Regency Masquerade, page 16
They were returning home, well content with the expedition, letting the horses amble along as they chatted to each other, when Carleton, who was looking forward to see how much further they had to go, caught sight of a gun muzzle protruding from the bushes and flung himself towards Frances shouting “Look out!” Almost simultaneously there was a loud report. Carleton slumped against her, a patch of red blossoming on his shoulder as Frances grabbed hold of him with her left arm and drew her pistol in one fast motion with her right. She brought it up in an automatic reflex and fired at the spot where the shooter had been hiding in less than a second. “Richard! Are you alright?” She knew it was a foolish question as soon as the words left her lips, he had swooned against her, blood running down his arm. Her first instinct was to keep riding in case there were any more assailants, but then she realised she would have to try and stop the bleeding first. She slid hastily off her horse, still trying to hang on to Richard and break his fall to the ground. She laid him on his back and pulled open his coat and shirt, it looked as if the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder though she didn’t think it was near any vital organs, but it was bleeding profusely.
She loosened her own clothes and drew out the piece of cloth she had used to bind her breasts and used it to make a pad for the wound. Then for the first time she drew breath and looked around. The two horses were still standing obediently where she had left them and she tied Diabolo’s reins around his neck so he wouldn’t trip and gave him a slap on the rump to send him trotting off home. The she did the same with her roan. That should bring help faster than anything else she could think of. She had heard nothing apart from Richard’s slow breathing and the pounding of her own heart since the shot, she could only hope that either she had hit the assailant or he had fled. She was not about to leave Richard and go and see. Now that the action was over, her whole body began to shake and she sat down in the dirt and put Richards head on her lap, who on earth would want to kill him? Where was John when she needed him?
John Hopgood was outside the stables blowing a cloud with Toby, Carleton’s groom, when the two riderless horses trotted in to the stable yard and knew instantly that something was badly wrong. “I’ll take the roan back along the path. Toby, you get the gig out and follow me in case one of them is badly injured,” he ordered, leaping into the saddle as he spoke. Not waiting to see if Toby was obeying he galloped down the path to the village, his heart in his mouth. He had a moment of guilty relief, ruthlessly suppressed, when he saw that it was Lord Carleton on the ground and not Frances.
“He’s been shot!” called out Frances, “Someone shot at us from those bushes!” Hopgood felt his jaw drop. Hastily he dismounted and went to check on Carleton, saw that Frances was shaking and spoke soothingly. “He’ll be fine, everything will be alright, you’ll see. Toby is coming with the gig,” he advised, expertly running his hands over the bandage. “You’ve done a good job with this. When Toby gets here, I’ll drive the gig back with you and send him to fetch the doctor, he’ll find him faster than I would. I am just going over to have a look behind the hedgerow, see if I can find anything to show us who did this. You’ll be right?”
Frances nodded and John left her to investigate. He peered cautiously behind the hedge and gasped audibly. There was a dead man on the ground, at least, he bent over and took a closer look, yes that was definitely a bullet hole, right in the middle of his chest and his eyes were wide open, staring at the sky. What was more he knew him. It was the Comte Duverne. So the chances were very high that Carleton had taken the bullet meant for Frances. Slowly he stood up and walked back to them.
Frances looked at him questioningly. “It was the Comte,” John told her reluctantly. “You shot him?”
“Yes,” replied Frances, “At least, I fired at the place the shot came from. Did I hit him then?”
“Well, not to make a meal of it, you hit him right in the chest. Killed him stone dead!” Hopgood waited rather uneasily for her reaction. It was not quite what he had expected.
“Good!” said Frances rather savagely. “That will teach him to shoot Richard!”
“We’ll have to report this to the authorities. Who is the local magistrate do you know?”
“Squire Herbert I imagine,” she answered after a moment’s thought.
They both froze at the sound of a horse coming towards them but it was merely Toby with the gig.
“I don’t think you should tell anyone how you met the Comte in France,” suggested John in a low voice before Toby should overhear them, “Let everyone think he was after Lord Carleton.”
