The Riddle of the Lost Lover (36 page)

“Jacques, Madame.”

She smiled. “No last names, eh? It is as well. I will do what I may. With luck our farrier is in the tap. He is a finer doctor than most who have the title, and he will know what is to be done. Try to keep your poor friend quiet.” A nod, a swirl of voluminous skirts, and the door closed behind her.

Kincraig whispered, “Crossbow … Then—then it was—” His gaze fell on the sullen features of the man on the floor, and he groaned, “Duncan—did you … hate me so much?”

Vespa said quickly, “He didn't mean to hit you, sir. It was me he aimed at. Missed again, didn't you, Keith!”

“Oh, no,” sneered Keith.

Kincraig's wound was bleeding sluggishly. Bathing it as best she might, Consuela exclaimed in horror, “You really meant to kill your father?”

Kincraig tried painfully to lift himself, but Vespa eased him back down. “You must lie still, sir. We'll have help for you in only a minute or two.”

Keith laughed. “No, you won't, fool! You can't push the bolt through, nor pull it back. He's as good as dead.”

“Shut your mouth,” snarled Vespa, turning on him in a fury.

“No,” gasped Kincraig. “I want to know …
Why,
Duncan? I'd have left you a rich man, even … even allowing for Jack's share of the inheritance.”

“Well, now I'll be a
very
rich man, won't I? You won't live to acknowledge him as your bastard, or to change your will, and, more importantly, you won't have time to enjoy a son who'd suit your antiquated notions better than I do. A gallant soldier, a fine athlete, a man of noble principles. What pitiful stuff! And only look at what's left. The gallant soldier has been discarded. The fine athlete is now a cripple. And his ridiculous principles will keep him from enjoying the Vespa fortune and estates—if there are any left.”

Manderville started forward, fists clenched. “Why, you filthy wart! I'll—”

“No!” Pale with fury, Vespa held his friend back. “We'd as well hear it all.”

Keith grinned, and added, “On the other hand, there is your legal son, Papa, who is hale and whole and has done quite well in the Trade. Didn't know that, did you? I've been a smuggler for years. Brandy, scent, guns—right under the noses of the stupid Excise men.”

Manderville said stuffily, “What you mead is that in addition to your other revolti'g qualities, you're a traitor!”

“Not to myself,” said Keith, laughing.

Vespa saw the glint of tears in Lord Kincraig's eyes. He said, “My apologies, Consuela,” and crossed to where Keith sprawled. His half-brother's bravado vanished, and he cringed against the wall, babbling, “You can't hit me! My hands are tied! You must play fair!”

Bending over him, Vespa said softly, “One more word out of you, disgusting whelp that you are, and when we get that bolt out of my father, I'll use it on your own slimy hide! And you had better pray he lives, for if he dies—be assured that I'll do it anyway!”

Keith saw death in his eyes and recoiled, whining that he was freezing cold and sure to become a victim of pneumonia.

Madame Lannion hurried back into the room carrying a tray of medical implements and followed by a stoop-shouldered nondescript-looking man wearing a knitted cap and clutching a bottle of brandy. “This is our good Monsieur Aunay,” she said. “He will help the poor gentleman.”

Frowning, Vespa reached for the bottle. “I think you won't need this, monsieur.”

“No,” said the farrier in a deep boom of a voice. “But—he will!” He poured a generous portion and said, “Lift him. A little. No, not you, monsieur! You're soaking wet!”

Vespa drew back and Manderville and Madame Lannion raised Kincraig to the point that he could sip the brandy. Clearly, he was in much pain, but he didn't utter a sound while the farrier inspected the wound.

Leading Vespa aside, Aunay said, “We have two chances, monsieur.”

“You m-must cut it out,” said Vespa, through chattering teeth.

“That is our second choice. The first is a seldom-used tool of surgery.” The farrier nodded to Madame Lannion, and she brought him a pair of heavy pruning shears. “Do not look so appalled, monsieur,” said the farrier with a smile. “Fortunately for us, the bolt has the cruel steel barbs, but a wooden stem. If it were a steel bolt, I would have no alternative but to cut it out.”

