The House at Bell Orchard Page 4

  “You agree, however, that there is a mystery?”

  “Only in so far as your father chose to keep his own counsel. I have no doubt that there is a simple explanation, did we but know it.”

  “I must know it, sir!” she said desperately. “I shall never be able to rest until I do. I have come to ask you to help me.”

  There was a pause. The Colonel took out his snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch, and then closed the box again and sat looking down at the design on its enamelled surface. At last he said quietly:

  “My dear Miss Tarrant, I realize that at present the recent terrible events occupy your mind to the exclusion of all else, but it will not always be so. You are young, and must endeavour to put this tragedy behind you. Whatever reason your father had for disposing of his fortune, it is plain that he did not wish you to know of it, or he would have left some written explanation before he took his life. There was no such document. I was with Mr. Prentiss when he went through your father’s papers, and there was not a single word among them to throw any light upon the mystery. I counsel you to leave it so.”

  Charmian shook her head. “Colonel Fenshawe, I cannot! Do you think I can go through life with that question unanswered? I have thought and thought, and only one explanation occurs to me. I believe that someone cheated Papa out of his fortune.”

  Again there was a pause. Fenshawe regarded her with an expression she could not read, for the frown in his eyes might have indicated perplexity, disbelief or even disapproval. Certainly he offered her no encouragement to continue, but she forced herself to do so even in the face of this apparent indifference.

  “If that is so,” she resumed at length, “it must surely be possible to discover who did so, and how it was done. I understand that you will shortly be returning to London. When you do so, I beg that you will inform Mr. Prentiss of my suspicions, and ask him to do whatever he thinks necessary to discover the. truth.”

  “To what end?” Fenshawe asked in a cold voice. “Even if what you suspect is true, I can see no way of discovering it.”

  “But Papa must have disposed of many thousands of pounds in the past two years. Such sums as that cannot disappear without trace.”

  “Perhaps not, but even if the money could be traced, and the identity of the supposed criminal established, what would you gain? It is out of the question that the money could be recovered.”

  “I never imagined, sir, that it could be, nor must you think that I am prompted by the desire for vengeance. But if such a criminal does exist, then surely it is our duty to try to expose him, and so save others from similar suffering?” She paused, studying his face with some perplexity, for he was still looking decidedly forbidding. She moved her hands in a helpless gesture. “It may be that nothing can be done, but I feel that I owe it to my father’s memory to see that the attempt is made. If I write a letter to Mr. Prentiss, will you see that it reaches him?”

  Fenshawe did not reply at once. He got up and walked to the window, which offered, beyond park and garden, a distant glimpse of the sea, and stood there with his back to her for perhaps two minutes. It seemed that he was deliberating, and Charmian waited in silence and some trepidation for him to speak. It was not easy for her to persist in the face of his obvious disapproval, but she was stubbornly determined not to be turned from her purpose. Now that every other hope and dream was shattered, the solving of the mystery had somehow become the most important matter in her life.

  The Colonel turned at last to face her, but he did not move away from the window, and the golden evening light behind him dazzled her so that she could not clearly see his face. In that low-pitched, shadowy room, against that bright background, his tall figure seemed for a moment to be charged with indefinable menace, and a little tremor of fear passed through her. Impatiently she shook it off, telling herself that she was being intolerably foolish.

  “Have you never heard, Miss Tarrant,” he said slowly, “that it is sometimes prudent to let a sleeping dog lie?”

  Was it a warning, or a threat? The cold, quiet voice seemed to be the voice of a stranger, and not of the kindly man who had shouldered for her the burdens of the recent terrible days. Charmian pressed her hands tightly together, feeling the palms cold and clammy with an unnamed fear, but still some inner obstinacy drove her on.

  “I want to know the truth,” she replied flatly. “Perhaps I am wrong to disregard your advice, perhaps I appear ungrateful in not being guided by it, but I cannot rest until this mystery is solved.”

