The spinney down the road, referred to by Beverley in his assignation with Captain Trimble, was not hard to locate. A careless question put to one of the ostlers elicited the information that it formed part of the grounds of Crome Hall. Leaving Pen to keep a sharp look-out for signs of an invasion by her relatives, Sir Richard set out shortly before eleven o’clock, to keep Captain Trimble’s appointment. The impetuous Captain had indeed called for his horse, and had set off in the direction of Bristol, with his cloak-bag strapped on to the saddle. He had paid his shot, so it did not seem as though he contemplated returning to Queen Charlton.
At the end of a ten-minute walk, Sir Richard reached the outskirts of the spinney. A gap in the hedge showed him a trodden path through the wood, and he followed this, glad to be out of the strong sunlight. The path led to a small clearing, where a tiny stream ran between clumps of rose-bay willow herb in full flower. Here a slightly built young gentleman, dressed in the extreme of fashion, was switching pettishly with his cane at the purple heads of the willow-herb. The points of his collar were so monstrous as to make it almost impossible for him to turn his head, and his coat fitted him so tightly that it seemed probable that it must have needed the combined efforts of three strong men to force him into it. Very tight pantaloons of a delicate biscuit-hue encased his rather spindly legs, and a pair of tasselled Hessians sneered at their sylvan surroundings.
The Honourable Beverley Brandon was not unlike his sister Melissa, but the classic cast of his features was spoiled by a pasty complexion, and a weakness about mouth and chin not shared by Melissa. He turned, as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and started forward, only to be fetched up short by the sight, not of Captain Trimble’s burly figure, but of a tall, well-built gentleman in whom he had not the slightest difficulty in recognizing his prospective brother-in-law.
He let his malacca cane drop from suddenly nerveless fingers. His pale eyes stared at Sir Richard. “W-w-what the d-devil?” he stammered.
Sir Richard advanced unhurriedly across the clearing. “Good-morning, Beverley,” he said, in his pleasant, drawling voice.
“W-what are you d-doing here?” Beverley demanded, the wildest surmises chasing one another through his brain.
“Oh, enjoying the weather, Beverley, enjoying the weather! And you?”
“I’m staying with a friend. F-fellow I knew up at Oxford!”
“Indeed?” Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass swept the glade, as though in search of Mr Brandon’s host. “A delightful rendezvous! One would almost suspect you of having an assignation with someone!”
“N-no such thing! I was j-just taking the air!”
The quizzing-glass was levelled at him. Sir Richard’s pained eye ran over his person. “Putting the countryside to scorn, Beverley? Strange that you who care so much about your appearance should achieve such lamentable results! Now, Cedric cares nothing for his, but—er—always looks the gentleman.”
“You have a d-damned unpleasant tongue, Richard, b-but you needn’t think I’ll put up with it j-just because you’ve known me for y-years!”
“And how,” enquired Sir Richard, faintly interested, “do you propose to put a curb on my tongue?”
Beverley glared at him. He knew quite as well as Captain Trimble that Sir Richard’s exquisite tailoring and languid bearing were deceptive; that he sparred regularly with Gentleman Jackson, and was accounted one of the best amateur heavyweights in England. “W-what are you d-doing here?” he reiterated weakly.
“I came to keep your friend Trimble’s appointment with you,” said Sir Richard, removing a caterpillar from his sleeve. Ignoring a startled oath from Mr Brandon, he added: “Captain Trimble—by the way, you must tell me sometime where he acquired that unlikely title—found himself obliged to depart for Bristol this morning. Rather a hasty person, one is led to infer.”
“D-damn you, Richard, you mean you sent him off! W-what do you know about Trimble, and why did—”
“Yes, I fear that some chance words of mine may perhaps have influenced him. There was a man in a catskin waistcoat—dear me, there seems to be a fatal spell attached to that waistcoat! You look quite pale, Beverley.”
Mr Brandon had indeed changed colour. He shouted: “S-stop it! So Yarde split, d-did he? Well, w-what the d-devil has it to do with you, hey?”
“Altruism, Beverley, sheer altruism. You see, your friend Yarde—you know, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of tools—saw fit to hand the Brandon diamonds into “my keeping.”
