The World's Finest Mystery Part 67

When Lucien's horse, Fine Lad, had returned riderless to the stable three days earlier, a large group of men began a frantic search- servants, tenants, and neighbors. It was I who found him. I'd followed a route he often took through the woods when he rode for pleasure and discovered his motionless form along this path. He lay pale and bleeding beneath a shady tree- a thick, broken, bloodstained branch beside him. I did my best to staunch the wound on his head and to keep him warm even as I shouted for help.

All along the way back to The Abbey, the men who helped me carry him on a litter, and then to place him in a wagon, recounted several strange riding accidents of which they had heard. It was their way, I realized later, of trying to make sense of what seemed impossible- that Lucien, an excellent horseman, would be so careless while riding among low-hanging branches.

I had the broken branch with me, though, to prove it, as much to myself as anyone. And I would show it to Lucien, I vowed, and ask him what the devil he was about.

A fractured skull, the doctor said. Lucien never regained consciousness.

I knew the sort of blind rage that is the consort of our worst grief. I thought of burning the branch that had struck him. I thought of taking an axe to the tree, felling that which had felled him. I thought of shooting the horse.

I did none of these. Perhaps it was the horse's name that cleared my mind: Fine Lad.

Charles needed me.

That single thought cooled my rage.

Lucien's will made me Charles's guardian and trustee. I knew he did not merely want me to keep Charles's fortune safe and take care that he was sent to the best schools. I was to teach him what The Abbey meant to his family, what it meant to be the Earl of Rolingbroke, what he owed to his name, and owed to the memory of two good men who had held the same long list of t.i.tles before him. I had no fear that Charles would fail to be a credit to them- he was already so much his father's son.

That evening sitting before the fire remembering Lucien, I knew I would protect my young G.o.dson with my life. As the clock struck midnight, I vowed I would do my d.a.m.nedest to keep Lucien alive in his memory.

I had no sooner made this vow than the library door flew open, startling me. Charles, pale and tearful, ran toward me, frantically calling my name. I opened my arms to him, taking him up on my lap and waving away the small army of concerned servants whose grasp he had eluded.

As the door to the library closed again, I tried to soothe him. "What's wrong, nipperkin?" I asked, certain that I already knew the answer.

"Papa's alive again," Charles sobbed.

"What?" I said, thinking I must have misheard him.

"Papa's alive. But he was dead, and now he scares me."

Was this some strange manifestation of a child's grief, I wondered? "What do you mean, Charles?"

The boy s.h.i.+vered. "I mean I saw him. His ghost."

I sought an explanation. "You were sleeping-"

"It was not a dream!" he insisted, with a familiar obstinacy.

I hesitated, then asked, "Charles, have you been speaking to the Banes?" The odious family was there- the dowager, Henry, William, and f.a.n.n.y. The Banes had insisted on sleeping in a different wing from the one they had last occupied, although Henry now pooh-poohed the ghost story, saying it was undoubtedly one of Lucien's larks.

They had arrived, clearly, not so much for the funeral as for the reading of the will, and to say they were angry with its terms is to vastly understate the matter. Had William not intervened, the dowager, it seemed, would have been carried off on the spot by an apoplexy. "It is of no use, Mama," he said. "You should have known how it would be."

The dowager continued to bemoan her faithless nephew's lack of consideration for his own family, but not quite so intensely. Nevertheless, there was enough ill-concealed venom among the Banes to recall to me my first encounter with them, and I made sure Charles was never left alone with them.

"No," Charles said now. "I don't like them."

"You are a wise young man."

"Then why don't you believe me?"

"Did I say I did not believe you? Kindly refrain from making a.s.sumptions."

"What are those?"

"Er- don't believe you know something until you're sure you do know it."

He frowned as he puzzled this out, but he had stopped crying.

"Do you know, Charles, the more I think about this, the more I'm sure there is nothing to be frightened of here. Your father loved you very much and would never harm you."

"Yes," he said slowly. "And I have a great many things I should like to say to him that I have been thinking of these past few days. But one can't help but be frightened of ghosts, even good ghosts."

"No one can blame you for feeling frightened. I'm glad you came to me. I promise I'll protect you, Charles. Your father asked that of me, and I gave him my word that I would."