  “Then the truth you shall have,” Fenshawe replied coldly. “For your own sake I have sought to keep it from you, but I cannot permit you to start an investigation which must inevitably have consequences more far-reaching than you can even imagine. Remember that, when you begin to regret your curiosity.”

  “You know the truth?” Charmian spoke in a tone of incredulous inquiry, and then added with growing conviction: “You have always known it!”

  “Yes, I know it,” he repeated dispassionately, and moved away from the window at last, and came to stand before her. “Are you aware, Miss Tarrant, where your father’s political loyalties lay?”

  She shook her head, staring at him in growing bewilderment. “He had no interest in politics.”

  There was irony in the dark, secret face confronting her. “You are mistaken, Miss Tarrant. He felt a deep and passionate loyalty to his rightful King, and a profound faith in the ultimate triumph of the Stuart cause.”

  Charmian rose slowly to her feet, one hand at her breast, her eyes wide and horrified.

  “Are you trying to tell me, sir, that my father was a Jacobite?”

  He inclined his head. “That is precisely what I am telling you. He was a Jacobite, as I am, and all my family. That was the interest we had in common, the shared loyalty which first drew us together.”

  She shook her head, still staring at him in patent disbelief. “I cannot credit it,” she murmured. “All he cared about was his studies, the history he was preparing.”

  “A history of the struggle between King and Parliament,” the Colonel agreed in a level tone. “Studies which traced the fortunes of the Stuart dynasty for over a century. Do you marvel that from these should arise a deep conviction of King James’s unassailable right to the English crown and a desire to see the German usurper overthrown?”

  Charmian dropped down into her chair again; she was trembling so violently that she could no longer remain standing.

  “This is treason, sir,” she said in a shaken whisper.

  He shook his head. “In this house, Miss Tarrant,” he replied grimly, “the only treason is sympathy with the Elector of Hanover.”

  Charmian made a small, incoherent sound of dismay and disbelief, and covered her face with her hands. She knew, of course, that there were still people in England who hoped for the return of the exiled Stuart king, and there had been talk of late that his son, Prince Charles Edward, with the aid and blessing of Louis of France, was planning an attempt to recover the throne by force of arms, but though she knew of these matters she had never concerned herself over them. The last Jacobite uprising had taken place eight years before she was born, and such things as treasonable plots and armed invasions seemed to have no place among the realities of life. Now, without warning, she found herself in the midst of such activities, and was asked to believe that her father had possessed similarly misguided convictions.

  Fenshawe waited patiently for all the implications of what he had said to dawn upon her. He propped his shoulders against the shelves of books behind him, and once more took snuff from the gold and enamel box, shaking the lace ruffles back from his hand. At length, as he had known she would, Charmian raised her head, and asked the question for which he had been waiting.

  “What has this to do with the loss of Papa’s fortune?”

  He shrugged slightly. “Your father, my dear, had been convinced for years of the justice of the Stuart claim, but though he would willingly have done anything in his
power to aid their cause, he had no notion how to set about it. All he could do, whenever he visited London, was to frequent the company of those who felt as he did, in the hope that one day some opportunity would offer itself. Eventually, his path and mine crossed.”

  He paused, and again took snuff, closing the box with a snap which sounded loud in the silence. Charmian, still huddled in her chair, was aware of the strong force of his personality, and found no difficulty in understanding how her studious, unworldly father had fallen so completely under its spell.

  “I will not weary you,” Fenshawe resumed, “with all the details of our ripening acquaintance. It is sufficient to say that eventually your father; finding in me one who was prepared to do more to aid the Cause than merely drinking loyal toasts and railing against the Elector, confided to me his desire to give some practical aid, and asked how he might do so.” He shrugged again. “His years prevented him from taking any active part in our work, but there is one thing of which we are always in desperate need, and that is money. With that he was plentifully supplied and he gave it generously. Too generously, as subsequent events have proved.” He paused again and then added deliberately: “That is where your father’s fortune went, Miss Tarrant—to aid his rightful King. It could have been spent in no more noble cause.”

