Cherished Enemy (39 page)

Again silence fell, save for the busy squeak of Victor's pen. It soon ceased. “Another journey into futility,” he sighed. “Cattle—of—owls—cannot—of—chill! The first letters of those words spelling a delicious—Coococ—which may have some meaning somewhere in the languages of the world, but does nothing to help
us!
” He crumpled the page and tossed it away. “What next, Charles?”

Charles took the pen. “One last hope, I'm afraid. We'll try the first letter of the first word, second of the next, third of the next, and back to the first of the next, throughout. Or has anyone a better suggestion?” Nobody offering a sudden inspiration, he began to write, but was defeated on the first line, for the third word had only two letters, not the requisite three. With a muttered exclamation he threw down the pen.

“Damn!” Victor sagged, drawing a hand across his eyes. “My apologies, ladies. But I fear we're at a stand again. Unless…” He frowned.

There was an eager chorus of “What? What?”

Victor said, “The pen! Where the deuce…?”

Charles retrieved it from the settle and passed it to him.

Victor said, “Read off the first letter of the first line, the second letter of the next line, the third letter of the next, and so on, Rosa.”

She read hopefully, “C-a-n” and stopped as a collective gasp sounded. “Oh! Oh, Robbie—Charles—could it be?”

“The first word, at all events,” said her brother with a grin.

Victor urged, “Go on, lo
____
er, ma'am.”

“C-r-i-z. Oh dear, oh dear!” she wailed, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. “That is not a word, so we have failed yet again!”

Victor stroked his chin with the pen and looked thoughtfully at Charles. Returning that quizzical stare wonderingly, Charles started and, suddenly very pale, said, “Good heavens! Here, give it me, Rosa!”

She thrust the parchment at him and they all watched breathlessly as he whispered out the letters down through the ten lines of the first stanza. “By—Jupiter!” he gasped.

“Cancrizans…!”
breathed Victor. “The crab—eh, my lad?”

Charles nodded. “We've—we've
done
it!” he exclaimed, dazedly incredulous.

Deborah gave a squeal and sprang up.

Rosamond fairly flew into Victor's ready arms.

With a shout of triumph he whirled her around, beaming down into her glowing face.

“Oh! Have we
really?
” she cried. “Is it broken, Rob?
Is
it?”

“Thanks to you, Miss Albritton,” he said formally, restoring her to her feet. With no formality at all, he gave her a smacking kiss. “Bravo, my bonny lass! Bravo!”

“But—I did nothing,” she protested, clinging to him. “
You
were the one, my dear!”

“I'd never have thought of it, had you not said that about the Roman one and two, and three.” He turned to Charles and hugged him and, exuberant, they pounded each other. The two girls embraced ecstatically and even Lightning, as if sensing that something of major import had occurred, gathered himself together and padded over to join the celebration with tail flaunting loftily.

Rosamond snatched up the cat and gave him a kiss, then dropped him on top of a small hill of books. Their joy satisfied, the triumphant little group gathered around the table once more.

“Now for the rest,” said Victor, bending over the table eagerly. He checked, and with a flourish presented the pen to Rosamond. “Your turn, m'dear, since you are the genius amongst us.”

Elated, she spelled out: “U-a-w-s-o-u.” Her lips drooped and she looked up at Victor tragically. “Oh … Rob!”

There was a crushed silence. Then Charles gave an excited shout, “Yes, but you began at the
beginning
again, Rosa! With the first letter of the next verse, I mean. And Cancrizans
ended
with a first letter! So you're one letter off!”

Too tired to think, she blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

Victor said gently, “What he means is that you should start the next verse at the
second
letter of the first line. As if there had been no break.”

“Oh! I see! How dense I am.” Hope rekindling, she wrote, “P - r - i - o - r -”—her voice squeaked—“- y!
Priory!
Oh, is it not marvellous! We
have
it! We really do!”

“Cancrizans Priory,”
said Charles happily. “Jove! Never heard of it, did you, Rob?”

“Never did. I hope they'll tell us where it is.”

“You next, dearest,” said Rosamond, beaming at her brother.

Typically, he deferred the honour to his beloved, and Deborah's word was culled. “D - o - r - s - e - t.”

