Cynthia Bailey Pratt (15 page)

“Ah. You’ve known Mr. Fletcher a long time, then.”

“We attended the same school.”

The men nodded to one another, their postures relaxing. Mr. Arlen said, “Don’t think hardly on us. This here fire, we come to think, didn’t start without a bit of help.”

“No!” said Hammond, looking skyward. The smoke rose in shadowy columns, rising like a temple lit by flame and moonlight. It would have been beautiful if the air had not been so full of stinging ashes.

Mr. Arlen said, “You mayn’t think there’s so much villainy in the world as to burn down a house with a vicar in it. But as I was saying just a moment ago, I don’t see how a fire could start so fast and burn so hot—”

Another man broke in. “That’s as I said. I been in the vicar’s house not two hours before It all started. They weren’t no paper, nor wax, nor nothing, barring a firkin o’ oil, and that was safe sealed or my name ain’t Josiah Hale.”

“What’s happening now?” Hammond asked.

“Well, the fire’ll be out in an hour or so. Then, when the ashes cool enough, we mean to look for Mr. Fain’s body, that and his sister’s,” the churchwarden answered. “There’s those that say I didn’t have much use for him, and maybe it’s true enough, but whatever’s left of him deserves a proper burial.” He leaned a little closer to confide, “Miss Fain, of course, was good right through.”

“Ah, Miss Fain,” Hammond said. “You know, I believe she may be with Miss Burnwell.”

“That’s good news!” the churchwarden said, repeating it to his comrades.
He pumped Hammond’s hand. “Are you sure of it?”

“I know they were together before the fire started. I just strolled over this way when I saw the fire go up.”

“You were hereabouts?” one of the other men asked, suspicion returning.

“Yes, I was just passing. I like to walk in the evenings.”

“Did you see anybody as might be loiterin’?” the churchwarden asked. “I tell you plain, mister, nothing’s been seen of that rascally Cocker about, and folks know he’s got a bit of a grudge against Miss Fain, if he seemed fond enough o’ the vicar.”

Seeing his opening, Hammond said, “I didn’t want to mention it, as you might be friends of his, but I saw this Cocker man running away from the fire. I overpowered him and put him in the church. Whether he was leaving the scene of a crime or simply running for aid, I didn’t stop to inquire. I’ve not heard much to his credit since I came to Libermore.”

“In the church?” Mr. Aden said, looking toward that building. A small area of the roof burned, and a group of figures rushed back and forth below it. A spry, elderly man, whom Hammond recognized as the one who worked in Jocelyn’s garden, came running toward the group by the wall.

“Mr. Arlen! Do you go and get the bell tower door open, man. Young Arnold thinks he can get out on to the roof wid a bucket o’watter. I reckon he can. And ye know the devil takes care of his own.” The group by the wall divided, the churchwarden running as fast as possible toward the church.

Mr. Quigg took a moment to say, “Fine to see you, mister. Miss Jocelyn’ll be wanting to see you, I fancy. Least that’s the feelin’ I took when I saw her last.”

“Thank you. I’d like to see her, too.” Hammond felt there wasn’t much point in trying to hide anything from the singularly quick eye of the old sailor.

Mr. Quigg cackled and wiped his brow with a handkerchief that could pass for a mourning band. “Spends too much of her time lookin’ arter other people children,” he said cryptically. “Wants t’be lookin’ arter her own. Well, get on wid it, sonny, can’t spend all night talkin’ to the likes o’you.”

Chapter Nine

To Helena and Mark, the idea of a walk through the moonlight would never hold the charm it had for other couples. It would always be marred by the remembrance of Jocelyn urging them to hurry and by the foul odor of smoke that blighted the cool air. Mark had a small, painful burn on his right hand where a spark had extinguished itself. Helena was disturbed by the idea that Mark would rather go to a kitchen with women than distinguish himself fighting for her home.

But once at the Luckem house, they were both distracted by the behavior of their friend. Jocelyn opened the small door by the stove and called, “Hammond! Hammond, are you there? Come down at once!”

Helena tried to coax her friend to sit in a chair while Mark stood by the pantry, his forehead creased as if he were trying to remember something. When Jocelyn refused to sit, Helena lit a candle and began to feed the fire in the stove to heat water for tea. Her friend, she decided, needed it far more than those fighting the fire. She turned around when her new love said in a tone of enlightenment, “That’s it!” He stared at Hammond as he entered.

