Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 9

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“Well,” enquired George, as they stepped out upon the sunny road, “what do you think of old Jabez’s ridiculous tale?”

“Oceans, sir!”

“D’you mean you actually believe it?”

“Every vord, sir, or—pretty near. So my vord now and therefore is—weathercock?”

“Eh—weathercock?”

“That werry i-dentical, sir! There should be some mention o’ same in the church register as’ll give us the year.”

“Good lord!” exclaimed George, halting in amazement, “Then you must think that baby was—or is—the——” He leapt, seized Mr. Shrig in powerful arm and hurled him into the ditch as over the hedge directly above them leaped a great black horse to land in cloud of dust and therein rear, plunge, caper and dance until his rider, checking him at last, turned that she might frown upon George, who scowled up at her.

“Fool! Oaf!” she panted. “Why did you—frighten my horse?”

“Marm,” George retorted, “why did you try to kill us?”

“How dare you—say such a vile thing?”

“Or,” George added, scornfully, “since you can’t ride, why make the attempt?”

“I knew,” she cried, “you were detestable—a perfectly odious wretch—the first moment I saw you!”

“And I,” said George, “felt precisely the same regarding you, my lady Clytie! You revolted me then, you are abhorrent to me now and always will——”

She struck at him with the light riding-switch she carried, but, warding the blow, George twisted it from her grasp, snapped it asunder and, tossing the pieces along the road, gestured towards them, saying:

“Follow your whip, gracious lady, and I hope to God we don’t meet often.”

For a moment she looked down at him through the long lashes of eyes half closed, her ruddy lips back-drawn from white teeth tight-clenched; and, meeting this look, George thought again how beautifully evil was this face. Thus for a breathless moment they glared upon each other, then her shapely body relaxed, she sighed deeply, nodded slowly and said murmurously:

“We shall see!” Then, crying to her eager horse, away she went at furious gallop in swirl of dust. For a moment George stared after her, then, turning beheld Mr. Shrig seated comfortably on the side of his ditch, that chanced to be dry, also watching Lady Clytie’s wild career.

“By goles!” he sighed, rising with surprising nimbleness. “She is a reg’lar ama-zeen—like them ladies as used to hunt their husbands vith bows and arrers, not to mention spears and battleaxes. She’s a parfect out-and-outer and a werry bee-oo-tiful young party, too, a lovelly fee-male and no error!”

“Beautiful—yes!” nodded George. “But lovely—no! Certainly not! Anything but.”

“Vich you told her werry plain and p’inted!”

“Ay, I did! And wish I’d said more, for b’gad she’s a feminine devil, a female demon and——”

“Ree-markable handsome.”

“Why harp on it, Shrig? She’s handsome enough, I suppose—in a horrible, dark sort of way.... And,” he continued indignantly, after three or four strides, “she might have killed us.”

Two or three more strides and:

“Do you think—she meant to?”

Having duly considered the question, Mr. Shrig replied:

“Sir, and friend, all as I can tell you is—ekker alone responds!”

“Yes, yes,” said George impatiently, “but how does echo respond—what does it say?”

“No more, Mr. Bell sir, than natur’ allows to sich. And there’s another on ’em!”

“Another of what?”

“Lovelly and handsome vomen—yonder!” Now glancing whither directed.

“Yes, old fellow,” said George, his black scowl vanishing, “by Jove and Jupiter, you’re right this time; she is handsome, and lovely, too! Come and meet her.”

Mistress Isabel, who was busied (of course, with gracious dignity) using that same hoe old Jabez had so mismanaged, glanced up at click of the opening wicket-gate and her rather austere features were softened by the smile of welcome that made her so truly beautiful.

“Aunt,” said George, as she turned to greet them, “here is Mr. Jasper Shrig of Bow Street; sir, my aunt, Mistress Isabel Standish.”

“Honoured, ma’m!” said he, hat in hand. “Honour is the only vord for it.”

“Mr. Shrig,” she replied with gracious curtsy, “you are welcome. My nephew has spoken of you.... Sherry, George, and bid Betty set another cover, for of course you will dine with me.” Mr. Shrig removed his hat again, saying:

“My lady, the vord now is ‘gratitood’.”

“You are a law officer, I understand, from London.”

“That i-denticle, my lady.”

“And very famous, my nephew informs me.”

“He does me proud, ma’m.”

“Shall you remain long in the country, sir?”

“As possible, ma’m, for the longer I live in London the better I like the country, ’specially the downland country, and most especially this here garden wi’ all these bee-oo-tiful flowers, but none on ’em so much so as their mistress, no, neether bud nor blossom!”

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, opening those splendid eyes of hers wider than usual. “You are a most surprising law officer, Mr. Shrig!”

“Werry true, my lady; there’s others has thought the same.”

“Oh, but, Mr. Shrig, I am no titled lady, merely plain Isabel Standish.”

