Morris gave a snort of mirth. "This Poinier fellow started ranting and raving about traitors atop the old lighthouse, and said the troopers were to go with him at once. I knew he was a bad man, and it was likely he had some murky meanness in hand, so I marched over." He grinned. "Falcon yelled Poinier's name together with a few home truths, and Poinier ran like a rabbit."
"He really did work up to a fair rate of speed, didn't he?" said Falcon, amused. "In spite of that foul wind."
"Your head gardener came begging for help at the Home Farm," said Morris, "so I ordered the troopers to go over there. The sergeant was a trifle reluctant, but I outranked him of course, and off they went."
Chandler said, "I wondered why Poinier never came back. What became of him?"
Falcon looked pious. "Who can say?"
"
You
can say," declared Morris. "If ever I saw such a fellow! You know perfectly well you ran him into the stream."
"I did nothing of the sort! I merely wanted to ask him a few civilized questions, and he preferred to have a swim. Most odd fellow."
They all laughed, and Hercules barked and wagged his tail companionably.
Morris said, "We had no wish to be judged unpatriotic, so we decided to investigate this 'traitor at the lighthouse' business."
"And encountered a baptism of fire," grumbled Falcon.
Chandler moved restlessly. "Yes, but last night you said—"
"That was two nights ago," interrupted Sir Brian. "You slept the clock round, my boy."
"Two—days?" said Chandler, astounded. "And you're still here, Falcon?"
"Not by choice, I assure you."
"What you are is rude," Morris informed him. "Just the same, Gordie, we really should be getting back to Town. If that tempest struck London as hard as it struck here, Rossiter's house on Snow Hill is likely in Hampstead Heath now. And I worry for Miss Katrina, stuck out there in the wilds of Great Ormond Street."
Falcon looked thunderous, and Sir Brian intervened to explain that the roads were still blocked in all directions. "There's not been a single Portsmouth Machine get through from Town for almost three days now, and riders are carrying the mails. What with trees down and mud everywhere, travel is well nigh impossible."
Ruth, who had been watching Chandler's face, inserted gently, "I think you are tired now. We will leave you in peace."
"No!" He clung to her hand as she tried to withdraw it. "You cannot go yet. I want to know what happened to Farrier, and Durwood, and all that illicit cargo. And how it is I am not in chains and en route to the Tower."
Sir Brian smiled. "I think we must humour the poor fellow, my dear. Of course, we don't know with any certainty, Gordon, but we believe that your unpleasant acquaintances must not have been able to retrieve sufficient containers from the wreck of the
Empress of Calcutta
in February. So Durwood ordered some made, filled them with goods, and marked them in such a way that they'd appear to be part of the original cargo. Then, they had to wait for bad weather, which they certainly got this week."
" 'Twas a neat ploy," said Falcon. "Had those boxes been found I'd not give much for your chances of convincing anyone they were not just what they seemed to be— wreckers' loot."
Chandler said, "Yes, well I know all that. But how on earth did you get rid of all the beastly stuff? Or did the troopers never come at all?"
"Oh, they came," said Sir Brian. 'The fire on the tower had been reported. But luckily, by the time they reached us, all our ill-gotten gains were out of sight."
"But—
where
, sir? There was no hiding place, I think."
"So I thought, also. What I'd forgot was that even in the olden times lighthouses had of necessity to have very deep cellars to prevent the wind bowling them over. Ours is so old and so primitive, I thought the foundations we could see only went down a few feet. But—well, I'll let our lovely lady explain."
Ruth said eagerly, "When I finished cleaning the fresco to the foot of the lighthouse, I found it was most definitely taller than it now appears to be, and that there was in fact another doorway a floor below the main one. I wanted so to tell you of my discovery, Gordon. But then that horrid Mr. Farrier came and drove all else from my mind. I suppose that down through the centuries there were floods, perhaps such as we have just experienced, and gradually the mud built up around the base of the tower and weeds and shrubs grew, and because it was no longer used, in time people forgot there had ever been cellar rooms. At all events, the lower door was red originally, and is clearly shown in the painting. That patch of blue you uncovered is a lady's gown. She is standing by the door."