Mr Brandon looked quite stupefied. “Handed them to you? Yarde d-did that? B-but how d-did you know he had them? How c-could you have known?”
“Oh, I didn’t!” said Sir Richard, taking snuff.
“B-but if you didn’t know, why d-did you constrain him—oh, what the d-devil does all this m-mean?”
“You have it wrong, my dear Beverley. I didn’t constrain him. I was, in fact, an unwitting partner in the crime. I should perhaps explain that Mr Yarde was being pursued by a Runner from Bow Street.”
“A Runner!” Mr Brandon began to look ashen. “Who set them on? G-god damn it, I—”
“I have no idea. Presumably your respected father, possibly Cedric. In Mr Yarde’s picturesque but somewhat obscure language, he—er—tipped the cole to Adam Tiler. Have I that right?”
“How the d-devil should I know?” snapped Brandon.
“You must forgive me. You seem to me to be so familiar with—er—thieves and—er—swashbucklers, that I assumed that you were conversant also with thieving cant.”
“D-don’t keep on talking about thieves!” Beverley said, stamping his foot.
“It is an ugly word, isn’t it?” agreed Sir Richard.
Beverley ground his teeth, but said in a blustering voice: “Very well! I did t-take the damned necklace! If you m-must know, I’m d-done up, ruined! But you n-needn’t take that psalm-singing t-tone with me! If I d-don’t sell it, my father will soon enough!”
“I don’t doubt you, Beverley, but I must point out to you that you have forgotten one trifling circumstance in your very engaging explanation. The necklace belongs to your father.”
“I c-consider it’s family property. It’s folly to keep it w-when we’re all of us aground! D-damn it, I was forced to take the thing! You don’t know w-what it is to be in the p-power of a d-damned cent-per-cent! If the old m-man would have p-parted, this wouldn’t have happened! I told him a m-month ago I hadn’t a feather to fly with, but the old fox wouldn’t c-come up to scratch. I tell you, I’ve no c-compunction! He lectured me as though he himself w-weren’t under hatches, which, by God, he is! Deep b-basset’s been his ruin; m-myself, I prefer to g-go to perdition with a d-dice-box.” He gave a reckless laugh, and suddenly sat down on the moss-covered stump of a felled tree, and buried his face in his hands.
“You are forgetting women, wine, and horses,” said Sir Richard unemotionally. “They also have played not inconsiderable roles in this dramatic progress of yours. Three years ago you were once again under the hatches. I forget what it cost to extricate you from your embarrassments, but I do seem to recall that you gave your word you would not again indulge in—er—quite so many excesses.”
“Well, I’m n-not expecting you to raise the w-wind for me this time,” said Beverley sulkily.
“What’s the figure?” Sir Richard asked.
“How should I know? I’m n-not a damned b-banking clerk! T-twelve thousand or so, I dare say. If you hadn’t spoiled my g-game, I c-could have settled the whole thing.”
“You delude yourself. When I encountered your friend Yarde he was making for the coast with the diamonds in his pocket.”
“Where are they now?”
“In my pocket,” Sir Richard said coolly.
Beverley lifted his head. “L-listen, Richard, you’re not a b-bad fellow! Who’s to know you ever had the d-diamonds in your hands? It ain’t your affair: give them to m-me, and forget all about the rest! I swear I’ll n-never breathe a w-word to a soul!”
“Do you know, Beverley, you nauseate me? As for giving you the diamonds, I have come here with exactly that purpose.”
Beverley’s hand shot out. “I d-don’t care what you think of m-me! Only hand the n-necklace over!”
“Certainly,” Sir Richard said, taking the leather purse out of his pocket. “But you, Beverley, will give them back to your mother.”
Beverley stared at him. “I’ll be d-damned if I will! You fool, how could I?”
“You may concoct what plausible tale you please: I will even engage myself to lend it my support. But you will give back the necklace.”
A slight sneer disfigured Beverley’s face. “Oh, j-just as you l-like! Hand it over!”
Sir Richard tossed the purse over to him. “Ah, Beverley! Perhaps I should make it clear to you that if, when I return to town, it has not been restored to Lady Saar I shall be compelled to—er—split on you.”
“You won’t!” Beverley said, stowing the purrse away in an inner pocket. “M-mighty pretty behaviour for a b-brother-in-law!”
