Cynthia Bailey Pratt (18 page)

Cocker’s testimony, supported by his producing the body from where he’d hidden it, was damaging in the extreme. The wound in Hodges’s body, a frightful thing, was matched to the knife found several days earlier in a cartload of fish. Cocker could not be proved to have ever purchased or possessed such a knife. That fact, together with his tale of being attacked in the dark on Friday night by a man matching John Arlen’s description of Hammond, compounded by the same man committing mayhem on Cocker’s person a second time, gave Sir Edgar enough cause to attempt to find and question the mysterious Mr. Hammond.

Jocelyn saw the wink and wondered at it. She contrived to keep her tone light. “If Mr. Hammond returns,” she said, “I shall tell him to call on you at once, Sir Edgar.”

“You do expect him to come back, then?”

“No, I do not. Though I hope that he will.” The Swanns were taken aback once more by her boldness. But Jocelyn watched the men and judge by their faces that neither thought it likely that Hammond would ever come to Libermore again. Jocelyn wondered why they were finding it so easy to believe badly of the stranger. Her desire to see Hammond again was entirely true and yet her expression of it gave the magistrate the impression she was trustworthy, if only a female. How interesting to learn that truth could be misleading.

“If he does return, some day, I hope you will tell me at once, Miss Jocelyn. As a friend of your uncle, I think I have some small right to oversee your gentlemen admirers.” The magistrate laughed, and Jocelyn could almost believe the feeling of menace she was experiencing resulted from her exhaustion.

Jocelyn simpered convincingly at the magistrate’s sally. “Should he come back, I will certainly tell you, without saying a word to him. I should not wish him to think admiration of me is a crime.”

“That’s a good gel.” Now confident that Jocelyn could be relied upon, Sir Edgar gazed upon Mrs. Alastair Swann and said, “If you can forgive my lack of tact, my dear Mrs. Swann, might I call upon you this evening?”

Mrs. Swann drew herself up, and the magistrate quailed beneath her flashing eye. His goddess’s anger seemed to relent in reaction to Sir Edgar’s servility. “Why not come with us now? Your horse can follow our carriage.”

She vowed never to show herself in London again, if she did not have the entire story of this Hammond fellow by the time Sir Edgar saw the bottom of his teacup. And if he did not ask her advice before his second biscuit, she swore to be forever sweet to her daughter-in-law. A more hideous forfeit for lack of cunning she could not devise.

Mrs. Alastair Swann took a strained departure from Jocelyn. She obviously did not know how much slander she was to believe, though Jocelyn had no fear her doubt would make her less ready to spread gossip. Mrs. Swann was not dismayed enough, however, to order Hargreaves to leave with them.

Miriam, on the other hand, leaned near to say, “I shall call on you when you are rested, dear. I have so much to tell. I’ve just received a letter from my bosom-beau, and there is nothing save about His Imperial Majesty. Just think . . . Coming, ma’am! Must flutter away. Good-bye.”

Like a leaf caught up in the draft behind a passing carriage, Jocelyn followed the magistrate, the constable, and the ladies outside. Slowly Jocelyn rolled her eyes to the left and the right. Arnold and Granville were nowhere to be seen. She prayed they’d gone to bed. Regin seemed not to recognize her, but he certainly could identify Arnold.

As the ladies entered their carriage, the magistrate turned once more to Jocelyn. “Has Master Arnold returned yet?”

Jocelyn jumped, for it was as if Sir Edgar read her mind. “Yes. He was at breakfast. Why?”

“Merely a question I—or rather the constable here—wished to ask of him. Nothing to be troubled over, Miss Burnwell. Good day. Convey my condolences to Miss Fain when she awakens.” Mrs. Swann added her exhortations to this parting word, for she had overheard everything. It was as well, then, that Jocelyn had not lied about Arnold, for Mrs. Alastair Swann would surely have contradicted her.

The Swann carriage creaked in alarm as Sir Edgar heaved himself up into it. He leaned out the door to say, “Remember to let me know when Mr. Hammond returns.” The driver had to give the command to start twice, before the horses would consent to pull the increased weight.

The constable walked away. The crown of his hat could still be seen over the garden wall when Mr. Quigg hissed, “Miss Jocelyn!” She turned around, startled, to find the gardener thrusting two cabbages at her. “He’s back again.”

