The Wolfe's Mate Part 19

They had forgotten Madame. She watched them, a wistful expression on her face while she remembered her own happy hours with her dead husband.

'Of course, you may be married from here,' she told them when they at last came down to earth again. 'And I approve of the wedding being as soon as possible. You have both already waited far too long to be happy.'

Tom Harte was in a small dark room in Newgate Prison, facing two Bow Street Runners. He had been arrested shortly after his wife and taken for questioning. He was a big, burly man, usually rosy faced and jovial, but on the morning after the collapse of the enquiry he was neither of these things.

Immediately afterwards he had tried to approach Lord Babbacombe to ask him for help and advice, but m'lord's lawyers would not allow him within yards of their client, having him escorted as quickly as possible out of St James's Palace. After that rebuff he had considered fleeing London, but had rapidly decided that he had no stomach for living as an outlaw.

Now, facing his interrogators, he had no notion of what his wife might have told them on the previous day. His face grey, his manner hangdog, he at first tried to deny that he had given her the brooch.

The larger of the two men laughed. 'That is not what she says. She a.s.serts that you gave it to her not long after Mrs Wolfe's disappearance, saying that you had found it.'

'So I did,' he said eagerly, 'Now I remember. That was it.'

'She also said that you told her to tell anyone who was curious about it that Mrs Wolfe had given it to her a fortnight before her death-although why you should have thought anyone would be curious about such a trumpery thing...' He paused before saying with a nasty grin, 'Unless, of course, it was because you knew that it had been in the possession of a woman whose disappearance was a mystery.'

Tom Harte closed his eyes in agony. To tell the truth would free his wife-but would destroy him. Who would have thought that a worthless trinket, carelessly given to his wife, would have the power to bring him into the shadow of the gallows.

The second Runner saw his face change, and his head begin to hang.

'Of course,' he said slyly, 'if you were not a princ.i.p.al in the matter of Mrs Wolfe's disappearance, but merely an unconsidered servant who felt compelled to defend and obey his master, then to confess all might be to earn something of a remission from the utmost penalty of the law. To that end I will inform you that there is a warrant out for the arrest of Lord Babbacombe on a charge of murder and kidnapping.'

He leaned forward to tweak Tom Harte's slovenly cravat to pull him forward a little in order to thrust his face into his victim's, growling, 'Have a little common sense, cully, and save yourself. You cannot save him!'

Tom Harte was not to know that unless he confessed the notion that Lord Babbacombe was involved had no hard evidence to back it-only Mrs Harte's tearful cries and recriminations and that the warrant had been sworn simply to compel m'lord to answer questions relating to Mrs Wolfe's disappearance.

His face turned from dirty yellow to dirty white.

'I wasn't there,' he stammered, 'not I. Vincent was, I know. M'lord's agent, he was. Him as lied about seeing Charles Wolfe where he wasn't. He and m'lord were as thick as thieves. Used to go hunting the common molls together-both in the town and the country. Vincent was m'lord's poor relation who been at Oxford with him.'

This information came out in a frantic rush. The Runner said, 'Whoa, lad, steady on. A little more slowly. My fellow cannot hear you properly. What happened- "there", I believe you said?'

'Seems that they'd been drinking all morning and went for a walk-to clear their heads, Vincent said. Very merry they were, laughing and singing. They found Mrs Wolfe painting on her own, by the river, t'other lady had gone for a walk.'

He put his face in his hands. 'I don't know exactly what happened. Seems that m'lord said something wrong to Mrs Wolfe and she answered him sharply. M'lord was tipsy and took it amiss. He struck her in the face and she was knocked to the ground, half-stunned. He laughed and fell on her-and then someone screamed, Vincent said. It was Lady Exford who had come to rejoin Mrs Wolfe.

'M'lord shouted, "Silence her, d.a.m.n you"-or something like that-so Vincent did. And since m'lord was having his fun with Mrs Wolfe, he had his with Lady Exford. Only when it was over they found that Mrs Wolfe was dying-she'd struck her head on a stone when she fell-and that Lady Exford was unconscious, and likely dying, too. That's when Mr Vincent fetched me. They dragged Lady Exford into the undergrowth to hide her, and m'lord ordered me to carry Mrs Wolfe to the mausoleum in the grounds of Babbacombe House where we opened one of the old stone coffins and put her in. She was dead by then.'

'And before that,' said the Runner savagely, throwing him violently to the ground, 'you took the brooch from Mrs Wolfe's dress and later gave it to your wife-adding grave-robbery to your crimes.'

'It weren't valuable,' howled Tom.

The second Runner, who hadn't yet spoken, said coldly to him, stirring him with his foot, 'You disgust me. Tell me, was it you who did for Vincent-or m'lord?'

