"Johnson," muttered George Coachman, and waved imperatively.
The footman sprinted along the street. He slowed as he passed the horses and gestured a question.
The coachman leaned down. "What's he doing?" he hissed. "Can you see?"
Johnson slipped one elegantly shod toe onto the lower rung by the box and hung on as he leaned perilously to peer in at the window. He climbed up to sit beside George, who whispered, "Is he asleep?"
"Dunno, mate. He's all bowed over. Looks dead."
"Dead! If that ain't just like you! A regular ray of sunshine!"
"Well, whatcher going to do? Can't sit here—"
Falcon shouted, "Drive on!"
Inside the mansion the butler hurried from the stairs as a lackey was taking Falcon's cloak and tricorne. "Sir, you should know that—"
Falcon flung up one hand. "Not now, Pearsall."
"But—"
"I shall want Andante at the door in ten minutes' time."
"Very good, sir. But—"
Falcon stopped and turned his head to stare at him.
The butler gulped, bowed, and fled.
Falcon took the stairs two at a time. In the upper corridor two maids chattered solemnly, their dusters idle until they saw him and became frantically industrious. A footman, hovering about near the King Charles Suite, raced to fling open the door to his parlour. There was no sign of Tummet. Falcon stalked into the dressing room. He found a small valise neatly packed away in a deep cupboard together with several portmanteaux and a folding cot. Going into his great bedchamber he tore open drawers and assembled two clean shirts, four cravats, undergarments, a nightshirt, brushes, combs, and other essentials for a two- or three-night journey.
En route to the clothes presses, he shed his coat and waistcoat, then paused, somewhat taken aback by the grim stranger he saw reflected in the cheval glass. He looked tired and older, and there were lines in his face that had not been there last week. He shrugged slightly. As if it mattered. Nothing really mattered now save that he do what he knew Jamie had longed to do: find some way to expose the League of Jewelled Men for the murderous traitors they were. Not that, even if he succeeded, it would expiate his own guilt. A gallant and very worthy life had been wiped away senselessly, and much too soon. There was no turning back the clock, no act of atonement that would make all right again. But he must do his best.
He opened the doors of the larger press. His eyes skimmed over the twenty and more coats that hung there and came to rest on the light blue brocade threaded with silver. He took it down tenderly, wracked by memories of the love he had found at a wintry fete. To wear it would be to scourge himself. And yet, it would be as though he took a trace of his beloved lady with him on this journey that might well prove to be his last.
They had gathered in the withdrawing room on the first floor of Sir Owen Furlong's tall narrow house. The morning was cold and foggy, making travel difficult, but with the exception of Jonathan Armitage, they were all there, watching Sir Owen as he paced about restlessly.
Rossiter put down his cup of chocolate and said kindly, "But you said you only caught a glimpse of her, old fellow."
"And 'tis like pea soup out there," added Peregrine Cranford.
Gordon Chandler threw another shovel-full of coal on the fire and asked, "Did Miss Barthelemy wave this time? Or call to you?"
"Neither," said Sir Owen. "But it's not too foggy for me to have seen her clearly, even if only for an instant. She looked— she
is
ill! I am sure of it! If I could just find that damned slippery servant of hers I'd—"
The door was flung open and Enoch Tummet came in looking worried, damp, and bedraggled.
Rossiter said, "Well?"
"He ain't come back, Guv. Took a valise and some clothes. Not near enough fer a gent. But what worries me is—"
"He likely went down to Sussex." Rossiter's lip curled. "His sire would stand by him, no matter what he'd done."
"Parents have their uses," said Glendenning with a faint smile. "Speaking of which, has Mr. Fletcher Morris been— told?"
"A groom was sent off," answered Tummet. "I bin wondering, Guv and gents, wot you thought abaht me concloosins drawed."
Gordon Chandler said, "I appreciate your loyalty, Tummet, but—"
"But it sounds pretty far-fetched," put in Rossiter. "Speaking for myself, in view of his reputation, I'd need to see something more substantial before—"
"But we
got
something more sunstandil—er, wot you said, Guv! Don't ferget that there bag o' feathers!"
Chandler said, "Oh, come now! This is 1748, not the Middle Ages!"
"You ask Mrs. Armitage," argued Tummet with great earnestness. "You jest ask her! Knows all abaht Cornwall and ill-wishes and that lot, does Mrs. Jennifer! And you know too, don'tcher melord?"
