The Riddle of the Lost Lover (6 page)

“I just left him, as you evidently are aware. He chose to take the attitude that my mind is permanently impaired, and that I should be locked away.”

“Natural enough.” A pause, then Adair murmured, “He is not alone in such sentiments.”

With a shocked gasp, Vespa jerked around to face him. “By the lord Harry, I do believe you're threatening me!”

“Call it a friendly warning. His lordship asks your cooperation is all. Just during the present national emergency.”

It was too bland; too gently appealing. Vespa leaned back and said thoughtfully, “His lordship sent you home only to give me a ‘friendly warning'? And you found it necessary to leave off your uniform—in time of war—for such a purpose?”

“I have several commissions for Lord Wellington,” said Adair with wooden calm.

“Yet interrupted them to ensure that I was behaving myself? I was—that is to say Broderick and Manderville and I were—warned to keep our tongues between our teeth in the matter of the Arsenal, which we have done.”

“Very good.” The colonel inspected his handkerchief in the glow from the coach lamps. “Ah, my nose has stopped bleeding at last and—”

“The devil with your nose! Why should my search for my true identity cause the Field Marshal, or the Horse Guards, to be alarmed?”

“I'd think it obvious that your enquiries must provoke curiosity, to say the least.”

“Not so! For my mother's sake I've been discreet.”

“Yet your search has been noted.”

“By whom? Whitehall?”

“And others.”

“Rubbish!” Leaning forward, Vespa said intensely, “Do you know what I think, Colonel, sir? Those louts who attacked you just now were not run-of-the-mill street
banditti.
They were professionals. The fellow who brought you down had plenty of opportunity to put an end to you, but did not. They wanted you alive because they want information from you! And if you expect me to believe that one jot of it had to do with my search for my real father—”

Adair exclaimed, “Where the
devil
are we? Hey! Jervey! What are you about?”

The coach lurched to a halt. In a flash, Adair had wrenched the door open and sprung out.

Following, Vespa found that the hackney had stopped on a gloomy narrow street. He was able to distinguish that the coachman had vanished. A shocked cry rang out, and against the dim light from a dirty window he caught a glimpse of Adair, who appeared to have taken wing. Astonished, Vespa crouched, prepared for battle, his cane fast-gripped. The lighted window was blotted out. He had a brief impression that a giant loomed before him. The chances being slim that this giant was friendly, he did not pause to enquire, but with both hands and all his strength thrust his cane at the creature. It was as if he had attacked solid rock. A guttural roar deafened him. He was swept up in a crushing grip and hurled aside. With the instinctive reaction of the athlete he landed rolling. Short of breath, he crawled to his knees and tried to see who—or what—had attacked them.

A mighty hand jerked him up, then released him abruptly as a voice with a slight foreign accent snarled, “Not him, fool! The other!”

“Halt, or I fire!” Adair's voice.

Vespa hoped the colonel could see more than he could, and crouched lower.

A pistol shot shattered the quiet of the night.

Somebody screamed.

There sounded again that inhuman, guttural growl. “Honourable master light lantern? Cannot find—”

And then hooves were coming fast, rattles clattered, and a distant bobbing glow proclaimed the approach of law and order.

The foreign voice rang out. “It is the Watch!
Sacré nom de nom!
How did the imbeciles come so fast up with us? I cannot be seen in this!”

“Master go. I find—”

“Idiot! Come!”

“I bring Barto? Colonel man shoot straight. Barto dead I think.”

“Then leave him.”

By the brightening glow of the lantern, Vespa saw two men running toward a darkened carriage; one tall and thin, the other shorter, but massively built with long arms that bulged the sleeves of his coat. The carriage door slammed, the coachman whipped up his team. Sixteen iron-shod hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones, and Vespa had to leap for his life.

Adair came staggering up and helped him to his feet. “What the devil was … that?” he gasped in a shaken voice. “Did you see?”

“Not clearly, but enough to know I hope never to see it again!”

