15 A Small Fracas

T he noise outside grew even louder, enough even to rouse the card players from their concentration on the game. They looked round in bemusement.

"Who is that, Davenport?" Foskett said. "A friend of yours? A neighbour?"

"I have no idea," Davenport said. "Not to worry, Rumble will deal with it."

But a moment later the door burst open, and a man shot into the saloon, followed by Rumble wringing his hands. "My apologies, sir, my lords. I will fetch— Ah, here is William now. William, help me to get rid of this person."

Ian could see the confusion between Foskett's assumption of a gentlemanly friend and Rumble's description of him as ‘this person' . The man was attired in the drab working clothes of a groom, but his voice was unquestionably that of a gentleman.

"Thank you, Rumble," Davenport said. "Barty, you should know better than this."

"But, sir—" the man began, but Ian interrupted him.

"You are Barty? Davenport, this man is clearly a gentleman beneath the unkempt appearance, and he accompanied my wife here. I should like to hear what he says."

"And so should I," Sir Hannibal said. "If there is a crisis somewhere, we should know of it."

"If you insist," Davenport said curtly. "Thank you, Rumble, William. You may go."

Barty was staring at Ian. "You are Lord Farramont?"

"I am, and I know something of your story. Tell us first who needs to be rescued."

Barty was rendered speechless momentarily, then he began cautiously in a strong accent, "Thank you, milord, but it's best I talk to Mrs Hearle about it."

Ian winced. "Talk in your real voice, if you please. It is too late to try to pretend you are nothing but a humble groom."

"Very well," he said, straightening his back. "I should still prefer to convey my information to Mrs Hearle."

"If anyone is in need of rescuing, it is men you need, not a lady. You may tell me in private, if you wish, for Mrs Hearle has told me a great deal that is not general knowledge, but it is my opinion that the time for secrecy is past. Besides, if there is to be a rescue party, then the more men you can call upon the better. You can trust these gentlemen."

Barty nodded. "This concerns Mr Oliver Bayton. He it is who needs to be rescued." He told then in brief terms the story of Bayton House, how the Hearles had taken charge of it, and had control not just of the estate, but also guardianship of Olly himself until he came of age. "Olly just wanted to know how things stood, but without the Hearles knowing about it, in case… well, in case they had him declared insane and got him locked up in an asylum. But it seems they got wind of his presence nearby, and now he has vanished. I am as sure as I can be that he is locked up somewhere in Bayton House, until they can get physicians out here to declare him insane. We have to get him out of there, my lord! We must!"

"And we will," Ian said at once. "But I think we must also get the Hearles out of there. Bayton House legally belongs to Oliver Bayton, is it not so? Even though he is not of age, his trustees are obliged to maintain it for his use, not to live in it themselves and keep him out. And I do not quite understand why they are both guardians and trustees in this case. That is extremely bad practice."

"It is only because the appointed guardians and trustees are all dead," Barty said.

"Ha!" said Sir Hannibal. "Then they have no right to Bayton himself, none at all. Guardianship cannot be transferred. Whoever is specified in the father's will, if that person dies, then a new guardian can only be appointed by the Court of Chancery, and I would wager these people have not attempted that. I am with you in this, Farramont. There is underhand dealing here which must be rectified. Who is the nearest magistrate, Davenport?"

"I will send word to him first thing tomorrow," Davenport said, "but he will not act on a Sunday."

"No matter," Ian said. "Monday will do well enough for the law, but the rescue party must act a little more quickly, I believe. Possession is nine points of the law, so we must have Bayton in our hands before we bring the law to bear. Or before the Hearles have time to spirit him away somewhere else. Davenport, can you gather a party of men by eight o'clock?"

Barty gave a groan of disappointment.

"Yes, yes, you would like to go at once, but I cannot think that anything worse will happen to him between now and then," Ian said. "If he is locked up in Bayton House, then he is safe, for the moment. We will find him, never fear."