'It weren't me. I swear G.o.d it weren't. We thought we were home dry when Lady Exford was found and couldn't remember anything, but then Vincent got the shakes. He couldn't sleep, he said, the women were haunting him and he was all for giving himself up. I know he told m'lord so-and then he disappeared. M'lord told me him and Vincent was drunk and so were not responsible for what they had done. "T'were an accident," he said. And then m'lord said that Vincent had shot himself in the mausoleum and that was the end of that. "We are safe," he said, "now that there are only the two of us." And then he made me agent.'

Runner number one said, 'Take him away. Be a pleasure to see him swing.'

Tom's howls increased. 'You promised...if I talked...if I told, you said...you know you did...'

'More fool you. And your biggest folly was to steal a tuppenny fairing and give the law the chance to do you. Stand up, man.'

'No,' he wailed, 'no.'

So they dragged him from the room.

All this Mr Herriott told Ben Wolfe when Ben visited him in his chambers the next afternoon.

Ben listened in silence as the dreadful events of that long-ago afternoon were slowly unfolded.

Mr Herriott nodded. 'I am grieved to have to tell you this sad news, but better I than another. The officers of the law were sent to Lord Babbacombe's home with a warrant for his arrest even before Tom Harte had confessed, but he had fled it the night before. Another set of officers have gone to Babbacombe House with a warrant to search it and the mausoleum. Babbacombe's flight, however, would appear to prove his own guilt and the truth of Tom Harte's story.

'And had you not recognised your mother's brooch, the mystery would still remain a mystery. Both Babbacombe and Harte must have felt safe after all these years.'

'Until I returned to England and began to unravel the true cause of my father's ruin. No wonder I was pursued so relentlessly. M'lord was undoubtedly the man behind the attack on me.'

'It would seem so. It is, alas, yet another scandal in high life. Babbacombe will have to be tried by his peers in the House of Lords-the last time that happened the wretch, one Lord Ferrers, was found guilty and hanged with a silken rope.'

Ben said grimly, 'Which would hardly lessen the magnitude of the sentence.'

'Indeed. I am sure that you will be glad when this sad business is over.'

Ben said, 'I hope that you will not think me heartless, but I intend to marry as soon as possible. I am in process of arranging for a special licence. My future wife is a sensible young woman who will be a great comfort to me-as she has been already.'

'Then you are a lucky man, sir. And I wish you well.'

'In return for which, Mr Herriott, I will send you an invitation to the ceremony which will be held as privately as possible. You deserve that for having to suffer my amateur attempts at usurping your role in the enquiry.'

'Best not let the Duke of Clarence know,' remarked Mr Herriott with a grin, 'else he will demand to be present, and, if I know him, that will certainly put paid to any attempt of yours to keep it private!'

He and Ben enjoyed the joke together, before Ben left to call at Stanhope Street and take Susanna for an airing in Hyde Park. The strange thing was that, now he knew the truth, terrible though it was, a huge burden which he had not known he was carrying had been lifted from his back.

Chapter Fifteen.

Any hope that Lord Babbacombe would be swiftly caught and brought to justice soon faded. He had disappeared completely. The Runners sent to track him down reported that the rumour was that he had left England immediately and disappeared on to the continent.

Their investigations at the Wychwood mausoleum on Lord Babbacombe's estate proved that Tom Harte's story was true, and Ben and Susanna's wedding was delayed yet again when they went north to Buckinghamshire to give his mother's remains a Christian burial. Vincent was given a suicide's one, at a crossroads, even though Lord Babbacombe might possibly have killed him.

Custom and etiquette should have made them delay the wedding even further, but Ben would have none of it. 'I have grieved for my mother for twenty-five years,' he said, 'and for me she died on the day on which she disappeared. I shall love her and grieve for her no less if I love and marry Susanna. Remembering her, it is what she would have wished.'

Since he had unlocked his memory, recollections of his lost past had come flooding in. In them he was playing cricket with his mother and father on the lawn before The Den, holding her hand at the Fair where he had bought her the brooch, and watching her enjoy herself at the coconut shy stall. He remembered, too, that she had lifted him up on to her shoulder the better to see Mr Punch perform.

She had been jolly and kind, and he was sure that she would have approved of Susanna if only because Susanna greatly resembled her in her liveliness-as Madame de Saulx confirmed.

More than one person-for many came to congratulate him on his victory in the enquiry and to commiserate with him over the news of Lord Babbacombe's destruction of his family-remarked that he must be greatly wishful to see his accuser brought to book before the House of Lords.

'Yes and no,' he replied. 'I would like to see him punished, but on the other hand I hate the notion that the whole dreadful business will be rehashed again-and in public, too. If it could be done in private and without fuss-that would be different. No mummery of a trial and of silken ropes for execution can bring my mother back.'