She nodded and climbed into the gig. The two servants lifted Carleton, mercifully still unconscious, up into her arms and John sent Toby off to find the doctor and the Squire. He drove as carefully as he could back to the house, but his passengers were still jolted uncomfortably, and Frances was vastly relieved when at last they drew up in front of the steps. Fanshaw and Williams were both there already, waiting anxiously. Fanshaw jumped towards them but the elderly butler paled as he saw his master sprawled in the gig, his jaw working.
“It’s all right, he is not dead, just wounded,” reassured Frances hastily. “He needs your aid,” she added, rightly guessing this would best help them regain their composure. Fanshaw came forward to help John lift Carleton out of the gig and carry him into the house. Williams went ahead to organise the other servants into fetching Mrs Pearson, along with hot water and old sheets for bandages, then led the rescue party into the front parlour, where they laid their master on a couch.
“Toby has gone for the doctor,” Frances told the group of worried servants gathered around, while carefully checking that her bandage was still in place. “I don’t think we can do any more until he has seen him, I don’t want to start the bleeding again by trying to clean the wound.”
“What happened my lady?” asked Fanshaw in alarm.
“He was shot. A man was hiding in the hedgerow and waylaid us as we rode by,” was the calm answer.
“Shot! A poacher?” queried a horrified Fanshaw.
“I do not think so, it seems hardly likely a poacher would mistake us for game. It is not as if we were in the forest either, we were riding on a public road, he must have seen us quite clearly before firing.” Frances replied thoughtfully. “Toby has gone to ask Squire Herbert if he can come and look into this. There is the matter of the body, too, that will need to be removed.”
“Body?” gasped the butler.
“I am a good shot,” replied Frances in a satisfied voice, oblivious of the various looks of horrified respect cast upon her.
“Oh well done my lady!” enthused Fanshaw. He, for one, had no doubts this had been the right thing to do, any misgivings he had felt that she had gulled his lordship into the marriage were swept away instantly.
Mrs Pearson arrived then from the dairy, where she had been watching the maid churn butter, and soon had the staff dispatched about their business while Frances told her what had occurred.
“I hope Lady Murray did not have a hand in this,” the thought popped into her head unspoken.
A short time later the doctor bustled into the room ushered in by Williams. “Gunshot is it?” he asked, “My word, what is the world coming to?” In a few moments he had everyone out apart from Fanshaw to hold down the patient in case he woke, and Frances to assist him while he extracted the bullet. “Ah, there it is!” he said triumphantly, and soon had the wound cleaned and bandaged. “Now keep him still and quiet for a few days, no wine or heavy food, and he should be as right as a trivet in no time.” Squire Herbert came in silently as he was speaking, and stood watching, holding back his questions until the doctor had finished.
“Ah, a sorry business Squire, when a man cannot even ride safely in broad daylight!” The doctor exclaimed, packing up his bag. “Lord Carleton has a bullet wound to the left shoulder. He is very lucky it was not any lower, but as it is, it should not cause him too much trouble, as long as he is careful while it heals. Well unless you have any questions for me I will be off.” Williams escorted the doctor out while Frances invited the Squire to be seated. He sat down reluctantly, made a little uncomfortable by the fact that she was in breeches and kept his eyes on her face. “What can you tell me Lady Carleton?”
“I am certain you wish to be off to examine the scene so I will not keep you long. Richard and I were riding back along the public path from Selby, when someone shot at him from the hedgerows. I fired back immediately and John tells me now I hit the man and killed him.” Frances summarised succinctly.
“Did you see anything suspicious beforehand?” he enquired, taking this in his stride.
“No, nothing ... but Richard may have. I remember he called out a warning to me just before he was shot.”
“And the assailant? Do you have any idea who he was?”
“I never saw him,” she replied honestly. “I stayed with Richard. It was John, my manservant, who went to investigate when he arrived to help us, but I can tell you one more thing. I am certain it was no accident, well, you will see for yourself Squire. If you do not mind, I will stay here. John will take you to the body if that is agreeable to you?”
