The Tyrant (33 page)

Watching him, trying not to dwell on the ramifications of Otton's obvious suspicions, she asked in a distracted way, “Are you—I mean, is your name Henry, by any chance?”

He smiled at her over the back of Otton's tall chestnut horse. “Aye, miss. Henry Baker I be. And you are Miss Ada Banham's lady.”

She nodded, and then Otton ran into the stables, a holstered pistol in his hand, and the long sword that Ada had called a colichemarde at his side. Baker led the horse out, and the animal whickered affectionately. Otton stroked the white blaze on his face and murmured something in a low caressing voice before he mounted in a supple swing.

Looking up at him, Phoebe said, “You believe someone tampered with Mr. Carruthers's powder-horn.”

“I pray not, ma'am. The devil's in it that I doubt I'm in time. Stand clear!”

Henry drew her back. Otton lifted the reins and touched his spurred heels lightly to the chestnut's sides. “Come on, Rump,” he said.

The horse's ears pricked up. Whether he knew his master well enough to be aware that something special was being asked of him, Phoebe could not guess, but it seemed to her that he did not gradually come to a gallop but was racing at full speed before ever they were clear of the stableyard.

Returning to the house, her heart was heavy. The duel was a staged deception. But that fact was known only to five people. If Otton's suspicion was correct, someone who believed the duel to be authentic had again tried to kill Meredith Carruthers.

*   *   *

“Merry!” hissed Jeffery, shaking his brother with reluctance but desperation. “Merry! For God's sake!”

Meredith blinked up at him. “Is it … over?” he asked, confused.

“Lord, but I wish it were! You're still in the coach, old fellow. Are you better? I'm most dreadfully sorry. I tried to be as careful as I could.” He held the flask to his brother's pale lips. “We're at the spinney, but Linden's not here as yet. I told Lambert you were sleeping, and he went over to confer with Coolley and Hills. Merry, we simply
must
call it off! You cannot hope to—”

Meredith hauled his head up. “You'd be surprised, Jeff, what a man can do when his life is … is on the line. No, I'd best not drink any more brandy or I'll be too foxed to miss poor Lockwood.”

Jeffery peered out of the window. “Here comes Linden now. Thank heaven! It's raining but very lightly. Can you get out?” He inspected his brother's sleeve, and groaned. “Try to keep your arm bent so the blood don't creep down your hand.”

They descended into the drizzle, and Lambert hurried over and looked at Meredith frowningly. Jeffery led him away a few paces. Lambert asked uneasily, “Is he all right? Gad, but that cold has a grip on him.”

“'Fraid he's been hitting the brandy,” said Jeffery by way of apology.

“Merry?”
said Lambert, astonished.

“He hoped it might make him feel better. I think he's overdone it a trifle. Have you fellows measured off the ground?”

“Yes. We're ready. Only look at Merry's silly grin. Jove! What a mess!”

Jeffery retreated to his wavering brother and told him sternly to behave sensibly. Meredith hiccuped. Lambert sighed and went over to the other seconds.

Dr. George Linden, a gaunt man of about fifty years, his shoulders stooped with rheumatism, left his shabby coach and joined them, carrying his small bag of tools and complaining about the rain and the isolated location.

“Don't want the Watch here, Linden. I said, don't want—” began Major Coolley.

“Yes, we heard you, sir,” said Lambert, looking uneasily at his principal. “Could we get started, please? Carruthers has a beastly cold.”

“Should've thought of that before he interfered with my hunt,” blustered Lockwood, slanting an oblique glance at his opponent. Even as he looked, Carruthers swayed slightly, then pulled himself up straight. Lockwood, a brave man, was suddenly more afraid than he ever had been in his life. A pistol was no weapon to be wielded by someone whose faculties were impaired. One sway such as that he had just seen could write his death warrant. He strode to his position and stood there, thinking of Lance and wishing he'd been able to see the boy just once more.

Jeffery, watching the right sleeve of his brother's dark brown coat, wondered if anyone else had noticed the darker mark near the elbow.

Meredith, the scene rippling before his eyes, gritted his teeth and prayed for the strength to lift the pistol that already seemed to weigh a ton.