  She moved her hands in a protesting gesture. “But to ruin himself, and then take his own life! That is to carry any loyalty to the point of madness!”

  He sighed. “Ah, that I did not foresee! His exact resources were unknown to me, and I had no suspicion until after his death that he had placed himself so deeply in debt. Had I known it, I would naturally have used every endeavour to dissuade him.” He moved away from the bookshelves and came to set a hand on her shoulder. “Your father, Miss Tarrant, was a very brave man,” he said gravely. “He might, perhaps, have weathered the storm and salvaged something from the wreck of his fortunes, but there was always the danger that suspicion might be aroused and the rest of us implicated. He took the only course he could think of to prevent such a disaster. It would not be too much to say that he gave his life for his King.”

  Charmian did not reply, and once again silence descended upon the room. Fenshawe moved quietly away and went to stand again by the window, but with his back to it this time so that he could watch the girl. He wanted her to have time to think over what he had said, to realize all its subtle implications, and to regret, as he felt certain she would, the persistence which had provoked his disclosures. There was still a little more to be said, and soon the right moment would come to say it.

  For perhaps five minutes he stood there, watching the different emotions which were mirrored in her face, and then, judging that the time was now ripe, he went forward again to stand beside her. She looked up with a start, as thought she had forgotten his presence.

  “It is natural,” he said, “that you should be disturbed, perhaps even shocked, by what I have told you, but you will perceive, I am sure, that I cannot afford to have any inquiry made into your father’s private affairs.” He paused, and then added in a voice charged with meaning: “Any inquiry!”

  She stared at him in puzzlement which was only the beginning of alarm, and said in a faltering voice: “I do not understand.”

  He smiled, but it was neither pleasant nor reassuring. “I think you do, my dear,” he said softly. “A little consideration will make plain to you, if it is not already obvious, that by telling you what I have, I place the lives and fortunes of numerous people in your hands. Now it may appear to you to be your duty to inform the authorities of these matters.” He paused to look inquiringly at her, but she made no reply, and only stared at him with frightened, fascinated eyes. He shook his head. “Do not attempt it, Miss Tarrant! We all regard you with affection, but nothing—nothing, you understand—must be permitted to endanger the Cause for which we work. Try to forget all that I have told you this evening. Believe me, it will be far better—for you—if you can!”

  4

  The Meeting

  There was a storm blowing up from the north-west, and the day, which had been hot and bright, was becoming rapidly overcast. Sir Piers Wychwood, riding homewards to Wychwood Chase, cast a knowledgeable eye at the great bank of purple-black clouds sweeping across the sky, and urged his horse from a trot to a canter. The storm was likely to be violent when it broke, and he had no desire to be caught by it in the open.

  He was returning from a visit to the house of General Sir Percival Grey, a few miles westward along the coast, during which he had tried to enlist the old gentleman’s support in his attempts to put an end to what Piers felt certain was a dangerous and treasonable traffic between the exiled Stuarts and their supporters in England. As before, he had met with no success. He had no proof to offer, and without it the General, like other local landowners, was not disposed to interfere in the smuggling which had been profitably carried on along the coast for generations. Everyone took advantage of it; many of the smugglers were respected members of the community, and if there was a rougher element among them which occasionally gave rise to crimes of quite appalling violence, that was all the more reason not to incur their ill-will. The local Excisemen seemed incredibly apathetic, and even fiery old General Grey, glaring at Piers from beneath bushy white brows, had hinted irritably that he was making a mountain out of a very small molehill.

  Piers had an uneasy suspicion that the General had expected him to broach a very different subject—in short, to offer for the hand of his grand-daughter, Miss Selina. (Piers’ sister Dorothy maintained that Selina herself had been expecting it for years.) It would be an eminently suitable match, even though Miss Grey, a lady of high principles and a decided turn of mind, was twenty-five years old and of a disposition which was at times a little less than amiable. She was well-born and well-dowered, and as practical and level-headed as Piers himself. There were no frivolously romantic notions in Selina’s neat, dark head; if Piers offered for her she would accept him, since he was the most eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood, and she would be a dutiful wife and a capable mistress of his household.

