Time's Fool (40 page)

She heard footsteps, and sprang up hurriedly as the door opened. A man entered, wearing a loose face mask that reached down to his mouth, and carrying a laden tray. One plate was piled with thick slices of buttered bread, cold ham, and a large portion of cheese; a smaller plate held a piece of rhubarb pie, and there was also a glass of ale.

“I'm waeful sorry we had tae scare ye, ma'am,” he said, putting the tray on the table. “'It goes agin the grrrain wi' me tae mishandle a wench. But ye'll nae come tae grrrief lest ye gie us trrrouble. Ye can see we've made provision fer ye yonder, and there's a, er—” He broke off, and ended with a shy gesture, “Under the wee bed.”

The small part of his face that was visible below the mask had reddened. He retained a vestige of decency, evidently. Encouraged, Naomi said, “You're the one they call Mac. A Scot, I think.”

“I am that. And dinna be readying tae make me a brrribe, milady. Me life's nae worrrth much, but such as 'tis I'm partial tae it, y'ken.”

She had been preparing for just such an offer, and hoping she sounded unafraid, she said scornfully, “You will surely hang when my father finds me. If you're a rebel trying to gather funds to buy you safe passage to France, I could arrange for you to get twice that much.”

He grinned. “Ye're a cool one, and ye've come tae the right of't, sure enough, but dinna fash yesel, lassie. Your pa's not aboot tae find ye in this Godforsaken spot. And was I tae go against the Squire, I'd ne'er see the bonnie heather this side o' judgment.” He turned to the door. “I'll be—”

Naomi ran to touch his sleeve, then shrank back as he whirled on her, crouching, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a soundless snarl, a long knife appearing as if by magic in his hand.

“Go on, then,” she cried fiercely. “Kill me! Much good will I be to you then!”

Taking a long whistling breath, he straightened. “Dinna
e'er
do that agin, woman! I nigh slit yer pretty gizzard!” He stared at her proud but pale face. “Och, but 'tis a lovely wee thing ye are! And I like a lassie wi' spirit.”

Her hopes rising, she stretched out an imploring hand. “Then—help me! I'll see you are not charged. I swear it!”

As if moved to pity, he said very softly, “I'll tell ye this only—we mean ye nae harrrm, if yer pa does as he's told. Likely he will, and ye'll be safe home wi' him this time t'morrer.” He went out, and pulled the door shut.

The sound of a bar slamming down on the other side was echoed by a sharper crack. Naomi heard alarmed shouts and flew to press her ear against the heavy oak door.

She heard the Scot call, “What's aboot?”

Another voice answered, “Bill saw a cove skulking around.”

“Losh, mon! 'Twas likely juist a poacher. He didnae shoot him, I hope? We'll hae the Runners doon here like flies if—”

Bill's dour tones then, holding a note of triumph. “There'll be no Runners, Mac. I caught the perisher square and 'e went into the river.” He chuckled. “Very accommodating, I must say.”

“And very needless,” said a high-pitched voice angrily. “You got us inter a Capital Act is what you done!”

“Kidnappin' of a person o' Quality is a Capital Act, Paddy, so if they catches us we're fer Tyburn Tree anyway. As I sees it, 'tis best ter take no chances. If that there creepin' cove was a poacher, nobody's goin' ter miss 'im. And if 'e was 'ired ter keep a eye on the tasty piece we got upstairs, 'e ain't goin' ter run back ter fill up Captain Perishin' Rossiter's ear'oles, is 'e? A stitch in time, me dears. A stitch in time.”

These sentiments provoked a heated argument, but Naomi closed her ears to their angry voices and sank down against the door, her heart heavy. She said a little prayer for poor Camber, or whoever had fallen victim to this gang of ruffians. After a while, her inherent optimism began to assert itself, and she got to her feet again. If there was only some way to get up to the loft. Even if the window was too small to climb through, she might be able to throw out a note or do something to attract attention to her plight. She looked around the room again, searching for inspiration. Her gaze lingered on the bed, and she said a thoughtful, “Hmm…”

Then, she went to the table. It was prosaic and unromantic behaviour, but she was hungry.

