The Deeds of the Disturber (39 page)

"Oh . . . someone else."

I knew perfectly well what he was aiming at. He kept glancing sideways at Ramses, who returned his look with a concentrated glare of dislike.

"I believe I understand you, Percy," I said. "You are posing a hypothetical question on a moral issue. There is never a simple answer to such questions. It depends on a number of things. For example, on whether the first individual had been sworn to secrecy, or had promised to keep silent. A Roman Catholic priest, hearing confession—"

"It wasn't like that, Aunt Amelia," said Percy.

"And also," I continued, "on how serious was the action in question. If it was only a harmless prank—"

"It was bad," said Percy—metaphorically licking his chops. "Very, very bad. Very, ver—" ' Ramses rose up from the sofa and launched himself at Percy's throat.

They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, taking a small table down with them and spilling the biscuits, which had been on the table, far and wide. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Violet pounce, like a cat on a mouse, but I could do nothing about her until I got the boys separated.

It was not as easy as I had expected. The first time I reached out, someone kicked me—I could not tell which it was. They rolled from side to side, arms and legs flailing; Percy was yelping and crying out, but Ramses fought in ominous silence; the only sounds I heard from him were grunts of pain and/or effort. Seizing the teapot, I took off the lid and threw the contents onto the combatants.

The water was no longer boiling, but it was hot enough to induce a
momentary lull. I took advantage of it to pluck Ramses from the tangle and pull him to his feet.

Percy promptly rolled out of reach and got to his hands and knees. In comparing the two, I was interested to observe that Ramses, though slighter and shorter than his cousin, had managed to hold his own. Perhaps his father had given him those lessons in boxing after all. His nose was bleeding copiously—considering the size of the member, it was not surprising that Percy should have managed to strike it—his hair was standing straight up, and it appeared that Percy had bit him on the thumb. But Percy was in worse case. He too was bleeding, from a split lip, and his face was beginning to swell.

Having eaten all the biscuits, Violet was able to turn her mind to another matter. She darted at Ramses and pounded him with her fists. "Nasty, nasty, bad," she screamed. "Nasty!"

Maintaining my grip on Ramses—who made no attempt to retaliate, only shielding his face with his arms—I put my free hand over Violet's face and shoved. She flew backward onto the sofa with force enough to drive the breath out of her.

There was no need for me to ring the bell. The sounds of battle had brought Gargery, as well as Mrs. Watson, into the room. I turned Violet over to Mrs. Watson and Percy over to Gargery.

"Well, Ramses," I said.

"I am confined to my room," Ramses remarked, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve.

"Yes." I plucked a few tea leaves out of his hair. "Do you require assistance in washing, changing, and tending your bruises?"

"No, thank you, I would prefer to deal with the matter myself. As you see, my nose has stopped bleeding. The application of cold water—"

"A great deal of cold water, I should think."

"Yes, Mama. At once." He started from the room. Then he stopped and turned. "One question, Mama, if I may."

"I will discuss this disgraceful incident with you at a later time, Ramses. At present I have other things on my mind."

"Yes, Mama. You refer, I suppose, to Papa's whereabouts, and I quite agree that that is a more urgent matter. However, I wanted to ask you about Miss Minton. She has gone."

"Yes, Ramses, I know. I sent her away. She left the house this morning."

"She left the house last night," said Ramses. "At least so I have been informed. And she left behind her clothing and other possessions."

"There is nothing strange about that, Ramses. She had with her, I
suppose, only those articles a housemaid might be expected to possess. No doubt she abandoned them as worthless reminders of an action of contemptible treachery."

"No doubt," said Ramses. "However, it seemed to me that you might wish to be informed—"

"And now you have informed me. Thank you. To your room, Ramses."

"Yes, Mama."

I stood pondering for a moment. Then I rang the bell. When Gargery answered, I said, "I want a letter delivered at once, Gargery. Give the footman money for cab fare, and tell him to make haste."

By the time the footman came, I had the note written. I instructed him to wait for an answer. Next I summoned Mrs. Watson and told her I would have dinner on a tray in my room, since the professor would not be there for dinner. The good kind woman approved of my having a nice rest and an early night after all I had been through.

I could make no definite plans until I received the answer to my message. If it was not the one I expected . . . well, then there was a fatal flaw in my theory, and I would have to revise it. But I did not see how I could be mistaken. Why, oh why had I ignored that one significant statement? Being half-strangled was no excuse for such negligence.

I forced myself to remain calm. There was no hurry. If I was right, and if I had correctly estimated the eccentricities of the man I was after, nothing of importance would happen for a good many hours. I took out my list and went through it again. It was too late now to finish my inquiries, but the list raised another question. To call, or not to call, upon the police?

After weighing the pros and cons, I decided upon a compromise. There was only one police officer who might—and I stress the word "might"—give credence to the admittedly bizarre solution I had arrived at. I could not fathom the behavior of Inspector Cuff; was he shrewd and secretive, or only very stupid? In either case I had to assume he suffered from the same unaccountable prejudice toward the female sex that afflicted most men, and that he would therefore strenuously object to my taking part in the evening's entertainment—even supposing he could be persuaded to participate himself. Cuff would have no compunctions about locking me in a cell, and keeping me there as long as he considered necessary.

