Time's Fool (25 page)

“Did you. Well, I am making one of my own. In fact—”

“I don't go about wiv me weepers shut, mate,” interrupted the indomitable valet. “You remember when I was knocked abaht by them ugly coves and lost me sovereign nation? Well, I seen one of 'em. The back of 'im, that is.”

Interested now, Gideon exclaimed, “Did you, by God! So you followed? Good man! You never lost him?”

“In a manner of speakin' I did. When 'e went inside. By the side door, a'course. Didn't see 'is face, mind, but I knew 'im by 'is perishing strut.”

“Where did he go?”

“To a very tidy mansion. Very nice indeed. Luxoorus y'might say. On Soho Square.” Tummet grinned as he saw Rossiter's eyes narrow, and nodding his head, he whispered, “That's right, mate. The 'ome of yer papa's dear old friend, what's s'posed to be orf in foreign parts. Sir Derrydene!”

“By … God!”

Within minutes Tummet was seated on the box, Gwendolyn had been installed in the carriage, and the coachman was guiding his team back towards Snow Hill.

Watching all this with mournful abstraction, Morris mounted up, and accompanying Rossiter along the street, said miserably, “Well, I properly made mice feet of the business, once again.”

“Oh, I'd not say that, exactly,” murmured Rossiter, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Morris sighed. “Good of you. But it's no use trying to ease the blow. She must take me for the king of clods. Even Lady Naomi looked at me as if I was wits to let. Which reminds me—what the deuce were you doing with her?”

“What d'you mean—what was I doing with her? I was gallantly risking my own life so as to save her from being trampled to death by your insane animal.”

“Walker!” said Morris jeeringly. “Windsong's hooves came nowhere near her!”

“Perhaps, from where you were standing it appeared in that light. But where I stood, it was—” laughter danced in his grey eyes—“quite different.”

“I'll warrant it was, you rogue! Some fellows have all the luck! What of your note? Anything to the purpose?”

“Begad, if I hadn't forgot it!” Rossiter fumbled in his coat pocket, found the note, and reined in so sharply that a following horseman almost caromed into him.

“What is it?” demanded Morris, ignoring the spleen of the annoyed rider. “You look like the sheep that ate the wolf!”

“And feel the same! Look at this.” He handed over the crumpled note, and Morris read:

Mr. Rossiter.

I no what your trying to proov, and I no something. Not much. Im a pore man sir, but maybee we can help each other. I will wate at Number 18, Appleblosom Lane until four o'clock. Its orf Whitechapel Road.

Sined, Tom Brewer.

“Hum,” said Morris, returning the note. “Terrible spelling. And it smells like a trap, you realize?”

“Yes. But I think I dare not ignore it.”

“Jolly good. I've not been in Whitechapel for years, but it's as well I brought my pistol. Do you go armed, my Tulip?”

“Of course. But to say truth, I'd as lief you didn't come. This is my affair, and may take some time, and you have other matters to settle.”

“I do not scruple to tell you that you are a scaly scrub,” said Lieutenant Morris, indignant. “You want to hog this to yourself, yet would be the first to complain did you get your throat cut! Which you doubtless will do you go in alone, for if 'tis a trap the odds are bound to be heavy. You know very well I have had a bad day, and a good brawl would cheer me up. But, no! I am to be sent off with—”

Laughing, Gideon said, “You great gudgeon! I shall be exceeding glad of your help, as you know very well.”

Morris grinned at him and turned his horse eastward. “If Appleblossom Lane lies in the rabbit warren I think it does, we shall be lucky do we find it in time to get to the ball this evening.”

“We'll find it,” said Gideon determinedly.

An hour later, he was a good deal less optimistic. They had reached Whitechapel Road without much difficulty, but had then plunged into a labyrinth of streets that had gradually deteriorated into narrow refuse-strewn lanes, and then into dark, gloomy alleys. Three times they'd stopped to ask the way, and their ragged and dirty informants had been willing enough to supply directions that were “clear as a bell” but which turned out to be murky as mud. Their most recent instructions, imparted by an insolent boy, had been so confusing that they'd disagreed as to whether to turn left or right at the second alley. As a result, Morris had gone left and Rossiter had reined his mare to the right, where he now found himself at the junction of Crabtree Lane and Elderberry Court.