“Who is? Oh!” Incautiously she looked over her shoulder. Regin stood on a hillock beyond the wall, craning his head to look once more at her. Rather loudly Jocelyn said, “Fine cabbages, Mr. Quigg. What shall we do with them?” Under her breath, she murmured, “What happened?”

“Found him this mornin’. Damp wid dew and shiverin’ and shakin’. Couldn’t get a word of sense from him. He blethered about you and lame horses and stars, I think it were.”

“Why did he come back, I wonder?”

“Seems the horse he were supposed to take wasn’t there or sommat of that. The dew dizzied him some, like it do. He come back here to friendly folk. I gave him whiskey t'prevent inflagramation. He’s a nasty old cut along one side o’his ribs, miss.”

“I know.” Slowly Jocelyn began to drift toward the small whitewashed building at the bottom of the garden. It had long ago been the monk’s stillroom, now convened into a simple gardener’s cottage, one room up and one down. She felt a great temptation to look back to see if the constable was still there but thought it would seem suspicious, so she refrained. How terribly hard not to look, though.

Loudly again, just in case, Jocelyn said, “I’ll look into it, Mr. Quigg. Why not take those in to the new housekeeper?” In surprise she said, “You don’t know about her! Mrs. Swann recommends her highly. Miss Hargreaves is her name.”

“Hmph! If that pair sent her, she’ll likely be a spy on our doin’s.”

Shuddering to a stop at the word
spy.
Jocelyn looked blankly at the gardener. Then she heard from behind her, “Psst! Jocelyn!” She twitched, startled, hoping her reaction was not noticed by unfriendly eyes. - Arnold, standing close to the house, peered out at her. “Is he gone?”

Pretending to be absorbed by the sprouting herbs near her feet, she asked, “Who?”

“You know. The constable. I saw him come into the garden. He’s looking for me again.”

“Why? What have you done?” From the corner of her eye she could still see the constable’s black hat, just above the wall.

“Nothing! He saw me last night.” Arnold edged forward to look around the corner.

“Get back,” Jocelyn ordered. “He’s watching. When did he see you last night?”

“After I climbed down from the church roof, he started after me, but I dodged around until I lost him. It was easy,” he said with naive pride. “There were so many people, and it was dark except near to the fire.”

“I see. Stay right there.” Performing strenuously for the benefit of their single onlooker, Jocelyn looked for Mr. Quigg. The gardener dropped to his old knees and weeded carrots vigorously. She went to him. “I’m afraid Arnold’s gotten into another scrape. Take him into the house, will you, and keep him there if you have to sit on him.” She pointed at the asparagus bed, hoping it appeared as if she were giving instructions.

“Young Regin got it in fer him? Ah, me. Knew that lad were gettin’ too big fer his britches. If ye want me to, I’ll take care of the lad and him over there, too.”

“With luck, you won’t have to.” She spoke a wish aloud: “If only Uncle Gaius were here.”

“He’d son young Regin out straight enough. Widout havin’ t‘pound him, much. When’s he comin’ home, then?”

“Not for a week, maybe not for two. We can’t keep Arnold hidden until then. I couldn’t keep him home for two days.”

“Aye, is a proper old puzzle. I’ll take him up to his room. Tell him my old sea stories, like he pesters me to. Go by the back way, we will.” Mr. Quigg coughed. “You’re not forgettin’ t’other one, are you, miss?”

“No, of course not. I’ll go right now.” An idea sprang into Jocelyn’s head. Since her uncle and aunt would not return for a week, perhaps it would be better to go to them. Oxford was only two days’ journey, with a good carriage and frequent changes. She could hand Arnold over to his parents and let them deal with him. It would be a relief to have him off her hands. However, she could not possibly travel alone with her cousin. She would require the protection of a man. Mr. Quigg could not go because of his rheumatism. Mr. Fletcher would rather stay with Helena. It would be as bad to travel with Granville as with Arnold alone.

Jocelyn paused on the dark threshold of Mr. Quigg’s little house. In her heart she knew these were only the most facile excuses. She knew only one man she’d feel safe traveling with, and it just so happened he had a pressing need to go to Oxford himself. He, of course, would probably not see the matter her way. But she felt fairly confident that she could persuade him.

Chapter Eleven

Mr. Quigg’s small cottage smelled overwhelmingly of tobacco, undercut with a sharp scent of liquor. Only a little of the bright morning light filtered through the shutters. Jocelyn paused until her eyes adjusted. It was quiet enough inside the small room for her to hear plainly the rattling breaths of a man asleep upstairs. She decided to go up to see if Mr. Quigg’s assessment of Hammond’s health was correct.

