Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (35 page)

"Simple, sir. Mr. Devenish will be found with a pistol still
clutched in his cold meat hand. He shot you, Canada, just afore he went
over!" He laughed his triumph and added, 'Tidy, ain't it?"

Devenish swore under his breath and took a step forward. The
pistols were raised at once, and Tyndale put a restraining hand on his
arm. "You must all be deeply devoted to Monsieur Sanguinet," he said
dryly, "to be willing to commit two murders for him."

Walter scowled. Fritch said with exaggerated innocence, "But
we
ain't goin' ter murder no one, Major, sir. You two loving cousins been
a'fighting and a'quarrelling halfway 'cross England. And only
fancy—just s'arternoon you was almost coming ter blows, right in front
o' Mr. Respectability Hennessey. Most shocked, he was.
Most
shocked!" He folded his hands piously, his eyes mocking, while his
friends hooted their mirth.

Tyndale threw his cousin a wry look. "We properly set the
scene for them."

"You are, like the flash coves say, all consideration," Fritch
agreed.

Leering, Shotten added with relish, "And ternight when it's
nice and dark so no gawking yokels can't see what's goin' on, we'll
'ave the final act. And arter that, me fine coves, there ain't none o'
these country blubberheads what'll set foot within a mile o' yer cozy
castle Not a one, gents. Not a blessed one."

Devenish looked grimly from one face to the next. They were
savagely inflexible. Even Walter, who seemed to have sufficient
sensitivity to know nervousness, if not conscience, looked merciless.

Tyndale glanced to the windows. Already it was dusk. Within an
hour, it would be full dark. "Monty," he thought, "please do bring your
reinforcements. And soon!"

At about the same time that Mr. Hennessey was delivering the
supplies to Castle Tyndale, Josie, concealed by an overgrown hedge, was
waiting for Montelongo and his friends to come out of the cottage. She
had been quite dismayed by their meeting, but had followed them,
believing it to have been a chance encounter, and that the Indian would
soon resume his journey back to the castle. After a while, when he
still did not come out, she dismounted, tied Molly-My-Lass's halter to
a branch and began to wander up and down. She really should not stay
away from Steep Drummond much longer. Molly's foal would be needing to
be fed, and the family had probably noticed by now that both the mare
and herself were missing. Dismay seized her as the thought came that
because she was a gypsy they might fancy she'd stolen the valuable
animal. She glanced apprehensively at the cottage. It must be at lest
an hour since the men went inside. Goodness knows how long it would
take to get to the castle, and then Mr. Dev would probably make her go
back to Steep Drummond and everyone would be in a proper pucker. She'd
likely be walloped and sent to bed without supper. Well, she would
simply have to go and ask Mr. Monty the way. Sighing and reluctant, she
crossed the weedy lawn and knocked on the front door.

A roar of laughter was the only response, but it was
sufficient to send her scuttling around the corner of the house, for
she had seen men when they were shot in the neck, and she knew from
bitter experience that they were best given a wide berth. If they went
on drinking much longer, she could not hope for any help from Mr.
Monty. She waited undecidedly, and, full of nervous fears, wandered
around to the back of the house. The laughter was louder here, and the
voices more clear, but the conversation, such as it was, puzzled her.

"Lor'!" howled a man's voice. "How I'd love to've seen them
throw the Frog in the pool! Wonder he didn't drown of hisself!"

"Frogs don't—don't drown, friend," advised another voice.
"They just gives a sorta hop… and out they come!"

This sent them into guffaws again, though why a frog being
tossed into a pool should be amusing was more than the child could
fathom.

"I'll tell you one thing," said the first man. "I'm g-glad as
bedamned
I
didn't do it! The Frenchy will hold
that grudge as long as Devenish lives!"

"Then he ain't got long to hold it, has he, my cove?"

Another roar of laughter, but Josie didn't think it funny at
all. Whatever did they mean? Mr. Dev was a young man. He wasn't going
to die for years and years! Especially now there wasn't any wars what
killed all the nice soldiers. She worried at it while the rough talk
went on and on, growing ever more raucous, until it dawned on her that
through it all, not once had she heard Mr. Monty say anything. She was
quite frightened by this time, her fears having nothing to do with
whether or not she had been missed at Steep Drummond. A window of the
room stood open, the curtains flirting in the rising wind. She thought,
"I must not be a coward. I must have a look, for Mr. Dev's sake."