Vespa eyed the shears uneasily. “If it's wood, couldn't you just saw through the beastly thing?”

“I could try, but I had rather not. It would be more trying for my patient. With luck, one or two hard snaps with these, and we can pull out the bolt. One thing in our favour is that it is so far to the side. I think it has not touched the lung, but the gentleman—your father, sir?”

“Yes. He is not young, is that what you're th-thinking?”

“He is, I can see, a brave man. But it will be a shock. You accept that I am not a
bona fide
surgeon, monsieur?”

“You come highly recommended. I am sure you will do your best.”

“As you wish.” Aunay looked pleased. “Then—we proceed. The young lady she must leave while we remove your papa's garments, and I wish you will swiftly find dry clothing, or I will have two patients on my hands!”

“Th-three,” moaned Keith.

Vespa ignored him and turned back to the bed. Looking into the haggard face of the injured man, he knew suddenly that whatever his crimes, the bond between them was deep and binding. He said, “No tricks please, father. I want you to dance at my wedding.”

Kincraig said nothing, but his eyes brightened and the white lips twitched into a smile.

*   *   *

It was still dark when Consuela ran down the stairs. A fire was burning on the hearth of the tiny coffee room and breakfast had been set out on a table. Vespa stood with one hand on the mantel, gazing down at the flames, and she ran to him, saying anxiously, “What is it? When I left you last night he seemed peacefully asleep at last.”

He turned with a smile and took both her hands. “And how incredibly brave and kind you were, to stay with us as you did. Our clever amateur apothecary had given him some laudanum, so he slept through much of the night.”

“Which is probably more than you did.” She touched his tired face worriedly. “Have you seen Monsieur Aunay this morning?”

“Yes. He looked in just now and told me my father goes along nicely. I wish to heaven we could leave him here, but we must be on our way at first light.” He led her to the table and pulled out a chair.

She sat down and said, “You never mean to take him with us? Jack, you cannot! He endured that dreadful ordeal very bravely, but the poor man is in no condition to travel.”

Vespa had already snatched a hurried meal, but couldn't resist the chance to share these few minutes. He poured her coffee and moved the butter and jam and the bowl of hot rolls closer, then sat beside her. “He will be in worse condition if we don't get away from here quickly.” With a grim look he went on, “My delightful half-brother won free in the night!”

“Oh, never say so! I thought you had him securely tied in the cellar?”

“I did. Like a fool! I should have kept him under my eye. He managed to persuade a gullible kitchen maid to loosen the ropes, and was free in jig time. I came down on the run when I heard her screeching. Keith had turned out all the the horses. I tried to stop him but he went off at the gallop on a fine hack.”

Dismayed, she said, “And will bring back his nasty friends, I suppose.”

“No. When I hauled him out of that lake yesterday afternoon he was in a rage because his hirelings have deserted him. Apparently, there are dragoons out searching for us, and his men were English and decided the risk was too great.”

Spreading jam on a roll she asked, “Then—why must we leave so quickly? You and Paige could deal with Keith, surely?”

“Most assuredly we could. But the unnatural varmint promised to find the dragoons and send them after us. He's sure to implicate his lordship. It would present an ideal way to be rid of him.”

“Oh, what a
horrid
creature he is! But surely they'll not believe what he says? Lord Kincraig has wandered about the continent for years and everyone knows—forgive me, Jack—that he's more a joke than a threat.”

“They'd change their minds in a hurry if Keith should fabricate some tale about my father being a British spy.” He thought, ‘or a ruthless bank robber!' “And I've your precious self to consider.” He ran a finger down her cheek lovingly. “I dare not risk it, Consuela. We must make a run for the coast. Paige is poling up the horses. Poor fellow, he really has a brute of a cold. Madame has been changing my father's bandages. I'm going up now to help him get dressed. Will you see about young Pierre?”

She nodded, but said worriedly that it might be as well to leave the child here so that he could be restored to his family. “The Lannions seem to be good people.”

“Yes, I'm sure they are. But the boy is my responsibility, you know.”

“Indeed he is not! I was the one who gave him the chance to run away.”

