His voice died in mid-sentence, and the Major saw his jaw drop, and his gaze become fixed, a sort of fascinated awe in his eyes. Considerably surprised, the Major looked round to discover what he had seen to strike him to sudden silence, and beheld his cousin Claud advancing towards him.
Chapter 12
Since he had parted from Hugo, Claud had acquired a buttonhole of enormous size, which added the final touch to an appearance startling enough to excuse Lieutenant Ottershaw’s stupefaction. It was seldom that any gentleman honoured Rye by sauntering through its streets in the long-tailed coat, the pantaloons, and the Hessians that were fashionable for a lounge down Bond Street, or a promenade in Hyde Park; and even in these modish haunts Claud’s costumes must have been remarkable, for his pantaloons (with which he hoped to set a fashion) were neither of a sober biscuit hue, nor of a more dashing yellow, but of a clear and delicate lilac; his neckcloth was of inordinate size, and had a large amethyst pin stuck in its folds; his hat, the very latest product of Baxter’s inventive genius, was so revolutionary in design as to cause even its wearer to feel some qualms, for instead of being the bell-topped and rough beaver favoured by town-dwellers, or the more countrified shallow, it bore a marked resemblance to a tapering chimneypot. But even more stunning than his hat, or his pantaloons, was the long cloak of white drab, lined with lilac silk, which hung in graceful folds from his shoulders. It was not the custom of gentlemen to wear cloaks over anything but evening-dress; but it had occurred to Claud, studying his reflection once before setting out for Almack’s Assembly Rooms, that there was something peculiarly becoming in a well-cut and silk-lined cloak. The idea of designing one suitable for day-wear had flashed into his mind, and he had instantly suggested it to Polyphant. Polyphant had not seemed to care for it, but although he usually allowed Polyphant to guide his taste, he had been so much taken with this flower of his own brain that after brooding over it for several weeks he laid it before the more adventurous of his tailors. “Yes, sir. For a masquerade?” had said Mr. Stultz, rather dauntingly.
But Claud had not allowed himself to be daunted; and when he subsequently showed his cloak to two of his particular friends they were loud in their expressions of envy and approval. He had not yet worn it in London, but its effect on Rye had been very encouraging, and he rather thought he would venture to try it on the ton at the start of the Little Season.
Lieutenant Ottershaw found his voice. “Is that—is that Mr. Claud Darracott, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the Major. “It is!”
The Lieutenant drew a long breath. “I’m glad I’ve seen him,” he said simply. “I’ve heard a lot about him, but I didn’t believe the half of it.”
Having come within range, Claud put up his glass, the better to scrutinize his cousin’s companion. The Lieutenant, fascinated by an eye thus hideously magnified, could not drag his gaze from it, and was only released from its spell when Claud let the glass fall, and addressed himself to Hugo, in fretful accents. “Dash it, coz! Been searching for you all over! Even took a look-in at the church. If I hadn’t thought to ask pretty well everyone I met if they’d seen a mountain moving about on legs, I might be hunting for you still!”
“I’ve been chewing the bacon with Lieutenant Ottershaw here,” replied Hugo.
“How-de-do?” murmured Claud, groping for his glass again. He raised it, a puzzled frown on his brow, and levelled it at the Lieutenant’s blue and white uniform. “Naval?” he said doubtfully.
“Customs’ Land-Guard, sir,” said the Lieutenant stiffly.
“Thought you wasn’t wearing naval rig,” said Claud. “Never know one uniform from another, but those breeches didn’t seem right. Well, what I mean is, don’t wear ’em in the navy, do they? Silly thing to do, because it stands to reason—Customs Land-Guard, did you say?”
The Lieutenant, growing stiffer every minute, made him a slight bow. “I am a Riding-officer, sir.”
“That accounts for the breeches,” said Claud, glad to have this point cleared up. “Had me in a puzzle. Very happy to have met you, but trust you’ll forgive me if I drag my cousin away: got a nuncheon waiting for us at the George!”
“You remind me that I also must be on my way, sir,” responded Ottershaw. He then bowed again, saluted Hugo, and strode off.
“If ever I met such a ramshackle fellow!” said Claud severely. “Hobnobbing with a dashed tidesman! Next you’ll be arm-in-arm with the beadle!”
“You’re mighty high in the instep all at once!” remarked Hugo.
“No, I ain’t: no all at once about it! Never rubbed shoulders with a Preventive in my life! Not the thing! I’ll tell you what, coz: if you don’t take care you’ll have people wondering if you’re hand-in-glove with the fellow, and you’ll be in bad loaf. Take my word for it!”
“And if I were thought to be hand-in-glove with the free-traders? I collect that would be all right and regular?”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Claud crossly. “What you ought to do is to have nothing to say to any of ’em. I don’t wish that tidesman of yours any harm—in fact, I hope he may prosper, though I shouldn’t think he would, because he looked like a clunch to me. The point is, catching free-traders ain’t my business, and it ain’t yours either. And another thing! If my grandfather knew you’d formed that sort of an acquaintance he’d very likely go off in an apoplexy!”
Having uttered this warning, and even enlarged on it over the excellent ham pie provided for nuncheon at the George, it was with considerable exasperation that Claud heard his incorrigible cousin, some hours later, describing his encounter with Lieutenant Ottershaw to an audience that included not only Lord Darracott, but Vincent as well. This foolish lapse took place at the dinner-table, and just when everything, in Claud’s judgment, was going on particularly well. When the port had been set on the mahogany, his lordship had bethought him of his heir’s expedition to Rye, and had asked him, in a mood of rare geniality, if he had been pleased with the town. Upon Hugo’s responding that he had been both pleased and interested, and would like to know much more about its history than he had been able to glean in one visit, he had nodded approvingly; and it had needed only one question from Hugo to set him talking about the town. As far as Claud was concerned, it was a dead bore, but he was glad to see Hugo getting on terms with his grandfather, feeling vaguely that a great deal of credit was due to himself; and he did his best to promote further discussion by requesting my lord to tell Hugo the true facts about the murderous butcher. Happily unaware of having irritated my lord, who had been describing the original island-town, he then retired into his own thoughts, and paid no more heed to the conversation until his attention was recalled by Vincent’s saying idly: “Didn’t you tell me once, sir, that one of the cottages in Trader’s Passage has a secret way down to the Strand, or some such thing?”
“That’s what Ottershaw is trying to find, I daresay,” remarked Richmond, “He’s supposed to be stationed at Lydd, but he’s for ever prowling about Rye. You didn’t see him there, did you, Cousin Hugo?”
“Oh, yes, I saw him!” Hugo replied. He refilled his glass, and passed the decanter on to Vincent, and added: “I met him at the top of the steps by the Ypres Tower.”
Beginning to feel a trifle uneasy, Claud directed a look at him that was meant to convey a warning that any further disclosure should be sedulously avoided. He succeeded in catching his cousin’s eye, and so was startled and exacerbated when Hugo said, quite unnecessarily: “He said he had been at the Ypres Tavern.”