Джорджетт Хейер - The Foundling

It seemed a little puzzling to the Duke, and for a moment he wondered if he had been kidnapped for revenge. Then he thought that this was too foolhardy a thing for even Mr. Liversedge to undertake, and he supposed that by some means or other that astute gentleman had discovered the identity of his visitor. Why Mr. Liversedge was remaining in the background he could not imagine, unless it were that his sensibilities were too nice to permit of his openly confessing himself a kidnapper. The Duke decided that such questions as these were not of great moment, and applied his mind to the more urgent problem. If he was to attempt to break out of the cellar, and if this was indeed in the Bird in Hand, the best time for the attempt would undoubtedly be during the evening, when the tap-room might be supposed to be full, and Mr. Mimms and his satellites busy in serving drinks. In all probability there would be a good deal of cheerful noise in the tap-room, which would be helpful. The Duke considered afresh the only plan he had been able to hit upon, and thought it was worth a trial. Since money was what his captors wanted, they were unlikely to kill him, whatever he did; and if he failed he would be no worse off than he was now.

Not the most boring day spent in his tutor’s company had ever seemed as long to the Duke as this one. The darkness was like a blanket, and no sound from above penetrated to the cellar. He thought that if he failed to escape it would not be long before he would agree to pay any ransom. When he heard Mr. Shifnal’s quick step approaching down the stairs, he had almost given up hope of being brought any of the promised supper. He knew that he stood in need of sustaining food, however little he might relish the thought of it, for he had tried the effect of standing up, and of taking a few groping steps in the darkness, and he had felt abominably dizzy and weak-kneed. His headache, however, had considerably abated. He thought that it would be just as well that Mr. Shifnal should suppose him to be still prostrate, so he lay down, and closed his eyes, groaning artistically when the door opened.

Mr. Shifnal had brought him a plate of cold beef, a hunk of bread, and a mug of porter. He set these down, and asked him how he felt.

“My head aches,” complained the Duke fretfully.

“Well, you got a rare wisty castor on it,” said Mr. Shifnal. “What you want is a nice bed, like you’re used to, and a breath of fresh air. You could have it, too, if you wasn’t so bacon-brained.”

The Duke said: “But how could I pay thirty thousand pounds?”

Mr. Shifnal caught the note of doubt in his voice, and congratulated himself on his wisdom in having left the young swell alone all day. He explained to the Duke how the sum could be found, and the Duke listened, and raised objections, and seemed first to agree, and then to think better of it. Mr. Shifnal thought that by the following morning he would know no hesitation, and was sorry that he had fortified him with meat and drink. He had been a little afraid that so delicate a young man might become seriously ill if starved, and a dead Duke was of no use to him. He determined not to allow him any breakfast, if he should still be obdurate in the morning, and he refused to leave the lantern behind him. Continued darkness and solitude, he was certain, would bring about a marked improvement in the Duke’s frame of mind. He went away again, warning the captive that it was of no use to shout, for no one would hear him if he did. The Duke was glad to know this, but he hunched a shoulder pettishly, and turned his face to the wall.

He forced himself to wait for what seemed an interminable time. When he judged that the hour must be somewhere near ten, he stood up, and felt in his pocket for the device he used to light his cigars. Under his finger the little flame sprang up obediently. He kindled one of the matches at it, and holding it carefully on high, located the position of the heap of lumber. He went over to it, and had picked up a splinter of wood before the match went out. He could feel that the wood was dry, and when he kindled a second match and held it to the splinter, it caught fire. The Duke found a longer splinter, and kindled that from the first, and stuck it into one of the bottles on the floor. The light it threw was not very good, and it several times had to be blown to renewed flame, but the Duke was able, in the glimmer, to find what be wanted, and to carry it over to the door. He built up there a careful pile of shavings of wood, scraps of old sacking, the broken chair, the broom, and anything else that looked as though it might burn easily. His tablets went to join the rest, the thin leaves being torn out, and crumpled, and poked under the wood. The Duke set fire to his heap, and thanked God that the cellar was not damp. He had to kneel down and blow the fitful flames, but his efforts were rewarded: the wood began to crackle; and the flames to leap higher. He got up, and observed his work with satisfaction. If the smoke rose to the upper floor, as he supposed it must, he could only hope that it would be drowned by the fumes of clay pipes in the tap-room. He collected his hat, and his cane, buttoned up his long drab coat, and added an old boot to his bonfire. It was becoming uncomfortably hot, and he was forced to stand back from it, watching anxiously to see whether the door would burn. In a short time he knew that it would. His heart began to beat so hard that he could almost hear it. He felt breathless, and the smoke was making his eyes smart. But the door was burning, and in a few minutes more the flames would be licking the walls on either side of it. The Duke caught up the horse-blanket, and, using it as a shield, attacked the flaming woodwork. He scorched himself in the process, but he succeeded in kicking away the centre of the door. He paid no heed to where the burning fragments fell, but he did smother the flames round the aperture he had made; and then, abandoning the charred blanket, swiftly dived for his hole, and struggled through it.