“But I am not your brother-in-law,” said Sir Richard gently.
“Oh, you n-needn’t think I don’t know you’re g-going to m-marry Melissa! Our scandals will become yours too. I think you’ll keep your m-mouth shut.”
“I am always sorry to disappoint expectations, but I have not the smallest intention of marrying your sister,” said Sir Richard, taking another pinch of snuff.
Beverley’s jaw dropped. “You d-don’t mean she w-wouldn’t have you?”
“No, I don’t mean that.”
“B-but it’s as g-good as settled!”
“Not, believe me, by me.”
“The d-devil!” Beverley said blankly.
“So you see,” pursued Sir Richard, “I should have no compunction whatsoever in informing Saar of this episode.”
“You w-wouldn’t split on me to my f-father!” Beverley cried, jumping up from the tree-stump.
“That, my dear Beverley, rests entirely with you.”
“But, d-damn it, m-man, I can’t give the d-diamonds back! I tell you I’m d-done—up, fast aground!”
“I fancy that to have married into your family would have cost me considerably more than twelve thousand pounds. I am prepared to settle your debts—ah, for-the last time, Beverley!”
“D-devilish good of you,” muttered Beverley. “G-give me the money, and I’ll settle ’em myself.”
“I fear that your intercourse with Captain Trimble has led you to credit others with his trusting disposition. I, alas, repose not the slightest reliance on your word. You may send a statement of your debts to my town house. I think that is all—except that you will be recalled to London suddenly, and you will leave Crome Hall, if you are wise, not later than to-morrow morning.”
“Blister it, I w-won’t be ordered about by y-you! I’ll leave w-when I choose!”
“If you don’t choose to do so in the morning, you will leave in the custody of a Bow Street Runner.”
Beverley coloured hotly. “By G-God, I’ll p-pay you for this, Richard!”
“But not, if I know you, until I have settled your debts,” said Sir Richard, turning on his heel.
Beverley stood still, watching him walk away down the path, until the undergrowth hid him from sight. It was several minutes before it occurred to him that although Sir Richard had been unpleasantly frank on some subjects, he had not divulged how or why he came to be in Queen Charlton.
Beverley frowned over this. Sir Richard might, of course, be visiting friends in the neighbourhood, but apart from a house belonging to some heiress or other, Crome Hall was the only country seat of any size for several miles. The more Beverley considered the matter, the more inexplicable became Sir Richard’s presence. From a sort of sullen curiosity, he passed easily to a mood of suspicion, and began to think that there was something very odd about the whole affair, and to wonder whether any profit could be made out of it.
He was not in the least grateful to Sir Richard for promising to pay his debts. He certainly wished to silence his more rapacious creditors, but he would have considered it a stupid waste of money to settle any bill which could possibly be held over to some later date. Moreover, the mere payment of his debts would not line his pockets, and it was hard to see how he was to continue to support life in the manner to which he was accustomed.
He took the necklace out, and looked at it. It was a singularly fine specimen of the jeweller’s art, and several of the stones in it were of a truly formidable size. It was worth perhaps twice twelve thousand pounds. One did not, of course, find it easy to obtain the real value of stolen goods, but even if he had been forced to sell it for as little as twenty thousand pounds he would still have been eight thousand pounds in pocket, since there was no longer the least necessity to share the proceeds with Horace Trimble. Trimble, Beverley thought, has bungled the affair, and deserved nothing. If only Richard could be silenced, Trimble need never know that the necklace had been recovered from Jimmy Yarde, and it could be sold to the sole advantage of the only one of the three persons implicated in its theft who had a real right to it.
The more he reflected on these lines, and the longer he gazed at the diamonds, the more fixed became Beverley’s conviction that Sir Richard, instead of assisting him in his financial difficulties, had actually robbed him of eight thousand pounds, if not more. A burning sense of injury possessed him, and if he could at that moment have done Sir Richard an injury, without incurring any himself, he would certainly have jumped at the chance.
