She knew he had noticed the contradiction in her clothes, and felt she had to offer an explanation. “I am a lady’s maid, and my mistress gives me her unwanted clothes. I don’t wish you to know my name, because I should not be out here like this, and fear for my position.” That last at least was true!
“Ah, that would explain it,” Conan murmured. A lady’s maid? Aye, and pigs were given to flying! She was the lady herself. He was fascinated ... she was fascinating. It didn’t for a moment cross his mind that she might be Ursula Elcester, because she did not seem at all like a stuffy bluestocking. Quite the opposite, in fact, for a bluestocking wouldn’t be out and about after midnight, poking about in woods where quasi-Druids were performing weird rites!
Ursula thought she had convinced Conan with her fib about being a lady’s maid, and was now thinking again about the rites by the pool. “It’s strange how a childhood game can suddenly seem diabolic, isn’t it?” she said. “It has never occurred to me that
‘In and out the dusky bluebells’
might not be what it seemed. Tonight, though ... ”
“Well, it’s as well that children don’t know the origins of most nursery rhymes. They wouldn’t enjoy
‘Ring o’ roses’
if they knew about the plague.”
“I suppose not.”
He went on. “I couldn’t understand the words Taynton said just before you alerted them. Could you?”
“I was too intent on creeping forward to listen properly. It sounded like gibberish to me.”
“Not quite. It was something like
Loo-nass-ah, Sow-inn, Im-olk
—something, and then
—may the secret be known to my might. Loo-nass-ah, Sow-inn Im-olk
—something—
by the turn of the last may it be mine by right.”
It signified nothing to Ursula, except that if it was another childhood game, she did not know it.
“Whatever it meant,” Conan went on, “the shooting star seemed to please Taynton greatly, as if his desire had been granted.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought too,” Ursula replied. “But what can that desire be? Taynton is at pains to keep people away, which I suppose is understandable if he and his friends want to behave as they did tonight. The local poacher, Rufus Almore, was terrified almost witless in the woods recently, so I imagine he saw one of those fetish figures. And Taynton has gone to the length of warning people to stay away because of an escaped prisoner he says is hiding here. He claims to have alerted the authorities, but I don’t believe he has done any such thing.” It occurred to her suddenly that if Conan chose to ask the innkeeper about her, described her maybe, he would soon find out who she was. “Sir Conan, you won’t mention me to Taynton, will you? I-I mean, he could cause a great deal of embarrassment for me, especially if he realized I was the one who tried to let the squirrel go. I-I wouldn’t like my employment to be at risk.”
Conan smiled. “I won’t compromise your position.”
She colored and didn’t respond.
He exhaled. “And you have my word that I will not ply you further on the matter.” They were difficult words to say, for he wanted so much to know all about her.
“Thank you.” She studied him.
“And my friend and I are leaving in the morning, so you need not fear that I may be staying long enough to discover your identity anyway.”
She felt dreadful. “I-I know you must think me—
“I don’t think anything, for it is your prerogative to remain anonymous.”
She still felt dreadful, but then another thought crossed her mind. “What will you do when you return to the Green Man? I mean, there isn’t exactly a plague of white wolfhounds in the neighborhood, so Taynton is bound to know it was Bran by the pool.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Conan replied. He had already thought of that himself. Taynton had been handy enough with the strap
before
the business by the pool; now he had a bitten calf and a drenching to add to Bran’s sins.
“Why did you come down here tonight?” Ursula asked then.
“I could ask the same of you,” he countered.
“I saw a lantern from my window.”
And where exactly was that window? he wondered. It
had
to be the large house he had noticed from the other side of the valley. Then it struck him for the first time that there could not be many such large houses near Elcester. Might it be Elcester Manor? A glimmer of realization began to light the mystery of his Lady of the Ribbons. Was she Theo’s intended bride, Ursula Elcester? Oh, he hoped she wasn’t, for he didn’t want his friend to have her. This last thought took him completely by surprise, for it was heartfelt .