Glendenning looked embarrassed, but said, "I—er, certainly believe, along with—was it Hamlet?—that there's a good deal more in heaven and earth than we know about. And I don't mind admitting that if a bag of feathers was thrown my way I'd run like hell sooner than take it up!"
"There you are, then!" said Tummet looking at them all in triumph.
Gordon Chandler, more practically minded, said gently, "You're a dashed good fellow, but—"
Desperation driving him, Tummet held out a crumpled sheet of paper, and interrupted, "And I found this here in the pocket of one of his coats. Jest this morning! Never said a word abaht it, he didn't."
Taking the paper, Rossiter smoothed it out and read slowly,
Words of advice to the unwise Mandarin of Mayfair
:
Never sleep, guard your back, and,
like a craven fool—hide.
Few will weep, alas, alack, but
you'll not see this Yule-tide.
"It's signed 'S.' "
Glendenning's eyebrows lifted. "Our charming Squire. Well, well."
Rossiter glanced around the circle of intent faces. "Did anyone else get a note like this?"
Nobody had.
"Why the devil didn't the birdwit say anything of it?" muttered Sir Owen.
"I'd say that was typical," Chandler reasoned. "With his almighty pride he'd consider it something to be handled personally."
Sir Owen frowned. "Still, Tummet's notion seems to me too devious and chancy. More like a woman's scheme."
"Still, if the League did plan it all," said Glendenning, "much as I loathe the beastly lot, I have to give him credit, for 'twas timed to perfection. No matter what he said, Falcon must have been troubled by that wound. Perry noticed he was more than usually irritable and not himself. Add to that his hot temper and his determination not to have Jamie for a brother-in-law, and such a trick might be a pretty sure bet to succeed."
"Yussir!" interjected Tummet eagerly. "Jest wot I thinked meself. And if it
were
schemed by a female, why if ever there was a woman wiv reason to hold a grudge 'gainst me temp'ry guv, it's Lady Clara Buttershaw!"
There was a moment of surprised silence.
Cranford said, "But Lady Clara's not the Squire! She couldn't be! I was there when she found out that the League has allied itself with the French, and she was genuinely astounded."
"Still," said Rossiter slowly, "Tummet's right in one sense. She could very well have conjured up this ugly little trap intending August to be killed."
"Instead of which, poor Jamie was the victim," murmured Sir Owen.
"If Falcon thinks Lady Buttershaw was responsible," said Glendenning, "he'll have gone to keep an eye on Sundial Abbey, I'll warrant."
Chandler shrugged. "Much good will it do him! We've had the place watched for weeks. Nobody ever goes near it save for tradespeople and the servants, and the earl's a veritable recluse. Wherever the League meets, 'tis not at the country seat of the Earl of Yerville!"
The fog drifted among the trees like a sepulchral white veil that muffled sound as well as limiting the view. Falcon was tired and had dozed off in the saddle. He woke with a start when a low-hanging branch made contact with his head. There was no stream in sight, but dismounting to pick up his tricorne, he could hear fast-flowing water somewhere nearby.
"Fool!" he muttered, peering around. "Now you've managed to lose yourself! "Andante snorted and nuzzled the back of his neck, and Falcon rubbed the stallion's velvety nose. "Forgive me, do you? Though I've ridden you hard these three days. Very well, you shall graze for a while. I'll not mislike a rest myself."
When he'd loosened the girth and secured the stallion's reins to the end of a low-hanging branch, he sat down, settling his back against a tree. During several long sleepless nights he'd gone over and over every detail that was known of the conspiracy of the League of Jewelled Men, and had convinced himself that their meeting place had to be in Sundial Abbey, the country seat of the Yerville family. The present Earl of Yerville was a reclusive old fellow and might not be in any way involved in the conspiracy, but his two nieces, the formidable Lady Clara Buttershaw, and her sister, Lady Julia Yerville, most certainly were active members.
