Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (36 page)

His amusement faded. Here was more than the child's active
imagination. He asked intently, "Do you know what the 'it' was?"

She thought a moment, then said, "I think it was about
clothes."

"Clothes? Are you sure, Lady Priscilla?"

"No-o… But the other man got cross too, an' said it wasn't his
fault 'cause
they
hadn't gived somebody
something. An' he was sorry 'cause it all fitted so goodly an' would've
looked right, an' no one wouldn't have been a miser."

Montclair frowned. Might they instead have said—no one would
be the
wiser
? Whatever the plot, clothes, he
thought, had little to do with it.

The child went on blithely. "An' then Wolfgang barked at them
and they rid away like cowards, which is when I saw who they was. An' I
wouldn't be's'prised if Dr. Shes'ell hides his teeth in our cellar,
'cause he prob'ly keeps 'em in a little jar, like Grandpapa used to,
and doesn't like people to see him take 'em out. 'Sides, I've heard
someone bumping about down there at dead of night." Her voice lowered
again, and she hissed awfully, "When the goblins an' witches are out!
An' Wolfgang growls, an' he doesn't do that if it's Mama or some of our
people, you know. Can we make our story now, please? We were up to the
part where the princess finds the unicorn in her coach…"

It was taking so blasted long, but if anyone saw him, thought
Montclair, lowering himself carefully onto the next stair, he would say
he'd been very thirsty and hadn't wanted to disturb anyone at this hour
of the night. He reached back for the crutch and pulled it to him, but
this time he was a shade impatient, and the armrest clipped the rail
with a crack that he was sure would waken the entire household.
Mentally cursing his clumsiness he bit his lip and sat holding his
breath, waiting. No sound disturbed the silence. Another breathless
moment, then with a sigh of relief, he eased himself down one more step.

The Dainty Dancer
had put neatly into the
dock at four o'clock this afternoon. Lyddford had looked tired, and the
Spaniard not much better, but Lyddford had insisted the cargo must be
off-loaded at once. The Bo'sun and Deemer had joined in the effort, and
from his window Valentine had seen Seth and Dicky come slouching to
assist, looking more ruffianly than ever with paint liberally
splattered on their ragged garments.

Valentine smiled rather grimly, recalling Starry's barely
concealed look of relief when he'd told her he was not feeling "quite
up to the rig" this afternoon and if it would not be too much trouble
he'd take dinner in his room. No doubt they were pleased to have him
out of the way while the cargo was off-loaded. Martha had carried his
tray upstairs and in her gentle warm-hearted way had settled him onto
the chaise longue, lit the candles, made sure that books and
The
Morning Chronicle
were within easy reach, and spread the
napkin across his lap. She'd even given his shoulder a shy little pat.
Susan's remarks about servants had come to mind, and he was forced to
admit that Martha might be simple-minded, but if she was in his employ
he'd take great care not to lose her.

He'd passed the evening reading and listening to the men
clumping about downstairs. Several times he'd gone to the big window in
the first-floor hall and watched them toiling up from the river with
wheelbarrows piled high with boxes and bales that ostensibly contained
Imre Monteil's "personal effects." It was past eleven o'clock when the
house had quieted. He'd heard the creak of the stairs soon afterwards,
then silence had blanketed the old house for another hour. They all had
worked so hard; it was to be hoped they'd sleep like logs.

Priscilla's innocent words had decided him upon this course of
action. "I've heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night…
an' Wolfgang growls…" He was not quite sure of the significance of
Sheswell's nocturnal meeting with Imre Monteil, but he'd long known
that the doctor was a tippler. He was beginning to suspect that Monteil
was a Free Trader on the side. Possibly, he supplied Sheswell with
wines and cognac which had sidestepped the excise tariff. The doctor
might have become angered by delays, and Priscilla had chanced upon the
two men while Monteil was making his excuses. Who Monteil's customers
were did not much concern Valentine, however. The points of concern
were firstly, that Susan and her brother might have been gulled into
shipping and hiding contraband in the belief that Monteil's cargoes
were simple personal belongings; secondly, that the Swiss should have
had the unmitigated gall to select Highperch Cottage (admittedly
offering the unique advantages of sitting isolated, unoccupied, and on
the bank of the river) for a storage and, presumably, distribution
point.