Ursula saw the expressions flitting across his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Er ... no,” he replied, but it was reassurance born of guilt. Suddenly, he noticed the ribbon in her hair. Now
there
was a puzzle he had to clear up if he could. “Have you lost a length of ribbon like that recently?” he inquired.
She was a little surprised. “Why, yes, as it happens I have. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have found one.”
“Really? Where?”
“Yesterday in St. James’s Square, London,” he replied, watching her face very closely.
Ursula stared, recalling the moment she’d discovered the ribbon to be lost. That had been the first time she’d “seen” him. If ever she had needed proof that these occurrences were occult in some way, this was it. It was physically impossible for him to have actually found her ribbon in London; but not metaphysically impossible. The same applied to her having observed him in his London carriage when she had been standing on Hatty Pedlar’s Tump! She longed to tell him the truth, but did not wish to be thought unhinged, so all she said in reply was, “Then it cannot be mine, for I was here in Elcester yesterday, and anyway I have never been in St. James’s Square.” She met his eyes as levelly as she could, before quickly getting up. “I-I think I ought to go home now,” she declared in a tone that completely closed the subject of ribbons.
Conan rose to his feet as well. He was quite prepared to believe she hadn’t been to St. James’s Square, for he hadn’t been in these woods before either, yet he knew them from a dream. He knew he had seen her in London when she had been here in Gloucestershire, and then when their eyes had met at the Green Man tonight, he was sure he’d seen a spark of recognition in hers. Had she “seen” him before tonight as well? Did they both have what were known as “fetches”—other selves? He too longed to confess the truth, but decided against it for the same reason she had. So he only said, “Allow me to escort you safely to your door.”
“No. Thank you.” She declined very firmly.
“But—
“No, Sir Conan, I would really rather you didn’t,” she insisted. Then before he realized it, she had turned to hurry away. She didn’t use the path for fear he would follow; instead she ran past some more of the holly trees that flourished among the much taller beeches, then changed direction when she was out of view. In a moment she had reached a dip in the land, where more bushes soon folded over her, as did the mysterious and evocative scent of bluebells.
Conan went after her, but when he reached the holly thicket, she had already disappeared. He considered using Bran to pick up her trail, then thought better of it. After all, he was now fairly sure he knew who she was, and that he would meet her again soon. Although how he was going to be able to let the match with Theo proceed unchallenged he did not know. How was any man supposed to behave when he wanted his friend’s bride for himself?
It was with very mixed feelings indeed that he returned to the Green Man, and the dark clouds that now hid the moon completely did not help. He had to put his Lady of the Ribbons to the back of his mind for the moment in order to consider more immediate problems. To wit, Bellamy Taynton.
The innkeeper must know by now that it was Bran that had ruined his woodland ceremony. Even allowing for another white wolfhound somewhere in the vicinity, there was the empty stall to give the game away. Conan decided that Bran would have to spend the rest of the night with him in his room, for whatever Taynton might risk in the stables, he was unlikely to do anything in the inn itself. Least of all with a gentleman who for all he knew might be very handy with his fists or a pistol. Bran would soon be out of danger at Carmartin Park, at which point Conan would consider what to do next. He didn’t intend to leave this mystery unsolved. He would winkle out the whys and wherefores of Taynton’s dubious activities and put a stop to them.
The inn was quiet as he reached the yard, with no sign of Taynton or any of his band. Conan thought he felt a raindrop on his face and glanced up at the sky, now covered with thick clouds, without a star to be seen. Another raindrop touched his hand as he looked around the yard. The only sign of anyone being up was a glimmer of candlelight from a small window in the farthest corner of the inn itself, which Conan guessed to be part of the innkeeper’s private quarters. Curiosity got the better of him, and with a warning hand on Bran’s collar to keep the wolfhound silent, he went across to the window. It belonged to a small whitewashed storeroom, empty except for a dilapidated chest of drawers in a corner. The door was ajar, and the candlelight shone through. He could see into the comfortable parlor beyond. Taynton was standing with his back to him while Vera attended to
the bite on the calf sunk there courtesy of Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr. Taynton was in long shirttails,
ohne
breeches, probably
ohne
anything else, and he was not a brave patient, for he hopped around, winced, and made such a general fuss that Vera was taking twice as long to dress the injury than she would have otherwise. Conan smiled to himself, for it was most satisfactory to see the master no longer quite so masterful!
