The Guinea Stamp (10 page)

At last, the door was partially opened. A man’s voice spoke from behind its shelter.

“Who’s there?”

“Is there by any chance a woman about the place?” asked Miss Feniton, in a voice made faltering by cold and breathlessness. “I have had the misfortune to fall into the river, and am wet through. If I might be permitted to dry myself by your fire for a little—”

The door was opened fully.

Miss Feniton hesitated. She still could not see the man, who remained hidden behind the door, but the view now afforded her of the room showed that it certainly held no other occupant. It was a small, dim apartment, even in the extra light afforded by the open door; but her appraising glance discovered a bright fire blazing on the hearth, and a comfortable looking chair drawn up beside it. This was just what she needed.

“Is your wife within?” she repeated.

“I have told you before this that I have no wife, Miss Feniton,” was the unexpected reply. “But for all that, you need not scruple to enter.”

SEVEN - Captain Jackson’s Story

She drew in her breath sharply in surprise. “You!” she said, and hesitated for a moment.

Then she walked in. He closed the door firmly behind her.

He turned, surveying her in one comprehensive glance. Her black curls were blown in disorder about her face, which was pinched with cold. In one hand she still unthinkingly carried the sodden bonnet, while her muddied skirts and footgear told their own story.

“You
are
in a pickle!” he said, with a brief smile, and indicated the armchair with a graceful motion of his hand. “You’d best get out of those wet things without delay, if you would avoid a chill.”

“Thank you,” replied Miss Feniton, coldly, “that will not be necessary. A few moments before the fire should suffice to dry out most of the moisture, and enable me to be on my way again.”

“Nonsense!” he said, briskly, moving towards the door in one corner of the fireplace wall. “I’ll lend you a dressing robe.”

He opened the door, and proceeded to clatter up a short flight of obviously uncarpeted stairs. Her fruitless protests followed him, but he paid no heed, returning presently with a dressing gown which he flung over the arm chair.

“There you are! I apologize for the masculinity of the attire, but no female garment is to hand. Now, if I remove myself for a space to the upper room, you may get out of those wet garments, and into this. Pray call me when you are ready.”

“Do you imagine,” asked Miss Feniton, in amazement, “that I shall do any such thing?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why ever not? Surely you are not—” his voice quivered with amusement for a second—“missish? I had not expected that: it doesn’t seem in character.”

“So you have been reading my character, have you?” Miss Feniton retorted, moving over towards the fire and stretching out her hands to the welcome blaze.

“It is a trick on which my safety often depends,” he answered soberly.

“I see. And may I ask what you made of me?”

He gestured towards the dressing gown. “By all means—when you have divested yourself of that wet clothing.”

“I fear, then, that I must forgo the pleasure of ever knowing,” she answered, dryly. “May I sit down?”

“But of course!” he said, promptly. “Miss Feniton, you must see that this is absurd! Do you positively wish to catch a chill?”

She made no reply. After one brief look at her face, he went quickly to the cupboard in the corner, and took something from one of the shelves. He returned to her side, laying a small pistol on the arm of her chair.

“Do you know how to use this?” he asked.

She nodded, too startled for speech.

“If you should find anything to complain of in my conduct towards you, do not hesitate to do so. And now, if I remove myself upstairs for a space, will you consent to make use of the robe? I will remain aloft if you wish, until you are ready to be on your way again. Otherwise, you may summon me to talk with you; it shall be exactly as you desire.”

He quitted the room without more ado, leaving Miss Feniton looking after him with mixed feelings. Common sense prevailed, however, and, with a shrug, she began to draw off her boots and muddied stockings. She spread these before the fire to dry, and then removed her wet pelisse.

This done, she hesitated. At last, she unfastened the girdle which bound her gown about her waist, and, after a moment’s struggle with the buttons of her sleeves, drew the gown over her head.