It was a far cry from either elderberries or courts. A squalid, reeking alley, with the blackened timbers of sagging warehouses to the left, and row houses to the right which were posted as having been condemned. “And rightly so,” Rossiter muttered, scanning woodwork that hung in rotted strips, boarded-up or cracked windows, and the occasional furtive scamper of rats. Yet some poor souls still dwelt in this nightmarish hole, for as he rode past he heard the thin wailing of an infant; a woman's shrill, drunken laughter; the bitter cursing of a man. ‘Good God!' he thought, appalled that any Englishman should have to lodge his wife and children in such a ghastly slum, and realizing also that some of his own men had probably grown up in similar squalor.

And then, on a sagging post before him, were the barely decipherable words: Appleblossom Lane.

“Victory!” he muttered.

The mare tossed her head and whinnied as he rounded the corner. He could scarce blame her, for this area was even worse than Elderberry Court. Tall warehouses loomed on both sides to shut out the sunlight. There were only three houses to be seen, and they were at the far end of this perpetually shadowed “lane” that might almost have been a tunnel. Gideon rode on, pistol in hand now, ears straining and eyes alert.

He was almost to the end of the “tunnel” when it came to him that it was very quiet. Unnaturally quiet. The mare danced nervously, but the end of the lane was clear and a quick glance behind revealed no sign of lurking footpads.

He could not have said what made him look up. A dark shape was hurtling down at him, all arms and legs. Before he could aim the pistol, he was smashed from the saddle. Sprawling in the mud, dazed, he instinctively fought to get up. The mare neighed shrilly. A voice shouted, “Grab her! Quick!”

A boot flew at Rossiter's head. He jerked away, but another smashed into his ribs and he doubled up. Through the pain, he thought dully, ‘Four of the bastards,' and was vaguely shocked when a woman screeched, “Search 'im! But take care you don't mark 'is face! The Squire don't want 'im marked!”

“The Squire!” Those words seared into Rossiter's reeling brain, and anger brought a resurgence of strength. A large shape bent over him. Rough hands tore at his pockets. He struck out with all his strength. A startled oath, and someone fell. It was too close quarters for swordplay, but struggling to his knees, he managed somehow to wrest his dagger from its sheath and strike out blindly. The howl was deafening. “The perisher's got a knife!”

“Not fer long, 'e ain't,” snarled a coarse, deep voice.

A boot drove hard at Rossiter's arm and the dagger fell from his numbed fingers. The boot kicked out again, but the instinct for survival was strong, and Rossiter's years of soldiering stood him in good stead. He jerked aside, clutched the boot and pulled. A man shot over him, colliding with another ruffian who was in the process of swinging a hefty cudgel. The cudgel found the wrong mark and the air resounded with howls of wrathful profanity. The cudgel fell. Rolling, Rossiter snatched it up and clawed his way to his feet. A hard-driven fist landed beside his right ear, sending him staggering, but his back slammed against a wall and he battled to stay upright. A beefy face was in front of him. He drove the cudgel at it and the face convulsed and sank from sight. A fist flew at his jaw, and he deflected it with the cudgel, then landed a right uppercut sending the ruffian flying back. But a long club flailed from nowhere and landed squarely on his left shoulder. He knew dully that he was down, but for a horrible interval pain smothered everything else.

Someone growled echoingly, “… ain't got it, I tellyer.”

A brutal hand was dragging him up. Beery breath, and a voice demanding, “Where is it, soldier boy?” A knife glittered before his dazed eyes. “Tell us afore we 'ave ter—”

“Troops, forward! At the double!”

‘Jamie,' thought Rossiter numbly.

Shouts of rage and alarm. Hoofbeats. More than one horse.

The woman screeched, “Narks! Narks! Shab orf!”

Savage cursing. The hand with the knife vanished, but a boot rammed into Rossiter's stomach. Writhing, he heard the shrill female voice, “Keep stickin' yer nose where it don't belong, me 'andsome darlin', and next time, we'll scrag yer!”

A pistol roared. Running feet. Howls, and a fight somewhere close by.

Rossiter was very sick.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I am indeed grateful,” declared Rossiter, cautiously lifting his arm as Tummet had requested. “But how you came to be there I cannot fathom. I had left you with strict instructions to take Miss Gwendolyn home.”