Two members of the Watch ran up, their lantern swung high. Vespa caught a glimpse of a red waistcoat and thought a surprised,
‘Bow Street?'
He said thankfully, “You came just in time! I—”

“You best be movin' along, sir.” A pair of narrowed eyes scanned him from under a low-crowned hat. “This ain't no neighbourhood for a gent like you to go for a joy ride.”

“Joy ride! I'll have you know—”

“'Alf a minute, sir.” The Bow Street Runner bent above a still shape. “This one's stuck 'is spoon in the wall.” He turned to Adair. “I reckernizes you, Mr. Brownley, and I'll take that pistol, if y'-please. Up to yer tricks agin, but I gotcha this time, ain't I! In the King's name I arrest you on a charge of murder. Let's 'ave the bracelets 'ere, North.”

Seething with indignation, Vespa demanded, “Are you quite daft?
We
are the victims, you idiot! That coach you saw driving off holds the ruffians you want!”

“A
proper
idjut I'd be to believe that one, sir,” leered the Runner. “I 'opes I knows when I got me man! 'Ere's our coach at last. We'll be orf, North. And let's 'ave no trouble from you, Brownley—
h'if
you don't wanta bump on the tibby!”

Adair murmured something in a despondent tone.

Vespa sprang forward and wrenched the Runner's hold from the colonel's arm. “You're out of your senses! I tell you we were murderously attacked, and you most
assuredly
have the wrong man! This gentleman's name is not Brownley! He's—”

“It's good of you to try, friend,” interrupted Adair. “But it's no use. They got me proper.” His very blue eyes met Vespa's levelly, and said a clear if silent, ‘Keep out of this!'

A moment later, having mounted the box on the abandoned hackney coach, Vespa took up the reins and sent the tired horse plodding after the Watchman's carriage.

*   *   *

The office at the Horse Guards was not large and in the subdued light of this cold winter morning the presence of five gentlemen caused it to appear crowded. Although nobody spoke there was a distinct air of tension in the room. The youthful major seated at the desk appeared to be fascinated by the quill pen he turned in restless fingers; the rosy-cheeked and robust captain who stood leaning back against the front of the desk folded his arms and stared wistfully at a coat he coveted shamelessly; and the three young men who sat facing the desk exchanged incredulous glances. For several seconds the silence was broken only by the pattering of raindrops against the window.

Lieutenant Tobias Broderick's blond curly hair and cherubic blue eyes made him appear younger than his twenty-four years and masked a brilliant mind. He now said with considerable indignation, “In view of Captain Vespa's extraordinary military record, and the fact that he was chosen by Lord Wellington to be on his personal staff, I find it astonishing that you should question his word, Major Blaine.”

“You are mistaken, Lieutenant.” Major Blaine lifted a pair of cold brown eyes to engage Broderick's angry stare. “I do not question Sir John's account of what he believes to have transpired last evening, but—”

Vespa interrupted, “Your pardon, sir, but my name is
Captain
John Vespa! I do not use the title.” Clearly taken aback, the major blinked at him and he took advantage of the pause to add briskly, “Also, I am perfectly
sure
of what happened last evening. As I told you just now, a high-ranking army officer was attacked on the street and later arrested, completely without justification, by an officious clod who called himself a Bow Street Runner! It was clearly a case of mistaken identity. I would respectfully suggest that you get in touch with Bow Street at once and arrange for Colonel Adair's release.”

“As should have been done last night, when Captain Vespa came here and reported the incident,” murmured Paige Manderville, adjusting the cuff of his coat.

The large captain continued to gaze at that superbly tailored coat as he remarked, “And would have been done, Lieutenant, had we been able to verify Sir—er, Captain Vespa's—er, assertions, but—”

“Assertions?” said Vespa angrily. “Now see here, Rickaby, if you've been brought into the business to claim that my mind is still disordered from the knock I took at Vitoria, I'll have you know I am fully recovered!”

“And have recently taken another knock on the head, by the look of it.” The military surgeon tore his eyes from Manderville's coat and moved to examine the cut over Vespa's eye. “When did this happen?”

“Last evening. While Hastings Adair and I were fighting off the thieves who attacked him. This cut is proof of what I've told you, so do not waste more time in trying to convince me that none of it happened!”