One moment he spent in recovering his breath, and settling his hat somewhat gingerly on his head, and then, taking a firm grip on his cane, he stole up the stairs.

He reached the top, and knew that he had been correct in his assumption that he wasimprisoned in the Bird in Hand. He remembered that there was a door leading into the yard at the back of the house, and he made for this. From the tap-room came the sound of convivial song and laughter. There was no one to be seen in the dimly lit space by the yard-door, and he thought for a moment that he was going to make his escape unperceived. And then, Just as he was within a few steps of his goal, a door on his right opened, and Mr. Mimms came out, carrying a large jug.

Mr. Mimms gave one startled grunt, dropped the jug, and lunged forward. The Duke was expert in the use of the singlestick, but he employed none of the arts he had been taught. Side-stepping Mr. Mimms’s bull-like rush, he made one neat thrust with his cane between his legs, and brought him crashing to the ground. The next instant he had reached the yard-door, and had torn it open, and was stumbling over the cobbles and the refuse outside the inn.

It was a dark night, and the yard seemed to be full of obstacles, but the Duke managed to get across it, to grope his way round a comer of the barn, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, to reach the field beyond. In the distance behind him, he thought he could hear voices. He thanked God that there was no moon, and ran for his life, heading in what he hoped was the direction of the village of Arlesey.

By the time he reached the straggling hedge that shut the fields off from the lane he was out of breath, and staggering on his feet. He was obliged to stand still, to recover himself a little, and he took the opportunity of looking back towards the inn. It was hidden from him by trees, but he was able to see a faint red glow, and realized that his fire must have taken good hold. He gave a panting laugh, and pushed his way through the hedge on to the lane. Mr. Mimms would have enough on his hands without adding the pursuit of his prisoner to it, he thought; and if the man in riding-dress thought the recapture of his prize of more importance than the quenching of the fire, the deep ditch beside the lane would afford excellent cover for a fugitive. The Duke walked as fast as he could down the lane, straining his ears for any sound of footsteps behind him. But he thought that he would be searched for in the fields rather than in the road.

The first cottages of Arlesey came into sight. Chinks of lamplight shone between several window-blinds. The Duke, reeling from mingled faintness and fatigue, chose a cottage at random, and knocked on the door. It was presently opened to him by a stolid-looking man in fustian breeches, and a velveret jacket, who opened his eyes at sight of his dishevelled visitor, and ejaculated: “Lord ha’ mussy! Whatever be the matter with you, sir?”

“Will you allow me to rest here till daylight?” said the Duke, leaning against the lintel of the door. “I have—suffered an accident, and—I rather fancy—some murderous fellows are on my heels.”

A stout woman, who had been peeping round her husband’s massive form, exclaimed: “The poor young gentleman! I’ll lay my life it’s them murdering thieves as haunts the Bird in Hand! Come you in, sir! come you in!”

“Thank you!” said the Duke, and fainted.

The Duke left Arlesey on the following morning, unmolested, but slightly bedraggled. His hosts, upon his dramatic collapse, had carried him up to the second bedroom, and had not only stripped him of his outer garments, but had revived him with all manner of country remedies. They were very much shocked, Mrs. Shottery as much by the scorched state of his riding-coat as by his alarming pallor; and they perceived, by the fine quality of his linen, that he was of gentle birth. By the time that he had recovered his senses, the worthy couple had convinced each other that he had fallen a victim to the cut-throat thieves who infested the district, using the Bird in Hand as their headquarters. The Duke was feeling quite disinclined for conversation, and merely lay smiling wearily upon them, and murmuring his soft-toned thanks for their solicitude. Mrs. Shottery bustled about in high fettle, bringing up hot bricks to lay at his feet, strong possets to coax down his throat, and vinegar to soothe a possible headache, while her husband, having seen the glow of fire in the distance, sallied forth to reconnoitre. He came back just as the Duke was dropping asleep and told him with much headshaking, and many exclamations, that the Bird in Hand was ablaze, and such a to-do as he disremembered to have seen in Arlesey before.