***

T he party that gathered on the drive on Sunday morning was surprisingly large. Apart from the gentlemen, there were grooms and gardeners, footmen and even a few of the valets, making up a party of more than two dozen. Two wagons had been found to convey the men, while the gentlemen rode.

Sir Hannibal, who was a magistrate in his own parish, had assumed command of the operation. "There is to be no violence," he said sternly. "We are searching for a man being held a prisoner. The outdoor servants will search all the outbuildings, taking care to look particularly for locked doors or barred windows. You are not to be breaking down doors or smashing windows, mind! If you find somewhere that looks like it might contain a prisoner, fetch one of the gentlemen. The indoor servants will join us in searching the interior, including the basements and attics. Mrs Hearle has told us where the keys used to be kept when she was last there, so we will hope that has not changed. She has also told us where all the external doors are, so we will leave guards posted there to ensure no one escapes undetected. Very well. Onward!"

Ian had taken the precaution of loading his pistols and wearing a coat with deep enough pockets to hide them. He was not used to going about armed, so he was unusually nervous as the little cavalcade set off. Sophie Hearle and several of the ladies had gathered to see them depart, and he waved cheerfully enough, but inside he quailed rather. He had never been one for violence, having eschewed any form of fisticuffs when he was a boy. He had learnt to shoot and to fence as he grew up, but boxing had never interested him in the slightest. It was not, he felt, a gentlemanly pursuit. He had an uneasy feeling that today he was going to have to fight.

Bayton House was an undistinguished property of a dull grey stone, suitable for a respectable gentleman, but without any great architectural merit, but then few houses, to Ian's mind, could compare with the splendour of Stonywell. The house seemed in good condition, however. The short carriage drive was well swept and the pleasure grounds, what could be seen of them, were tidy.

It was Sir Hannibal who rapped on the front door with the head of his cane, while Barty led a group round to the stables to begin the search there. As soon as the door was opened by a very young maid, Sir Hannibal marched in, the others following him past the squawking girl. Ian brought up the rear. While the others vanished into the recesses of the house, he stayed behind, for he had been delegated to guard the front door.

The maid had vanished too, and soon protesting voices drifted up from below stairs. Ian looked into several rooms leading directly off the hall, but finding them empty, he resumed his post by the front door. He had to admit that, despite the unpromising exterior, the inside appearance was much more pleasing. The furnishings were of good quality, and surprisingly tasteful.

He was not alone for long.

"What the devil is going on? Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" A man of perhaps forty appeared from a passageway off the hall. He was well-dressed but quite stout, his waistcoat buttons straining with the effort of containment, and he was so red in the face that Ian feared the buttons might not retain their hold for much longer.

"I am Viscount Farramont. To whom am I speaking?"

"I don't care if you're a viscount or the King of England, I want you out of my house this minute!"

" Your house?" Ian said, in his best aristocratic manner, drawing himself up to his considerable full height.

"Yes, my house and—" He paused as sounds of confrontation rose from the service stairs. "What the devil is going on down there?"

"There is a search of this property under way, instituted by Sir Hannibal Shrubb, a magistrate." No need to mention that his authority only extended across a part of Hertfordshire. "We are looking for a missing person."

The man blanched. "A magistrate? Missing person? No, no, some mistake, I think. You had better tell your friend— No, Mildred, go back to bed, dear. I can deal with this."

A woman's face, swathed in a voluminous lacy nightcap, appeared at the top of the stairs and peered down at them anxiously. "But Thomas—"

"Go back to your room! At once!"

She scuttled away, but more faces appeared, watching wide-eyed over the balustrade or through it. A whole row of children of differing heights, and behind them a pair of maids, and a severe-faced woman who was probably a governess.

"What is it, Papa?" someone called down in a clear, piping voice.

Another said, "Is there going to be a mill?"

They began to sidle down the stairs, the maids clucking half-heartedly behind them, while their father was torn between dealing with his own offspring or tackling Ian, who was doing his best to look imposingly large and imperious. He could see at a glance that this fellow was no gentleman, despite the well-fitted clothes.