Major Blaine said gently, “But, my dear fellow, we have no intention of doing such a thing. We've already been in touch with the Bow Street Magistrate and have a full report of the occurrence.”

“Then why did you imply that you doubted my story?”

“Only one aspect of the affair,” qualified Dr. Rickaby. “You were apparently confused as to the identity of the man you went to help. Logical you would be, all things considered.”

Through gritted teeth Vespa declared, “I was
not
confused!
Nor
concussed!
Nor
hallucinating! Adair had a nosebleed after the fight. We called up a hackney coach. He said he'd been looking for me, and we talked for a few minutes about a—a personal matter. If you say I was talking to myself, you're quite off the road!”

Major Blaine put in mildly, “I've no least idea of to whom you were talking, but I know damned well it wasn't the man you've named. Colonel Hastings Adair is at this very moment in France with Field Marshal Lord Wellington's forces.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Broderick.

“Is he now,” drawled Manderville cynically.

Vespa's jaw tightened. “I don't know why you would make such a claim, sir, or why Adair was rushed off to jail for some trumped-up reason. He's not a close personal friend. But he's a good man, and I'd try to help him out of a fix, even if I didn't have my own sanity to defend. Good day to you, gentlemen.” He stood, his friends standing with him.

“Where do you think you're going?” asked Blaine, amused.

“To find Colonel the Honourable Hastings Adair,” said Vespa, starting to the door. “When I bring him here, you may wish to make me your apologies.”

The surgeon glanced at Blaine and volunteered with a sigh, “Very well. I can tell you where to find him.”

Vespa turned back eagerly.

“He took a bayonet through the thigh during the Battle of the Nivelle,” said Rickaby. “We've settled him into one of our charming field hospitals in Pamplona. I visited him there just before I started for home three days ago.”

Blaine said reasonably, “So you see, Captain, poor Hasty Adair is quite unable to walk, much less to have left France and battled ruffians on a London street last night.”

“Were I you, my boy,” advised Rickaby. “I'd go down to that nice Richmond house of yours and enjoy a warm and cozy winter and forget all this unpleasantness.”

It was really remarkable, thought Vespa, that so many people were eager to put him out of the way. He looked from one kindly smile to the other and shook his head in reluctant admiration. “I'll say this for you,” he said, “you're jolly good at it!” He followed his friends and closed the door quietly.

After a glum minute, “Damn!” said Major Blaine, slamming his quill pen onto the desk disastrously.

Captain Rickaby sighed. “Stubborn fella, I'm afraid, Ed.”

“So I was warned.”

“It comes in handy sometimes. After Vitoria, for instance. He should've died. Wouldn't. He's a dashed good man.”

“They all are. Broderick and Manderville can be dealt with. One way or another. But—Vespa…” the Major scowled. “His lordship's hand is over him. To an extent.”

Rickaby murmured, “D'you know, Ed, if it was up to me, I'd tell him.”

“Well, it ain't up to you,” snapped Blaine, glaring at him. “And it ain't up to me. And how the hell could I tell him what I don't know myself?”

“You don't? Jupiter! I thought surely a man in your position—Then—who does know?”

“I don't know that, either. I only know it's not to be talked of, or whispered, or even, God save us all, thought about! So this conversation must not be mentioned outside these walls.”

“Lord, man! I'm your cousin! You surely know I'm to be trusted?”

“Of course I do, you great clunch. Secrecy! It's a double-edged sword at best. The inevitable result of all these cautions and prohibitions is that everyone's wondering what the devil they're not to talk, or whisper, or think about!” Blaine scraped back his chair and went to stand at the window and glower at the rain. “It must be curst big, Rick, whatever it is. Did you notice there's been not one word in the newspapers about that fiasco last night?”

“Early yet, old boy. Besides, London's unhappily replete with robberies. Not surprising if one goes unnoticed.”

“Is it not?” Blaine gave a snort of derision. “Yet another murderous attack on a popular young war hero who appears to have become a magnet for violence. Do you really suppose the newspapers would not begin to ask why? Or that they would ignore such a story?”