He sat quietly with me for a time, lost in his own thoughts. He was past the age when he wanted to be carried or held, which gave me some idea of how terrified he was now. I was sure he had merely dreamed of Lucien, but I knew he did not believe this to be the case.

"Do you think he was trying to tell me something?" Charles asked.

"Perhaps he was," I said.

"What?"

I reached for a packet of fragile papers lying on the small table next to us. "Let's see if we can guess. When I was fighting in the Peninsula, and your father and I were far away from one another, he wrote these letters to me. Would you like me to read them to you?"

He nodded, and I chose one of the letters Lucien had written about him. He was pleased and laughed at Lucien's comical descriptions of him as an infant, then asked me to read another. So we continued, until he suddenly said, "I smell smoke."

"You have been listening to your Aunt Sophia."

But before he could protest, I heard the shouts of the servants, and cries of "Fire!"

"We must help them put it out!" Charles said, jumping up from the chair.

I knew the same impulse, but what came quickly to mind were a series of drills that Lucien had insisted upon. I had always had the role of finding Charles in whatever room he might be in and taking him to safety. I used to argue with Lucien, saying that a man with a p.r.o.nounced limp was hardly the most suitable person to be saving his heir, but he remained stubborn on this point. Remembering my vow of hardly more than an hour before, I grabbed Charles's hand before he was out of reach. "Your lords.h.i.+p," I said sternly, using the form of address which he knew to be a command to be on his best behavior. "You must not run toward the fire. You must allow me to keep you safe- just as we practiced. Come now."

I saw the briefest mulish cast to his face before he relented and allowed me to lead him out of the library. Fibbens, his face blackened with soot, was rus.h.i.+ng down the stairs. "Oh, thank goodness!" he cried in relief. "Forgive me, captain- we feared the young master had returned to bed! His chambers are on fire!"

"My room!" the young master wailed.

"He will tell you more when we are all safely outside," I said, more shaken by Fibbens' announcement than I cared to admit. "What of the staff and the other guests?" I asked as we made our way.

"Everyone accounted for, sir. The fire has not spread beyond the young master's chambers. If you do not mind, I'd like to a.s.sure the others that his lords.h.i.+p is safe-"

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you, sir. Those who are not attempting to put out the fire should be downstairs shortly."

At the front steps it occurred to me that we were without cloaks, and Charles was without shoes. A fault in our drills, which had taken place in summertime. There had been little snowfall of late, but it was cold. I placed my coat around Charles's small shoulders- much to his delight- and lifted him into my arms.

Soon the Banes began to join us on the front drive. Aunt Sophia was wrapped in what I recognized to be William's many-caped driving coat. She'd not had time to put on her wig and looked a positive fright. f.a.n.n.y seemed to have borrowed boots from one of her brothers but wore no coat- she s.h.i.+vered in a rather unbecoming nightgown. Henry appeared before us still fully dressed but rather well-to-live as the saying goes- from his unsteady walk, I suspected he had made substantial inroads on The Abbey's wine cellars. William too was dressed, although from his mother's criticisms, it was clear that he had remained in the building longer than she believed safe.

"And look! Your new coat from Weston- ruined!"

The expensive coat of blue superfine was indeed smudged. "Unlike others I could name," he sneered, looking reproachfully at Henry, "I attempted to make sure the old pile didn't burn down around my family's ears!"

Henry waved a vague hand of uninterest and stared at the building. Smoke had stopped billowing from the window of Charles's room. I prayed that meant the fire was under control.

"Here, f.a.n.n.y," William said, taking off the coat. "You wear it. You look as if you're likely to freeze to death."

But f.a.n.n.y, after bestowing a grateful smile on him, proved to be her mother's daughter. "Ugh!" she said, wrinkling her nose. "It smells of smoke."

William rolled his eyes.

"I do not know why I allowed you to talk me into staying at this accursed place!" his mother said to him.

"I talked you into it! That's a loud one!"

"Do not use that horrid cant with me, my young man! I won't have it!"

I realized that Charles was providing an interested audience to this byplay. Still holding him, I walked a bit apart from them.

Bogsley and Fibbens appeared, bearing cloaks and blankets. Fibbens attended the Banes while the elderly butler approached us.

"Bogsley, please tell me what has happened!" Charles said.