Squire Herbert acquiesced, and Hopgood was sent for to accompany him back to the scene of the crime. They rode the couple of miles, John slowing as they neared the scene. “It was about here,” said John dismounting. “Look there is some blood on the road, that must be where Lord Carleton was lying.” He turned back the way they had come, “The body ought to be over there. Would you like me to show you sir?”
“No I’d better look for myself, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here Hopgood?”
The Squire spent a few moments looking up and down the path first, then walked slowly to the hedgerow and soon saw the body of a man, laying where he had fallen on the ground. He bent down to examine the body. The cause of death was obvious, a bullet to the chest. Gingerly he reached into the man’s coat pockets and drew out about ten shillings, a couple of French coins, a linen handkerchief and the stub of a coach ticket to Guildford. Interesting, it was clear the man was not a local, in fact the indications were he was not even English. Squire Herbert stood up and looked around in the immediate vicinity of the body and soon spotted a pistol in the grass to his right. He picked it up and sniffed it, yes, it had definitely been fired recently. He judged where the assailant would have been standing when he was shot and peered through the hedgerow to ascertain what he would have seen. He found himself in agreement with Lady Carleton, it had undoubtedly been a deliberate ambush.
“I doubt that there is anymore to learn here. Would you wait here to guard the corpse and I shall send some of my men to collect it and take it to the church,” Squire Herbert requested. John nodded in resignation and sat down to wait. The squire was already thinking ahead, he would need to send a man to Guildford to canvas the inns for a missing guest because once they knew the identity of the assailant it might give them a lead to the motive. Once Lord Carleton had regained his senses he would ask him to have a look at the corpse and see if he recognised him, but the more he considered it, the more he fancied the man was a foreigner. French possibly, if the coins in his pocket were an indication. At least, from what he had seen so far, there was no doubt the man had been killed in self-defence. He could not quite believe Lady Carleton had shot him herself, and suspected it had actually been her husband who had fired the gun, although how he had managed it with a wounded shoulder was something to mull on.
Carleton came to his senses gradually and discovered that his shoulder hurt like the devil and he was lying on the couch in the front parlour. What on earth had happened? Frances saw that he was awake and hastened to his side. Gently she kissed his forehead, “How do you feel? You saved my life you realise?”
“What?” he asked, still half in a daze.
“You were shot, do you remember?”
She saw he was struggling to recollect what had occurred and filled him in. “I fired back at where I had seen the shot come from and I hit him. In fact, John says I killed him. It was the Comte Duverne. Richard I am so sorry, it is all my fault you were shot.”
“Nonsense!” was the firm reply. “What ailed the man to think he could get away with murder? He must have had windmills in his head! Did you send for Herbert?”
She nodded, “John has taken him to the scene just now.”
“I suggest you keep mum about your previous encounter with Duverne, though,” Carleton recommended, holding her gaze.
“Yes, John advised the same, but I have been able to tell the truth so far about the shooting because it is quite true that I did not see a thing!” agreed Frances. She glanced down at her shirt, still spattered with Richard’s blood. “I need to go upstairs and change my clothes. I’ll just ask Fanshaw to stay with you until I return in case you need anything, you must not try and do anything for yourself for a day or so the doctor ordered.”
The next day, Squire Herbert found Lord Carleton had been removed upstairs to his bed, but he was awake and waiting to talk to him and after a brief exchange of greetings he was ready to answer the Squires questions. “The only thing I saw Will, was the gun muzzle pointing towards us. I shouted a warning to Frances, then I was hit and I don’t remember anything else until I came to my senses in the front parlour. Have you found out anything about the man yet? Was he a footpad?”
“Unlikely I think, for one thing he was too well dressed to be a footpad, his coat was made by Weston and his hands were those of a gentleman, white and well cared for. He may even be someone known to you. I suspect he may have been French, or recently come from France, for he had French coins in his pockets.”
“A spy?” interjected Carleton.