But short of lying in wait for him, and shooting him, there did not seem to be anything he could do to Richard, with advantage; and although he would have been very glad to have heard of Richard’s sudden death, and would have thought it, quite sincerely, a judgment on him, his murderous inclination was limited, to do him justice, to a strong wish that Richard would fall out of a window, and break his neck, or be set upon by armed highwaymen, and summarily slain. At the same time, there was undoubtedly something queer about Richard’s being in this remote village, and it might be worth while to discover what had brought him to Queen Charlton.
Sir Richard, meanwhile, walked back to the village, arriving at the George in time to see a couple of sweating horses being led into the stable, and a postchaise being pushed into one corner of the roomy yard. He was therefore fully prepared to encounter strangers in the inn, and any doubts of their identity were set at rest upon his stepping into the entrance-parlour, and perceiving a matron with an imposing front seated upon one of the oaken settles, and vigorously fanning her heated countenance. At her elbow stood a stockily built young gentleman with his hair brushed into a Brutus, mopping his brow. He had somewhat globular eyes of no particular colour, and when seen in profile bore a distinct likeness to a hake.
The same unfortunate resemblance was to be observed, though in a less pronounced degree, in Mrs Griffin. The lady was built on massive lines, and appeared to be feeling the heat. Possibly a travelling costume of purple satin trimmed with a quantity of sarsenet, and worn under a spencer, and a voluminous cloak of drab merino cloth, might have contributed to her discomfort. Her locks were confined in a round cap, and over this she wore a beehive bonnet of moss-straw, trimmed with enough plumes to remind Sir Richard forcibly of a hearse. The landlord was standing in front of her in an attitude of concern, and as Sir Richard stepped into the entrance-parlour, she said in tones of strong resolution: “You are deceiving me! I demand to have this—this youth brought before me!”
“But, Mama!” said the stocky young man unhappily.
“Silence, Frederick!” pronounced the matron.
“But consider, Mama! If the—the young man the landlord speaks of is travelling with his uncle, he could not possibly be—be my cousin, could he?”
“I do not believe a word of what this man says!” declared Mrs Griffin. “I should not wonder if he had been bribed.”
The landlord regretfully said that no one had tried to bribe him.
“Pshaw!” said Mrs Griffin.
Sir Richard judged it to be time to call attention to his own presence. He walked forward in the direction of the staircase.
“Here is the gentleman!” said the landlord, with a good deal of relief. “He will tell for himself that what I’ve said is the truth, ma’am.”
Sir Richard paused, and glanced with raised eyebrows from Mrs Griffin to her son, and from Mr Frederick Griffin to the landlord. “I beg your pardon?” he drawled.
The attention of the Griffins instantly became focused upon him. The gentleman’s eyes were riveted to his cravat; the lady, taking in his air of elegance, was plainly shaken.
“If your honour pleases!” said the landlord. “The lady, sir, is come in search of a young gentleman, which has run away from school, the same being her ward. I’ve told her that I have but one young gentleman staying in the house, and him your honour’s nephew, and I’d be glad if you’d bear me out, sir.”
“Really,” said Sir Richard, bored, “I don’t know whom you have staying in the house besides myself and my nephew.”
“The question is, have you a nephew?” demanded Mrs Griffin.
Sir Richard raised his quizzing-glass, surveyed her through it, and bowed slightly. “I was certainly under the impression that I had a nephew, ma’am. May I ask in what way he interests you?”
“If he is your nephew, I have no interest in him whatsoever,” declared the matron handsomely.
“Mama!” whispered her son, anguished. “Recollect, I beg of you! A stranger! No proof! The greatest discretion!”
“I am quite distracted!” said Mrs Griffin, shedding tears.
This had the effect of driving the landlord from the room, and of flustering Mr Griffin. Between trying to pacify his parent, and excusing such odd behaviour to the elegant stranger, he became hotter than ever, and floundered in a morass of broken phrases. The look of astonishment on Sir Richard’s face, the pained lift of his brows, quite discomposed him, and he ended by saying: “The truth is my mother is sadly overwrought!”
“My confidence has been betrayed!” interpolated Mrs Griffin, raising her face from her damp handkerchief.
“Yes, Mama: precisely so! Her confidence has been betrayed, sir, by—by the shocking conduct of my cousin, who has—”
“I have nourished a viper in my bosom!” said Mrs Griffin.
“Just so, Mama. She has nourished—at least, not quite that, perhaps, but it is very bad, very upsetting to a lady of delicate sensibility!”