The very thought of serving her god strengthened her. She
crept nearer, but the window was too high. Her glance around discovered
some bricks piled against one wall and, the fear of detection spurring
her on, she trotted back and forth carrying one heavy brick at a time,
until three were piled below the casement. They were a bit wobbly, but
it was the best she could do. She stepped up, crouching, then slowly
straightened.

An involuntary gasp of horror escaped her. Mr. Monty was
slumped in a chair. He looked dead, but he was tied hand and foot and
one does not tie a dead man, so she supposed he must have been struck
on the head. At a table to one side, the two men she had thought to be
his friends sat with a half-full wine bottle between them, their
flushed faces and another empty bottle on the floor testifying to their
state. Even as she gazed, petrified, the taller of the pair glanced to
the window, lurched to his feet, and with an oath stumbled towards her.
Sick with terror, she tried to run, but her legs had turned to water
and would not stir. The slurred voice, just above her, snarled a
profanity. She sank against the wall, eyes half closed, waiting in a
helpless panic to be seized and dragged into that horrid room. Dimly,
she saw a large hand thrusting at her. She felt sick, and the bright
afternoon grew dim. A coarse voice snarled, "Blasted damned wind!" The
window was slammed shut, the lower edge of the frame brushing her curls.

He had not seen her! By some miracle she was still free! She
clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her terrified sobs, and
collapsed to the ground, a small, crumpled heap, weeping softly, and
whispering fervent players of gratitude for her narrow escape.

It was several moments before she was sufficiently recovered
to think coherently, but gradually her numbed mind began to function
again. What it was all about, she did not know, but those two men were
bad. They had tied up poor Mr. Monty, and it looked as if they had hurt
him, besides. He might be, as Mrs. Arabella was fond of remarking, a
"heathen savage," but he had never done anything savage that she'd
seen. His voice on the few occasions he'd spoken to her had been gruff,
but kind, and Major Craig thought the world of him. He had very nice
eyes, that Major Craig… not that he was a patch on Mr. Dev for looks,
but eyes were important. And that was another thing: those men had said
something about Mr. Dev dying. Soon, they'd said. Perhaps that was why
the Indian was tied up. So he couldn't go and help Mr. Dev. Her blood
ran cold with the fear that a plot existed to murder the only person
who had ever really befriended her. If that was so, she must get away
quick, and warn him!

The window was tight closed, the curtains drawn, but if there
was anyone else in the cottage she would be in full view if she ran
across the lawn to the mare. Shivering with fear, she tried to be as
brave as Mr. Dev would want her to be. Perhaps, even if they saw her,
she could climb onto Molly-My-Lass and be away in time. How fast the
Clydesdale could run, she had no idea, but an animal so big simply had
to be powerful and would likely be a fine goer.

And so, a very young lady gathered up her sadly tested courage
and made a wild dart across the open space of the lawn. She reached the
hedge and trees that shielded the cottage from the meadow in a flash,
and with no enraged shouts following. With a hand over her
madly
pounding heart, she paused to catch her breath, only to utter a moan of
despair. Molly-My-Lass was gone!

"I cannot understand it!" Yolande exclaimed distractedly. She
turned to Mrs. Drummond, who was brushing a disgusted Socrates. It
crossed her mind that the General might not care to see the dog
standing upon the piano bench while being groomed, but it was a thought
that did not linger, her main concentration being upon the missing
child.

"I understand it
perfectly
well," said
Mrs. Drummond, with the condenscension of superior wisdom. "The child
went to see her friend, is all. She is lonely here, Yolande, and it is
but natural for her to want to be with her own kind, and to grieve when
forcibly removed from her natural environment. Far be it from me to
criticize, but it was wrong of Devenish to abduct the child so
thoughtlessly. His besetting sin, alas! I could have told him no good
would come of it, but he would not have attended me—or anyone else, for
that matter!"

Sorting the wheat from the chaff, Yolande decided that her
aunt was very likely in the right of it, at least in so far as Josie's
destination was concerned. It was foolish to indulge this frightening
sense of something being very wrong. After all, what could happen to a
little girl at Steep Drummond? "I'll go down there," she murmured.