The two men looked at each other in dismay. “Good God!” muttered Victor.

Charles took the final verse, and they all whispered out the letters as he wrote them. “L - e - i - s - t - o - n.”

A small cheer went up.

Charles picked up the complete message and read, “Cancrizans Priory, Dorset. Leiston.”

“Dorset!” Victor said ruefully, “They did not make it easy for us, did they! Why the deuce must they choose a spot so far to the south? 'Twill be the very devil to transport the treasure all that way!”

Charles was thinking that this brave young Scot, who was so obviously and quite hopelessly in love with his sister, had small chance of succeeding in such a hazardous venture, but “I doubt they chose it lightly,” he murmured.

Deborah asked, “Is Leiston the name of the gentleman to whom you are to deliver the treasure, Rob?”

Gazing at Rosamond's fading smile, he nodded. And suddenly the triumph, the gaiety vanished, and they were just four young people, loving and loved, standing in a dim, cold room, about to part—perhaps never to be all together again in this life.

Looking from her cousin's grief-stricken face to Victor's fixed and empty smile, Deborah suffered such a sympathetic pang that she had to turn away quickly. She wandered across the room and affected to examine a small and beautifully ornamented box that had been half-buried under some books.

Charles said quietly, “Well, this cypher has served its turn and must not be left lying about. You have it committed to memory, eh, Rob?”

Victor nodded.

Charles took up both sheets of parchment, tore them in half and in half again and deposited them in the hearth. Victor lit a taper at the candle and applied it to the fragments and they all gathered around and watched in solemn silence as the vital stanzas, which had reached here at the cost of so much terror and suffering and death, curled, smoked, blazed, browned, and crumbled into ashes.

*   *   *

The two couples walked slowly, each pair hand in hand, across the lawns. The night air was quite chill now. In the eastern sky a faint glow announced the coming of dawn, but on the ground it was as yet very dark. Grateful for that darkness, Rosamond clung tighter to Victor's strong clasp, leaned her cheek against his sleeve, and prayed silently, ‘Oh, Lord! Protect this man I so love. Bring him safely back to me!'

Charles, his thoughts turning from the inevitable sorrow that awaited his beloved sister, wondered if he dare ask Victor to delay another few minutes so as to give him a hand with Fairleigh. Regardless of the man's treachery, he was a human being and must be suffering miserably in that wood-shed, although he'd been remarkably quiet, considering—

Victor halted and whispered a terse “Listen!”

A most unexpected sound drifted through the gardens; the tinkling strains of “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?”

“What on earth—?” began Deborah.

The two men were already racing back the way they had come, Rosamond following.

Picking up her skirts and running also, Deborah gasped, “Rosa—what is it?”

“Aunt Estelle's music box,” explained Rosamond breathlessly. “Someone is in the pavilion!”

Sprinting across the silent grounds, his gaze fixed on the faint light that flickered now and then from around the curtains, Victor grated, “It's that thrice-damned Fairleigh!” Even as he ran, his hand slid into his pocket and emerged gripping the pistol. He muttered grimly, “He'll no betray another … Scots laddie tae the block!”

Keeping pace with him, Charles saw the faint outline of the pistol. “No—Rob,” he panted. “Give him a chance at least!”

“Like hell!” growled Victor, and with a bound was up the steps and had flung open the door.

The candle had already been extinguished and he encountered total darkness.

With a yowl, Lightning darted between the newcomers and instinctively they separated. That movement saved Victor's life. The shot was sharp and earsplitting and he felt the whisper of the ball as it passed close to him. In immediate reaction he fired at the bright flash. There came a startled exclamation and the sound of a fall. “Got the bastard!” snarled Victor.

The two terrified girls ran up.

Charles cried, “Stay back, for the love of heaven!”

“Have a care,” called Victor, groping about for the tinder-box. “He may be only winged and have another pistol!”

“I—wish to God I did … damn you!”

The voice was young, breathless, and pained. It was certainly not the voice of Roland Fairleigh, and Victor swore for his rashness as he scraped at the tinder-box and awoke a flame.

Charles groaned. “Howard!”

“Oh—blast,” muttered Victor, lighting the candle.

