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‘Poor Clares?’ Maitland asked with interest, while Fenton heaved another sigh and gazed dispiritedly out of the begrimed window beside which he was seated.
The cleric nodded and a wide smile lit up his cragged face.
‘Aye, that’s what they called them,’ he said reminiscently. ‘The Ladies of St Clare, to give them their proper title—part of what was left of the Franciscan order, I understand. Lived in small groups, helping the needy and tending the sick—usual kind of thing, but they wouldn’t accept payment, hence the name.’
‘And were there any such Mercy Houses in the vicinity of Dunchurch?’ asked Maitland eagerly, convinced that he had, at last, hit upon something that might prove useful.
‘More than likely,’ nodded Barkworth. ‘Couldn’t advertise themselves, of course, being of the Roman faith—which, in those days, was like waving a red rag to a bull in certain sections of the community.’
After studying his visitors thoughtfully for some minutes, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to scratch out some names on a piece of paper.
‘Try these, he said. ‘Most of these village churches do have their own curates but, as to whether they will be able to lay their hands on such records, is hard to say. Nice little churchyards some of them have, too— worth a look, at any event.’
Having succeeded in scattering sand over paper, desk and floor before eventually passing the list to Maitland, he then rose stiffly to escort the two men to the street door, dismissing Maitland’s grateful thanks with a careless wave of his hand.
‘Happy to be of service, my dear boy,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t hesitate to come and see me again if there is anything further you require.’
‘Doubt if the old fool has had such a captive audience for years,’ muttered Fenton, as the cousins made their way back cross the street to their hostelry. ‘Shouldn’t think that room’s seen so much as a duster since the blessed Gunpowder Plot itself!’
Maitland laughed. ‘You could be right there,’ he nodded, in cheerful acquiescence. ‘Nevertheless, it is just faintly possible that our loquacious friend might well have provided us with some rather useful information.’ And, indicating the list in his hand, he then enthused, ‘These villages, for instance—I see that Willowby is amongst them—an ex-military friend of mine lives in that vicinity—promised I’d look him up, if I got the chance. Fancy a trip over there tomorrow morning, Jerry?’
‘Consider me at your service, dear boy,’ returned his cousin, carefully picking his way across the straw- strewn forecourt of the Dun Cow. ‘Only too happy to let you organise this campaign in whatever way you see fit—wouldn’t have the vaguest idea where to start, meself!’
And so it was that, shortly after eleven o’clock the following morning, the Honourable Jeremy’s well- sprung chaise, along with both of the cousins, found its way to Gresham Hall, which turned out to be an imposing early Georgian residence situated on a small rise on the far side of Greenborough village.
‘Fancy-looking pile,’ remarked Fenton enviously, as he brought the carriage to a halt at the foot of the Hall’s front steps. ‘Worth a pretty penny, I’ll be bound.’
Having been alerted by the sounds of their approaching vehicle, a stable lad appeared from the rear of the property to take hold of the horses’ heads, while the two men jumped to the ground and ascended the steps up to the wide front door, which was quickly opened by a tall, stately-looking individual, dressed in plum-coloured livery.
Upon learning the identity of the visitors, the manservant’s haughty demeanour vanished immediately, to be replaced by an expression of deep respect.
‘Mr William Maitland!’ he exclaimed, in an almost reverent tone of voice, as he ushered the pair into the large black-and-white tiled hallway. ‘May I say what a great privilege it is to come face to face with you at last, sir!’
‘Good of you to say so,’ murmured Maitland, not a little embarrassed at the serving man’s effusive attitude, which must stem, as he now realised, from his having learnt about the part he himself had played in his young master’s rescue and recovery.
To his further consternation, the elderly butler then thrust out his hand, saying, ‘Allow me to shake you by the hand, sir! Oswald Moffat, at your service, sir!’
Reaching out to take hold of the other man’s hand in a firm and friendly grip, Maitland could only pray that he was not about to be subjected to this sort of unwanted adulation from very many more of Earl Gresham’s staff.