Squire Herbert frowned. “I had not thought of that, but what would a spy be doing here? And why lay in ambush for you? No, I do not think it. I will do my best to describe him to you, betwixt thirty and forty years, medium height I would say, black hair, olive complexion but no distinguishing features apart from that. Does that sound familiar at all?”
Carleton shook his head, “Certainly not anyone I know closely. A passing acquaintance? Possibly.”
“I wish you were able to take a look at him! He will have to be buried soon, we can’t keep him much longer, even in the crypt,” the Squire fretted.
“Perhaps, if I were well bandaged I could manage the journey in my carriage,” Carleton pondered aloud. He had to tread carefully here, if he had not already known the identity of his assailant he would certainly have been anxious to find out everything that he could about him. He could not afford to appear too complacent.
The Squire brightened at that. “That would be excellent, if you could manage it without re-opening your wound,” he felt obliged to add. “I sent a man to Guildford this morning to check if our man was staying at one of the inns, but apart from that there is not much else I can do at present. I shall take my leave of you now and hope to see you this afternoon at the church. If you can get there, my men can carry the body out to the carriage for you to cast your eyes over.”
“I shall do my best,” promised Carleton.
“Oh – just one thing,” remembered the Squire. “Lady Carleton told me it was she who shot the man?” he said enquiringly.
“Yes indeed, if she said so,” confirmed Carleton. “Frances is an excellent shot, I have seen her at target practice myself! Just ask her to show you if you would like proof.”
In spite of Frances’ misgivings and indeed his own weariness, Carleton insisted on making the trip to the village church, protected with cushions as well as he could be against the jolting of the carriage. Frances reluctantly stayed behind so that she would not risk being asked to view the body, she was trying hard to avoid lying outright to the Squire. Squire Herbert was waiting at the church, having been informed by Toby of Carleton’s imminent arrival and he quickly ordered two of the village men to bring the body out from the crypt to the carriage on a litter as he had promised. One of the men lifted the sheet covering the body so Carleton could see the face and he looked carefully at it before shaking his head. “I don’t know him, though he does have rather the look of a Frenchman I have seen around town, but he is a count, the Comte Duverne, I think he is called. This fellow is unlikely to be him!”
“Astonishing as it may seem, I have reason to believe this is in fact the Comte Duverne. There was certainly a man of that name staying at the King and Crown in Guildford who is now missing. You weren’t acquainted with him at all?” the Squire looked puzzled.
“No, I’ve never spoken a word to him!” said Carleton honestly. “I cannot imagine what I have done to warrant such a deed. Surely if I had offended him in some way he would have confronted me openly, as one gentleman to another, not hidden in ambush like a common footpad!”
“It’s beyond belief!” agreed the magistrate. “Perhaps he mistook you for someone else?”
“It’s a mystery. Either he was queer in the attic or else I deeply offended him in some way without even being aware of it! Do you think to contact the French embassy about the matter?”
“I suppose I must,” the Squire agreed reluctantly. “I had best ride up to London myself and see what I can discover, he may have family here who would wish to make arrangements about the burial. At least there is no doubt about what took place. Thank you again for coming here.” The Squire bowed his head and gestured to the men to return the body to the crypt. Carleton returned home slowly, grateful to be back in bed despite himself.
The Squires trip to the French embassy, although enlightening, produced no information to explain the attack. In fact the man he spoke to was quick to distance himself from the Comte, stating emphatically several times that he was not connected to the embassy and was barely known to them. It was soon apparent to Will Herbert that the late Comte had not been a popular man.
His visit to Bow Street bore more fruit. Lord Carleton’s name was familiar to the man he explained his situation to and he sent someone in search of the Runner involved in the affair. Mr Higgins was at first reluctant to speak to anyone involved with Lord Carleton, he still felt his pulse leap unpleasantly when he remembered the feel of the sword point against his throat, but when it was explained to him that Carleton was currently laid up with a gunshot wound he was able to come forward and speak more or less sensibly to the Squire.
