The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster by Patricia Veryan

Author:Patricia Veryan [Veryan, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-312-26942-5
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2001-09-04T04:00:00+00:00

11

The urgency of Cranford’s need to talk with the viscount had caused him to allocate the first two-hour shift of the night watch to Sudbury, the second to himself, and the last to Glendenning, since Tio had insisted he also had a highly valued horse to be guarded. It was a quarter past midnight when Cranford hurried down the stairs, reproaching himself because he was late, having come near to falling asleep while pulling on his boots.

Despite tomorrow’s race many of the inn’s guests were still celebrating, the sounds of their revelry following him as he closed the side door.

The night was very dark, low-hanging clouds obscuring the stars. But a cold wind blustered about, setting the naked tree branches to rattling, and occasionally chasing a cloud away so that the half-moon’s silver radiance could brighten the sky.

Walking swiftly to the stables, Cranford was wide awake now and alert for signs of trouble, but he heard only the wind, the distant and desultory barking of a dog, the muted noise from the inn, and a loose shutter somewhere that creaked and occasionally slammed when caught by a stronger gust.

Everything looked calm and comparatively peaceful. His taut nerves and the sense that all was not well could likely be ascribed to his desperate need to win tomorrow, and to the knowledge that so many relied on him. “Don’t borrow trouble” he told himself sternly. But he stood well to the side as he swung the barn door open with one hand, and kept a grip on his pocket pistol with the other.

A sleepy voice called, “That you, lieutenant, sir?”

“It’s me,” confirmed Cranford. “Twelve o’clock, and all’s well!”

The response to his light-hearted impersonation of the Watchman was silence and then a loud snore. Irked, he strode into the circle of light cast by the lantern that hung from an overhead beam. Sudbury was sprawled on a bench, leaning back against Tassels’ stall. The sturdy groom was indeed asleep. Beside him, a tankard of ale had fallen over and deposited a puddle on the straw-strewn planks. It was behaviour quite foreign to the faithful groom, who at times had a tendency to become too explicit in his descriptions of his “contrary innards” and had for years declared it not worth the price he had to pay if he dared take more than one tankard of ale.

“Wake up, damn your eyes!” cried Cranford angrily.

His only answer was an even more resonant snore.

A grown man didn’t usually subside into a drunken stupor after one tankard of ale—less, since half the contents of the tankard appeared to be soaking into the floor-boards. Cranford bent over the groom, gripped a sturdy shoulder and shook him hard.

Sudbury opened a bleary eye, peered at him without recognition, muttered something unintelligible and went back to sleep.

Impelled by a sudden and strong sense of danger, Cranford drew his pistol and spun around.

There was no one behind him, but then a dark shape, all arms and legs, plummeted down from the hayloft. The pistol was smashed from his hand before he had a chance to fire.

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