None of the known conspirators had ever been seen approaching the estate, by day or by night. Certain of them were known to call at Yerville Hall in Town; to visit Lord Hibbard Green's hideous Buckler Castle not far from Romsey; or even to journey to Promontory Point, which the League had seized from Sir Mark Rossiter. But never once had any of the individuals believed to be members of the founding committee ventured within a mile of Sundial Abbey. However, and Falcon thought this significant, a few days prior to his death Gilbert Fowles had been traced as far as Leatherhead; Rudolph Bracksby had been followed and lost at Guildford; and Hibbard Green's trail had ended near Farnborough. Each of those towns was located within ten miles of the Abbey. If that, in fact, had been their destination, how they'd covered the remaining distance without being seen was a mystery. But 'twas a mystery he intended to solve.
The three days since he'd left Town seemed more like three weeks, during which time he'd accomplished nothing, but he had made a solemn vow to Jamie to complete the task they'd set themselves, and though it took his lifetime, he would keep his vow. Jamie… God bless his valiant soul, they would probably be laying him to rest this very day. His head bowed lower. He should be at that funeral. Of all men, he should be there. They'd think him a poltroon to have stayed away. Was a poltroon worse than a murderer… ?
"You all right, sir?"
The youthful voice almost made him jump out of his skin. The hand over his eyes dropped and in a blur of movement he was on his feet and crouched for desperate action.
A squeak was followed by a gasped, "It's only me!"
Falcon looked into a pair of brown eyes that seemed too big for the small face. It wasn't such a thin face as he remembered, and the black curls were damp but not dirty. "Ling?" he said incredulously, restoring the pistol to his pocket. "What in the name of Zeus are you doing out here?"
"We left Edw'd and some of our stuff in the old place," said the boy, "and had to come and pack up. I thought 'twas you, when I see Danny. Who's Zeus?"
"Danny?" thought Falcon. "Ah—Andante!" He glanced to where the stallion cropped contentedly at the lush grass. "You didn't go too near?"
"I tried to stroke him, but he looked not pleased, so I come to see if it really was you, or if he'd been prigged. Who's Zeus? I asked you afore."
"I beg your pardon. Zeus is a myth— Er, a long time ago, people believed he was the god of thunder."
"Oh. What does he do?"
"What gods usually do, I fancy. He makes out schedules for wind and lightning and such, and punishes the guilty. But never mind that, tell me what you meant by the 'old place.' Did you and Silas live near here?"
The dark head nodded vigorously. "Sometimes. In our cave. He's down there now, and I'm 'sposed to keep watch. No one never sees us though, 'specially in the fog. It's just the river you got to be careful of."
Falcon sat straighter. "Is your 'cave' anywhere near a great estate called Sundial Abbey?"
"I dunno as you could say 'near.' " The boy's brow wrinkled with concentration. "It's
there
," he elaborated. "Sort of— under it."
"Glory," murmured Falcon. "Bread cast upon the waters!"
"You can get to it that way," said the boy, misinterpreting. "But it's tricky if the river comes up high. So me and Silas and The Dancing Master we just creep in through the cut."
"The 'Dancing Master'? Jupiter! D'you mean the highwayman?"
"Yes, sir. Awful fierce he is. He said he'd scrag Silas if he ever telled about where he lives. But he don't mind us now, 'cause he likes to talk, and he says he lives a lone and lorn life."
"I, ah, expect he does. D'you think he's at home now?"
"No, sir. He went off's'morning, soon as the tree come down. He gets awful scared then. So do we."
Deciding to unscramble that remark later, Falcon said, "Then—let's go and find Silas."
"I jest can't b'lieve it, sir!" Silas wrung Falcon's hand and beamed at him. "I were meanin' ter bring the boy 'round't'call on yer one day, so you could see how he's done better. But I never thought you'd come and see us! Not
here
! How'd you ever find us?"
"They took the tree down," said the boy. "That's how he found the path."
Silas scowled at him.
Intrigued, Falcon said quickly, "Don't worry. I'm no informer." He glanced around the "cave" curiously. Ling had led him to a narrow path winding through woodland and a tangle of briers and overgrown shrubs. The path sloped downward and they'd come to a fast-moving stream and followed along its banks until it veered off to the east and disappeared from sight. The path was little more than a rough defile; a gloomy place, slippery underfoot and shut in by trees and sheer banks and littered with chunks of rock. Ling had pushed through a thick curtain of vines and threaded his way among crumbling ruined walls to a massive half-open door which he'd closed after they passed through. They'd followed a glow to a wide room lit by a torch that blazed in a wall brazier. Ling's "cave." Most probably the cellar of some long-abandoned castle or priory.