“I shall count to three,” called Major Coolley. “I say, I shall count to—”

“Well, for Lord's sake, just say—‘one—two—three,'” snarled Lockwood, his nerves on edge. “Let's have no ‘One, I say one,' and so forth!”

Affronted, the Major said with lofty disdain, “I shall then drop my handkerchief. When I let it fall, you may fire. Do you”—he gave the Squire a hard look—“I say, do you understand, gentlemen?”

Lockwood growled an affirmative. Carruthers, guessing what the echoing voice had said, nodded.

“One … two…”

Jeffery held his breath.

“
Three
…!”

The white handkerchief fluttered down.

Drawing on every ounce of strength, Meredith dragged the pistol upward and fired. Through a thickening haze of pain, he saw a puff of smoke. If there was a recoil, he was past feeling it. Dimly, he heard the roar of Sir Malcolm's weapon and wondered, in a remotely interested way, why he had not heard his own. It really didn't matter. With a faint sigh of relief, he let go, and fainted.

*   *   *

Lady Martha had decided that the best procedure would be to manoeuvre Lucille Carruthers out of the way until the result of the duel was known. Aware that Meredith would be vanquished, Phoebe thought poor Lucille should be warned, but she could not betray her foreknowledge, and Lady Martha was quite confident that Meredith would neither kill Sir Malcolm, nor be gravely hurt himself; in fact, she fondly expected both the foolish creatures to delope. Secure in that belief, she argued that there was nothing to be gained by throwing Mrs. Carruthers into the vapours over something that would likely never happen, and she cajoled that lady to take her for a drive.

Phoebe went with her brother into the quiet library and told him about the powder and Otton's theories regarding it. Horrified, Sinclair said, “But, Phoebe, no one
knew
about the duel!”

“No one save Sir Malcolm and his seconds and those of us here at the Hall,” she amended. “How can we know whom Sir Francis or Major Coolley may have told?”

He looked at her glumly. “They'd have had to act very fast. Still, it does sound ugly. I vow, old lady, we've brought ourselves into a very—”

Rapid hoofbeats could be heard. Phoebe's heart jumped convulsively.

“They're back!” cried Sinclair, and ran.

Phoebe followed. A surprised lackey made a sprint for the front doors and flung one open. Hurrying onto the steps, Phoebe saw Roland Otton's horse coming at great speed through the soft summer rain. Otton vaulted from the saddle and ran to the steps. “I was—too late,” he cried breathlessly. “Gun misfired. They're bringing him home.”

So it
had
misfired! Phoebe clutched her brother's hand. He asked, “How bad is it?”

“Not desperate, but nasty. Will you prepare the servants? Linden would like Miss Kraemer to help. She's a dashed fine nurse.” He led Rumpelstiltskin around towards the stables, and Sinclair and Phoebe went together into the house. She found that she was crying, and wiped the tears away impatiently.

Sinclair put his arm around her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She smiled tremulously. “Just—so relieved. I never really thought he could manage it. I don't want to think about the other business. Hurry, dear, and tell the housekeeper, and I'll go and warn poor Howell, he's been fairly beside himself.”

To a man, the servants were devoted to Meredith, and shock and dread of the outcome were rife, but they rallied, and by the time the carriage drew up at the steps of the Tudor wing, linen had been torn into bandages, lint and hot water and scissors had been prepared for Dr. Linden, and a piece of oilcloth covered by two worn sheets had been thrown over Meredith's bed to protect the fine linens.

Phoebe heard Conditt shout, “Here they come!” and she went to the head of the stairs in the family wing and stood waiting, gripping her hands together. Soon, she heard male voices and uncertain steps. Lambert's voice, saying “For God's sake, Merry! Let us carry you.” And Otton, his tone sharp, “Leave him be!” Shadows appeared on the highly polished floor. Conditt, his voice trembling, said, “Upstairs, Master Jeffery. Everything's ready.”

And then Meredith's voice, quiet but steady. “Do not look so distressed, please. I am very sure I shall live.”

Phoebe's heart turned over. She heard a maid sob, the sound abruptly muffled. She saw him then, his dark head wildly untidy and uncharacteristically bowed, one arm across Jeffery's shoulder, the other in a neat sling, and his shirt and breeches a welter of scarlet splotches. She could not seem to breathe, and a lump rose in her throat, choking her. He looked up, and halted briefly, gazing at her. She managed, somehow, to smile through a blur of tears, and she saw a faint shadow of his quirkish grin dawn.

