The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (29 page)

Beginning to indulge a suspicion, Valerian restrained himself and ventured cautiously, “So you're in France to try again?”

“I spend a good deal of time in Paris. I've been keeping my eyes open, I admit, but most men don't take good care of their teeth, and I've seen none to compare with…” He turned an admiring smile upon Herbert, who edged closer to his cousin.

Unable to stifle the bubble of mirth that had been welling up, Valerian shouted with laughter and rocked back and forth on the sofa.

Scarlet with vexation, Sir Harold protested, “I'm able to pay handsomely! Damme, it ain't amusing, Valerian!

“What—what it is,” gasped Valerian disjointedly, “is—hilarious! Herbert, n-never look so conflummerated! This fellow—this silly fellow is—is after your teeth!”

His mirth turned to a howl as he discovered that it is unwise to dangle one's foot over the edge of a sofa when a cat is hiding under it.

Ten minutes later, while Joel Skye and Marcel poled up the team, Valerian related the incident to Elspeth and a convulsed Clayton. Wiping tearful eyes and weak with laughter, he said, “At least we know that Herbert's legendary blue coach presented no danger to us. Did you mark the speed Walters came to as he drove out? His face was nigh purple with mortification. Poor simpleton! He must be short of a sheet!”

“Why? Because he admired my teeth?” said Herbert, grinning.

“He admired 'em, all right! So much that he was eager to draw three! Of course, he did say he'd pay handsomely.”

Clayton said laughingly, “Perhaps you should have considered his offer, Mr. Turner.”

Herbert shook his head and shuddered.

“Whatever else,” said Elspeth, “it brought a smile to our journey. Though I understand you were the victim of another attack, Mr. Valerian?”

“I was indeed,” he said aggrievedly. “Which confirms my belief that cats are treacherous creatures. I rescued that vicious little beast! 'Tis purely thanks to my kindness that she was housed and indulged and well fed by my trusting sire, and what do I get in return? Great gouges down my ankle! Had I not been wearing shoes my foot would be in shreds!”

“Faith, but animals would seem to take you in aversion,” murmured Elspeth, demure but with dimples peeping. “Even one of your admired dogs bit you!”

Fascinated by the dimples, he said absently, “Tueur is well named, I grant you, but he was under no obligation to me as is Pixie. Nor did he hide and spring from ambush as—Jupiter! What nonsense am I talking when we should be on our way? What has become of Skye?”

Elspeth said, “I'll go out and see what is delaying them.”

“Oh, no you won't!” Valerian caught her wrist as she turned to the door. “Wait here!”

He snatched up his cloak and went out to the yard. It was quite dark now, the air was chill and all was quiet save for the muted sounds of crockery rattling in the kitchen and the occasional stamp of a horse in the stables. Fastening his cloak, he peered around the yard but could see nothing untoward. Neither could he hear the sounds from the stables that he should hear: Marcel and Skye talking together, or the ostler at work. His nerves tightened and his earlier suspicions, which had been lulled by the arrival of Sir Harold's blue coach, flared again.

Treading lightly, sword in hand, he sprinted across the yard. The door to the barn was half-closed and the lantern inside revealed only a narrow view of a coach. There was no sign of groom, ostler, Skye, or Marcel. Pausing in the deep shadows beyond the doors, he watched the coach intently. It stood perfectly still with none of the motion that would be caused by the fresh and impatient horses that should be poled up by this time.

The sensible thing would be to return to the inn for reinforcements, but he had little faith in the fighting spirit of the host. There was no doubt but that Vance Clayton, who was a fine swordsman, would come willingly, but he was struggling to recover from his ordeal and too weakened to be of much aid. Be damned if he'd call Herbert away from Elspeth! If his suspicions were justified at least two of the rogues were in the barn, waiting for them all to come out. Had they been on level ground in daylight he'd have tackled them gladly, but they were inside and probably well armed, whereas he was out here without his pistol, and the instant he went through that door he would present an easy target.