Her slippered feet were silent on the rickety stair as she ascended through a roughly cut hole in the ceiling. The light was better up there, for two windows had been knocked in the walls, and one set of shutters hung open. A coat, waistcoat, and shirt she recognized huddled on the floor, with a silver-headed cane and an old hat on top of them.

Hammond slept on Mr. Quigg’s narrow cot. She peered at him from a distance. Though he’d been ill in the night, he looked healthier than the last time she’d seen him asleep, the shadows beneath his eyes lighter and his cheeks less hollow. He needed to shave. One brown arm with a pale old scar across the top was flung out. He lay beneath a blanket she herself had knitted, dragged up to cover his shoulders and revealing his feet. Creeping closer, she straightened it, hoping to make him more comfortable without disturbing him.

He grabbed her hand and forcefully pulled her across his naked chest. His face twisted with anger. As his fist rose, his eyes flew open. “My God, Jocelyn,” he said, flinching away and letting go. Off-balance, Jocelyn fell to the floor.

Though jolted, as much by his sudden violence as by fall, she could not help laughing. His expression was much what hers would have been if surprised in her bed by a man.

He looked down at her, the blanket clutched to his chin like any maiden lady. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize . . .”

“Never mind,” she said, rising and shaking out her blue gown. “I’m not hurt. I think.” She wiggled experimentally. “No, I’m not hurt. Do you always wake up like that? You almost hit me.”

He apologized again. “I had a dream,” he added. “You were in it.”

“Is that any reason to strike an unarmed woman?” Jocelyn asked, suddenly quite happy for no reason at all.

“Ah, but I didn’t. What are you doing up here, anyway?” He leaned back on his elbows, the blanket falling to his waist. The red, puckered mark of his latest wound rose just above the edge.

Jocelyn turned her eyes away, aware they had stayed too long on the rest of Hammond’s torso. “I shall wait for you downstairs.”

“Something’s troubling you. What is it?”

“I need to ask a favor, once you are dressed.”

“Oh.” He put out a breeched leg from under the blanket but drew it quickly in again. “Yes, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

When he came down, his hat and coat were on, though his shirt still gaped open. Sighing, Hammond sat in Mr. Quigg’s rockable chair and put his head in his hand.

“Are you ... is your wound ...”

“No. I drank something from a stone jug last night ...”

“Mr. Quigg’s whiskey. He claims to purchase it, but I suspect he makes it himself.”

“Yes, I remember now. A blaze down the throat like a comet and the feeling of a rocket going up in the back of my head. I think it cured my side, however.”

“If you’d care for more, I know where he keeps it.”

“No, another drink would kill, not cure. After my busy evening, I mean.” He smiled a small, bitter grin and then went on in a sudden outburst, “Of all the towns that ever spawned spavined, thrush-ridden, swaybacked, glandered beasts, Libermore is the worst. Cocker’s horse was limping like the walking wounded. The only animal for hire at the inn was touched in the wind. I tried to steal one from that big house in the park and was chased off by the groom and three dogs, or a dog and three grooms. It gets a trifle blurry about then. It was raining, I think. And I couldn’t even find the inn where Fletcher keeps his horse. And if I had, I would have had the staggers and the bots, I’m sure. In the end I tried to walk to Oxford, but I wound up back here.” He rested his hands between his knees and raised his dark eyes to her face. Only now was he beginning to wonder why his feet had instinctively turned toward the priory. “What is the favor, Jocelyn? If I can help you, I will.”

“Thank you.” Hammond behaved so differently when at ease like this. She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. She found it surprisingly awkward to ask his aid. Perhaps he would misunderstand what she required of him. Nervously she said, “We’re in rather a difficulty. I’m happy you came back because I believe you’re the only person to help us.”

“Us?”

Briefly she described Sir Edgar’s visit and the hidden threat she suspected behind his smiling face. “And now Constable Regin is outside. It’s likely I’m being stoopid and imagining things, but—”

“I have faith in your intuition.” He smiled at her as he crossed the room to spy outside. Pleasure rushed through her. Hammond trusted her!

“Yes, your constable is still there. If you can call lying on one’s back in the grass while smoking a pipe watching a house, then I suppose he is watching you. He’s quite large, isn’t he? All the same, I shan’t have any trouble getting away, even in this broadest of all broad daylights.”