A strange heady joy swept over her, and at last, she knew.

She thought, in a proud, exultant triumph, ‘So this is what it feels like. This is the
pig's trotter!
'

*   *   *

Otton closed the door softly and crept towards the great bed. Carruthers lay very still, his right arm heavily bandaged from wrist to elbow, and a bank of pillows on that side to prevent his turning onto it. He looked drawn and exhausted and quite defenceless. Otton tiptoed closer.

The maid sitting on the far side of the bed whispered, “He's not to be disturbed, sir.”

He started. “Gad, but you gave me a fright! Didn't see you hovering there like a guardian angel, m'dear.”

She blushed and giggled.

Carruthers's eyes opened. “Roly,” he said, his voice less decisive than usual as he stretched out his left hand. “I knew you would come. Thank you.”

Otton took the hand in a brief, firm clasp. “I was curious to discover if you still lived after all that butchering. Not feeling so merry just now, I'll warrant.”

With a wry grin, Carruthers admited that truth.

Otton perched on the side of the bed. “Cheer up. You'll likely feel much worse tomorrow. Second day's always the grimmest.”

“Well! I never did!” uttered the maid, much shocked.

Otton regarded her with renewed interest. “Didn't you, by Jove! A virgin!”

The maid shrieked and threw her hands to flaming cheeks. Laughing weakly, Carruthers told her that the Captain would sit with him for a while, and that she could safely leave him. She peeped dubiously at Otton from between her fingers, and Carruthers went on, “Better go, m'dear. I apologize for my friend's vocabulary, but I assure you it will get worse if you stay, and I am quite unable to control him at the moment.”

“That is perfectly true,” said Otton thoughtfully, standing and strolling towards the girl.

“Roly!” protested Carruthers. “Let her be! She's a child only.”

“A pretty child, methinks…”

The little maid fled, squealing, but with a sparkle in her big brown eyes.

Amused, Otton returned and took his seat again. “I think we can narrow it to approximately forty people,” he observed mildly.

Carruthers sighed. “I'm afraid I didn't fully understand what you were trying to tell us. Jeff said you believe my powder was tampered with.”

“Not a doubt of it, my tulip.” He embarked upon a succinct account of the gunpowdery shrubs, and went on, “Jeff loaded for you and swears he found no fault with the powder, and at all events would not have been so thimble-witted as to toss the contents of the flask out the window. Certainly, he'd have no logical reason for emptying the flask once more, after we'd returned.”

“He did not. I asked Howell to bring it to me. It was full.”

“Yes. Whoever discarded the original gunpowder then filled your flask with some mixture designed to do no more than spark. From the look of your pistol, I'd say it was largely soot. Assuming Jeff is
not
the guilty party—do not rend me, dear boy!—he innocently loaded your pistol with the sullied powder, tucked the flask into your box, just in case there was need to reload, and off you went.”

“I see. And after we came home, my would-be murderer dumped out the faulty powder, replaced it with my own, and congratulated himself that I was shot because my pistol misfired.”

“Shot, but not killed, unfortunately—as I've no doubt he had planned. Your old brainbox is working, I see. Sluggish, but prevailing.”

Carruthers's arm throbbed so mercilessly that he was finding it very difficult to think at all. He knit his brows and said slowly, “I do not see that. Surely it would have been simpler to leave the useless powder where it was, and replace it at some later time. Must have been awfully risky to change it again.”

“Yes, but don't forget that our villain didn't know we had rumbled the switch. Could he have popped some genuine gunpowder in the flask and it was tested and found perfectly satisfactory, we'd have been none the wiser, and…” He shrugged.

“And had it not been for you, Roly, a neat murder might have been disguised so as to seem a simple misfire.” Carruthers moved restlessly, trying to ease his position. “It's damnable to know someone in my household wants me dead,” he muttered fretfully. “Any suspicions?”

“As I said, at least forty. Any one of your servants could be in the pay of some malcontent.” He inspected the laces at his wrist and was silent.