By this time, more people had appeared from the passageway, although whether they were footmen or family members was impossible to tell. Then thumps and yells and clatterings announced the arrival from the service stairs of a boiling tangle of men in the attire of outdoor servants. Amongst them, Ian recognised Barty and two or three others from Harringdon. The arrivals from the passageway joined in and, to cheers from the spectators on the stairs, the boiling tangle became a mill in truth.

The entrance hall was not a large room, and within moments it was a scene of devastation, with chairs overturned, a vase hurled wildly into the mêlée and arms flailing everywhere. Ian was not accustomed to finding himself in the middle of a pitched battle. His cane would be a useful weapon, especially since it concealed a sword, but there was no room to swing it, nor could he be sure of hitting only the enemy, if they were indeed to be considered so. After all, they were only defending their home from strangers.

So although he used his cane to defend himself from any stray punches that came too close, he kept himself out of the battle as far as possible. He noticed that the stout man had disappeared, while his good lady had returned and was shrieking condemnation or encouragement, it was hard to tell which, from the landing above.

Ian tired of the fracas very quickly. His hand found his pistol waiting in his pocket. Choosing a moment when the battle ebbed away from him momentarily, he pulled the pistol forth and fired into the ceiling.

In so small a room, the echo of the report and the acrid smell of the powder were overwhelming. Someone screamed, but the shot had the desired effect, for the fighting ground to a surprised halt.

"Stop this nonsense at once!" Ian boomed into the sudden silence. "You two — stand up! And you — you are dripping blood all over the rug. Get downstairs and get yourself cleaned up. Barty, gather up our people. The rest of you, back downstairs where you belong."

The authority in his voice did the trick. With only a couple of resentful shoves, the two groups separated and several men trooped obediently down the stairs.

"What happened?" Ian said to Barty.

The man grinned at him. "I wish I could do that — subdue them with the power of my voice. I did try… but dressed like this, they took no notice of me. The grooms defended the stables, we withdrew into the basement, they followed us there. We were trying to get away from them and ended up here. Sorry, my lord."

"No real damage done, except to the ceiling," he said, looking up ruefully at the cracked plaster. "Did you find anything?"

"No opportunity to look."

"Then get back there and keep an eye on them, in case they try to smuggle Bayton out of captivity. And watch out for a portly man in a green waistcoat. He was here a moment ago, but he disappeared when the fight broke out."

Barty opened the front door and led his men off at a run, leaving Ian alone in the hall. Or almost alone. On the half-landing, watching interestedly, were the remains of the nursery party, two boys of perhaps seven or eight.

Ian smiled at them. "Did you enjoy the mill?"

They both nodded. "It were grand!" the elder boy said. "Parker's right handy with his fives! But that other man — he planted Matt Holden such a facer. Prop'ly drew his cork, he did."

"Boys!" said a gravelly voice. "Back upstairs, this minute."

"Yes, Grandpa. Sorry, Grandpa."

They scuttled away, leaving Ian facing an elderly man leaning heavily on a walking stick.

"Mr Hearle, I presume?" Ian said. "I am Viscount Farramont."

The old man smirked. "Farramont, eh? Then I pity you, sir, married to that whore."

Ian took a step forward, and had he not been still holding a pistol in his hand, matters might have gone ill for Mr Hearle. But Ian remembered in time that he was a gentleman.

Through clenched teeth, he said, "I make due allowance for your age, sir, and will therefore not knock your teeth down your throat, this time. Should there be any further insult to my wife, I shall not be so restrained."

The old man laughed. "I shall look forward to it." He waved his walking stick in what he imagined was a menacing manner, wobbling rather, but Ian only laughed back at him. Hearle might have been a powerful man once, but age had taken its inevitable toll.

At that moment, Sir Hannibal and Lord Foskett emerged from the service stairs, half carrying a slender young man covered in bruises.

"Success!" Sir Hannibal called out, then noticed the old man. "Now who have we here?"

"You go rampaging through my house, and have the gall to ask me who I am?" the old man growled. "Identify yourselves, so that I know who I am throwing out."