Jocelyn said, “Hammond, this is Mr. Mark Fletcher, also of the King’s Service. He possesses a form of identification. I would like to see yours.” She willed him to produce the little strip of metal, prayed for him to produce it.

The fire in the stove leapt up to illuminate Hammond’s expression, alarmed, obviously measuring Fletcher’s strength. Leaves hung on Hammond’s coat. His cravat was badly tied, and one end of it seemed to be wet. One long-fingered hand was pressed against his side. Helena shut the stove door with a harsh clang like the last stroke of a funeral toll. The single candle shed too little light to let Jocelyn read Hammond’s face.

Ice forming in her blood, Jocelyn walked across the room and pushed Hammond out into the moonlight. He allowed her to move him along, though he could easily have avoided any such effort.

“I haven’t any identification,” he said.

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Mr. Fletcher loudly, following Hammond and Jocelyn outside. “He sent it back. We all admired you very much for it, Captain, though everyone thought it quite unnecessary. Mistakes do happen.”

“Mistakes!” said Hammond, turning from the girl’s accusatory glance to the boy’s open admiration. “My ‘mistake’ cost a thousand lives and more. My ‘mistake’ may have kept this . . . bloody war going another year.”

“Yes, sir, but to resign your commission over some Judas?” Fletcher remembered there was another party present to this conversation and looked over his shoulder. In the doorway Helena watched him with an expression of wounded bewilderment. Mr. Fletcher went to her and took her hand in his. She let it stay there, limply, not returning his ardent pressure.

Hammond laughed mirthlessly. “Aren’t you in rather the same boat, Mr. Who-ever-you-are? That is Fain’s sister?”

“Half-sister,” Mark corrected. He regarded Hammond with professional interest. “You’ve heard about Fain?”

“That is why I am in England once more.” His bitter glance took in the visible countryside and the people around him. He seemed to reach some decision. “There is to be an attempt to assassinate the Czar.”

“What! But Miriam said . . .” Jocelyn began, but nobody paid any attention to her.

“We’re up to all of that, sir,” said Mr. Fletcher with a confident nod.

“You know?”

“Yes, of course. The fellows at the War Office aren’t as thick as all that. We’ve kept an eye on Fain for some time now. Regular correspondent with the Tuileries. One of Napoleon’s favorite sons.”

“You’re . . . you’re talking about my brother, aren’t you?” Helena said.

Jocelyn jumped. She’d almost forgotten her friend stood behind her. As tenderly as her anger would permit, she said, “I’m afraid they are, Helena. Mr. Fain . . . your brother ... it seems he hasn’t been terribly wise.” She poked Mr. Fletcher in the waistcoat. “You tell her.”

Mr. Fletcher, looking down into his love’s confused eyes, would have far rather committed treason than explain to Helena her brother’s perfidy. Being afraid, he was brutal. “So far as anyone can tell, your brother has always worked for France. He got involved with some dirty characters when your father, who, if you’ll pardon me, may have been on the queer side, too, went to France and married your mother.”

“What has that to do with Nicholas?” Helena asked. Her hand slipped out of Fletcher’s to hang by her side like a dead thing.

Duty Mr. Fletcher’s lodestar, he said, “Fain wasn’t very old, just seventeen, but he was a known friend and supporter of the Jacobins during the Terror. Like the rest of that lot, those that survived, he threw in with Bonaparte. He’s apparently been waiting for these orders for a long time.”

Helena closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear her mind of some mirage. “I can’t believe it of him. Nicholas has always been so good to me. When Maman died and I found myself destitute in Switzerland ...” She paused for a long, queer moment. Then she went on. “He sent money. He found someone to bring me here. He takes no interest in political matters. He lives so quietly. You might as well suspect me!”

Jocelyn saw the quick lift of Hammond’s eyebrows answered by an infinitesimal shake of Fletcher’s head. She realized that Helena had been, and could still be, suspected of complicity in her brother’s actions. She wondered if Fletcher held proof of Helena’s innocence or if he assumed it based on his feelings. While admiring Helena for her loyalty to her half-brother, Jocelyn’s own opinion was that though Helena did not lack the spirit to be of use in an enterprise of daring, she perhaps lacked the necessary quickness of decision. Jocelyn did not now wish to think of those moments in the burning vicarage when it seemed as if Helena would never jump.

Fletcher said, “I’m afraid your brother’s true nature has been very well hidden. You must believe that we are not speculating idly. We have proof, copies of letters written to France and copies of those he received in return. Also, well, we can place him at the scene of certain crimes against our efforts in the late war.”

