3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock

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СКАЧАТЬ Is that what your trouble is? Oh naughty boy, naughty boy.’

      I thought he was taunting me. There was a strange greed in the pale eyes. I turned away, trying to cram myself into the dark corner, but he stepped towards me. His hand slid over my haunches, then round towards my belly. I opened my mouth to scream and closed it again, unwillingly gulping in the smell of him: bay-leaf pomade, starched linen, peppermint breath. Then a warmer, earthier smell as Rancie caught my fear, lifted her tail and splatted steaming turds on to the straw. I wriggled away from him and dodged under Rancie’s neck, putting her body between him and me. He came round behind her, still giggling.

      ‘Don’t be shy, boy. Don’t stand on ceremony.’

      He was between me and the door. I was too shamed to even think of screaming and had even taken hold of Rancie’s mane, wondering if somehow I could manage to clamber up on her back, when a larger shape appeared at the half-door.

      ‘You all right in there, boy?’

      Amos Legge, a pitchfork in hand. The word ‘boy’ that had sounded a slithery thing in the fashion plate’s voice was different and reassuring in his. I said ‘no’, trying to make it sound masculine and gruff, but the fashion plate’s high drawl cut across me, speaking to Amos.

      ‘He’s been a naughty boy and I’m dealing with him. Go away.’

      Amos took no notice. He slid back the bolt and walked in, giving the fashion plate a considering look. He said or did nothing threatening, but the size and assurance of him was enough. Fashion plate took a step away from me and his voice was less confident.

      ‘Go away. You can come in and clear up later.’

      ‘Best do it now, sir.’

      Amos picked up Rancie’s droppings with the pitchfork. In the process he let some fall on the toe of fashion plate’s highly polished boot. The man let out a howl.

      ‘You clumsy oaf.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir. Mucky places, stables.’

      Fashion plate opened his mouth then looked up at Amos and decided not to say anything. He pushed past us to the door and went, slamming it behind him.

      ‘You all right, miss?’ Amos said.

      I nodded, not trusting my voice.

      ‘You’d best be off, miss. You just walk along with me as far as the midden and no one will take any notice.’

      We went side by side across the yard, Amos carrying the bundle of soiled straw on his pitchfork. Most of the people in the yard were fussing round the travelling coach and took no notice of us. There was no sign of the fat man. The fashion plate had his boot up on a step of the mounting block and a trim man in a black jacket was wiping it with a cloth, both of them looking as serious as if he were performing delicate surgery. The muck heap was right alongside the gate.

      ‘Off you go then,’ Amos said. ‘If you’re in any trouble, you get word to me, look. And here’s your letters –’

      He took a slim bundle out of his pocket and slid it into mine. Until then, I’d forgotten, in my fear and distress, the reason for being there.

      ‘Here’s another one for the post,’ I said, almost dropping it in my haste to hand it over and be gone.

      I covered the first half-mile or so at a pace between a stumbling run and a walk, fearful all the time of hearing shouts or horses’ hooves behind me. Fashion plate, once his boot was out of danger, would surely tell the fat man about the woman in disguise, and if the fat man somehow guessed who she was …

      I know the fear wasn’t reasonable. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that fashion plate had hardly cut a noble picture in the loosebox so might not be eager to talk about it. The fact was, I credited the fat man with almost demonic powers and wanted to get as far away from him as I could. A stitch stabbed at my ribs and my breath came short, but I would not slow to an ordinary walk until I was on the main road again, within sight of Mandeville Hall. I went up the back road as usual, into the kitchen courtyard, through the room with the chamber pots and up the four flights of wooden stairs to my room. The letters crackled in the pockets as I took off my jacket. There was one addressed to me in Mr Blackstone’s hand, another plumper one for Miss Mandeville. No time to do anything about them now. The stable clock was striking seven and I was already late for the children’s prayers. I put the letters in my bag, changed, did my hair and ran downstairs.

      The two boys were already dressed and sitting at the schoolroom table. Betty was brushing Henrietta’s hair.

      ‘There’s straw on your dress,’ Henrietta said.

      I brushed it off. Betty looked a little disapproving, probably convinced I was a lazy lie-a-bed. Once prayers had been said, I made amends by volunteering to take the children for their before-breakfast walk on my own. The fact was, I wanted to go to the flower garden to leave my signal for Celia. As they ran around among the flower beds, I chose a spray of white sweet peas and wove it into the curlicues of the rustic bench.

      ‘Why are you doing that?’ Henrietta said.

      The child was worse than a whole army of spies. I distracted her by making a crown of sweet peas for her hair. She was delighted and wore it at breakfast, but it didn’t stop her noticing things.

      ‘Miss Lock has eaten four slices of bread and butter.’

      Betty told her a lady never made comment on what people were eating, but I was shame-faced, wondering if I’d developed a boy’s appetite to go with the rest. After that, I yawned my way through the after-breakfast session in the schoolroom. Luckily, Saturdays were less formal than the rest of the week and the children were put into pinafores and allowed to do things involving paint or paste. Charles painted meticulous red jackets on to his lead soldiers, Henrietta attempted a watercolour and James re-arranged his formidable collection of empty snail shells. Seeing them so happily occupied, I was wondering whether I might sneak upstairs and read my letter from Mr Blackstone when there was a knock on the door. Patrick the footman stood outside.

      ‘Mrs Quivering’s compliments, and would Miss Lock kindly go down to the housekeeper’s room.’

      Betty gave me a look that said, Oh dear, what have you done? and I followed Patrick’s black-liveried back down the stairs, wondering which of my many sins had found me out, almost certain that in the next few minutes I faced dismissal. I could only hope it was nothing worse than that.

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      She was sitting at her desk with a pile of papers in front of her, cap tilted sideways as if she’d been running her hands through her hair. She looked tired and worried, but not especially hostile.

      ‘Miss Lock, it’s good of you to come down. I’m sorry to take you away from your pupils.’

      Was it sarcasm? If so, there was no sign of it on her face.

      ‘As you may have heard, Miss Lock, we are planning to entertain a large number of people next weekend, a dinner for forty people on Friday and a ball for more than a hundred on Saturday.’

      I nodded, not sure if I was supposed to know even as much as that.

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