“Popped 'er into the coach, safe as a sturgeon, Guv,” said Tummet, leaning over the bed and easing off the torn wreckage of the coat. “Only I 'opped orf and 'ired meself a 'ack. Can you lift yer arm up a bit more?” Rossiter complying, he went on, “Now fer this 'ere what once called itself a shirt. I follered you, just in case you needed a 'and, like.”

“And I had the devil's own work to come up with you,” said Lieutenant Morris, carrying a tray with decanter and glasses into the bedchamber and closing the door softly behind him.

Flinching from Tummet's efforts, Rossiter swore, then said, “Well, I never was more in need of reinforcements. Had it not been for you two—”

“You'd a' cocked up yer toes,” said Tummet. “Six to one ain't fair odds, Guv. But I gotta say that fer a chap what's nothing but skin and bone, you fights like a troop of cavalry! A 'ole perishing troop! Blind me if I ever see a gent laying about 'im wiv so much spirit! Makes me proud I took you on, which I can't say no better! Lean forrard a bit, if y'can.”

Rossiter obliged. “In point of fact, they didn't mean to kill me. The woman kept screeching that my face was not to be marked.”

“They may not have marked your face,” said Morris, frowning. “But they were less charitable with the rest of you.”

Glancing down at his lurid bruises, Rossiter told his valet to lock the door. “I'd not have Gwendolyn see this mess.”

“No need for that,” said Morris. “You may be
à l'aise,
my trampled Tulip. The lady is perfectly well, and at the moment engaged in applying a poultice to the jaw of your footman, who has the toothache. A remarkably kind little creature, an I dare remark it.”

“She's one in a million,” agreed Rossiter. “But I wish I knew what the deuce she was about at Falcon House this morning.” He looked at Tummet steadily, and receiving only a smile of angelic innocence turned his attention to more immediate problems. “You're sure no one saw me come in?”

“Have no fears,” said Morris handing him a glass of Madeira. “We were able to slip in the side door without causing any of the maids to faint. However, I think you shall have to disappoint Lady Naomi after all. Cannot go cavorting about tonight with your middle looking like—”

“Good God!” Sir Mark had entered the room unnoticed, and now stood pale and shocked as he scanned his battered son. For a moment he stared, saying nothing. Then he lifted his eyes to Gideon's face. “When you said you'd been wounded, I never dreamed— Zounds! I marvel you lived, boy!”

Morris said cheerfully, “He damn near didn't, sir.”

Gideon hastened to point out that he was “in good point now.”

“Ho yus you ain't,” argued Tummet, and taking Sir Mark aside, said in a confidential manner, “I'll fetch some 'ot compresses, sir. To bring them bruises out. You jest keep 'im where 'e is, and don't let 'im go popping orf nowhere.” He gave the baronet an encouraging nod and went out.

Sir Mark looked after him, shook his head as if to clear it, then pulled up a chair and sat down. “What happened?”

“Somebody objects to my enquiries, it seems.” Gideon eased himself back against the pillows. “I was warned to keep my nose out of what doesn't concern me.” He sampled the wine and began to feel slightly less fuzzy-headed. “Newby said that you both have been trying to come at the root of it all. Were you ever attacked, sir?”

“Never. But with you here, stirring things up again, mayhap my enemies are beginning to be alarmed.”

“Hmm. Or they may think I have learned something.”

Sir Mark demanded eagerly, “Have you?”

Gideon frowned, and said slowly, “Something—odd. This morning Tummet thinks he spotted one of the ruffians who ransacked Promontory Point.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Morris.

Sir Mark said, “Did he, by God? Where?”

“Going into Derrydene's house in Soho.”

They both stared at him, speechless. Then, Sir Mark said, “Why in the name of all that's holy should Louis Derrydene want to search Promontory Point? Besides, the man's out of the country. I'll tell you frankly, Gideon, I'd not place much credence in what that man of yours says. Wouldn't trust the fellow as far as I could throw him! Did he see the ruffian's face?”

“Only his back, sir. But he is quite sure 'twas the same man.”

“Fustian! Likely giving himself airs to be interesting. Whoever broke into the Point did so because they knew a great house was standing empty. And whatever Louis Derrydene may be about, I give you my word it ain't the burglary business!”