She picked up the dressing gown. Owing to the smallness of the closely curtained window, the light in the room was poor; but the leaping flame of the fire caught the glint of a richly tinted brocade. It seemed a strangely luxurious garment for a mere fisherman to possess. She donned it thoughtfully, fastening it securely about her, then turned to spread the hems of her clothing before the fire.

She stood pensively looking down into the flame for a while. At length, she went to the door which gave to the stairs, but her steps were slow. Hesitantly, she opened the door a little.

“You may come down now,” she called, in a low voice.

She returned much more quickly to the fire. Presently, she heard the man’s feet on the staircase. He entered, and came towards her.

She looked up. It was not easy to read his expression, for the light of the room gave her only a hazy impression of his features. His eyes seemed to be considering her, though, for a long time. Truth to tell, he was seeing quite a different young lady from the one who had interviewed him yesterday evening. Her soft black hair was falling about her face, giving it a gentler expression, and in the firelight her lovely eyes looked fuller and deeper. Cold followed by warmth had im parted a glowing tone to her skin, and the deep red dressing gown set off admirably her dark beauty.

“I trust you will know me if we should chance to meet again,” she said, tartly.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, starting from his reverie. “It was impertinent of me to stare you out of countenance—but I find you so changed.”

“It is certainly not very gallant to remind me that I am not looking my best,” she remarked, reproachfully, but with a twinkle in her eye which he could not see.

“On the contrary—I have never seen you looking to better advantage.”

“But then,” she reminded him, “you have seen me only once before this, after all.”

“True. On that occasion, I was the one to be at a disadvantage. But will you not be seated? What can I offer you? I don’t imagine you would care to partake of a glass of wine, and I have no ratafia here. You should have a warm drink, though—a cup of tea or coffee, perhaps?”

Miss Feniton was about to decline either beverage, but again common sense prevailed. She had indeed felt thoroughly chilled until this very minute, and had no wish to suffer for her adventure by being kept to her bed for a day or two. She therefore accepted the offer of a cup of tea, with calm gratitude; and then sat down, eyeing the pistol as she did so.

There was a kettle standing on the hob; the man reached over, placing it on the fire.

“I must apologize for the limitations of my hospitality,” he said, with a smile. “One fire must do the job of both cooking and heating in this establishment. However, though primitive, I think you will find everything clean—we are even so fortunate as to be in possession of one uncracked cup, I find.”

“Is this your home?” she asked, curiously.

He shook his head. “Merely a
pied
a
terre
. I am never in one place for long.”

“I had already noticed that,” she answered, dryly.

“You received my note last night?” he queried, watching her face, which was illuminated and softened by the light of the fire.

She nodded. “Yes, I did; but I lost it again, I fear.”

“Lost it?” His voice was sharp.

“I believe that someone must have removed it from my reticule either yesterday evening or this morning,” she said, looking at him questioningly.

He was silent for a moment or two. The kettle began to sing, and he fetched a battered teapot from the cupboard.

“Who do you suppose it was?” he asked, bending over the fire.

“That depends. It could have been, for instance, yourself.”

He turned a surprised look upon her. “I? Why on earth should you suppose I would do a thing like that?”

She shrugged, and a dark curl fell forward on to her face.

“It is not impossible to think of reasons. Since you appear to be so anxious to conceal your identity, it may be that you would not risk leaving a specimen of your handwriting in my possession.”

“What makes you suppose that I have any other identity than my acknowledged one?” he asked, busying himself with making the pot of tea, and carrying it to the plain, well-scrubbed deal table in the middle of the small room.

She turned to face him.

“Come, it is time that we ceased fencing, Captain Jackson. You are no ordinary fisherman. Though I have no certain information about your real identity, there is much that I suspect concerning your affairs.”

She paused. He raised his brows, expectantly. She decided upon bold tactics.

“I suspect, for example, that you are a smuggler.”

“You do?” he seemed amused. “Why, may I ask?”