Jocelyn asked, perhaps irrelevantly, “Is Mr. Fain truly an ordained minister?” She thought of all the people she knew who had been christened, married, or buried under his auspices.

“Yes, he’s ordained,” Hammond answered with a bitter bark of laughter. “He went to Oxford, all right and tight, ten years ago. Not, however, under the compulsion of religion, but by the orders of Charles Varmont, sous-chief of Napoleon’s own secret police. Varmont retains a Revolutionary sense of humor and thought an English assassin who’s an Anglican priest would be a fine joke.”

Suddenly Helena stamped her foot and said, “I won’t believe it! Why haven’t you arrested him, if he is so ... so dangerous?” Helena’s accent grew more and more foreign as her passion overrode her English training.

“That’s an excellent question,” Jocelyn said. “Why haven’t you acted if you’ve all this evidence?”

“Policy reasons,” Mr. Fletcher answered and then shut his mouth tight. But his worried eyes strayed to Helena, who looked at him as if she did not recognize him. A beggar in the streets would have received more compassion than she showed Fletcher.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Jocelyn said.

Hammond said, “From what I remember of the War Office, I can make a fair guess as to why Fain isn’t in gaol at this moment.”

“He’s not in gaol, sir, because he’s dead!” When Fletcher tried to comfort her, Helena pushed him away with all her strength and buried her face into her hands.

“Dead!” Hammond exclaimed.

Mr. Fletcher explained about the fire. Hammond said nothing, pulling at his chin and thinking deeply. “The girl’s suffering from shock,” he said at last. “All this, on top of jumping out of a window, has been too much for her. Fletcher, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir?”

“Take her up to Miss Burnwell’s room and let her rest.” “Alone, sir?” Mr. Fletcher said, scandalized. Hammond’s face indicated what he thought of such scruples during a crisis. “Miss Burnwell will go with you as chaperon.”

“You’ll come, too,” Jocelyn demanded, fed up with his ordering people around when he was not only a stranger but a liar. She’d lost count of the lies he’d told and the truths he’d suppressed. Why couldn’t he have told her all this earlier? Didn’t he know she’d do everything she could to help in a cause such as this?

The wry smile touched Hammond’s face yet again. “Now who lacks faith? If I’d known what a difference that little snip of tin was to make, I never should have surrendered it. Please remember, Miss Burnwell, the circumstances under which we met. You trusted me well enough then.”

Jocelyn’s new opinion of Hammond solidified. How contemptible to remind her of the debt between them. She felt like a fool for having wasted any dreams on his account. But he was right. She trusted when she knew nothing, and it would be wrong to hold back aid now. The fate of the country, of the world, might depend on him, and the faster he went to save it, the better she would like it.

“Oh, pick her up,” Jocelyn said to Mr. Fletcher. “No!” Helena backed away from the former tutor. “I am perfectly well.”

“They’re right, Helena. You are overwrought.” “No, I’m not. Listen to me!” she ordered, silencing their babble. “The horrible thing is that I believe you. Completely. I have no doubt that every word you say is true. I’ve known for a long time that my brother . . . that Nicholas is not what he seems. So many things were wrong, like a picture with demonic faces hidden in it. That’s what’s so terrible. I believe you.”

Jocelyn slipped her arm about the other girl’s waist. She could feel her trembling. “I think you should go up to rest, dear. A nice wash to rid ourselves of the smoke”—Helena gave a convulsive shudder at that—“then a lovely long sleep.” The tension drained out of Helena’s body as she nodded.

In quite a different tone Jocelyn said to the men, “Now, keep a guard on each other, will you? I swear I don’t know who’s who anymore.” She realized she spoke to them in the same tone of voice she used with Granville and Arnold. It worked as well with men as with the boys.

Thinking of the boys, for the first time that night she blessed the vicarage fire. With such an excitement in the neighborhood the boys would never come back in time to find the strange goings-on in their own house. It was bad enough that Arnold knew Hammond had come looking for her.

While Jocelyn prepared Helena for bed, the men sat in the kitchen and talked. “You needn’t tell me if I’ve guessed correctly,” Hammond said. He paused for a moment, combining in his thoughts the memory of his former superiors’ manner of conducting business and the information contained in the letter he’d carried from the Continent, the letter for which two men died at his hands, the French courier and Matt Hodges.