“Ar, but—there’s ladies by fortun’ and ladies by natur, and my eyes, or as you might say ogles, tells me as you might be both, and there y’are, my lady!” She laughed so gaily that George set down well-laden tray to peer from the cottage window and thus beheld his stately aunt and Mr. Shrig seated side by side in animated conversation.

“Mr. Shrig,” she was saying, “I should like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

“Vich, my lady, I’ll answer full and free on condition as you answer a few o’ mine.”

“Agreed, sir. First then, are you quite convinced those sad and very dreadful remains are those of Philip, the seventh Earl?”

“According to the evidence, my lady, nobody could be more so. Con-sequently my first question is: did you ever hear tell of a baby on a tombstone?” Again Miss Isabel laughed ere she replied:

“Yes, indeed! So has everyone in the village and for miles around. Old Jabez has been telling his ghost story ever since I can remember.”

“Second question: can you mind the present Earl, being now the eighth, years ago, how he looked and how he did?”

“Oh yes. He was tall, handsome and immensely strong. I remember seeing him bend a poker in those big, white hands of his ... he lived here at the Castle in those days.”

“Third question: married or single, marm?”

“Single. He did not marry until years later; in London, I believe. I never met his Countess.”

At this moment back came George to set down a well-laden tray, saying as he did so:

“By the way, Aunt, I can tell you, if Shrig hasn’t, that a certain Lady Clytie Moor did her best to kill us on our way here!” And he related the incident with such fury of word and gesture that Miss Isabel looked and listened in ever-growing surprise.

“But, my dear George,” she demurred, “it was an accident, of course, though one might imagine from your manner that you deemed it intentional——”

“I wonder!” said he, filling the glasses.

“Nonsense, George! An attempt at murder—how utterly preposterous!”

“However,” said he, frowning at the recollection, “her horse’s fore-hoofs for the moment looked like braining Mr. Shrig.”

“But, my lady, your nevvy acted that prompt I was in the ditch, flat as any flounder in the twinkle of a bedpost!”

“In the ditch? Do you mean he actually threw you there?”

“Lady, he tossed me there like as I’d been a feather—otherwise ’stead o’ setting here so j’yful wi’ life along o’ you, I should be stiffening ready for a vooden overcoat. Vich being so, friend George sir, my name to you is Jarsper as I’m hoping you’ll use henceforth.”

“Agreed, Jasper, if you’ll remember I’m George.” At this moment Saint Mark chimed one o’clock, and Betty, abloom in mobcap and apron, appeared to announce:

“Dinner be ready, Miss Belle, ma’m.”

So they went to eat and drink, talk and laugh together in ever-growing good fellowship. Thus when, some while later, Mr. Shrig took his leave, Mistress Isabel grasped his hand with clasp warm and hearty as his own, saying as heartily:

“Jasper Shrig, you will always be welcome here at Sparklebrook Cottage!” Whereto he replied, hat in hand:

“Mistress Isabel, you’ll never velcome any guest oo’s gratitood is truer, my lady, than yours most trooly J. S.”

And when the wicket-gate had clicked behind him, Mr. Shrig went at leisured pace, his lips pursed in soundless whistle as was his wont when busied on some problem or, for the time being Crime and Vindictiveness were forgotten—or very nearly.

“George,” said Miss Isabel in her downright manner, “I like your Jasper Shrig.”

“Good,” he nodded. “Though I’m surprised you should do so.”

“Oh why, pray?”

“Well, he’s such a queer sort of customer and generally up to his ears in crime, principally murder. Mr. Jackman says he’s a terrible fellow and likens him to a lion, a serpent and a bloodhound! Jasper Shrig has discovered and captured no end of criminals and sent many of them to the gallows.”

“And the right place for them, George; but for you now—the kitchen garden and a spade, for I confess that as a digger I am my own disappointment, so, my dear, come and do it for me.”

“Ay, ay, commander!” he answered, knuckling an eyebrow and making a leg, sailor fashion.

“Well, off with your coat; remember it is your second best——”

“Ay, ay again, cap’n, off it is!”

But in the kitchen garden they found the aged one so extremely hard at work that he had not time for speech or even a glance until Miss Isabel exclaimed:

“Why, Jabez—I thought we’d given one another notice and discharged each other!”

The old fellow drove his spade deep, leaned on it and nodded, saying:

“So did I, Miss Belle; but seeing as ’ow you’s you, me’s I, and us is ourselves, it can’t be nohow, nowise nowhen, never—no! Us and this yere gardin’ b’longs together till death do us part, amen! Now goo away, both on ee, and leave I to me work—like as only I can work.”

“Good for you, old Heartofoak!” laughed George. “Commander, you are commanded, the vord now is—go!” And, laughing, back they went together, leaving the aged one to his labour....

Meantime, perched upon shady stile afar, Mr. Shrig was inscribing on a particular page of his “little reader” a certain name with divers curls and flourishes, which done, he beamed and nodded at it, winked and whistled soundlessly at it; then, closing the notebook, thrust it carefully into the breast of his trim coat, took up his knobbed stick that was so very like a bludgeon, and strode away townwards.