“All my life,” declaimed Mrs Griffin, “I have been surrounded by ingratitude!”
“Mama, you cannot be surrounded by—and in any case, you know it is not so! Do, pray, calm yourself! I shall claim your indulgence, sir. The circumstances are so peculiar, and my cousin’s behaviour has exerted so strong an effect upon my poor mother that—in short—”
“It is the impropriety of it which is worse than anything!” said Mrs Griffin.
“Exactly so, Mama. You see, it is the impropriety, sir—I mean, my mother is not quite herself.”
“I shall never,” announced the matron, “hold up my head again! It is my belief that this person is in league with her!”
“Mama, most earnestly I implore you—!”
“Her?” repeated Sir Richard, apparently bewildered.
“Him!” corrected Mr Griffin.
“You must forgive me if I do not perfectly understand you,” said Sir Richard. “I apprehend that you have—er—mislaid a youth, and have come—”
“Precisely so, sir! We mis—at least, no, no, we did not mislay him, of course!”
“Ran away!” uttered Mrs Griffin, emerging from the handkerchief for a brief instant.
“Ran away,” corroborated her son.
“But in what way,” enquired Sir Richard, “does this concern me, sir?”
“Not at all, sir, I assure you! No such suspicion is cherished by me, upon my word!”
“What suspicion?” asked Sir Richard, still more bewildered.
“None sir, none in the world! That is just what I was saying. I have no suspicion—”
“But I have!” said Mrs Griffin, in much more robust tones. “I accuse you of concealing the truth from me!”
“Mama, do but consider! You cannot—you know you cannot insult this gentleman by insinuating—”
“In the execution of my duty there is nothing I cannot do!” responded his mother nobly. “Besides, I do not know him. I mistrust him.”
Mr Griffin turned wretchedly to Sir Richard: “You see, sir, my mother—”
“Mistrusts me,” supplied Sir Richard.
“No, no, I assure you! My mother is sadly put out, and scarcely knows what she is saying.”
“I am in the fullest possession of my faculties, I thank you, Frederick!” said Mrs Griffin, gathering strength.
“Of course, of course, Mama! But the agitation—the natural agitation—”
“If he is speaking the truth,” interrupted Mrs Griffin, “let him summon his nephew to stand before me!”
“Ah, I begin to understand you!” said Sir Richard. “Is it possible, ma’am, that you suspect my nephew of being your errant ward?”
“No, no!” said Griffin feebly.
“Yes!” declared his mother.
“But Mama, only consider what such a thought must imply!” said Mr Griffin in a frenzied aside.
“I can believe anything of that unnatural creature!”
“I should doubt very much whether my nephew is upon the premises,” said Sir Richard coldly. “He was engaged to spend the day with friends, upon an expedition of pleasure. However, if he should not yet have left the house, I will engage to—er—allay all these heart burnings.”
“If he has run out to escape us, I shall await his return!” said Mrs Griffin. “And so I warn you!”
“I admire your resolution, ma’am, but I must point out to you that your movements are of no possible interest to me,” said Sir Richard, stepping over to the bell, and jerking it.
“Frederick!” said Mrs Griffin. “Will you stand by and hear your mother being insulted by one whom I strongly suspect of being a dandy?”
“But Mama, indeed, it is no concern of ours if he is!”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Richard, in arctic tones, “it may be of service if I make myself known to you, ma’am. My name is Wyndham.”
Mrs Griffin received this information with every appearance of disdain, but its effect upon her son was staggering. His eyes seemed to be in danger of bursting out of their sockets; he started forward, and ejaculated in tones of deepest reverence: “Sir! is this possible? Have I the honour of addressing Sir Richard Wyndham?”
Sir Richard bowed slightly.
“The celebrated Whip?” asked Mr Griffin.
Sir Richard bowed again.
“The creator of the Wyndham Fall?” pursued Mr Griffin, almost overcome.
Tired of bowing, Sir Richard said: “Yes.”
“Sir,” said Mr Griffin, “I am happy to make your acquaintance! My name is Griffin!”
“How do you do?” murmured Sir Richard, holding out his hand.