Sir Brian broke in, "When Mrs. Ruth told us of it, we hunted about. We couldn't discover the outer door, of course; it must be buried deep. But we did find a trapdoor leading down into the cellar, and with two more cellars below! You may believe we all went to work, and between us, the illicit cargo was packed away just in time."
Jacob said proudly, "Me an' Thorpe helped!"
Sir Brian smiled at the boys. "You did, indeed!"
"What happened when the troopers came?" asked Gordon.
Morris said, "We told 'em Durwood had set the fire and shot you down when you tried to stop him." He glanced from Ruth to the twins and said with delicacy, "Truth, after all. And he won't argue the point."
"Broke his neck," remarked Falcon, less tactfully.
Morris groaned disgustedly. " 'Let go of a grindstone, and it'll keep turning for a minute'!"
Chandler overrode Falcon's impassioned response. "But what about Farrier? Has he brought charges 'gainst us?"
Ruth chuckled.
Sir Brian said, "Your friends pretended to help him, instead of which they got so much gin down his throat that he was lushy drunk when the troopers arrived. I rather suspect he is disgraced, and his testimony will be regarded as questionable. Especially without the proofs he needed." He stood. "And that's all you'll get today, Gordie. Mrs. Ruth is right, you look very tired. Come along you two young rascals. We've much work to do at the stables."
The twins sprang up, Hercules gamboling excitedly about all three.
"An' out at the Home Farm, sir?" asked Thorpe hopefully.
Sir Brian ruffled his curls and winked at Ruth. "Most decidedly out at the farm."
He went over and shook hands with Falcon and Morris. "I am all too aware of how much I owe you, gentlemen. We have had a very narrow escape, and your part in it will never be forgotten. I hope you will make Lac Brillant your home whenever you feel inclined for a change of air."
Morris turned brick red and mumbled incoherently.
Falcon bowed, but said nothing.
Hercules followed the twins, then darted to the bed and sprang to lie at the god's feet.
Sir Brian turned back. "I'm damned proud of you, Gordie. But you've twice put the fear of God into me! Please do not become overtired. I doubt I could stand another fright."
A faint tinge of colour brightened Chandler's wan face. He smiled speechlessly. Sir Brian nodded and closed the door.
"Phew!" gasped Morris, then recoiled as Ruth ran to hug him.
"Thank you! Thank you! You have been so good." Amused by his shy blush, she stepped back. "There. I have done embarrassing you. But when you see Miss Rossiter, will you please tell her we shall visit her just as soon as we return to London?"
Chandler said, "Oh, we'll see Miss Rossiter before that, I fancy."
Ruth turned and looked at him wonderingly.
Falcon said, "Do not interrupt, Chandler. 'Tis my turn."
With a little gurgle of laughter Ruth gave him his hug, but he pressed a kiss upon her cheek. "I'm quite safe," he declared airily. "He's too levelled to attack me."
"Do not be too sanguine on that point," argued Chandler. "Keasden says my collarbone is cracked, not broken, and I'll be able to deal with you in jig time."
"Do not get his hopes too high," warned Morris. "The silly fellow will be arranging a meeting!"
"Speaking of which," said Falcon, "we've a meeting to arrange in Town. I hope!" He nodded meaningfully to Chandler, and followed Morris.
Ruth went back to the side of the bed. Chandler reached out, and she put her cool hand into his warm one. "I thought as much," she said. "You have done entirely too much chattering, sir, and—"
He tugged imperiously, and she sat down. "No, Gordon— really you must rest."
"What I must do is know about that ship. Is she safe?"
"Oh, yes. Entirely thanks to you, my dear. And now, go to sleep!"
"No," he said drowsily. And slept.
The afternoon was mild, but the windows were closed, and it was very quiet in Chandler's private parlour, each of those assembled there seemingly lost in contemplation.
Sir Owen Furlong, a tall man in the early thirties, light of hair and complexion, turned his pleasant blue eyes to Chandler who, clad in shirt and breeches, shared the sofa with him. "Are you sure you're well enough to be out of bed, Gordie? Three days is awfully soon, I'd think, and that shoulder must be a deuced nuisance."
"Thank you, but I'm quite comfortable," lied Chandler.
Morris, wearing civilian dress, looked up from
The Spectator
and said with a grin, "He likely wouldn't feel it if it did trouble him, Owen. He is conscious only of a certain lovely widow."