"Oh, you are going to throw us out, are you?" Sir Hannibal said cheerfully, looking all around the hall, and seeing no one to support the old man. "You and… erm?"

For answer, the old man picked up a bell that had been sitting on a table before the fracas had overturned it. Ringing the bell violently, he smirked at them all. Ian was coming to dislike that smirk rather a lot.

"While you await reinforcements, shall we introduce ourselves?" Sir Hannibal said with unimpaired good humour. "I am Sir Hannibal Shrubb, this is Lord Foskett, and I see you have already met Lord Farramont. This gentlemen, who is regrettably not enjoying his customary good health, is Mr Oliver Bayton, who I am sure you are aware is the legal owner of this property. Oh, and here are my reinforcements. You know Mr Davenport, of course, and his cousins, Mr Jack Davenport, Mr Claude Davenport, Mr Malcolm Davenport and Mr Edward Davenport." He paused. "This is the point where you introduce yourself, sir."

Silence.

"His manners are not all they might be," Ian said, "but I feel tolerably certain this is Mr Lionel Hearle, father-in-law to Mrs Martin Hearle, who is presently staying at Harringdon. Ah, and here is Mr Thomas Hearle, brother-in-law to Mrs Hearle. And… the house maid? And a kitchen boy, perhaps? Not the cook? I am disappointed, Hearle. I quite expected to be assaulted with a rolling pin."

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" the elder Mr Hearle growled. "I don't know what nonsense Sophie's told you, but I can tell you here and now that that boy there may own this place, but we own him. I'm his guardian so it's for me to say what happens to him and the house."

"Excellent," Sir Hannibal said. "Then you have a copy of the late Mr Bayton's will, wherein he appointed you guardian to his son by name? Because I have to tell you that if you are not named explicitly in the will, you have no rights over Mr Oliver Bayton."

"My son was named," Hearle said. "He's dead, so I took over from him."

"Unfortunately, or fortunately in this case, that is not how the law works," Sir Hannibal said. "Only the father has the right to appoint a guardian. Or the Court of Chancery, but since Oliver will be of age very shortly, there is no need for that. And since he is the owner of Bayton House, I think he should have the right to determine who lives in it, would you not agree, Mr Hearle?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Oliver. "What do you say, Bayton? Do you want the Hearles living in your house?"

"No!"

"None of them?"

"Not one. They are all scum who treated my sister abominably. I want them out of here, every last one of them, and I never want to see them again."

"Well, that seems clear enough, does it not, Mr Hearle? In that case, we shall remove Mr Bayton to Harringdon Hall, where he will be safe from further harm. We shall return tomorrow with the bailiffs to assist you to leave. A few of our people will stay here overnight, just to ensure that nothing untoward occurs. One would not wish any valuable items to mysteriously disappear, for instance, or for any accident to arise from a dropped candle. Good day to you, Mr Hearle. Mr Thomas Hearle."

And so saying, Sir Hannibal swept out of the house, still supporting Oliver Bayton, with the rest of his retinue in his wake. He sent the cousins off to find Barty and the rest of the Harringdon people, and give the orders for watching the property until the bailiffs arrived.

"You are enjoying this," Ian murmured to Sir Hannibal.

"Enormously," he said, smiling broadly. "In fact, I have not had so much amusement since the time I was obliged to investigate a brothel in— Well, never mind where. Best you do not know. But within its portals I found the mayor, three aldermen, a banker, two clergymen, and no fewer than seven scions of the nobility."

Ian burst out laughing. "A distinguished enterprise indeed! And did you… erm, pursue these people with the full majesty of your powers as a magistrate?"

"Oh, no. One would not wish to be disagreeably pedantic in matters of the law, would one? Oddly enough, I found myself rather popular thereafter, and received many gratifying invitations. Gifts, too… a whole pipe of port from one gentleman. People can be so generous, can they not? Shall we wend our way homewards? I find myself quite ready for my breakfast, after such an invigorating morning."