Many could not understand him, but Susanna did. 'You are really a very private person, Ben,' she told him when they were, at last, preparing for the wedding, 'but because you are big and strong and powerful in every way most people think that you have no tender feelings at all. Madame and I both know better than that.'

'You always think the best of me,' he said gravely. 'You forget that I am a hard businessman.'

'Most sensible of you,' returned Susanna, 'for if you were not you would not be so successful and I should not be marrying you-or you might be marrying me for my money, which you only retrieved for me because you were a hard businessman-with tender feelings.'

'Oh, I do like the idea that I am marrying such a hard-headed wife,' he returned, kissing her and beginning to make gentle love to her, for Madame had left them alone for a little and as a couple about to be married they might be allowed to enjoy themselves without prying eyes following them about.

Five minutes later Susanna sat up and began to rearrange herself. They were both finding it harder and harder to prevent themselves from antic.i.p.ating their wedding day.

'Which we mustn't,' she told him severely, 'because think of the on dits which would run round if we had to put the wedding off yet again and our indiscretion meant that we had an early baby. I don't worry for my sake, but for yours. We must have no scandal of any kind attaching itself to us which might give the gossips another field day at our expense.'

'Goose,' he said, kissing her affectionately before retying his cravat which she had pulled undone. 'We need fear no further delays, I am sure. Jackson told Jess and myself yesterday that they had quite certain information that Babbacombe boarded a packet for Calais on the morning after he fled. Harte and his wife are in Newgate, awaiting trial and George Darlington, like his father, has also disappeared. There was talk that he might buy a commission in the Army, seeing that his father has been declared bankrupt. Once the news of Babbacombe's infamy became known, the banks and the moneylenders foreclosed on him at once.'

'Nevertheless,' persisted Susanna, 'I have the oddest feeling that all is not yet quite over. I suppose that it comes from living with uncertainty these last few months-and years, for that matter. I woke up with gooseflesh this morning after a bad dream. I can't remember what it was, just that it was bad. No, you are not to look at me and tell me that I am suffering from female whim-whams!'

'I wouldn't dream of daring to do any such thing. What I do think is that the sooner we are hitched, the better.'

'And so do I.' Susanna was fervent. 'Jess talked about you being turned off-which I thought was slang for being hanged, but he said no, that it was also used to describe a man when he was about to be married, for being married was, for many men, equivalent to a hanging! I asked him what the equivalent slang was for a woman, but he didn't know.'

'Oh, Jess,' said Ben dismissively. 'He had a bad experience with a woman in India and tends to see them and marriage through jaundiced yellow spectacles. I did worry once that he might be after you.'

'Well, worry no longer. I like Jess-but not to marry. He must find his own young woman.'

They were still engaged in happy badinage when Madame came in and reproached them both for not spending the day having the final fittings for their bridal wear.

'After all,' she told them severely, 'you have the whole of the rest of your lives in which to gossip together. At this rate you will both be wearing what you stand up in-and that would never do.'

Despite all Madame's predictions their wedding day found them both in splendid fig. Susanna's dress was made of a delicate cream silk. It was high-waisted, in the latest fashion, and boasted a boat-shaped neckline. Her only jewellery was a small necklace of pearls. Her little kid slippers were cream with silver rosettes. She carried a bouquet of cream and pale pink carnations and a tiny wreath of them circled her head.

Ben, who never normally cared to rival any of the dandy set, had surpa.s.sed himself. His cream breeches, his black coat, his cravat were all so splendid that Jess told him that he was barely recognisable. As for his hair, his barber had excelled himself.

'You look a proper gentleman at last,' Jess said approvingly. He, of course, was as well turned out as ever.

'I look a proper noddy,' grumbled Ben. 'I thank heaven that I don't have to deck myself out like this every day. Everything's so tight I should never get any work done and we should all starve and be turned out into the street-you included.'

'Not me,' said Jess sweetly. 'Thanks to you I've a little something of my own for the first time in my life. Now, one more twist to your cravat and you'll be fit to be presented at court. Oh, by the by, did I tell you that the Duke of Clarence has invited himself to the ceremony? He will respect your wish that you have a private party at The Lair after it, but he does insist that he has a right to see you turned off, seeing that it was his court of enquiry which saved your bacon. His words, not mine.'

Ben closed his eyes. His wishes for a quiet informal ceremony were, it seems, not to be heeded by anyone. He would have preferred to be married in his working clothes with Susanna in the pretty cotton dress which she had worn at Richmond. Well, it was not to be, but no matter, by evening they would be safely hitched, and he and Susanna could get down to the real business of marriage.

Even thinking about it ruined the tight and perfect fit of his breeches. He could only hope that Jess was so busy chattering that he didn't notice, or, if he did, that he would have the common sense not to say anything.

