Emily Goes to Exeter

It was noon before the drugged inn became fully awake. And then there was uproar.

The landlord was accused of supplying bad drink. The punch was held to blame, for the servants had drunk what was left over, as they usually did.

‘And I,’ said Hannah Pym firmly to Lord Harley, ‘am convinced I was drugged.’

‘Which you were,’ he said, and drew her aside and told her of the adventures of the night, ending with the glad news that Mr Fletcher was awake and had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened. ‘But,’ went on Lord Harley, ‘if it is not Captain Seaton, then it is one of the others. But how shall we find out? Shall I gather them together and tell them all what happened and watch their faces to see if one of them betrays himself?’

‘No, let me think.’ Hannah screwed up her face dreadfully. ‘You say this villain left a letter which was supposed to be written by Mr Fletcher?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was well written?’

‘Too well written to come from, say, the hand of our coachman.’

They were standing in the coffee room at the fire. The coachman came in to say that there was a fine drying wind so that, although the snow was melting fast, he was sure the road would be clear enough to take them on the morrow and without worrying about floods.

‘I had better find a livery stable,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and hire a post-chaise to take Miss Freemantle back to London.’

‘And you will go with her?’

‘Yes, I shall hire a horse and ride alongside.’

He found Hannah was watching him closely and asked sharply, ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No, no,’ said Hannah quickly. But she had been hoping for some sign that Lord Harley’s adventures with Emily had given him an interest in her. ‘Leave the matter of finding out the identity of the villain to me, my lord.’

Dinner found the party all restored to health. Lizzie was not present. She had elected to take a meal on a tray in the Red Room with Mr Fletcher. Neither Lizzie nor Mr Fletcher had been told of the adventures of the previous night. Lord Harley did not want to alarm Mr Fletcher and cause any deterioration in his health, and he did not want Lizzie to be frightened either.

The conversation round the table was cheerful. Everyone was looking forward to going on with his or her journey. ‘Tired of sleeping with you,’ said Mr Burridge with a grin to Mr Hendry. ‘What possessed you to put the bolster between us last night?’

‘Because,’ said Mr Hendry, ‘in your sleep you sometimes appear to think I am your wife and one morning I woke up to find your arms about me.’

This produced a roar of laughter. And then Mr Burridge said, ‘Anything planned for this last night, Miss Pym? Charades or plays or the like?’

‘I have it,’ cried Hannah. ‘We will have a letter-writing competition.’

‘And I will supply the prize,’ said Lord Harley quickly.

‘I ain’t a strong hand at letter-writing,’ grumbled the coachman. ‘What’s the prize?’

‘Five guineas,’ said Lord Harley.

There was a gasp of surprise.

‘Well, for five guineas I’ll try anythink,’ said the coachman. ‘What’s this here letter to be about, Miss Pym?’

‘You are leaving this inn without paying your shot,’ said Hannah, ‘but you must make an excuse which will stop the landlord having you arrested at the next stage.’

‘Reckon I could try me hand at that,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Five guineas. I need a new pig and I could get silk for a gown. When do we start?’

‘Right after dinner,’ said Hannah. ‘I am sure after your experiences last night, gentleman, you will be glad to join us ladies and forgo your port.’

Soon they were all gathered around the table in the taproom. Sheets of paper and quill-pens were handed out all round and a large inkwell was placed in the centre of the table.

Emily, who was suddenly aware of the reason for the letter-writing competition, looked at them all eagerly. Which one of them would produce the same handwriting as that on the letter supposed to have been left by Mr Fletcher?

She herself scribbled a short note complaining about dirty towels, barely caring what she wrote. She finished before the others and sat waiting. Then a thought struck her. All the guilty party had to do was to disguise his handwriting. Her heart beat fast. She muttered an excuse and left the taproom. She ran from bedroom to bedroom, looking for something with the handwriting of the occupants. Captain Seaton’s room was out, as was the Red Room. She searched the room occupied by the coachman and guard and then the room shared by Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry.

Downstairs, Hannah collected the letters and she and Lord Harley retired to a corner to study them.

‘Nothing like,’ said Hannah gloomily, surreptitiously comparing the letter from Mr Fletcher’s room with the others.

‘And I was so sure your plan would work that I sent the landlord to fetch the constable,’ said Lord Harley.

Then Emily quietly came into the room and handed Hannah a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and in a whisper told her where she had found it.

‘Come along there!’ called the coachman. ‘Who’s won?’

‘While Lord Harley makes up his mind,’ said Hannah, ‘I would like to tell you a story.’

‘Oh, I’d like that,’ said Mrs Bradley cheerfully. ‘Nothing like a good tale to while away a winter’s night.’

‘Once upon a time,’ said Hannah, ‘there was a pretty widow who had run off on the stage-coach with a military gentleman who was anxious to marry her and get her money before anyone else did.’ The guard glanced at the captain and nudged the coachman.

‘But on the journey, she met a lawyer, a nice, kind man, and fell in love. The stage-coach party found themselves stranded at an inn. To while away the time, they put on a play. In that play, the military man was supposed to pretend to fire a gun at the ladies, while another passenger fired his gun out of the window to make it all seem lifelike. But when the military man fired his gun, it went off, and as he had been pointing it at the lawyer, his rival, he was suspected of attempted murder, for the lawyer would have been most surely killed had not one passenger quickly put a metal tray in front of him to deflect the bullet.’

‘I never loaded that gun,’ shouted the captain, turning quite purple with outrage. Hannah ignored him and went on.

‘After the day of the play, the party decided to take a walk, for the storm had ceased. A young lady in the party started a snowball fight. Someone tried to injure the lawyer by throwing a snowball with a stone in it and everyone blamed the military gentleman.’

‘And they were wrong,’ growled the captain.

‘And they were wrong,’ echoed Hannah.

An air of tension crept into the group.

‘So our villain hit on another plan. He drugged a bowl of punch, being careful not to take any himself. While everyone was asleep, he went to his own room and pretended to be asleep, and when he was sure his companion was unconscious, he rose and dressed and went to the lawyer’s room. He dressed him and then left a note beside the bed supposed to be from the lawyer saying he did not want to marry the widow after all and was leaving. Then he lugged the body of the lawyer downstairs and put it in a handcart and wheeled him far out of town to a barn, where he left him with his hands and feet bound, meaning to release him the next day, when the cold had finished the poor fellow off. He left the lawyer’s portmanteau in the barn beside him.

‘But someone saw the villain leave the inn – a pretty young maiden who roused a handsome lord, one of the guests, and together they went out and followed the wheel tracks in the snow. As they found the lawyer, the villain locked them in the barn until he could think of a way of dealing with them. But they escaped and brought the lawyer back and set about discovering who this villain might be. And they did and they found out that we have a would-be murderer in our midst.’

There were sharp exclamations of alarm.