The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,50

cannot give you a conference with her ladyship, but she has been ill and is in the country, recuperating. You recall she had just broken her arm when you saw her—”

“Yes, yes, but that must not be allowed to stand in the way. As a loyal Englishwoman, it must be her first responsibility to serve her country—”

Still smiling, Lord John interrupted him. “My wife is not an Englishwoman, and her responsibility—that is, she might feel—” He laughed, joyously.

Lord Peter moved in smoothly to soothe and divert the affronted Mr. Manton. Lady Nadine is Irish, Manton, but what is more important, she’s very ill. His lordship will agree to notify you when his lady is able to confer with you. And now I’m sure you will excuse us?” and he turned Manton over to the hovering butler.

When the little man had taken a reluctant departure, Peter herded John and Randy into the library and closed the door.

There was an expression on Lord John’s face which his friends had never seen before. “She was telling the truth,” he said softly.

Randy opened his mouth to object, but Lord Peter ruthlessly forestalled him.

“This little cockerel has used his head for once in his life. Randy, tell him about the portrait.”

Randy repeated his discussion with the footman, who was promptly called into the library and interrogated. They got no more from him than Randy had already learned, but John, riding a wave of euphoria, decided it was enough. He sent the footman for Paget, and ordered that worthy to have the big traveling carriage around within twenty minutes.

“I suppose,” he regarded his two friends with twinkling eyes, “you two will want to accompany me to Elsinghurst and offer your apologies to Kathryn,” he said.

“I shall insist upon coming,” retorted Lord Peter, “if only to prevent you from making a fool of yourself. What is this about Lexington?”

“That’s right, you weren’t present when—when Kathryn announced that the first skirmish in the War of Independence would occur at Lexington on April 19. Since the day of her announcement was April 18, Mr. Manton, perhaps understandably, felt he was being hoaxed. It takes military intelligence from three to four weeks to reach us from the Colonies,” he explained kindly.

Lord Peter was not amused. “You were fortunate he decided it was a hoax. A more imaginative man might have suspected—witchcraft.”

“I will admit to a certain sense of urgency, in Manton’s felicitous phrase,” confessed Lord John. “My poor Kathryn down among the peasants. I hope she will have sense enough to keep her mouth shut.”

Randall regarded his friend with anxious eyes. “Johnny, my good child, if your wife tells the villagers about coming back from the future, she’s apt to be burned as a witch.”

Lord Peter glared at him, but he insisted, “You know what English peasants are like, Peter. They’re still living in the Middle Ages. Don’t even know Queen Anne’s dead! And the Scots burned a woman as a witch less than fifty years ago, on far less evidence than this. M’father told me about it.”

“That’s the dandy! Just keep reassuring us,” gritted Peter, watching the smile fade from Lord John’s face. “Johnny’s beside himself already with worry—”

“No,” Lord John said quietly, and stood up. “I’m clear in my mind at last. I believe her story. She’s Kathryn Hendrix. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m convinced Kathryn is telling the truth.”

His two friends watched him in a troubled silence as he paced the room, deep in thought. Finally, “What are we going to do about it, when we get down there?” Randy ventured.

“We’re going to tell Bennet to produce Kathryn,” said John with a return of the joyous smile. “I’ve a suspicion that more went to Elsinghurst than the portrait of milady.”

Fifteen

Elspeth Cameron was having a particularly bad day. The bread had fallen into a doughy mess in the oven, the soup had burned, and the milk, left to cool in the ice house, had acquired a peculiar, bitter taste. Elspeth, grim-lipped, knew What Had Happened. Some evilly-disposed person was “over-looking” her.

Feeding her jealousy, she disregarded all the rational explanations for what had occurred, and convinced herself that the Witch of Brionny was attacking her. She debated whether to warn the Vicar—he was not of her faith, being High Church of England, the next thing to Popery in her Covenanting mind—but he was a decent, honest man, if gullible. He’d taken the Strange Woman in and let her run tame in his house. No telling what