Mr Griffin clasped it. “I wonder I should not have recognized you. Mama, we have been quite mistaken. This is none other than the famous Sir Richard Wyndham—the friend of Brummell, you know! You must have heard me—you must have heard him spoken of. It is quite impossible that he can know anything of my cousin’s whereabouts.”
She seemed to accept this, though with obvious reluctance. She looked Sir Richard over with disfavour, and said paralysingly: “I have the greatest dislike of all forms of dandyism, and I have ever deplored the influence exerted by the Bow-Window set upon young men of respectable upbringing. However, if you are indeed Sir Richard Wyndham, I dare say you would not object to showing my son how to arrange his cravat in what he calls the Wyndham Fall, so that he need no longer spoil every neckcloth in his drawer before achieving a result which I consider lamentable.”
“Mama!” whispered the unhappy Mr Griffin. “I beg of you!”
The entrance of a servant, in answer to the bell’s summons, came as a timely interruption. Upon being asked to discover whether Sir Richard’s nephew were in the house, he was able to reply that the young gentleman had left the inn some time previously.
“Then I fear there is nothing for you to do but to await his return,” said Sir Richard, addressing himself to Mrs Griffin.
“We should not dream of—Mama, there can be no doubt that she—he—did not come here after all. Lady Luttrell disclaims all knowledge, remember, and she must certainly have known if my cousin had come into this neighbourhood.”
“If I could think that she had gone to cousin Jane, all would not yet be lost!” said Mrs Griffin. “Yet it is possible? I fear the worst!”
“This is all very perplexing,” complained Sir Richard. “I was under the impression that this mysterious truant was of the male sex.”
“Frederick, my nerves can stand no more!” said Mrs Griffin, surging to her feet. “If you mean to drag me the length of England again, I must insist upon being permitted the indulgence of half an hour’s solitude first!”
“But Mama, it was not I who would come here!” expostulated Mr Griffin.
Sir Richard again rang the bell, and this time desired that a chambermaid should be sent to him. Mrs Griffin was presently consigned to the care of an abigail, and left the room majestically, commanding hot water to wash with, tea, and a decent bedchamber.
Her son heaved a sigh of relief. “I must beg pardon, Sir Richard! You must allow me to beg your pardon!”
“Not at all,” said Sir Richard.
“Yes, yes, I insist! Such an unfortunate misunderstanding! An explanation is due to you! A slip of the tongue, you know, but my mother is labouring under strong emotion, and does not quite heed what she says. You noticed it: indeed, no one could wonder at your surprise! The unhappy truth, sir, is that my cousin is not a boy, but—in a word, sir—a female!”
“This explanation, Mr Griffin, is quite unnecessary, believe me.”
“Sir,” said Mr Griffin earnestly, “as a Man of the World, I should value your opinion! Concealment is useless: the truth must be discovered in the end. What, sir, would you think of a member of the Weaker Sex who assumed the disguise of a man, and left the home of her natural protector by way of the window?”
“I should assume,” replied Sir Richard, “that she had strong reasons for acting with such resolution.”
“She did not wish to marry me,” said Mr Griffin gloomily.
“Oh!” said Sir Richard.
“Well, I’m sure I can’t see why she should be so set against me, but that’s not it, sir. The thing is that here’s my mother determined to find her, and to make her marry me, and so hush up the scandal. But I don’t like it above half. If she dislikes the notion so much, I don’t think I ought to marry her, do you?”
“Emphatically not!”
“I must say I am very glad to hear you say that, Sir Richard!” said Mr Griffin, much cheered. “For you must know that my mother has been telling me ever since yesterday that I must marry her now, to save her name. But I think she would very likely make me uncomfortable, and nothing could make up for that, in my opinion.”
“A lady capable of escaping out of a window in the guise of a man would quite certainly make you more than uncomfortable,” said Sir Richard.
“Yes, though she’s only a chit of a girl, you know. In fact, she is not yet out. I am very happy to have had the benefit of the opinion of a Man of the World. I feel that I can rely on your judgment.”
“On my judgment you might, but in nothing else, I assure you,” said Sir Richard. “You know nothing of me, after all. How do you know that I am not now concealing your cousin from you?”
“Ha-ha! Very good, upon my word! Very good, indeed!” said Mr Griffin, saluting a jest of the first water.