Chapter 20
Twenty
‘Antoine never mentioned that the way into the salon was via a deuced ladder a mountain goat would have had difficulty scaling.’
‘Could there be another way in?’ Percy queried, studying the door, which unfortunately happened to be ten feet off the ground.
‘Well, as much as I’d like to say otherwise. I really don’t think there is,’ Reverend Shackleford sighed.
‘Why just a ladder?’ Roseanna asked. ‘Anybody trying to get in or out is likely to risk a broken leg or worse.’
‘Perhaps that’s the point,’ Percy suggested. ‘If anyone who didn’t know the tunnels tried to escape that way, they’d get a nasty shock when their foot stepped out into nothing.’
‘But what about those trying to get in?’ Henrietta shook her head ‘Do you really think it leads into the salon?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ the Reverend affirmed. ‘Come on, Percy, lad, you’re going to have to give me a bit of a push.’
Almost exactly the same words had last been uttered to Percy during their tree-climbing incident outside the Earl of Cottesmore’s house all those years ago, and in truth the curate’s nose had never been the same since…
After rubbing his hands together, the Reverend lifted one foot off the ground. Unfortunately, there was still a sizeable gap to the first rung of the ladder.
‘Perhaps Rosie or I might be better to go up,’ Henrietta suggested as their grandfather hopped up and down on his left foot in an attempt to get his right foot that bit higher.
‘Certainly not,’ Augustus Shackleford puffed. ‘How the devil are either of you going to overpower the blackguard? I just need a bit of a step up. Come on Percy.’
‘I’m not sure, that’s…’
‘Right then, I’ll take off me frock, so I’ve got a bit more movement.
’ The Reverend pulled off his cassock, handed it to a riveted Finn, and abruptly began hopping from foot to foot.
‘To limber up,’ he explained breathlessly.
Unfortunately, the bouncing motion swiftly began to have an adverse effect on his waterworks - not helped by the fact that his breeches were just a tad on the snug side.
After only a few seconds, he stopped and grabbed hold of the ladder, wondering whether Percy might possibly have a convenient chamber pot stashed somewhere under his cassock.
But since the curate weighed little more than a wet lettuce, it only took a quick glance to reveal the absence of any unidentified protuberances.
Reverend Shackleford gritted his teeth. There was no time to waste.
‘Right, Percy, stop dithering and give me a quick shove,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Once I’m on that deuced ladder, the Frog’s as good as finished.’
Finn’s muttered, ‘Which one?’ was largely ignored.
With a grimace, Percy succumbed to the inevitable, and positioning himself directly next to the ladder, he bent down and cupped his hands.
After a few tries, Reverend Shackleford succeeded in getting his foot into the makeshift cradle, then, with a grunt, he grabbed hold of the ladder above his head.
‘On my mark, Pe…’ he started, only to give a startled yelp as he suddenly shot upwards.
On the plus side, he managed to hook his arm around the rung of the ladder, but on the minus side, his feet were left dangling in midair…
While sheer panic fortunately lessened the Reverend’s urgent need of a chamber pot, it did nothing for his ladder climbing skills, forcing Percy to hurriedly place a hand under each of his superior’s buttocks for the second time in his life.
This time, unfortunately, though he might vehemently deny it, there was no doubt that Augustus Shackleford had put on weight.
His arms trembling with strain, Percy stared upwards in horror, his entire life flashing before his eyes, as the Reverend’s more than generous posterior came inexorably closer.
In fact, he’d just resorted to praying when, at long last, Augustus Shackleford finally managed to get his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder…
Silence ensued, broken only by panting as both men contemplated their mortality.
‘Ah reckon if ye didnae want tae be God botherers anymore, ye and the Revren’d be crackin’ in the circus, Da.’
Raphael froze, keeping his eyes carefully on Fontaine while taking note of the panel that was opening inch by inch no more than six feet behind the caretaker’s head.
He dared not look over to see whether any others of their party were aware, but simply kept his eyes on Fontaine as the Frenchman ranted.
Seconds later, Reverend Shackleford’s head cautiously appeared through the narrow opening and, for some strange reason, it was only a foot from the floor. Raphael felt as though he’d stumbled into a bizarre dream. What the bloody hell was the priest doing inside the walls of Chateau Montclair?