*   *   *

Because of their hope that Tummet would arrive here, or that Newby would come back, the little band made the Snow Hill house their headquarters. The need for secrecy forbade enlisting the aid of the household staff, but Dr. Lockhart, who had insisted upon being part of the search, agreed to remain at the house to receive progress reports, and explain the situation to any returning family member. At half-past twelve o'clock, the determined seekers set out.

Peregrine Cranford and Falcon went straight to the Derrydene house, and were dismayed to find it closed up and apparently unoccupied, the knocker off the door, and all the window curtains drawn. Repairing at once to Bow Street, they were advised by the irritated magistrate that the two Watchmen had been withdrawn when Sir Louis and Lady Derrydene had left the premises shortly before noon, escorted by several gentlemen. Responding to their indignant protests, he said that had any charges been brought they would have been against Captain Rossiter's man, who had very obviously followed the Derrydene party. Restraining Falcon, who was clearly ready to commit bloody murder on this obstructive minion of the law, Cranford exercised considerable tact and eventually was begrudgingly advised of the route taken by the Derrydene party.

At once, the two men set off at speed for the southwest, and were elated when they received confirmation of the Derrydene group's having passed the third toll gate only half an hour before them. They lost the trail at Woking, and wasted an hour searching. But coming into Guildford at six o'clock, they found such a group had taken rooms at a posting house, using the name Atkinson. Further investigation took them to the dining room, where they located their quarry, only to find a middle-aged lady of questionable respectability, escorted by five rowdy men. Whether by accident or design they had followed a false trail. Disheartened and weary, they commenced the long journey back to Snow Hill.

Glendenning and Kadenworthy, meanwhile, acted on Gideon's belief that his twin would not go to the interested collector, Mr. Kendall-Parker, until he had tried to ascertain the real worth of the miniatures. They spent several fruitless hours visiting London's finest jewellers; more hours visiting lesser known jewellers; and finally resorted to antique dealers, many of whom closed their shops early on Saturdays. About to give up, however, they had been rewarded by the information that an elderly authority on jade art had been lecturing at a Tottenham Court Road gallery that day. They rushed to the gallery and were told that several gentlemen, including one who roughly fitted Newby's description, had brought objects for appraisal. Unfortunately, the antiquarian had left an hour earlier, bound for his Windsor home.

A cold wind had come up, but to Windsor they rode, arriving at quarter past seven, just as the antiquarian was going out again, to have his dinner. He was of modest means, and was delighted to accept an invitation to be the dinner guest of “Mr. Laindon” and “Mr. King.” He guided them to a far more expensive tavern than he usually frequented, and during the course of a most excellent dinner, admitted that he knew of the collection of Jewelled Men. He'd not been aware of its existence, however, until this morning, when a young gentleman had brought him two of the pieces and asked for an estimate of their worth.
Very
interesting articles, to be sure, and the entire set might be of considerable value, depending upon the number of pieces and the quality of the inset gems. He knew of a collector who might be prepared to offer as much as two hundred pounds for each piece, but—one
thousand
? Good gracious me—no! So disappointed the gentleman had been, and had flown into a rage, and stamped off in a huff. No, he did not know in which direction the gentleman had gone, but he had been accompanied by a rather obsequious individual who could very well have been his manservant.

Half an hour later, the viscount and Lord Kadenworthy turned their horses back towards Town, not entirely disgusted with the results of their efforts.

Rossiter and Morris had gone first to the Inn of the Blue Heron, in Kensington Village, arriving shortly before one o'clock. The host was obliging but knew nothing of Mr. Kendall-Parker save that he had booked two rooms on Thursday evening and paid through Sunday. He had instead left late this morning, with word to none, taking his luggage and his manservant with him, so that he apparently did not intend to return. Morris interviewed the grooms, ostlers, and stable boys regarding anyone who had come to see Mr. Kendall-Parker, while Rossiter questioned the indoor servants. A housemaid thought to have seen Kendall-Parker talking with a gentleman in the back garden; a groom vaguely remembered a young swell asking for the guest; but neither could recall what the visitor looked like, and their descriptions of Mr. Kendall-Parker would fit a thousand small, middle-aged gentlemen.