When his initial doubts had solidified this afternoon,
Valentine had at first thought to seek out Susan and share them with
her, but she seemed much taken with Monsieur Monteil. Also, his own
offer of financial assistance had sent her straight into the boughs.
She was an excessively proud young lady, and resented any criticism of
her judgment. Certainly, she'd want to know what he suspected, and if
he revealed his belief that she and Lyddford had— however
inadvertently—allowed themselves to be dragged into a smuggler's toils,
she'd probably be reaching for her broom again and he'd be banished
from her presence forever. And despite her apparent preference for
gentlemen of the Swiss persuasion, he found that he was reluctant to be
banished from the widow's presence.

If that slippery Monteil really had dared to use Highperch for
illegal activities, if he had carelessly placed Susan and her brother
in danger of being arrested as smugglers, then by George, the man was a
scoundrel and must be dealt with! First, however, proof must be found.
The ideal time to accomplish this was at night, and now that he had
discovered he could manage to get about with only one crutch, he saw no
reason to delay.

His undistinguished progress down the stairs having been
accomplished, he gripped the end post and dragged himself erect. There
was a half moon tonight, and the windows were brightened by a silvery
glow, the illumination, faint as it was, making it easier to proceed
cautiously down the west hall, past the library and what had once been
a study, to the stairs that led to the cellars. It was quite a warm
night, but luckily the wind was blustering about, effectively drowning
the faint sounds of his crutch and an occasional creaking board under
his foot.

He eased the cellar door open, and stood very still,
listening. There was no flicker of light; no sound. And then suddenly
there came a stir behind him. A rush of air. Something flying at him.
His nerves tightened. He braced himself on the crutch, made a grab for
the Manton he'd tucked into his sling, and jerked his head around to
look behind him. With an amiable trill a small shape tore past and
charged full-tilt down the cellar steps. Welcome! Of all the— But the
cat was invariably put out before everyone went up to bed. And if
Welcome had been put out, who had let him back inside? He thought
grimly, 'The Vagrants! I'll warrant the dirty hounds are down there,
robbing Lyddford blind!'

He uncocked the pistol, restored it to the sling, and sat down
again, using his left hand to settle the splinted leg onto the steps.
It was like descending into a black well. The silence pounded at his
ears, and he paused frequently so as to listen. He'd have felt so much
less vulnerable with the Manton in his hand, even though his
left-handed aim would be poor, but he needed his one good hand to guide
his leg and pull the crutch. He went on, sitting from step to step in
the pitchy gloom, his nerves taut, but not for an instant considering
that he had one arm in a sling, and a broken leg, and might at any
instant be attacked by a murderous thief. It did occur to him that he
must present a properly unheroic picture, and he grinned faintly,
imagining Priscilla's mirth if she could see him.

Quite suddenly a faint light appeared some distance ahead. His
heart gave a jolt. He whispered a hopeful "Jupiter!" and tried to move
more rapidly, his eyes fixed to that hovering glow. He had reached the
foot of the cellar steps and was struggling to stand, when the light
abruptly vanished. The darkness closed in, seemingly more dense than
before. He positioned the crutch under his arm and dragged himself
upward, narrowed eyes striving to pierce the blackness, heart pounding
with excitement. There came the faintest shuffling sound. And then he
knew that someone else was very close to him. He balanced himself and
groped for the pistol. His fingers had closed around it when he heard
heavy breathing scant inches from his face. He could dimly make out a
crouching shape and he shouted harshly, "Stay back! I've a pistol."

The answer was a low, bestial growl. Stunned, he thought, 'By
God! It's the bastard who struck me down in the woods!' He jerked the
pistol upward. His assailant must have the ability to see in the dark,
for before he could fire, the weapon was smashed from his hand. His
crutch fell as he staggered. Great arms clamped around him, and again
that horrifying growl sounded. His ribs were being crushed; he could
scarcely breathe. Struggling frantically to free himself, he was
whirled around. He was not huskily built, but his long hours at the
harpsichord had given his hands unusual strength, and although his
injured right arm was trapped, by the grace of God his left arm was
free of that deadly embrace. Sobbing for breath, he swung the heel of
his hand at the grotesquely large and dimly seen outline and felt it
connect hard with what felt like a man's throat.