Astonished, Mrs. Drummond glanced up. 'To the MacFarlane
cottage?" she asked, in the tone she might have employed if told the
minister had run naked through the village. "Good gracious, why? There
is no call for you to so demean yourself. Besides, I heard the
MacFarlane girl has contracted measles. Send one of the footmen."

"Send a footman where?" enquired General Drummond, wandering
at that moment into the music room.

"Down to the gardener's house," supplied Arabella, casting a
wide smile at her father-in-law. "If you can credit it, dear sir,
Yolande
was about to go!"

"Josie has wandered off, Grandpapa," Yolande explained. "I
thought I would go and see if she is there. In fact, since Aunt
Arabella tells me little Maisie is ill, I've no doubt that is where I
shall find her."

"Very likely," he said, rather pleased to discover his
granddaughter was speaking to him in a friendly way and that she had
not held a grudge because he'd forbidden those two rapscallion cousins
to call on her. "I'll go with you."

"Oh, in that case," purred Arabella, "nothing could be more
proper."

The General escorted his granddaughter to the door, and turned
back to fix his son's widow with a minatory eye. "How glad I am that we
hae your approval, ma'am," he said cuttingly. "Tis an emotion I canna
returrn however; not while yon beastie distributes his fleas over my
pianoforte! Be sae good as tae remove the wee currr tae the barrn whar
he belongs!"

He ignored Mrs. Drummond's flustered protestations that
Socrates would not be caught dead with a nasty flea on him and,
ushering Yolande from the room, growled his thanks for providing an
excuse to escape that "absurd female! You must, however," he admonished
as they started into the gardens, "impress upon little Miss Storm that
she should not wander off like this. If the child's to become an
abigail, m'dear, she must learn proper behaviour."

But when they reached the gardener's cottage, it was to
discover that Josie had not visited that establishment since the day
Maisie had been caught at the summer house "tea party."

Her eyes dark shadows against her tired, pale face, Mrs.
MacFarlane said, "The wee lassie is nae lost, I hope?"

Losing some of her own colour, Yolande turned a frightened
glance to her grandfather. He patted her hand and said bracingly,
"Wandered off, merely. I fancy she's lonely here, poor mite."

"I'm sorry for that," Mrs. MacFarlane said. "Wherever can she
hae got to? I—" And, as if suddenly becoming aware that she kept her
illustrious guests standing on the step, she flushed darkly and stepped
back, gesturing for them to enter. "Ye're more than—than welcome tae
come inside," she stammered. "Unless ye've nae had the measles."

The General nodded. "We both have, I thank you." He stepped
over the threshold immediately dwarfing the small, immaculate parlour,
and, when Yolande had seated herself on the ornate red sofa, followed
suit, and enquired as to Maisie's condition.

Mrs. MacFarlane, who had perched on the very edge of a
straight-backed cane chair, sighed. "Och, but she's awful bad, puir
bairn." Her eyes distressed, she added brokenly, "I never saw her in
such a waeful state."

"I am so sorry, ma'am," Yolande sympathized with her customary
warm-heartedness. "She's a truly delightful little girl. Can we help?
You've had the doctor out, I—"

Mrs. MacFarlane sprang up again and backed away, an expression
almost of frenzy on her face. "I dinna wish… your aid…" she gasped out.
"We none of us—want nothing frae ye!"

From the corner of her eye, Yolande saw the General's whiskers
bristle alarmingly. Not glancing at him, she placed a gently
restraining hand on his arm. "I quite understand, ma'am," she said.
"You likely wish us at Jericho, so we will take ourselves off and ask
only that, if you should see Miss Storm, you will send word up to the
house."

"Aye." Mrs. MacFarlane's lip trembled. "I will, that. I—I'm
sorry, Miss Yolande. It's not—I dinna mean—I'm a mite fashed, y'ken."

"Of course you are. Any mother would be." Yolande stood, her
grandfather at once, almost protectively, standing beside her. "Measles
is a wretched illness, and we—"

"Aye! If it
be
measles!" And with a
sudden resumption of her former hostility, this strange little woman
said fiercely, "I pray to the good Lord it is nae something worse.
Heaven only knows what may be brought in tae the district when we're
infested with foreigners and heathens! Ye'll mind that MacFarlane can
read, sir? He told me he'd read somewhere that red men are awful
subject tae—" Her eyes all but starting from her head, she gripped and
wrung her hands and whispered, awfully, "tae—the smallpox!"