Still, it seemed only fair to give him a chance to show his quality— and it was possible I might be in need of assistance if matters did not work out quite as I hoped. I sat down at my table and began to write. It proved to be a rather lengthy epistle, since I had to explain a lot of
things in detail, in order to add verisimilitude to the narrative, and I had not finished when Gargery brought me the answer to my letter.

He waited while I read it, and then exclaimed, "Is it—I hope it is not bad news, madam."

"It was the answer I expected," I replied. "Thank you, Gargery."

Miss Minton had not returned to her lodging. Her landlady had not seen her or heard from her since the preceding Friday.

So that was settled. It was not likely that she had set off for Northumberland dressed like a housemaid and without luggage or money. It was even more unlikely that she would have accepted the protection of Kevin or Mr. Wilson. No; I knew where she was. It must be she to whom Ayesha had referred in that breathless and unfortunately neglected speech. "He" had her now, and I knew where he had taken her—to the ruined wing of Mauldy Manor, behind that massive door whose lock had been so recently repaired that traces of oil had transferred themselves to my fingers when I tried the latch.

Fourteen

I
WAITED until the servants were at their dinner before I left the house. I did not trust Gargery; he might have been ordered by Emerson to prevent me from leaving. (Not that he would have succeeded, but I wanted to avoid argument.) I much regretted I had been unable to inquire of Gargery where I might purchase a little pistol. He seemed to know about such things. However, I had my tools and my parasol, and they should suffice.

Darkness had fallen, and I was pleased to see that the skies were overcast. Tendrils of fog curled languidly among the trees in the park; no doubt it would lift when we were out of London, but there might be a river mist. I sincerely hoped so.

The drive was a long one, and as the cab clattered through the busy streets, I went over my plans. I had left the letter for Inspector Cuff on the hall table, with directions that it was to be delivered immediately. I had my weapons. I had the strength of righteous indignation to support me—and the expectation that I would soon be in the presence of that being who was all in all to me.

I did wonder how the devil Emerson had figured it out. He had not heard Ayesha's speech, and I had not repeated the crucial sentence, since it had had no meaning to me at the time. How then did Emerson know that a ceremony of some sort was taking place that night? Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he had gone there searching for the evidence he needed (as did I) to substantiate his theory. But to Mauldy Manor he had gone, I was as certain of that as if I had followed him there. It was the only logical place to find what was lacking in my reconstruction of the case.

It was less than two hours until midnight when I directed the cab driver to let me out, a safe distance from the gates of the manor. I suppose he cannot be blamed for thinking the worst; a solitary female swathed in a hooded black cloak, who demands to be put down on a country road not far from the habitation of a man whose reputation is not of the best, must expect to have her motives questioned. The driver's parting remark has no bearing on the present narrative.

Moon and stars were hidden under heavy clouds, and mist spread a blanket of white over the surface of the river. As I stole silently toward the gate, a lurid glow of red brightened the clouds, and a faint growl of thunder announced its presence. A storm was brewing.

Lighted windows in the lodge warned me from the gate. It would be locked at this hour—all the more so if the activities I expected were about to take place—and I did not want to be seen. I had to follow the wall for some distance before I found a place where I could get over it, with the help of a tall elm that overhung the top. The cursed cloak kept catching on thorns and branches, but I did not dare discard it. Underneath I wore the most subdued of my working costumes, and although its color was such as to blend with the shadows, my outline (as Emerson had often remarked) would have betrayed me for a woman.

By means of the lightning flashes, which increased in frequency and intensity as the storm rumbled closer, I made my way from tree to tree and shrub to shrub across the wide empty lawn. I had expected dogs, and was pleased to learn I had been mistaken, though it struck me as a little strange that a young bachelor would not have such animals around—as guards if not as pets. I remembered what Emerson had said about his lordship's fondness for cats, and a shudder of revulsion ran through me. Resolutely I fixed my mind on other things. I was prepared for the worst; there was no point in brooding over it beforehand.

The grounds were absolutely deserted, without a sign of man or beast. In fact, if I had not known better, I would have supposed Lord Liverpool was away from home. There were no lights in the inhabited wing of the house, except for a few on the "uppermost floor, which must be the servants' quarters.

I had the plan of the place clearly in mind from my earlier visit. It was arranged like the letter E—the greater portion of the present house having been constructed during the reign of Elizabeth, whose monumental ego enjoyed such tributes and whose courtiers were wise enough to indulge her. The modern wing must have replaced an earlier structure on the same spot; it was at one end, with the kitchens and other domestic
offices occupying the center leg of the E, and the old wing at the other end.

I reached the moss-encrusted wall of the old wing without incident or alarm, and was congratulating myself on my good fortune when I received my first check. The structure, which had appeared from the outside to be on the verge of collapse, was not so vulnerable as I had hoped. Every window was boarded up; the boards were new, thick, and fixed with stout nails. I could not get so much as a fingernail into a crack. The door, on the short end of the wing, was as immovable as stone, and when I tried the handle the rust flaked off like a shower of dry raindrops.

