‘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 rightwords. 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 haveanyof it?Iwas the eldest son. Me.Montclair is rightfullymine.’ 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.’