Inclining his head, he said graciously, ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Moffat. Perhaps you would see if her ladyship is receiving visitors this morning?’
Hurriedly remembering his place, the manservant gave a courteous bow and, after showing the two men into an anteroom, bade them to take a seat. Then, after bowing to Maitland once again, he exited, his eyes alight with pleasure, as he hurried to impart the good news of the hero’s arrival, not only to his mistress, but also to his colleagues below stairs.
‘What the devil was that all about?’ demanded Fenton, in astonishment, as soon as the door had closed behind the departing butler. ‘Damned funny way for a servant to go on, if you ask me!’
‘’Fraid it looks as though we might have to put up with quite a bit of that sort of thing,’ said Maitland, with a rueful grin. ‘Cat seems to have put it about that I had a hand in saving his life.’
‘Seems there’s no end to your blessed talents, Will!’ exclaimed Fenton, eyeing his cousin sourly.
‘Stow that, Jerry!’ returned Maitland, reddening slightly. ‘I only did what any fellow would have done in the circumstances, which hardly warrants remarks of that sort, surely?’
Fenton gave a careless shrug. ‘If that butler chap’s performance is anything to go by,’ he observed, ‘it strikes me that the odd sarcastic remark from yours truly might well serve to help keep your feet on the ground!’
Before Maitland could reply, a soft tap on the door heralded Moffat’s return and the two men were escorted up the stairs to the morning room, where a smiling Countess Gresham, her son at her side, was eagerly awaiting their arrival.
‘My dear Mr Maitland!’ she exclaimed, rising from her seat and hurrying forwards to greet him. ‘I have so wanted to meet you face to face! How can I ever thank you for saving my son’s life?’
Doing his best to ignore his cousin’s disdainful sniff, Maitland reached forwards and took Lady Letitia’s outstretched hands into his own. ‘Eddie is my friend,’ he said gently. Then, looking up and catching sight of the viscount’s sober expression, he added, ‘Had the roles been reversed, I know that he would have done nothing less!’
Tears glistened in her eyes as, releasing her hands from his clasp, the countess threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. ‘You dear, dear boy!’ she cried. ‘I beg that you will always consider Gresham Hall as a second home!’ And, raising herself on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed him on his cheek.
Maitland returned her hug in much the same way as he was often wont to embrace his own mother and, after allowing her a few moments to regain control of herself, led the countess back to her seat. Then, having complied with her request that both he and his cousin should sit themselves down, he enquired as to the whereabouts of her ladyship’s other guests.
‘My father took several of the gentlemen out on a drag-hunt early this morning,’ answered Catford, on his mother’s behalf. ‘The rest of our party are sunning themselves in the garden.’
‘We were out there ourselves until Moffat brought news of your arrival,’ added the countess, with a warm smile. ‘But I did so want to speak with you alone before you were besieged by the others.’
‘I trust that you are making a jest, your ladyship!’ exclaimed Maitland, in horror, doing his best to ignore the nearby viscount’s smothered laugh. ‘I must assure you that I have no desire to be besieged by anyone!’
‘Then I fear that I shall have to apologise in advance, my dear boy,’ returned Lady Letitia, leaning forwards to pat his hand. ‘Your exploits have become somewhat legendary within the family. It would be well nigh impossible for me to try to prevent any of them from wanting to shake you by the hand and offer you their thanks. If you could just grin and bear it for a few minutes, I promise you that it will soon be over and done with!’
Assuring the countess that he would do his best, Maitland rose and, offering her his arm, led her out of the room and down the stairs. Fenton, whose earlier fit of pettishness had not been improved by her ladyship having, apart from her initial greeting, virtually ignored his presence, followed the pair, unaware that his revulsion at the thought of having to stand by and witness Maitland basking in hero-worship was not entirely dissimilar to his cousin’s own feelings at being obliged to submit to it.
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