Disappointed, Gideon arranged to meet Morris at Don Saltero's Coffee House in Cheyne Walk at six o'clock, and they separated. Morris journeyed first to Snow Hill in the desperate and vain hope that Tummet or Newby might have returned. He next went to the livery stable which had supplied Newby's carriage, only to learn that the postilion had already returned, and been hired again, but was expected back momentarily from taking a dowager to Hampstead Village. The “momentarily” became five and forty minutes, through which Morris fretted and fumed. However, when the postilion drove in, he was able to relate that his “early morning gent” had paid him off at The Bedford, in The Piazza, and Morris was off again.

Gideon had embarked on a tour of Newby's haunts: his club, his friends, the various taverns, coffee houses and ordinaries he frequented. Where he was not given the cut direct, Gideon was answered with varying degrees of hauteur or contempt, all responses being negative. His hopes soared when one bored young dandy said he had seen “Ol' Newby” at the famous Fleet Street ordinary, The Cock, but then he yawned and recollected that had been the day before yesterday. Frustrated, and constantly fighting panic because of the inexorable passage of time, Gideon went prayerfully to meet Morris, as had been arranged, and was given the unhappy news that neither his twin nor his valet had been heard from, and that Morris' journey to The Bedford having been fruitless, he had enquired also at the Blue Boar, the Black Bull, the Old Bell, and several other less famous hostelries without success. Longing to continue the search at once, Gideon knew he must exercise common sense; it had been a long and nerve-racking day, and if he was to keep alert he dare not overtax himself. He forced himself to swallow some of the food they ordered, and had to struggle against strangling his friend, who ate heartily.

Shortly after seven o'clock, they separated again, this time to pursue their enquiries at the various coaching stations. Gideon found it difficult to believe that a man who placed a high value on his personal comfort and privacy would willingly endure the delays and discomforts of a stagecoach. Still, it was possible that Newby would resort to such a mode of transportation if he thought it would grant him concealment. But again, he drew a blank. As far as the harassed ticket agents could remember, no gentleman of Newby's description had purchased a ticket today.

It was dark by the time he completed his section of the most likely stations. They had agreed to return to Snow Hill at this point, and he had been up since dawn and was very tired, but he could not give up. He rode along the Dover Road for ten miles, stopping at each toll gate to make enquiries. One gate keeper told him in amusement that he'd seen “a round dozen Newbys” today; another growled irritably that he'd no time to stick his blasted nose into every blasted coach what blasted well passed through his blasted gate. Whether friendly or irate, the result was always the same—Newby had either not been seen or was not remembered. The night had now become so dark that to ride on was to court disaster, and the rising wind made progress an exhausting battle. Hunched over in the saddle, Gideon turned his weary mount back towards London. Most hotels and inns remained open throughout the night; he would keep trying.

*   *   *

By ten minutes to three o'clock a full gale was roaring around the house on Snow Hill, rattling the shutters, howling in the chimneys, sending curtains billowing on their rails. Gideon came into the house slowly, and re-lit some candles in the withdrawing room. He was achingly tired, but there were things to be done before he sought his bed. Perhaps he could allow himself to rest, just for a minute. He sprawled in a deep chair, stretched out his long legs, and with a sigh of relief put back his head. At once he saw two great green eyes, full of love and tenderness; a vivid, full-lipped mouth; the perfect curve of a petal-soft cheek; the dainty nose that was always ready to tilt proudly upward when he exasperated her; all the bewitchingly feminine curves and roundnesses of her warm young body. Where a'God's name did they hide her? Was she safe and well and out of the wind? Was she huddled in some damp and miserable shack, alone, terrified, starving perhaps; or—worse, in the hands of lusting brutes who might maul and abuse and—He cut off that nightmare line of thought desperately, and started to read the notes Dr. Lockhart and the others had left for him.

Derrydene had evidently made good his escape, but it was very obvious that some progress had been made. Failing to obtain a higher price from the Windsor antiquarian, Newby had probably given up and sold the jewelled men to Kendall-Parker. He would not dare show his nose here, and was probably hiding somewhere until he could obtain passage to the New World. He wouldn't be able to do that on a Sunday, and might in fact have days or weeks to wait for a ship. Tomorrow, he
must
be found. He might still have the miniatures, or if he had sold them, he might be able to supply some information about where Kendall-Parker could be reached. There were a thousand places where he could hide. To visit them all would take weeks, so they would have to start at first light with the most likely of those they … had not already …