Without appearing to, Raphael watched Augustus Shackleford stick his head out further, and suddenly begin waving.
The frantic movements slowly pushed the door ever wider until Rafe realised the whole of the clergyman’s bottom half was somehow below the threshold of the door.
For one incredulous second, he wondered whether the Reverend was floating, having finally gone on to receive his heavenly reward - then Finn’s head popped up beside him.
‘Can we assume you are denying Tristan de Montclair his birthright?’ Raphael said coldly but loudly in an effort to drown out the whispered argument now coming from the hole in the panel.
If Rafe was looking to goad their captor into doing something stupid, he’d unknowingly chosen exactly the right words. Indeed, Claude Fontaine’s response was immediate and chillingly unhinged.
With a scream, the fictitious caretaker lifted his arm and pointed the pistol directly at the King’s agent.
His hand wavering wildly, he yelled, ‘Why should he have it? Why should he have any of it? I was the eldest son. Me. Montclair is rightfully mine.’ The gun swung towards Tristan, just as Finn managed to clamber up onto the floor of the salon.
Sprinting towards Fontaine, the boy threw himself to the floor, sliding the last few feet on his side and crashing directly into the back of the Frenchman’s legs.
With a yell, Fontaine fell backwards, the pistol firing wildly towards the ornate ceiling.
At the same moment, Rafe threw himself at the traitor, grappling for the pistol, just as the Reverend appeared, holding a large vase in the air which he brought down on the traitor’s head with a satisfying crack – immediately after which he looked desperately at Tristan and asked the location of the nearest privy.
The commotion naturally brought Claude Fontaine’s cut-throats running into the room. On seeing their employer unconscious on the floor, three of them raised their weapons.
‘Don’t be bloody fools,’ Tristan snapped, facing them. ‘At the moment, you have no blood on your hands. The moment that changes, the only thing awaiting you will be the guillotine.’
For a second none of them moved, then as one, they laid their muskets on the floor and stepped back, just as the sound of shouting reached them from outside. Striding to the window, Roan watched disbelievingly as approximately two hundred villagers stormed the Chateau gates.
Turning back to Tristan he nodded his head towards the window and chuckled, ‘It looks as though you are important after all…’
To a man, Claude Fontaine’s armed guards had vanished within half an hour of their employer’s detainment.
Tristan’s uncle had been placed under house arrest along with Marie Laval and Julien Dubois, with sailors from the Fortune guarding them until Raphael could begin their formal questioning the following day.
Dinner that evening was held in the Chateau’s dining room.
With the scarred table and threadbare furnishings, it was hardly the grand return Tristan might have hoped for, but nevertheless, the mood around the table was light.
While the new Marquis still had to be formerly recognised, missives would be sent to the appropriate legal authorities over the coming days, and since Tristan was the image of his father, Rafe didn’t anticipate any problems – in that area at least.
Since they were down to a single maid and definitely no cook, the villagers had taken it upon themselves to ensure the returning Marquis’s homecoming was at least as comfortable as possible.
By the time they sat down to eat, fires burned in every grate, and clean sheets made up on every occupied bed.
The food was simple, but delicious - a common Breton staple similar to a pancake, called a galette.
Each one was filled to bursting with ham, cheese and eggs, which everyone consumed with relish, including Flossy.
Throughout the meal, no one mentioned the chateau’s state of disrepair, though the amount of coin given over to its upkeep had clearly been minimal.
Naturally, the most pressing problem was the uncertainty over whether there was actually any money left in the coffers, or whether the entire Montclair fortune had been used to fund Fontaine’s treasonous activities.
Fontaine had previously declared the money missing, and they’d yet to see any evidence that his claim was false.
After dinner, the entire party gathered together in the large drawing room, or as the maid called it, la salle de reception.
It was very evident that the room hadn’t been in use for many years - likely since Tristan’s parents had been alive - but the villagers had worked hard to make it comfortable.
The entire room had been thoroughly cleaned and swept and liberally sprinkled with sweet-smelling herbs to take away the underlying smell of damp.
Fires now burned merrily in the two huge fireplaces, and additional furniture had been moved from other rooms to ensure everyone had a place to sit.