He crept around to the side of the barn and peered at a solitary window, but it appeared not to have been washed in several years and only a blurred glow showed through the grime. A quick scan of the yard revealed nothing that would serve as a weapon, but his eyes brightened when he saw a broken wheelbarrow propped against the wall. He whispered, “Aha!” sheathed his sword and lifted the wheelbarrow. It was heavier than he'd supposed, but he managed to hoist it above his head and, gritting his teeth with the effort, hurled it at the dirty window. Whipping out his sword then, he raced to the barn door as the sound of shattering glass was followed by the roar of twin pistol shots.

He was inside before the would-be murderers had turned from the broken window. His flashing glance around the stables revealed no sign of Marcel or Skye. He had no time for more than that brief scan as he sprang to the attack. He'd guessed rightly; two “priests” flung down their useless pistols and snatched for swords.

The element of surprise and the extra few seconds it took for them to whip back their black robes served Valerian well; he was on them before their weapons were free of the scabbards. One he despatched with a sizzling thrust that sent the man to his knees. But these were seasoned cutthroats and before Valerian could disengage, the second rogue was attacking and he had to jump aside to avoid the steel that whistled past his ear. It was a battle then, the pseudo priest attacked ferociously, probably, thought Valerian, because he realised the shots would have been heard and help would come from the inn. The light in the barn was poor, but after the first flurry of swordplay Valerian knew that he was the more skilled and would overpower this villain without much difficulty. At the back of his mind, however, was the nagging worry that the third “priest” was still inside, and he set a brutal pace, driven by the need to make sure that Elspeth was not threatened.

The air rang with the keening scrape of steel on steel and the stamping of boots in advance and retreat. Outside now were shouts and running footsteps. The impostor's clerical robes flapped wildly as Valerian drove him back.

From the doorway, Herbert shouted, “Skye? Marcel?”

Enraged, Valerian thought, ‘
Herbert?
Then who the devil is with Elspeth?' His attention diverted, he tripped over the wheelbarrow and went down heavily. Sprawling, he saw the blade that arced down at him. With lightning reaction he whipped up his own sword to deflect the thrust but had to swing his blade aside to avoid impaling his cousin, who leapt valiantly to the rescue.

Valerian swore as white-hot pain lanced through his sword-arm and the weapon fell from his grasp.

Herbert howled triumphantly, “Courage, Gervaise! I have the bastard!”

The attacker, evidently deciding that he was outnumbered, fled.

“I'll ‘courage' you!” panted Valerian, clambering to his feet in time to see Skye and Marcel subduing the first assailant, who'd recovered sufficiently to attempt to follow his friend.

Herbert snatched up Valerian's sword, then threw a supporting arm about him. “Jupiter! That fellow winged you, I see! Lean on me, old fellow!”

The host ran up to aim a horse pistol at the assassin, then back away crying a dismayed “The priest! Mon Dieu! This it is a sacrilege!”

Valerian thrust his cousin away and, clutching his arm, reeled towards the yard, shouting wrathfully, “Who's with Elspeth?”

“Her brother,” said Herbert, eyeing him with resentment. “And I'd think you might have a word of thanks, rather than—”

But Valerian was already running to the inn.

Two maids peering nervously from the open door jumped aside as he leapt up the steps. One of them caught sight of his bloodied hand and called out an offer of help. He scarcely heard her. Elspeth wasn't there. If all were well, that indomitable lady would have been halfway across the yard by now. With a groan of apprehension he tore open the door to the parlour and his worst fears were realised: white-faced, Elspeth stood by the sofa. Behind her, the elder “priest” had an arm clamped around her throat. The pistol in his free hand was aimed steadily at her head. Clayton was still seated in the Bath chair, watching his sister in horror.

The impostor purred softly, “Close the door, hero.”

Valerian stepped back and kicked the door shut. “Your accomplices have been overpowered and can't help you. You're trapped. Give yourself up. You've no way out.”

“But of course I've a way out.”

The arm about Elspeth's throat was tightened, and she gave a little choked cry.

Valerian stamped forward, only to halt abruptly as the impostor snarled, “Do you want her killed? Then keep back and keep your stupid friends away! She goes with me, if she's sensible and tells me what I want to know. Otherwise,” he shrugged and said with a mirthless grin, “she won't be the first woman I've put an end to!”

