Do you recall his name? Or the name of his estate? Is he a Scot, d'you think?”

Calloway pushed him away and said with mock indignation, “Easy, you madman! I'm a feeble invalid yet! Devil if I know whether he's a Scot, though my great-aunt is, and I'd think she would have mentioned it if he were. Name's—um … Cragburn or Kincarry—something like that. Don't remember what his estate's called, but oddly enough the name of the carpet he's after stuck in my mind. It's called the Khusraw. Some Eastern fairy tale, probably. I say, is this your dog? What a nice little chap, but he looks hungry. Don't you ever feed him, you flint-heart?”

Vespa laughed. “I suppose you're hinting me to buy you lunch?”

“I suppose I am.”

Vespa did; in fact he bought lunch for everyone in the tap.

*   *   *

A drop of rain fell coldly on her nose. Consuela halted and looked up. The clouds were pulling together now, the occasional glimpses of sunlight becoming less frequent. She had left the cottage to escape her grandmother. A large bunch of hot-house roses had been delivered to the duchess this morning; a gift ordered before his departure by Colonel Adair. Not one to let the grass grow under his feet was Hasty Adair, and knew which side his bread was buttered on. Predictably, the old lady had gone into raptures, singing the colonel's praises and envying the “lucky girl” who would become his bride, until Consuela had been driven to retaliate. A heated Italianate argument had ensued, and refusing the company of her maid, who suffered loudly from corns, Consuela had ventured alone into the chilly early afternoon.

When she'd reached the Widow Davis' Grocery/Post-Office in Gallery-on-Tang there were three letters and a parcel for the duchess and two letters for herself. The widow loved to talk and had told her that Captain Vespa had quite a pile of correspondence waiting to be picked up by his steward, Hezekiah Strickley. One of the captain's letters, she imparted, was from G. L. Manderville, Esq. “That'll be Lieutenant Manderville's father, I do expect, Miss. Likely telling the captain how poor Sir Kendrick's dogs are going on in their new home. And there's another letter, very important it looks too. From the Horse Guards. Do you know when the captain will come home again, Miss Consuela? Such a fine gentleman, and I'm sure we're all sorry for the terrible happenings out at the quarry…”