  It was all so very suitable that Piers himself did not know why he still held back from the final, irrevocable step. It was high time he married. Better, perhaps, to do so now, and forget the suspected Jacobite conspiracies in which no one but himself seemed particularly interested.

  Forget, too, that memory which for weeks had haunted him with a persistence of which he was a little ashamed, the memory of a girl’s white face in the torchlight. In vain he had tried to erase it from his mind, and he found himself constantly indulging in idle, profitless speculation concerning her. Had she found comfort in her hour of trouble? By what name was she known, and what did she look like when she smiled?

  Finding himself thus unprofitably engaged once more, he uttered an exclamation of impatience, and urged his horse briskly up the long, gentle slope of the hill which lay between him and the gates of his home. He reached its crest, and before him the road swept down in a long curve past the gates, to disappear a short distance beyond into the belt of woodland which lay between Wychwood Chase and the village half a mile away. Ahead of him, about half-way down the slope, a coach was travelling in the same direction, driven in a way which showed more regard for speed than for safety. It was an elegant vehicle of polished wood and gleaming paintwork, drawn by a team of powerful bays, and Sir Piers had no difficulty in recognizing it as the property of Colonel Fenshawe.

  He frowned, and slackened speed again, for he had no doubt that the coach contained Lavinia Fenshawe, whom he disliked intensely. He had heard, somewhat to his surprise, that she was staying at Bell Orchard. Her present haste, like his own, was probably due to a desire to reach home before the storm broke, and if he overtook her before she had passed his gates, common civility would compel him to offer her shelter at the Chase until it was over.

  So he checked his horse and waited in the shadow of an overhanging tree, and as he watched the swaying, lurching car
riage ahead of him, that importunate memory returned again. He had only to close his eyes to see the girl as vividly as he had seen her that night outside Fenshawe’s house, with her shimmering gown and powdered hair and sweet, grief-stricken face. What the devil ailed him, that he could not put her out of his mind?

  The coach was level with the gates; it was past them; in a few moments it would be out of sight among the trees and he could ride on again. It was jolting wildly over the ill-kept surface of the road, and even as Piers prepared to move forward, the off hind wheel struck a large, protruding stone and was wrenched off, to go bounding away into the tall grass on the far side of the road. The coach lurched crazily on to its side and came to rest at a precarious angle in the ditch, only prevented from overturning completely by the hedge-crowned bank beyond. The horses plunged and reared in a panic which the coachman was unable to control, and the groom, flung from his place by the impact but apparently unhurt, scrambled shakily to his feet and stumbled towards them, showing a fine disregard for the occupants of the carriage.

  Piers set spur to his horse and plunged headlong down the hill towards the scene of the accident. Drawing rein beside the wrecked coach, he leaned from the saddle to wrench open the door, and then sprang to the ground as Mrs. Fenshawe appeared in the aperture. She was considerably dishevelled, her wide straw hat tilted at a ridiculous angle, and though her face was white, it soon became clear that this was due more to anger than to fright. She allowed Piers to help her down from her precarious perch, but once safely on the ground turned from him with scarcely a word of thanks to vent the full force of her fury on the unfortunate servants.

  A faint sound from within the coach caught Piers’ attention, and with a startled glance at the unheeding Mrs. Fenshawe he set a foot on the wheel and swung himself up to look into its interior, to find there the huddled, dark-clad figure of a second woman, who appeared to be trying to raise herself from the far corner, where the thorny branches of the hedge protruded through the shattered windows. Assuming this to be Mrs. Fenshawe’s maid, and reflecting that it was characteristic of that lady to have forgotten her, he made haste to go to her assistance.