Looking into his savage eyes, Valerian didn't doubt it. He heard Herbert's voice and then Skye pushed at the door. “Gervaise? Let us in, man!”

Valerian held the door closed. “Keep away! The other pseudo-priest has a pistol pointing at Nurse Muslin!”

The outside voices were abruptly silenced.

The impostor said, “I've nothing against the old woman. But you're wasting my time! Now, mademoiselle who is not a nurse, tell me, and tell me quickly before I break your pretty neck! Where are you to meet your brother?”

Elspeth gasped out something unintelligible.

Edging forward, seething, Valerian snarled, “How can she speak, you great imbecile, when you're strangling the poor girl?”

“Keep back!” cried the pseudo-cleric, but he slightly relaxed his hold around Elspeth's throat.

She sagged, coughing, then crumpled in a swoon.

Unexpectedly supporting her full weight, her captor was taken off-balance, and the pistol jerked in his hand as he instinctively attempted to keep her from falling.

It was all Valerian needed. He sprang forward, so enraged that he forgot his sword and struck hard and true with his fist. The impostor was smashed backwards and Elspeth twisted from his grasp, but in so doing she loosened the pin Freda had used to fasten her bodice. Clutching the sagging bodice, she saw that her captor had contrived to raise the pistol again.

“Horrid beast!” she exclaimed furiously, and retrieving the pin, without an instant's hesitation she drove it hard into the impostor's gun hand. With a howl, he lost his grip on the pistol and simultaneously Valerian seized him by the throat.

Clayton meanwhile had left the Bath chair and he now picked up the pistol, then threw one arm about his sister, asking anxiously, “Are you all right, love?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, her frantic gaze on Valerian. “Stop that wicked priest, Vance! Please! Gervaise is hurt!”

Watching the two men as they struggled and plunged about, Clayton smiled faintly and called without much force, “Let be, Valerian! I have his pistol and if you'll just step clear I'll blow the swine's brains out.”

Valerian scarcely heard him. Blinded to everything but his overmastering fury, he tightened his grip on the throat of this scheming murderer who had dared lay brutal hands on a gentle lady. He was vaguely aware that his victim's countenance was distorted and turning blue, the beady dark eyes were starting out, the mouth gaped wide, and the attempts to escape had ceased. Clayton was shouting something. A door opened, then hands were pulling him. He swore at them savagely, demanding that they let be. A faint and delicate scent drifted to him and a beloved voice pleaded, “Gervaise, I'm quite all right, truly. Please stop. You're hurting yourself. Please, Gervaise. Don't kill the horrid creature!”

The words penetrated the red mists that clouded his brain. His fingers were as if frozen and he had to force them open, whereupon his assailant fell to the floor with a thud. He turned his head to find Elspeth beside him, smiling but tearful and with crimson splotches on her gown. Rage seized him again. He snarled, “He
did
injure you!” Bending over his crumpled adversary, he gripped him by the stock and hauled mightily. “Get up, filth, so I can kill you!”

“It's not my blood,” cried Elspeth shrilly. “Herbert, for pity's sake, stop him!”

With the combined efforts of his cousin and Skye, Valerian was restrained and at length convinced that Elspeth was unharmed. Breathing hard, he blinked down at her uncertainly. “You're really all right?”

“Yes, I promise you. But you are not.”

“Eh?” He peered down at his crimson hand and muttered a bewildered “How was I so clumsy as to do that? Ah!” He raised his head and scowled at his cousin.

“That's better,” said Elspeth. “I was beginning to worry, but I see you are your usual amiable self. Now come into the kitchen.”

The host plunged into the room, pale and distraught. “Another priest?” he moaned. “
Mon Dieu!
Have you perhaps a loathing for the clergy, monsieur?”

“They're not clergy,” said Skye briskly. “You must lock them up, host, and summon your constable. These men are hired assassins come to kidnap the lady!”

Drawing Valerian away from the excitable discussion that followed, Elspeth persisted, “Do you mean to stand here and bleed to death? I won't allow it! We must tend your wound.”

“On one condition,” he murmured, leaning on her as she slipped an arm about him.

“Nonsense!” She led him into the hall where curiosity got the better of her, and she said, “One condition, indeed! What, for instance?”