Chapter 9
Having got rid of Piers Luttrell, who, after peering at his watch surreptitiously, and several times looking about him as though in the expectation of seeing someone hiding amongst the trees, went off, rather relieved but much bewildered, Sir Richard walked away to rejoin Pen and the unknown lady. He found only Pen, seated on the bank with an air of aloof virtue, her hands folded primly on her knees. He paused, looking her over with a comprehending eye. “And where,” he asked in conversational tones, “is your companion?”
“She chose to go home,” responded Pen. “I dare say she grew tired of waiting for you to come back.”
“Ah, no doubt! Did you by any chance, suggest to her that she should do so?”
“No, because it was not at all necessary. She was very anxious to go. She said she wished she had not come.”
“Did she tell you why she had come?”
“No. I asked her, of course, but she is such a silly little missish thing that she would do nothing but cry, and say she was a wicked girl. Do you know what I think, Richard?”
“Probably.”
“Well, it’s my belief she came to meet someone. She seems to me exactly the sort of female who would feel romantic just because there is a full moon. Besides, why else should she be here at this hour?”
“Why indeed?” agreed Sir Richard. “I apprehend that you have little sympathy to spare for such folly?”
“None at all,” said Pen. “In fact, I think it’s silly, besides being improper.”
“You are severe!”
“I can tell by your voice that you are laughing at me. I expect you are thinking of my climbing out of a window. But I was not going to meet a lover by moonlight! Such stuff!”
“Fustian,” nodded Sir Richard. “Did she disclose the identity of her lover?”
“No, but she said her own name was Lydia Daubenay. And no sooner had she told me that than she went off into another taking, and said she was distracted, and wished she had not told me. Really, I was quite glad when she decided to go home without waiting for you.”
“Yes, I had rather gathered the impression that her company was not agreeable to you. I suppose it hardly signifies. She did not appear to me to be the kind of young woman who could be trusted to bear a still tongue in her head.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Pen thoughtfully. “She was so frightened I quite think she may not say a word about the adventure. I have been considering the matter, and it seems to me that she must be in love with someone whom her parents do not wish her to marry.”
“That,” said Sir Richard, “seems to be a fair conclusion.”
“So that I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she conceals the fact that she was in the wood to-night. By the way, was it the stammering-man?”
“It was, and Miss Daubenay was right in her suspicion: he is dead.”
Miss Creed accepted this with fortitude. “Well, if he is, I can tell you who killed him. That girl told me all over again how it happened, and there is no doubt that the other man was Captain Trimble. And he did it to get the necklace!”
“Admirable!” said Sir Richard.
“It is as plain as a pikestaff. And now that I come to think of it, it may very likely be all for the best. Of course, I am sorry for the stammering-man, but you can’t deny that he was a very disagreeable person. Besides, I know perfectly well that he was threatening you. That is why I followed you. Now we are rid of the whole affair!”
“Not quite, I fear. You must not think that I am unmoved by your heroic behaviour, but I could wish that you had gone to bed, Pen.”
“Yes, but I find that most unreasonable of you,” objected Pen. “It seems to me that you want to keep all the adventure for yourself!”
“I appreciate your feelings,” said Sir Richard, “but I would point out to you that your situation is a trifle—shall we say irregular?—and that we have been at considerable pains to excite no undue attention. Hence that abominable stage-coach. The last thing in the world I desire is to see you brought forward as a witness to this affair. If Miss Daubenay does not disclose her share in it, you may yet escape notice, but, to tell you the truth, I place little dependence on Miss Daubenay’s discretion.”
“Oh!” said Pen, digesting this. “You think there may be a little awkwardness if it should be discovered that I am not a boy? Perhaps we had better leave Queen Charlton?”
“No, that would indeed be fatal. We are now committed to this adventure. I am going to inform the local magistrate that I have discovered a corpse in this spinney. As you have encountered Miss Daubenay, upon whose discretion we have decided to place no reliance, I shall mention the fact that you accompanied me upon my evening stroll, and we must trust that no particular notice will be taken of you. By the way, brat, I think you had better become my young cousin—my remote young cousin.”
“Ah!” said Miss Creed, gratified. “My own story!”
“Your own story.”
“Well, I must say I am glad you don’t wish to run away,” she confided. “You cannot conceive how much I am enjoying myself! I dare say it is otherwise with you, but, you see, I have had such a very dull life up till now! And I’ll tell you another thing, Richard: naturally I am very anxious to find Piers, but I think we had better not send any word to him until we have finished this adventure.”
He was silent for a moment. “Are you very anxious to find Piers?” he asked at last.
“Of course I am! Why, that is why we came!”
“Very true. I was forgetting. You will see Piers to-morrow morning, I fancy.”
She got up from the bank. “I shall see him to-morrow? But how do you know?”
“I should have mentioned to you that I have just had the felicity of meeting him.”
“Piers?” she exclaimed. “Here? In the wood?”
“Over Beverley Brandon’s body.”
“I thought I heard voices! But how did he come to be here? And why didn’t you bring him to me directly?”
Sir Richard took time over his answer. “You see, I was under the impression that Miss Daubenay was still with you,” he explained.
“Oh, I see!” said Pen innocently. “Yes, indeed, you did quite right! We don’t want her to be included in our adventure. But did you tell Piers about me?”
“The moment did not seem to be propitious,” confessed Sir Richard. “I told him to come to visit me at the “George” to-morrow morning, and on no account to divulge his presence in the wood to-night.”
“What a surprise it will be to him when he finds me at the “George”!” said Pen gleefully.
“Yes,” said Sir Richard. “I think it will be—a surprise to him.”
She fell into step beside him on their way back to the road. “I am glad you did not tell him! I suppose he had come to look for the stammering-man? I can’t conceive how he could have had such a disagreeable person to visit him!”
Sir Richard, who had rarely, during the twenty-nine years of his existence, found himself at a loss, now discovered that he was totally incapable of imparting his own suspicions to his trusting companion. Apparently, it had not occurred to her that the sentiments of her old playfellow might have undergone a change; and so fixed in her mind was a five-year-old pact of betrothal that it had not entered her head to question either its durable qualities, or its desirability. She evidently considered herself plighted to Piers Luttrell, a circumstance which had no doubt had much to do with her friendly acceptance of Sir Richard’s companionship. Phrases of warning half-formed themselves in Sir Richard’s brain, and were rejected. Piers would have to do his explaining; Sir Richard could only hope that upon coming face to face with him after a lapse of years, Pen might discover that as he had outgrown a childhood’s fancy, so too had she.
They entered the George together. Pen went up to bed at a nod from Sir Richard, but Sir Richard rang the bell for a servant. A sleepy waiter came in answer to the summons, and, upon being asked for the direction of the nearest magistrate, said that Sir Jasper Luttrell was the nearest, but was away from home. He knew of no other, so Sir Richard desired him to fetch the landlord to him, and sat down to write a short note to whom it might concern.