Thirty-three
Arnaud
Tuesday evening, Arnaud escorted the women to a safe room in an empty wing over the innkeeper’s private residence. He carried in bales of straw so they could finish stuffing scarecrows made of dead men’s clothes stolen from the inn’s luggage room.
Fort had gone ahead earlier to test the curate’s ghost pulley and locate which rooms were occupied by whom. Arnaud left the women working and aimed for the pub. One learned quite a bit just listening.
In the dim light of overhead oil lamps, the pub bustled.
Arnaud counted heads. Only Humphries seemed to be missing.
And by all that was holy—Fletch Ferguson was here, tending bar.
Mostly a silent partner at the inn, the ex-soldier helped when Rafe needed it.
Tonight, they needed far more than a bartender, which was probably why he had been dragged in.
Large and gruff, he was a better warrior than bartender.
The baron and his assistant’s club-footed twin brother sat at a quiet table, observing, as if aware of the undercurrents. Henri generally opened his tavern down the road at this hour, but his brother had apparently decided to do what Arnaud was doing—keep a wary eye on the wicked.
“Tout ce qui est nouveau?” Arnaud asked as he took a place with Henri at the bar. They might be far enough from anyone listening, but he liked to blur the lines where possible.
Apparently understanding French, Fletch delivered a pint in time to answer. “Their servants are plotting a revolution, but the popinjay is staying out of it.” He nodded in the direction of the table where Featherstone sat with his dandified valet, playing cards.
“Could almost be his son.” Not wishing to challenge the bartender’s linguistic abilities, Arnaud responded in English. “Similar coloring and build, but Tatum is prettier. Any details on the revolution?”
Even the word made him shudder and wish to retreat to his studio tower. But Thea hoped to send a message to her father by terrifying his fellow conspirators.
“They’re pretty tightlipped when anyone goes near, but Humphries’ man is furious. He wants Darley rescued from the tower and doesn’t understand why they’re stuck in a cold attic instead of in warm beds at the manor.” Henri sipped his ale and studied the table of arguing valets.
“The gray-haired cove doesn’t do much but shake his head at—Jones, is it, the fighter? The money-grubber and his bookkeeper are arguing as well.” Fletch lifted his chin to indicate the direction, then ambled off to serve a customer.
“They do not look too scared of the ghosts,” Arnaud observed. “What does the lawyer do, write a book?”
Haggarty had a sheaf of papers, ink, and quill at his table. The pub had no private tables, but he’d created a barrier of writing implements between himself and the gambler with his cards.
“I could ask, but I doubt I’d hear the truth.” Henri took another drink and checked the doorway as he did. “How long before Lord Tutor has his weapons in place? I’d like to return to Patience before she falls asleep.”
“I would like Thea to sleep in peace, without worry. Fletch will call the last round when Fort signals he is ready. Go, see to your wife.” Arnaud still had no clear idea what the duke’s son hoped to find and when. He could be searching rooms now. . .
Merde. Perser was standing up and tottering out. This was why they couldn’t search rooms now. They couldn’t stop people from leaving the pub. If Fort was up there. . . Arnaud shoved away. “Tell Fletch to watch for Fort’s signal. Go home. I am following the mouse.”
“Why?” Henri peered around him. “Will he throw his ledgers at Fort if he catches him?”
“Me, I shall find out.” Arnaud lingered in the pub entrance until the bookkeeper reached the top of the stairs, then noted which direction he took. Not seeing Rafe, he climbed the stairs two at a time and watched as Perser entered his own chamber.
When the bookkeeper didn’t come flying out, screaming with fury, Arnaud glanced around for Fort. Not finding him, he was about to return downstairs when the tutor emerged from around a corner.
Wearing giant wire spectacles and a brown wig, Fort met him at the stairs.
“Joining the acting troupe?” Arnaud inquired, not remembering this part of the plot.
“The Priory attic is well supplied with ancient attire. By whining and carrying on and refusing to send for a female physician, Humphries gave me an opportunity to play physician.” Fort scratched under his wig. “I think this thing has fleas.”
Arnaud grimaced. The duke’s son did have a nice hand at plotting. “Did Thea remove any hope of future Humphries?”
“No, but she scraped him nicely. His buttons probably prevented permanent dismemberment. Jones gave him a bottle of whiskey and he was about passed out by the time I arrived. We may have difficulty frightening him from his bed if he’s incapacitated.”
“Or we can tie him up in sheets if he wakes. Did you see aught of interest while in there?” Arnaud avoided books and correspondence and anything beyond his paints. He had no idea what to look for.
“Correspondence on his desk, what appears to be a locked box under the bed. Not too imaginative is our man. He has a pistol under his pillow and a rifle by the window. I emptied them. His room overlooks the street and carriage drive. I don’t know who he meant to shoot.”
“He is an American. They carry weaponry. I begin to see why we must search, if only for the armaments. Do they await an army of rioters to storm the manor?” Arnaud had seen far worse in Paris. He still had nightmares, although Thea had lessened them considerably.
“It’s hard to envisage, but if the populace is rioting elsewhere, I suppose anything is possible.
I believe they’ll find the manor impenetrable, but we’d have to bring all the villagers inside, like the medieval days of castles.
Let us simply drive off the swine and be done. Did you come up here for a purpose?”
Arnaud nodded at the other end of the corridor. “Perser came up alone. If I comprehend correctly, the last time he did, a servant died. I cannot see the little toad as killer any more than riots in the village, but me, I keep an open mind.”
He was perfectly aware that even well-dressed gentlemen with elegant manners could pull a pistol and shoot. A stoop-shouldered bookkeeper in spectacles—might have a little more difficulty strangling a healthy man. Of course, Calendar had been tied up.
“His presence makes it a little more difficult to set up our straw men, but the pulley is already in place, so it’s not impossible.
Let’s see how the ladies are faring.” Fort led the way down the long corridor to a rear wing, where Lavender, Thea, Verity, and her children merrily stuffed straw into rags to create scarecrows with gourd heads and booted sticks for feet.
The children found it great fun—but they didn’t know they were stuffing dead men’s rags.
“Have you inspected Mr. Upton’s pulleys yet?” Lavender stretched out her straw man on the floor to inspect it. Thea pulled a hidden lever, making one of the boots kick. Ingenious.
Arnaud didn’t know how she did that or how they had attached the gourds, but those were cruel-looking fant?mes.
“The curate did a fine job. It’s a tall ceiling and the rope is barely visible.” Fort lifted the straw man to test how it held together. “These may take a beating tonight. Pity we can’t fill them with feathers as well and shower them with molting angel wings.”
The boy pounded the chest of the figure he worked on. It dented nicely. “Pillows!”
Arnaud almost laughed. If this hadn’t been so serious and dangerous a project. . .
“Brilliant!” Fort looked as if he’d like to hug Lavender. Fortunately, he refrained. “We’ll start carrying these out.” He shoved one effigy into Arnaud’s arms and lifted another.
The clothing stank of old sweat and damp straw and reminded him too much of prison. Gritting his molars, Arnaud followed Fort into the inn proper.
He’d do anything for Thea, but right now, he would rather kill than haunt. Unlike the duke’s son, he was a simple man. Direct solutions appealed more than complex conspiracies.
In the interest of civilization, killing was a bad idea, though, so he dutifully hung scarecrows on pulley hooks.