Howard Singleton, an expression of bitter hatred on his pale face, was beside the desk, struggling up from his knees and clutching his shoulder painfully.

“I'm most damnably sorry.” Repentant, Victor started towards him. “I thought a—er, thief was—”

“You—
filthy
—
lying
—Jacobite
scum!
” snarled Singleton between his teeth. “Stay back! I'd sooner die than have
your
bloody hands touch me!”

Victor looked grimly at Charles and halted.

“Howard,” said Charles gently, “You must let us help you. We had no idea 'twas you in here, and—”

“Damn your treacherous soul,” hissed Singleton, turning on his cousin like a madman. “
You!
A man of—
God!
A man I—I honoured and I—looked up to all my life! Hal's closest friend! ‘Like brothers' you said to me when we heard he'd been killed.
Brothers!
” He laughed in a shrill, hysterical travesty of mirth. “Your
‘brother'
is slaughtered! And you help his murderers get away! Oh
Lord,
what stinking hypocrisy!”

Deborah ran into the room. “Howard! My heavens! What—”

“Stay back, Deb!” he shouted. “They're traitors! Both of 'em! Victor's bad enough, for he's a sneaking Jacobite, but—
Charles!
Our saintly, gentle Charles is the ringleader of a
nest
of the traitorous vermin!”

“What the
devil
 … are you … raving about?” thundered a new voice.

The reactions to that voice were extreme. Deborah gave a whimpering little cry and shrank back. Rosamond, who had entered behind her, flung both hands to her mouth and crouched, watching her father with wide, terrified eyes. Victor groaned several oaths under his breath and stepped nearer to his friend. Charles closed his eyes for a brief second, then, white to the lips, turned to face his sire.

Considerably out of breath, the colonel stood in the open doorway, a bright purple dressing gown over his night-shirt, and in his hands a bell-mouthed blunderbuss. He wore no wig, but his greying, grizzled hair added somehow to the power and the unyielding force that radiated from him. Rosamond had never seen just that look on her father's countenance, and for an instant she could picture him on the battlefield, and was able to understand why his men had so feared and respected him. His hawk gaze ran swiftly around the dramatic tableau, then he stamped into the room.

“Sir—” began Charles in a strained but controlled voice.

The colonel ignored him. “Who shot the boy?”

“I did, sir,” said Victor. “But I'd no idea it was Singleton.”

“Hah!” snorted Howard shrilly. “Liar! Filthy—”

“That will do!” rasped the colonel. “Deborah, see to your brother's hurt. Here—use this.”

She advanced, shaking, and took the handkerchief he proffered. “Uncle,” she said pleadingly, “'tis not—”

“Be still!” he snapped. “Rosamond, what you and Deborah are doing down here at this hour of the night is past my comprehension, but you will, I feel sure, have a proper explanation to give me! Wake up, miss, and close the door at once! If we've dirty linen to wash, 'twill be done in private.”

“Dirty … linen?”
Singleton refused to sit down as his sister urged, but allowed her to ease off his coat, revealing the wet and scarlet stain above his collar-bone. “'Tis more than that, Uncle,” he gasped, leaning back against the desk. “Unless you are—prepared to name high treason as—dirty linen!”

The colonel blanched, but said harshly, “What I'm prepared to do is suppose you are run mad, boy! God knows I pity you for what you've suffered. But if you fancy I will believe my son to be a traitor to his country, you're fair and far out!”

“I would not believe, either!” cried Howard, his voice strained, his young face a mask of pain and fury. “Not at first. For a long time I have thought it odd that Charles had been so sure of a living, but suddenly was no better than a temporary vicar, filling in for clergy who were ill or on holiday. About a month since I chanced to mention it to a friend whose father is a vicar in Essex, and he later told me his papa thought the whole procedure most peculiar, but had been told on enquiry that Charles had
requested
such an arrangement due to ill health. I was sure that was not true, but thought perhaps Charles had not pleased at Little Snoring and was being disciplined.” He gripped his arm and shifted painfully, then went on, “Since Hal's death, I walk alone at night, for I find it hard to sleep. And often I have seen Charles down here in the wee hours of the morning, and sometimes, other men creeping in and out with great quiet and secrecy! I thought no more of it than that he was involved with Free Traders, so said nothing.”