I was about to try one of the other wings, hoping a window had been left unlatched (and fully prepared to break a pane if I had to) when I saw a faint glow of light, which appeared to emanate from the ground next to my feet. It faded almost at once, but it had given me the clue I needed. Someone had walked through a subterranean room carrying a lamp or lantern, betraying the existence of apertures which I might not otherwise have suspected—small windows at ground level, opening into the cellars.

At one time they had been closed with bars or grilles of iron, but the long passage of years had corroded the metal to a thin shell and I was able to wrench the remaining bars from their sockets. The apertures were so narrow only a child—or a small woman—could have passed through, which is probably why the bars had never been replaced.

I got through, though not without a struggle and some rather painful pressure on a certain portion of my anatomy which has inconvenienced me before. I went in feet-first, and lowered myself to the farthest extremity of my arms, but still could feel nothing but air under my stretching toes. The darkness was impenetrable, the moment one of considerable anxiety. How far below me was the floor? What, other than the presumed floor, might be there? If I fell heavily or knocked over some breakable object, the noise would announce my presence. Someone was in the house, I had seen the light.

There was no use worrying about it, so I let go my grip on the ledge and dropped—a few feet only, as it proved, but it felt like a greater distance. I landed with knees bent, and did not lose my balance.

The place was black as pitch and smelled like a grave. Risky as it was to strike a light—which was why I had not brought the dark lantern I normally wore attached to my belt—I dared not move until I knew what obstacles lay ahead. I took every possible precaution before I struck the match, shielding it with hand and body.

Almost instantly I put it out. I had seen enough—a narrow empty room, with walls and floor of stone smeared sickeningly with lichen and containing nothing except a few scraps of wood. On both side walls, dark openings gaped.

Which direction? I tried to remember the fleeting glimpse of light, and decided it had moved from right to left across the window. Surefooted in the darkness, and holding my tools to my side to prevent them from jingling, I followed the direction the lantern-holder had taken.

No sooner had I entered the next room than I saw light ahead. Proceeding with the utmost caution, I passed through a door that hung askew on broken hinges into a stony corridor as low-ceilinged and as dank as the room I had just left. The light was straight ahead; it came from an opening at the top of a flight of narrow stairs.

Wrapping my cloak tightly around me and pulling the hood low over my face, I went up the stairs. They did not creak underfoot; they were of stone, worn by the passage of centuries. At the top I paused and peered cautiously around the edge of the opening.

What I saw astonished me so that I straightened up and hit my head a smart blow on the low stone lintel of the archway.

Directly in front of me was a group of statuary, life-sized, and shaped of beautifully polished alabaster. I use the word "group" advisedly; I could not tell how many people were involved, so closely were they intertwined. There must have been at least three, for I made out five arms.

Good gracious, I thought to myself. I did not speak aloud, however, because I heard voices. The statuary group had been placed conveniently—for my purposes, at any rate—in front of the opening. I ventured a little farther out, into what proved to be a passageway running the whole length of the wing. To my right, only a few feet away, was the door leading into the front part of the house—the long base of the E. To my left the corridor stretched away till it ended in a heavy black curtain of what appeared to be velvet or plush. Boarded-up windows lined one wall; between them were paintings, statues, and other works of art (to use that term loosely) which carried out the same theme as that of the original statuary group I had seen. They had come from all parts of the world and from various centuries; the painting directly opposite the entrance to the cellar was an extraordinary composition, originating most probably in sixteenth-century India, which depicted a number of individuals in positions which are best not described, but which Ramses would undoubtedly have considered "uncomfortable, not to say impossible."

The function of this closed-off portion of the house was now quite
apparent to me. It seemed unlikely, however, that it had been designed by the present Earl; no doubt a number of his ancestors had contributed to the decor and enjoyed the amenities, and he had remodeled it— in ways I had yet to ascertain, but which I rather thought I could anticipate—to suit his own purpose.

The voices I had heard came from an open doorway immediately to my left, and were accompanied by the gurgling of liquid and the chiming of crystal. The light-bearer I had seen must have been returning from the wine cellar.

Resting my hand on the polished shoulder of one of the individuals in the statuary group, I edged closer to the open door.

"There's plenty of time," said a voice that sounded familiar. "Have another glass."

"Or another bottle." The high-pitched giggle indentified this speaker. "Dutch courage, eh, Frank?"

"I'm here, ain't I?" was the sullen response. "And the only one, too. Where are the others?"

"They declined the invitation," said Lord Liverpool, with another of his inane giggles. "Cold feet, cold hearts, cold all over, the bloody damned cowards!"

"Maybe they show good sense," muttered the other man—whom I had now identified as Mr. Barnes. "Call it off, Ned. There aren't enough of us—"

"Oh yes, there are." I was so close to the door I could hear him swallow. "I hired a few of the lads—you know the ones—to fill out the ranks."

Barnes let out a yelp of protest. "Damn it, Ned, why'd you do that? A group of louts like that—they'll spill their guts at the first sign of a truncheon—or blackmail you . . . This was supposed to be our own private entertainment—"