A howl of pain and his assailant faltered. With all his
strength he clenched his fist and struck again, this time feeling an
eye beneath his knuckles. A choked grunt. The vise that was choking the
life from him eased slightly. Fighting to free himself, Montclair was
suddenly all too successful. Off balance, he reached out blindly, and
the iron stair railing kept him from falling. From the darkness came a
snuffling. He sensed rather than saw something flailing at him, flung
up his left arm and beat it aside, but his invisible assailant had the
advantage of two arms, and Valentine felt the full impact of the second
as it caught him across the shoulder, sending him flying. He hurtled
across the stairs and crashed against the wall. Half stunned, his head
spinning, he was briefly grateful that he had not fallen on his hurt
leg again. Heavy footsteps were coming nearer. But the attacker was on
a lower level now and Valentine had the advantage of lying half against
the wall. Gathering his reeling senses he kicked out blindly, connected
hard, and heard an agonized grunt.

Somebody else was coming. If the vagrants were in league with
the big man, he was doomed. His bones felt like water, but if he lay
here waiting for his strength to come back they'd put a period to him
in no time. Dazed and panting, he forced his reluctant body up. A
guttural voice full of pain groaned, "Who's… it… ?" Then the air was
split by a shrill unearthly howl, a sound so unexpected and
blood-chilling that for an instant Montclair was frozen. He realized
then that one of the pair must have trodden on Welcome's tail. A deep
cry of terror rang out. He leaned over the rail and sent his left fist
in a savage jab towards the sound. He connected in a glancing blow,
then his arm was seized and he was jerked over the rail as though he
had been a child. Powerless to protect himself, he landed hard and lay
sprawled, hearing running footsteps that gradually faded into the
distance.

Gradually, his mind cleared, and he lay blinking into the
blackness, trying to collect his thoughts. He felt bruised all over,
and seemed to be lying on a very hard mattress. There was a sense of
urgency. He tried to sit up and a complaining
mew
sounded. Welcome had settled down comfortably on his chest. Memory
returned with a rush. The monster had come after him again in an
encounter that would surely haunt his dreams for so long as he lived.
It was very quiet now. Had both the intruders left? Welcome mewed
again, and sniffed with fishy breath at his face. He put the little cat
aside, and found the tinderbox in his pocket. Necessity was certainly
the mother of invention; he gripped the box between his teeth and was
able to scrape the flint with his left hand and awaken a flame.

His eyes sought about desperately. A dark form lay crumpled at
the foot of the steps, a candle beside it. Frantic with haste, he
dragged himself down to that still figure and lit the candle. The man
who lay facedown on the stone floor was slim, certainly not the
growling monster who'd tried to kill him. More likely it was one of the
vagrants.

Moving as fast as he could, Montclair poured a puddle of
melted wax onto the third stair, set the candle in it, then looked
about for his crutch. It lay half under the vagrant, for there was no
doubt in his mind now about the man's identity. He wondered if he'd
killed the rogue. His question was answered by a faint inarticulate
sound. The huddled criminal moved, his stocking-capped head lifting
slightly. He was probably armed. Valentine crawled with painful haste
to the pistol and snatched it up.

"All right… you treacherous cur," he panted. "Get up. Slowly.
One false move and… I shall fire!"

The vagrant struggled to hands and knees and turned a bruised
and bewildered face.

Montclair's pistol was aimed squarely between the eyes of Mrs.
Susan Henley.

"
Mrs. Sue
?" gasped Montclair,
flabbergasted. Susan had suffered through the most miserable day of her
life, capped by a hideous encounter with an unseen and nightmarish
creature whose great paws had seized her up as though she were a doll.
Convinced she was about to be murdered, she'd been too terrified to
give vent to the shrieks that had welled in her throat, and then
someone else had struck her a cruel blow that had plunged her into
unconsciousness. Now, to see Valentine's battered but beloved face
quite overpowered her resolution, and she reached out to him,
whimpering, "V-Val… ? Oh—is it—is it
really
you?"