“And it is thanks to me that he was not sent back at once. Besides, if we leave him, like as not he'll run away again and try to find us, and get thoroughly lost in the process. No. I must deliver him to Gaston myself.”

Consuela had to admit the logic of what he said, but much to her exasperation, she was unable to fulfill the task he had set her. The truckle bed in the room Pierre had shared with Manderville was empty and the boy was nowhere to be found. She gathered her few belongings together and carried them down to the stables. The carriage was ready, the horses harnessed and stamping impatiently. A yawning ostler said that he had seen young Master Pierre carrying the crossbow “like a soldier,” but didn't know where he was now. Consuela asked him to put her bag in the boot, and wrapping her cloak tightly around her, went outside.

Dawn was brightening the eastern skies, the air was wintry but, at least at the moment, it was not raining. She went around to the side of the tavern and called, but there was no sign of Pierre. Vexed, she muttered, “Wretched child. Where have you got to now?” Jack was so anxious to get an early start, and he certainly would not leave without the boy. She walked up the lane a short way, calling, and peering through a swirling ground mist for a glimpse of a small figure carrying a crossbow.

She heard Pierre before she saw him. His answering calls were broken by sobs and she began to run, fearing he had fallen and hurt himself. She traced the cries to a cluster of yew trees some distance across the field. No sooner did she enter their shade than Pierre sped to throw himself into her arms. He was still clutching the heavy crossbow, but raised no objections when she removed it. The defiant warrior had vanished, and he was just a very frightened little boy who clung to her whimpering a plea to go home to Papa.

“But of course you shall, my dear,” she said, holding him tight. “Captain Jacques is even now preparing to leave. Why ever did you not come when I called you?”

“Because … because of—
them.
” He half whispered the words, his big eyes peering around in terror.

The hedge tavern was out of sight. Consuela thought of the wicked Duncan Keith and his scoundrels, and of Imre Monteil and his terrible coachman, and tried not to look frightened. Lowering her voice she asked, “Who, dear? I cannot see anyone.”

“There!”
He pointed impatiently. “And there, and—there! Oh, but they are all around! I didn't see them when I came in here to practice with the crossbow. But it began to get lighter and there they were. Watching me!”

Consuela saw also. An impressive circle of the megaliths with the trees as if clustered to conceal them. With a sigh of relief, she said, “But they are just some menhirs, Pierre. Nothing more than great slabs of stone. They cannot harm you. Only think how clever the ancient people were, to manage to bring them here and make them stand upright.”

He shook his head vehemently. “This, it is not possible! People today cannot move them. I know, for my Papa and some of his friends tried once. They were big and strong, but it was no use. And if modern men who are clever can't do it, how could cavemen who were stupids? It was magic, Miss Consuela! And they are here, weaving evil spells all—all round us!”

In his abject fear his voice had risen shrilly. Consuela said with decision, “Nonsense! That is just silly superstition. Now come and—”

“No,” he wailed, tightening his hold about her. “Only look at the bad things that have happened. Yesterday the Carpet Collector went to meet his friend, and found him killed stone dead near that great big menhir. And then the old gentleman was shot and is going to die—”

“But—no, Pierre! Lord Kincraig is much better this morning. Only come and you will—”

“No! I cannot! He is brave, the old Carpet Man. But he will die, and I like him and it was only because we came near these menhirs it all happened. Do you see how many there are? Oh, I tell you, they are demons, and—”

“That's enough!” The note of hysteria in his voice caused her to say sternly, “Whatever would your papa and Captain Jacques think if they saw you blubbering like a baby over a silly old piece of rock? Pick up your crossbow like a brave boy, and come with me at once.” She had to pry his arms away and he struggled and looked up at her piteously, his face tear-streaked and his eyes reddened. Hardening her heart, she said, “Hurry, now. We are going to find a ship to take us back to the village near your papa's château. If you don't want to come I shall have to go without you.”

He gulped a sob, but took up the crossbow and walked as close to her as was possible, trembling with fear at every step.

Consuela rested a hand on his shoulder, and as they stepped out of the circle of yews, she said comfortingly, “there now. That wasn't so bad, was it? And we are quite safe in spite of those silly menhirs.”