The church they were being married at was not too far from Croft House, Ben's home in Piccadilly, now always jokingly referred to as The Lair since Susanna had christened it that on her first visit. It was a medium-sized mansion, a little set back from the road, with a small drive, bordered with shrubs and trees, which led up to an imposing front door. He could hardly wait to walk up to it with Susanna on his arm, his wife at last.

And who would have thought, on the day which had seen Susanna kidnapped by mistake, that he would ever be doing such an unlikely thing-he who had vowed that he would never marry!

He was still wondering about the mysterious workings of Fate when he was at last in church waiting for Susanna to arrive. His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence, and his suite were already seated in the front rows. Behind them were Susanna's mother, her stepfather and their two pretty blonde girls. The groom had no relatives other than Madame de Saulx so his part of the church was given over to Jess, Tozzy and numerous others of his staff. Ben's wish for a private marriage was being only partly met.

Mrs Mitch.e.l.l, delighted that Susanna was marrying wealth and birth, as well as a man whom a Royal Duke called friend, had graciously forgiven Ben for restoring her fortune to Susanna. She, the girls and Mr Mitch.e.l.l had spent the previous day at Madame's and it had been agreed that the past should be forgotten. Ben refrained from saying that great wealth and consequence gilded everything-if one's daughter was marrying it, that was.

Afterwards, Susanna remembered little of the ceremony. She only knew that Ben was with her and that she was with Ben. The contrast with her previous failed wedding day could not have been greater. The Duke came up to them after they had been p.r.o.nounced man and wife and the parson had given them his blessing, in order to add his congratulations.

'I would have entertained you all at St James's Palace, Mrs Wolfe,' he roared, 'except that your husband does not wish to share you with anyone and insists on taking you home with as little ceremony as possible.'

'He is a very private man, Your Royal Highness,' replied Susanna demurely, as she had earlier said to Ben, 'and ceremony does not sort well with him.'

'Oh, he's a true old soldier, one sees well, blunt and down to earth. Well, well, let me wish you both happy, eh, what? And if your husband should ever wish a favour he knows where to find a friend in need. You hear me, Wolfe. I always mean what I say.'

'You know...' said Susanna when they were finally seated in Ben's splendid new curricle, decorated with white ribbons to celebrate his wedding, in which he was to drive her to The Lair. The rest of the party and the carriage in which she had been escorted to the church, were to follow behind. 'You should not mind that the Duke invited himself. The moment I informed my mother that he was going to be present and that he counted himself your friend, all was forgiven. The man who was the friend of a royal prince was not to be sneered at and must be recognised. Even Mr Mitch.e.l.l was won over. My mother said that he had acquired a new post, down at the docks, which was enabling them to live in a little comfort.'

She looked sideways at her husband. 'I wonder who found that for him.'

'No, you don't,' he told her, skilfully negotiating a herd of cattle being driven by a sullen boy, 'you know-or, rather, you guessed-that it was I who arranged it. He does not know that, and you must not tell him-or your mother.'

'No, they would not like it. My mother even hinted that you might not be best pleased that he had found employment. Why did you do it?'

'She is your mother, and the girls are your half-sisters. I did not do it for them. I did it for you.'

That did not need saying, Susanna thought, and said aloud, 'It was a kind action, all the same.'

Ben said simply, 'I did not wish to see you unhappy at the thought of their poverty and squandering your money on them. This way we are all happy.'

'Indeed we are, particularly me.'

'I refuse to allow you the particularly. It is I who am particularly happy,' he teased her.

'Both particularly happy, perhaps?' she teased back.

'Agreed. Both of us. So noted, as I say to my clerks.'

They had reached The Lair and outpaced their followers. Their grooms who were wearing white wedding c.o.c.kades on their jockey caps, jumped down to hold the horses for them.

Ben leapt out to hand down his bride. She was still clutching her bouquet of pink and white carnations. In the excitement of the Duke's intervention at the end of the wedding, she had forgotten to throw it to her sisters.

'You may do so later at the wedding breakfast,' Ben had told her.

Now she took his arm and they began to walk towards the door.

Afterwards, Susanna was to ask herself why the premonitions of disaster with which she had been plagued had disappeared completely on her wedding day. Excitement no doubt, she later concluded.

So it was that, when they were halfway to the front door, which was being held open by two footmen, she was almost as surprised as Ben when a man jumped out from the trees and bushes in which he had been hiding to wave a pair of pistols wildly at them.

It was Lord Babbacombe. His clothing and appearance were as wild as his behaviour. Ben held Susanna's arm firmly, wondering what action he could take. He could only be grateful that Babbacombe had not shot them down on the spot, for his intention was plainly evil.