Chapter Fifteen #3
Distantly, he could hear Naomi talking at full pitch and with scarce a stop for air.
He grinned. Lady Derrydene must think she’d taken leave of her senses.
The long hall stretched off gloomy and deserted.
Most of the doors were closed. To the left was the entrance hall.
Probably, the dining rooms were at the same end of the house.
Derrydene’s study was most likely to be in this area.
He turned to his right, and moved quickly and quietly along, wishing he’d had the foresight to remove his spurs, and trying to keep them from jingling.
The next door loomed up and he raised the latch carefully, opened the door a crack and peeped into a shuttered morning room.
To his horror, it was occupied. A footman and a housemaid were wrapped in a passionate embrace.
Stifling a gasp, Rossiter pulled the door to and gingerly lowered the latch.
Another bell was chiming merrily, and he called down blessings on the head of his industrious co-spy as the faint click of the latch was drowned in the uproar.
The door across the hall was the last, and if this did not turn out to be the study, that chamber must be on the first floor.
If he was to attempt it, he must move fast. He crossed the hall, listened at the door, and went inside.
“Aha!” he whispered.
The study had the tidy look that spoke of an absent owner.
It was a pleasant room, with rugs of warm colours, red velvet hangings, and deep chairs.
Rossiter fairly sprang for the large desk.
Disdaining the many papers and unopened letters on the top, he attacked the drawers.
One after another yielded only untidiness and clutter.
There were old, apparently unpaid bills; reports from Derrydene’s tenants in Bedfordshire; indecipherable letters from the Dowager Lady Derrydene; reports from a Tutor at Eton (seeming to indicate despair).
Abandoning the drawers, Rossiter skimmed through the papers on the top of the desk.
More reports; more letters; more bills. And then, a single sheet, the direction, in block letters: TO—SIR LOUIS DERRYDENE.
And the letter itself consisting of just four printed words.
“Six absent. No meeting.” Staring at that message blankly, Rossiter could all but hear Naomi telling him of the two gentlemen at the Dowling Soiree and that they had said “something about a meeting that could not be held until six were recovered.” One of those same gentlemen had held a green chessman that Naomi said was similar to the one she had lost. The chessman again!
Each time he sought to discover what was behind his father’s trouble, he seemed to run headlong against those confounded little figures.
“’Tis too much,” he muttered. “It cannot be pure coincidence!” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, then went on searching.
There was nothing in the pile of newspapers and correspondence, but an engagement book lay open on the desk.
He turned back to the beginning of the year, and turned the pages swiftly.
Most of the scrawled notes referred to meetings and appointments.
Impatient, he riffled the pages hurriedly, then checked.
The date was Tuesday, thirteenth of February, 1748.
The notation read: “Do not forget Five!” His pulses beginning to race, Gideon flipped more pages.
On February twenty-seventh, his hand checked once more. 7:00 P.M. Davies.
He gasped out, “Davies!” The same Davies who had embezzled over a hundred thousand pounds from Rossiter Bank? It was a fairly common name—it could be another man, but intuition told him it was not. A week before the crash, Sir Louis Derrydene had seen Davies privately. Why?
Taut with excitement, he flipped the pages. Thursday, March seventh. “Withdraw.” His fist crashed onto the desk. He snarled, “Withdraw! Yes, you withdrew—you filthy, treacherous hound!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. The engagement book still in his hand, he made a dive for the door and pressed back against the wall beside it. He held his breath as the latch was raised. Thrusting the book into one pocket, he reached into the other for his pistol.
A hand gripped the edge of the door and held it open. A man’s London voice said reassuringly, “There y’are, me little duck. Did I not tell yer? Empty as a bishop’s purse.”
A girl sounded scared. “I tell you I heered summat, Alfred. A man what was very cross, and bein’s the master’s back, I thought—If he should catch us…!”
“He’s got more important things ter think on than you and me, never you fear. Come on, now. We’d best not get Cook into a uproar, wondering where you is. Be a good little gal, and we’ll go fer a row on the river Sunday.”
The door closed on an ecstatic, “Oooo!”
Rossiter slipped the pistol back into his pocket.
“… the master’s back…” Was that simply Derrydene?
