SEVEN
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 sisterMelissa, 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 started 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 areyoud-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 withGentleman 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 toyou? Yarde d-did that? B-but how d-did you know he had them? Howc-couldyou 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.