There was a noise from the stables, only a restless horse, but it drew a short warning bark from Bran. Both Taynton and Vera turned, and Conan drew back hastily from the window. He had to think of something! The obvious came to him in a flash, and he began to call the wolfhound. “Bran? Here, boy! Bran!”
The wolfhound looked up at him as if he had gone mad. Why call him when he was here already? Conan kept calling. Sure enough, a moment or so later the door of the inn opened, and Vera looked out cautiously.
Conan led Bran
toward her. “Did I disturb you? I’m so sorry, it’s just that I looked out of my window a few minutes ago and saw Bran wandering loose. He must have chewed through his rope. Anyway, I have him now. Perhaps it would be best if I took him up to my room for what’s left of the night. Will that be in order?”
“Why, I-I ... Yes, sir, I’m sure it is all right.”
“I have no idea how long the old reprobate has been on the loose, but by the look of him he’s been across half the county,” Conan said lightly. “I’d swear he’s even been in a river, for he’s quite damp.”
Vera gave a weak smile. ‘Well, he’s safe now.”
“Yes, and that’s all that matters, eh?” Conan beamed at her and patted the wolfhound.
She clearly believed his tale as she stood aside for him to enter the inn. He led Bran past as nonchalantly as he could. But the wolfhound growled softly at her, and had to be silenced by a gentle tug of the collar. Conan glanced into the taproom as he passed the open door. There was no sign of the squirrel or its cage.
When he at last reached his room and wedged the back of a chair beneath the handle, he gave a long sigh of relief. Bran wagged his tail and promptly jumped up onto the bottom of the bed, turned around a few times, then sprawled out to sleep, dirty paws, damp coat and all. Conan was too tired to move him. It wouldn’t be all that long before the five o’clock by-mail arrived, and after that there would be inn noise aplenty, so he’d have to snatch what rest he could.
He began to undress, satisfied that his own involvement in the night’s events would remain undetected. As he closed his eyes, his Lady of the Ribbons filled his thoughts, and when he drifted into sleep, she filled his dreams. Outside it began to rain properly, a steady downpour that augured ill for the coming morning.
The morning of April 29
th
was a dismal one
par excellence
, with gray clouds scudding low over the hills, rain that seemed without end, and a blustery breeze that lent an echo of winter to the hitherto glorious West Country spring. The gutters and drains at the Green Man ran with water, and those who had to venture out into the yard did so well wrapped against the weather. It was a sharp and unpleasant change from the previous day, and proof positive that one could never trust the English spring to be clement.
The people of Elcester looked out at the rain-swept village green and hoped things would improve for the May Day celebrations the day after next. A wagon containing the merry-go-round for the fair had arrived just after dusk the previous evening, and as breakfast was being served at the Green Man, two more wagons lumbered onto the green with the cumbersome parts and seats that would be assembled into the great wheel.
Soon there would be booths of all sorts, from fortune tellers and puppet shows to purveyors of gingerbread and questionable gin. Acrobats would perform, and musicians would play, especially the one-legged fiddler who had attended every year for the past half-century. There would be halfpenny showmen, waxworks, clowns, fire-eaters, and even a tooth-drawer. The man with the performing bear might be bold enough to come again, although he had been expelled the previous year by Mr. Elcester, who thoroughly disapproved of dancing bears, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, dog-fighting, prizefighting, and all else of that ilk. Numerous other attractions would compensate, especially the stagecoach races that promised a thrilling spectacle as they dashed through the village. To crown it all there would be free food and drink at the Green Man. Crowds were expected from far and near for what was set to be a memorable day for all concerned, but everything would be ruined beyond redemption if the weather was anything like today’s.