Or was Derrydene also the mysterious Squire to whom the bullies had referred?
Either way, thought Rossiter, there was some proof now.
He had the engagement book, and the succinct letter.
Surely the lord chancellor’s committee must pay some attention when he explained it all?
But if Sir Louis had indeed returned from Russia (if he ever went!) every minute’s delay here increased the danger of discovery.
He eased the door open. The amorous footman and his lass had vanished and the hall was hushed and empty.
Moving swiftly, Rossiter returned to the book room.
He started for the window. His boot sent something scuttling across the floor and he glanced down to discover one half of the globe he’d knocked over earlier.
The drizzle had stopped and a weak sun sent an enquiring beam slanting across the rug.
It awoke a blue sparkle from inside the globe.
Curious, Rossiter bent lower. His breath was snatched away.
He took up the half globe and removed an object that had lain concealed inside.
A small figure carven from what he thought to be lapis lazuli, the beautiful blue stone so much admired by Marco Polo.
There could be no doubt but that this little fellow was related to the figure Naomi had sketched.
It was of the same size and shape, but the “face” had an oddly humorous expression.
It was surprisingly heavy for its size, and was set with no fewer than six fine sapphires.
“By God…!” breathed Rossiter.
“Put it down,” said a cold voice.
He froze, then jerked around.
He had never much cared for Sir Louis Derrydene.
During the six years since last he had seen the baronet, the pasty cheeks seemed to have become even more inclined to sag, the small mouth looked paler and tighter, the tendency to corpulence was more pronounced.
But the hand holding the horse pistol was steady as a rock, and there was no doubting that death shone from the hard dark eyes.
“Well, well,” drawled Rossiter. “So my father’s trusted friend has crept from his hole.”
A faint flush lit the flabby cheeks, but Derrydene repeated softly, “Put … it … down.”
“Why? It will look so nice with”—he ventured a wild guess—“with six.”
And he had struck home! He saw Derrydene’s white hand jerk, saw the small mouth fall open, the little eyes widen with shock, and knew it was now or never.
The half globe was still in his left hand and it was quite heavy.
He hurled it straight at Derrydene’s face and in the same instant flung himself to one side.
His conviction that the baronet would not hesitate to shoot was verified.
The pistol bloomed smoke and flame. The retort was deafening, but Rossiter had moved very fast, and the ball hummed past him.
Teeth bared with rage, Derrydene sprang, flailing the pistol at his head.
Rossiter ducked, evading the blow. Derrydene snatched for the jewelled figure.
He was bigger and heavier than Rossiter, and surprisingly strong.
Reluctant to hit an older man, Rossiter panted, “Let go! I don’t want to—hurt you. ”
Derrydene’s response was to again smash the pistol at his face.
He jerked his head aside, and the weapon grazed his temple.
Locked in a desperate struggle, they reeled about the room, sending chairs and small tables flying.
Rossiter knew that time was running out; the shot had certainly been heard.
At any instant Derrydene’s people would be in here.
He tore free and retreated. The baronet charged him.
He swayed aside and gave a helping hand.
At speed, Derrydene encountered the wall, and went down heavily.
Feet were pounding along the hall. Rossiter scooped up the little blue figure, and raced for the window.
“You’re … dead,” choked Derrydene, gobbling with frustrated fury. “You damnable … interfering fool. You’re a … dead man!”
Rossiter called, “Can’t stop to chat. Sorry,” and was over the sill and sprinting across the back lawn.
Someone howled, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
“Not today,” muttered Rossiter, and zigzagged. Two shots thundered out. He felt a tug at his right elbow, then the wall was before him. He cleared it with astonishing ease and not so much as a pang from his many bruises.
* * *
The clock on the dingy wall of this dingy room emitted a staccato rattling sound, then chimed once, a second chime being added after several intervening seconds, as if in afterthought. Glaring at it, Gideon stamped back to the bench where Naomi waited.
“Two o’clock!” he growled. “We have been here nigh on two hours! Derrydene has likely already been in touch with his solicitor and fabricated some cock-and-bull story to conflummerate the authorities. Such as they are!”
“If he is not on his way back to Moscow,” said Naomi.