"Here they come!" Falcon sprang from his chair and turned to the door.
Chandler said, "I hope they've been successful."
Standing also, Morris remarked, " 'Hope is a good breakfast, but a bad supper.' "
"Why in the name of sanity I put myself within earshot of your gibberish—" Falcon broke off as the door opened.
Unannounced, Gideon Rossiter and Horatio Glendenning came in. Lord Horatio, heir to the Earl of Bowers-Malden, was a well-built, pleasant-featured young man with a smile seldom far from his green eyes. It was far from them today, and Chandler took one look at his set expression, and his heart sank. He asked, "Would you be so kind, Owen?"
Furlong went to the side table and poured two glasses of cognac, which he carried to the new arrivals.
Rossiter and Glendenning pulled chairs closer and sat down wearily.
Chandler said, "I take it you were unable to see the King."
Lord Horatio Glendenning nodded his auburn head. "Our audience was cancelled," he said. "No explanation given. My sire's influence will carry us only so far, I'm afraid."
Rossiter stretched out his long legs, and sighed. "We were blocked at every turn. Couldn't get near Horace Walpole, either. The best we could manage was to see Lord Anson, which—"
"Admiral Lord Anson?' Furlong said hopefully, "He's a jolly good man and with his naval background must have been impressed by our conclusions, eh, Tio?"
Glendenning gave a derogatory grunt, and took another mouthful of cognac.
"He'd been given a dossier on all of us," said Rossiter. "My father's questionable business dealings; Tio's suspected Jacobite associations; a charge of wrecking that was not entirely disproved by the Chandlers, plus their unfortunate association with Johnny Armitage's sister! Egad! We're a disreputable crew! I wonder we were not clapped up on the spot!"
"
Not
—
entirely
—
disproved
?" sputtered Chandler. "Had it not been for the efforts of this 'disreputable crew' that ship would be on the bottom today!"
Glendenning shrugged. "So we tried to tell him. Much good it did."
"I am not permitted Anson's acquaintance, but I think he is no fool," said Falcon. "Were you able to at least tell him of our suspicions?"
"We tried." Rossiter looked glum. "Between us, we jawed the old boy's ear off for half an hour."
"He just stared at us," said Glendenning. "Then, he asked if we realized how little proof we had of our allegations, and how reprehensible it is to suppose that fine gentlemen such as the Earl of Collington, Rudolph Bracksby, or General Underbill would be involved in some kind of treasonable plotting."
Falcon murmured, "I am striving not to say 'I told you so.' Did you see fit to mention dear Terrier Farrier's part in all this?"
"We mentioned it." Rossiter said with disgust, "Farrier is still held in high regard. Which is more than we are!"
"They've nothing 'gainst me. Or Furlong," said Morris. "Perhaps we should—"
"Oh, have they not!" Glendenning said, "Furlong is believed to have aided and abetted Kit Aynsworth when he helped his Jacobite brother-in-law get clear of the dragoons. And as for you, Jamie, you associate with the rest of us unsavoury individuals. Tarred with the same brush, old fellow."
"In which case I am the only one of unimpeachable reputation amongst you all," said Falcon, amused. "How droll. There is something to be said for neither aiding, abetting, nor crying friends with any man."
Morris said, "You don't have time. Too busy shooting people."
Rossiter interposed angrily, "Have done, for God's sake! This is no time for petty squabbles."
"What
is
it time for?" demanded Falcon, at once bristling. "We do little more than defend our own. We should carry the fight to the Squire and his merry band of bastards!
At least," he added hastily, " 'tis what I would do, had I any real interest in the business."
Morris opened his mouth, caught Rossiter's eye, and shut it again.
Chandler said curtly, "Fish, or cut line, Falcon!"
Falcon's lips drooped disdainfully. "By all means, since you require my superior understanding."
Rossiter clapped a hand over Morris' mouth.
Affecting not to notice, Falcon went on, "We know that the League of Jewelled Men has six members, of whom the leader is called the Squire. We know that the Earl of Collington was—perhaps still is—a member; that Rudolph Bracksby is very probably a member; and this fellow Poinier is either a member of the League or one of their agents. We can say with a fair degree of certainty that both General Underhill and his man Farrier are in the plot. And—I think we may have come across another member."
They all sat straighter.