The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📕

or say. He was content to receive and promptly execute his orders, and to worship Carstares with a dog-like devotion, following blindly in his wake, happy as long as he might serve him.

Carstares had found him in France, very down upon his luck, having been discharged from the service of his late master owing to the penniless condition of that gentleman’s pocket. He had engaged him as his own personal servant, and the man had remained with him ever since, proving an invaluable acquisition to my Lord John. Despite a singularly wooden countenance, he was by no means a fool, and he had helped Carstares out of more than one tight corner during his inglorious and foolhardy career as highwayman. He probably understood his somewhat erratic master better than anyone else, and he now divined what was in his mind. He returned that glance with a significant wink.

“‘Twas them gentlemen ye held up to-day, sir?” he asked, jerking an expressive thumb towards the window.

“M’m. Mr. Bumble Bee and friend. It would almost appear so. I think I do not fully appreciate Mr. Bumble Bee. I find his conduct rather tiresome. But it is just possible that he thinks the same of me. I will further my acquaintance with him.”

Jim grunted scornfully, and an inquiring eye was cocked at him.

“You do not admire our friend? Pray, do not judge him by his exterior. He may possess a beautiful mind. But I do not think so. N-no, I really do not think so.” He chuckled a little. “Do you know, Jim, I believe I am going to enjoy myself to-night!”

“I don’t doubt it, your honour. ‘Twere child’s play to trick the fat gentleman.”

“Probably. But it is not with the fat gentleman that I shall have to deal. ‘Tis with all the officials of this charming town, an I mistake not. Do I hear the small spider returning?”

Salter stepped back to the window.

“Ay, sir—with three others.”

“Precisely. Be so good as to hand me my snuffbox. And my cane. Thank you. I feel the time has now come for me to put in an appearance. Pray, bear in mind that I am new come from France and journey by easy stages to London. And cultivate a stupid expression. Yes, that will do excellently.”

Jim grinned delightedly; he had assumed no expression of stupidity, and was consequently much pleased with this pleasantry. He swung open the door with an air, and watched “Sir Anthony” mince along the passage to the stairs.

In the coffee-room the city merchant, Mr. Fudby by name, was relating the story of his wrongs, with many an impressive pause, and much emphasis, to the mayor, town-clerk, and beadle of Lewes. All three had been fetched by Mr. Chilter, his clerk, in obedience to his orders, for the bigger the audience the better pleased was Mr. Fudby. He was now enjoying himself quite considerably, despite the loss of his precious cash-box.

So was not Mr. Hedges, the mayor. He was a fussy little man who suffered from dyspepsia; he was not interested in the affair, and he did not see what was to be done for Mr. Fudby. Further, he had been haled from his dinner, and he was hungry; and, above all, he found Mr. Fudby very unattractive. Still, a highroad robbery was serious matter enough, and some course of action must be thought out; so he listened to the story with an assumption of interest, looking exceedingly wise, and, at the proper moments, uttering sounds betokening concern.

The more he saw and heard of Mr. Fudby, the less he liked him. Neither did the town-clerk care for him. There was that about Mr. Fudby that did not endear him to his fellow-men, especially when they chanced to be his inferiors in the social scale. The beadle did not think much about anything. Having decided (and rightly) that the affair had nothing whatever to do with him, he leaned back in his chair and stared stolidly up at the ceiling.

The tale Mr. Fudby was telling bore surprisingly little resemblance to the truth. It was a much embellished version, in which he himself had behaved with quite remarkable gallantry. It had been gradually concocted during the journey to Lewes.

He was still holding forth when my lord entered the room. Carstares raised his glass languidly to survey the assembled company, bowed slightly, and walked over to the fire. He seated himself in an armchair and took no further notice of anybody.

Mr. Hedges had recognised at a glance that here was some grand seigneur and wished that Mr. Fudby would not speak in so loud a voice. But that individual, delighted at having a new auditor, continued his tale with much relish and in a still louder tone.

My lord yawned delicately and took a pinch of snuff.

“Yes, yes,” fussed Mr. Hedges. “But, short of sending to London for the Runners, I do not see what I can do. If I send to London, it must, of course, be at your expense, sir.”

Mr. Fudby bristled.

“At my expense, sir? Do ye say at my expense? I am surprised! I repeat—I am surprised!”

“Indeed, sir? I can order the town-crier out, describing the horse, and—er—offering a reward for the capture of any man on such an animal. But—” he shrugged and looked across at the town-clerk—“I do not imagine that ‘twould be of much use—eh, Mr. Brand?”

The clerk pursed his lips and spread out his hands.

“I fear not; I very much fear not. I would advise Mr. Fudby to have a proclamation posted up round the country.” He sat back with the air of one who has contributed his share to the work, and does not intend to offer any more help.

“Ho!” growled Mr. Fudby. He blew out his cheeks. “‘Twill be a grievous expense, though I suppose it must be done, and I cannot but feel that if it had not been for your deplorably cowardly conduct, Chilter—yes, cowardly conduct, I say—I might never have been robbed of my two hundred!” He snuffled a little, and eyed the flushed but silent Chilter with mingled reproach and scorn. “However, my coachman assures me he could swear to the horse again, although he cannot remember much about the man himself. Chilter! How did he describe the horse?”

“Oh—er—chestnut, Mr. Fudby—chestnut, with a half-moon of white on its forehead, and one white foreleg.”

Jack perceived that it was time he took a hand in the game. He half turned in his chair and levelled his quizzing-glass at Mr. Chilter.