"I am pleased to say, your lords.h.i.+p, that the fire is out and little damage done. Your dear father had made preparations, you know, and the staff responded in a way that would make him proud if I do say so myself."

"The next time I see him, I shall tell him how well you did," Charles said.

Bogsley, that most self-controlled of all G.o.d's creatures, did not blink an eye, but I heard the slightest catch in his voice as he answered, "Thank you, your lords.h.i.+p. I pray that will not be for some time yet."

"One never knows," Charles said.

Worried over the effect these words seemed to have on the butler, I quickly said, "You've given us good tidings indeed, Bogsley. I trust none of the staff took any hurt?"

"None whatsoever, sir."

"Please thank everyone for saving our home," Charles said, then turned to me. "Perhaps Cook could give a jam tart to each of them."

"Yes, or whatever other treat might be managed," I said, pleased with his show of manners but hard pressed to maintain my gravity.

"Your lords.h.i.+p is very kind," Bogsley said.

"Thank you so much for the cloak, Bogsley," I said. "I do not think his lords.h.i.+p intends to return my coat."

At this Charles laughed, and we made our way indoors.

Only the promise of a jam tart persuaded Charles to spend a few moments with Fibbens while I inspected the damage. The hallway reeked of smoke, but the flames had been confined to one portion of Charles's room.

"I'm afraid his lords.h.i.+p won't be able to sleep in here this evening, sir," Bogsley said.

"You remain the champion of understatement, Bogsley." Charles's bed had been reduced to ashes.

"Thank you, sir. It would seem that a candle or lamp was left burning on his nightstand and ignited the bed curtains."

"Except that being something of a little lion, his lords.h.i.+p does not suffer a fear of the dark as some children do. He prefers a dark room and has never required any sort of candle or lamp to be lit in his room. And in fact he closes his bed curtains about him to keep out the light."

"Yes, sir."

"I looked in on his lords.h.i.+p earlier this evening. He was sound asleep. There was no candle burning in here at that time. I brought one in with me and extinguished it while I was here, fearing the light would wake him. Has anyone else been here this evening?"

"Until we were engaged in extinguis.h.i.+ng the fire, no, sir. I should say no member of the staff entered this room after his lords.h.i.+p called for you, Captain Edward. But by that time his lords.h.i.+p was rather determined to find you on his own."

"And the Banes?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't say, sir- not just at this moment."

I knew he would discreetly question the Banes' servants. After a moment's silence I said, "I will speak plainly to you, Bogsley. I am concerned for his lords.h.i.+p's safety."

"Understandably so, sir."

"I will do my best to resolve this matter as soon as possible. In the meantime-"

"You may rely on me, sir- indeed, on all of us."

"For which I'm grateful. Please have a truckle bed placed in my room until we can make other arrangements. I need not add that I would prefer we do not alarm his lords.h.i.+p with our concern."

I thanked him again and fetched my nephew from the kitchen, where he was, as usual, being cosseted past redemption.

Charles, pleased that we would be sharing a room, nevertheless protested my plan to place him in my bed, while I slept on the truckle bed.

"But Charles," I said, "there are no bedcurtains on the truckle bed, and as you can see, there is a great deal of moonlight tonight."

He had no argument against this and thanked me politely before allowing me to tuck him in. "But keep the curtains open just a bit if you please. Then I shall know you are here, keeping me safe." So much, I thought, for hiding our concern.

I lay awake on the truckle-bed listening to his breathing settle into the rhythms of sleep. My feet suddenly felt a little cold, and then I heard a voice whisper, "Well done, Master Quakeboots."

I sat bolt upright. By the light of the moon I could make him out, a faint but definite image of my dead brother sitting at the foot of my bed.

My heart pounding, I opened my mouth to let out a cry, but I was frozen with fright.

"Please don't," he said. "I frightened Charles so badly early this evening I don't think I can forgive myself if I do so again. I cannot tell you how awful it is, Edward, to become a spectre of horror to those you love. It nearly puts me in sympathy with aunt Sophia, parading about without her wig."

I felt a giddy sensation but stopped myself short of laughing aloud. "By G.o.d, it is you!" I whispered.

"Lord s.h.i.+vershanks, at your service." He gave his familiar little bow.

"Oh, Lucien, how I've missed you already! How shall we contrive to get along without you? Whatever possessed you to ride so carelessly?"