She told him briefly the circumstances on which her suspicions were founded. He heard her out in silence, a slight frown between his brows. When she had finished, he laughed softly.

“You may be right. But are you sure that you know of no one else who could have taken that letter? It might be important.”

“It was not you, then?”

“Good Lord, no! Although I must admit that it would have been wiser in me never to have written it: you might have carried it straight to Sir George Lodge.”

“And he would have been able to identify you by the handwriting?” she asked, shrewdly.

He shook his head, “You are astute, Miss Feniton, but I am not inexperienced in matters of this kind. The handwriting was disguised, in any event.”

“But it was that of a gentleman, nevertheless,” she parried.

He fell silent, and poured out the tea. He handed her a cup, which she took with a quick word of thanks.

“Then you can think of no one who might have taken it?” he persisted.

“Not unless Mr. Dorlais or Captain Masterman could have done so,” she answered, in a tone of irony. “They came into that room after you had gone, and found me reading the note. They also saw me place it in my reticule.”

“But they could not have seen the wording?”

“Of course not,” she said, with a trace of indignation.

“Then they could have no reason to be interested in it, unless—”

He paused, frowning.

“Do you really have the impudence to suggest,” asked Miss Feniton, with some heat, “that two gentlemen whom I have known for many years would stoop to petty theft? You must not judge everyone by yourself, you know!”

He disregarded this remark. “Did either of them by any mischance observe the bloodstains on the carpet, do you know?”

“I’m afraid they did.” Her voice changed, became almost apologetic. “Captain Masterman remarked on the open window, went over to shut it, and in so doing knocked a penknife on to the floor. Naturally, he bent to pick it up, and I am certain that he noticed then, although he made no remark. Afterwards, Mr. Dorlais went over to that spot also, and seemed to be examining it.”

“And neither made any comment?”

“Only something concerning the open window. I felt obliged to offer some explanation of that.”

She looked away, a little confused.

“What did you say?” he asked, curiously. “Did you—?”

She shook her head, so that the firelight caught the warm tints in her dark hair.

“You lied to them?” he asked, incredulously. “You made up some tale to save me from discovery?”

“Do not flatter yourself,” she answered, coldly. “If I lied, it was with the far less philanthropic intention of saving myself. I had previously told no one of your presence in the house; it was a trifle difficult to do so then, was it not?”

“Why did you say nothing?” he asked, quietly. “Was it in response to my appeal, I wonder? Did you indeed believe me when I said that I meant no harm by my presence in the grounds of the Manor?”

“I did not know what to believe,” she answered candidly. “But I did know—”

She stopped suddenly.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“That I meant to find out more about you—for myself,” she finished, the light of battle in her eye. “I am quite determined to hear the whole truth from you, sir, on this occasion.”

He came towards her, relieving her of the now empty cup.

“Are you indeed? And supposing that I don’t choose to tell you? What then?” he asked, mockingly.

“Then I shall force you—with this,” said Miss Feniton, suddenly taking up the pistol and levelling it at his chest. “Now will you speak, Captain Jackson? Or don’t you value your life?”

He laughed softly.

“I assure you that I am in deadly earnest,” she warned him.

The hand which held the pistol was as steady as a rock, the forefinger curved ready on the trigger. A pair of hazel eyes met and held his glance coolly.

“I make no doubt of it,” he replied, lightly. “But are you confident that you have sufficiently considered the difficulties of your present situation?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Why, simply this have you ever been alone with a corpse, Miss Feniton?”

She swallowed, but her hand did not quiver on the trigger.

“There is always a first time for everything. I was reared in a somewhat Spartan tradition.”

“Last night,” he said, reminiscently, “you bound my arm—the merest scratch! with all the tenderness of which a woman is capable when her compassion is aroused. Today, you propose to shoot me in cold blood for no better reason than that I will not gratify your curiosity! It has been truly said that females are strange creatures!”