“I beg your pardon?” he drawled.

Mr. Fudby’s eye brightened. The fine gentleman was roused to an expression of interest at last. He launched forth into his story once more for my lord’s benefit. Carstares eyed him coldly, seeing which, Mr. Hedges came hurriedly to the rescue.

“Er—yes, Mr. Fudby—quite so! Your pardon, sir, I have not the honour of knowing your name?”

“Ferndale,” supplied Jack, “Sir Anthony Ferndale.”

“Er—yes—” Mr. Hedges bowed. “Pray pardon my importuning you with our—”

“Not at all,” said my lord.

“No—quite so— The fact is, these—er—gentlemen have had the—er—misfortune to be waylaid on their journey here.”

Sir Anthony’s glass was again levelled at the group. His expression betokened mild surprise.

“All these gentlemen?” he inquired blandly.

“Oh, no, no, no, sir! Not all—Only Mr.—er—”

“Fudby,” said that worthy, and discovered that Sir Anthony was bowing frigidly. At once he rose, and resting his knuckles on the table before him, bent his body slowly and painfully. Sir Anthony inclined his head, whereupon, to the delight of all the rest, Mr. Fudby bowed again with even greater stateliness than before. Mr. Hedges observed Sir Anthony’s lips to twitch convulsively. He waited for Mr. Fudby to subside, and then continued:

“Yes—Mr. Fudby and Mr.—”

“My clerk!” snapped Fudby.

Sir Anthony favoured Mr. Chilter with his peculiarly sweet smile, and turned again to Mr. Hedges.

“I see. A daylight robbery, you say?”

“Broad daylight!” boomed Mr. Fudby.

“Er—yes, yes,” interposed the mayor, fearing a fresh outbreak from that quarter. “I wonder if you have seen anything of such an animal as Mr.—er—Chilter—described?”

“‘Tis a most extraordinary thing,” said Carstares slowly, “but I have just bought such an one.” He glanced round with an inquiring smile and one eyebrow lifted.

“Well!” ejaculated Mr. Fudby. “Well!”

“Dear me, sir, what a strange coincidence! May I ask where you bought it, and from whom?”

“She has not been in my possession over two hours. I bought her from an out-at-elbows ruffian, on my way hither. I thought at one time that ‘twas strange that the man should possess such a mare—pure bred, I vow—and wondered why he was so eager to be rid of her.”

“He was eager because he knew he would be recognised by her,” explained Mr. Fudby kindly.

“Without doubt. Perhaps you would like to see her? I will send my man—”

“Oh no, no!” cried the mayor. “We would not dream of so inconveniencing you—”

“‘Twere a pleasure,” bowed Jack, devoutly hoping that Mr. Fudby would not require to see Jenny, who, he felt sure, would betray him by her very evident affection.

“No, no, Sir Anthony, ‘tis quite unnecessary, I assure you, but I thank you for all that. Mr. Fudby, if you would describe the man himself, I will see to the proclamation.”

“Describe him, Chilter!” ordered Mr. Fudby, who was becoming rather grumpy.

Mr. Chilter smiled suddenly.

“Certainly, sir!” he said with alacrity. “‘Twas a great ruffianly fellow, monstrous tall—”

“How tall?” interrupted the town-clerk. “Six feet?”

“Oh, quite!” lied Mr. Chilter. “And fat.”

Jack’s shoulders shook.

“Fat, you say?” he asked gently.

“Very fat,” affirmed Mr. Chilter. “And prodigious rough, swearing dreadfully in his speech.”

“You could not see his face, I suppose?”

Mr. Chilter hesitated.

“I could see his mouth and chin,” he said, “and I remarked a long scar running from his underlip to the—er—bottom of his face.”

Involuntarily Carstares’ hand caressed his perfectly smooth chin. Either the little clerk was a born romancer, or for some reason or other he did not want the highwayman to be taken.

“Well, Sir Anthony?” the mayor was saying. “Does that description fit your man?”

My lord frowned thoughtfully.

“Tall,” he said slowly, “and fat—you said fat, I think, Mr. Chilter?”

Rather anxiously Mr. Chilter reiterated this statement.

“Ah! And with a long scar—yes, that is undoubtedly he. Furthermore,” he added audaciously, “he has a squint in his left eye. ‘Tis a most ill-favoured rogue in all.”

“It would appear so, Sir Anthony,” remarked the mayor drily. He did not in the least believe the story of the squint, and imagined that the fine court gentleman was amusing himself at their expense. Nevertheless, he had no intention of remonstrating; the sooner he could withdraw from this very tiresome affair the better. So he gravely took down all the absurd particulars, remarked that the man should be easy to find, and made ready to depart.

The town-clerk rose, and tapped the beadle on the shoulder, whereupon that worthy, with a grunt, abandoned his pose of masterly inactivity and followed the mayor out of the room.

Mr. Fudby rose.

“I doubt I shall never see my money again,” he said pettishly. “If you, Chilter had not been so—”

“Allow me to offer you some snuff, Mr. Chilter,” interposed my lord gently, extending his jewelled box. “Doubtless, sir, you would wish to see my mare?”

“I know nought of horses,” snorted Mr. Fudby. “‘Tis my clerk who appears to have remarked all the details.” He sneered terrifically.

“Then pray, do me the honour of walking as far as the stables, Mr. Chilter. ‘Twere as well to be certain about the mare. Mr.—ah—Fudby, your servant.”

*

“And now, Mr. Chilter, I have a grudge against you,” said