Harlow lay staring at the ceiling, wondering to himself just precisely what it was that he’d done wrong.
He really was a good enough chap in his own way. In fact, if one were to be vain about the matter and pay heed to public opinion, he really was distinctly splendid. He always did his best to be agreeable and courteous, he always strove to be a gentleman in every respect, he was a decent hand at just about everything, and everybody always seemed to like him so very much. He didn’t see why on earth the universe should suddenly become so unkind to him.
Harlow felt absolutely terrible. He was lying on the same couch in Wingham Manor upon which he had apparently been deposited last night, his head swathed in an itching bandage and under strict orders from the doctor not to be moved for at least two days. Not that such a thing would have been very likely in any case if Harlow had anything to do with it, for he felt dizzy and queasy with every twinge of his muscles. A concussion is an unpredictable thing, sometimes being little more than a nuisances while in other cases it can leave a man with a permanent disability. As it was, Harlow’s head throbbed so that he almost wished the doctor would just go ahead and cut the whole thing off and release him from his earthly body, or barring that at least permit him to drink sufficient whiskey to make the whole universe completely irrelevant for a day or two. Whoever had bashed him on the head last night could at least have been courteous and done a better job of it. That way perhaps Harlow might never have woken up at all. As it was, Harlow was looking forward to returning the service in kind, assuming he ever laid hands on the blighter that did it. But on the other hand this wasn’t really a gentlemanly way of going about things and once Harlow had finished enduring the Trials of Job he supposed he might just as well be grateful to simply wash his hands of the whole beastly affair and be done with it. And of course, there was also that minor detail that Harlow had not a notion in the universe at whom to direct his wrath.
Harlow was quite certain that he had absolutely no idea who hit him, a fact which he had been obliged to repeat constantly to what seemed like the entire neighborhood. No, he didn’t see the fellow. No, of course he didn’t recognize him, hadn’t he just said that he didn’t see the man? No, he didn’t have any warning. No, he didn’t hear a twig snap or a bush rustle or anything beforehand. No, Miss Watson did not cry out before he was struck. What do you mean ‘did his attacker have any singular facial features’? How on earth could Harlow know anything about the beastly man’s face if he hadn’t seen it! No, Harlow had no idea whether or not there was more than one. No, he didn’t hear any horses or a carriage. No, he didn’t hear any footsteps either. How could he guess how many there were if he didn’t hear anything! No, he didn’t know....what do you mean, OF COURSE he didn’t know what color his eyes were! Harlow relished an audience as much as any Barnstabrake did, but this was all a bit much.
Of course, Harlow’s own discomfort was surely nothing compared to that of poor Miss Watson, assuming the unfortunate girl was even still alive. Which of course meant that her present experience must truly be unimaginably horrible, for Harlow could not conceive feeling any worse than he already did at the present moment. It was utterly disgraceful that he hadn’t prevented the whole thing from happening in the first place. Harlow felt a sense of helpless rage over the fact that there was nothing he could really have done to prevent so wholly an unexpected turn of events or rectify them in some way this very instant. He hated himself for having failed to protect the woman in his charge even as he couldn’t for the life of him see how he could have prevailed against something so completely unforeseen. The whole thing made Harlow feel that much more sick, and he wished devoutly that someone had left a full bottle of brandy conveniently within his reach, or if not that then the culprit’s beastly little neck so Harlow could wring it out properly, whoever it was that the neck belonged to.
It was this last which formed the axis of the questions which hung most heavily not only on Harlow’s, but indeed the minds of the whole community. Who indeed had perpetrated this incredible deed, and for what purpose? Where now and in what wretched condition was poor Agatha Watson, and how was she to be delivered from her predicament....or else avenged?
Strident voices were now filtering from down the hall, accompanied by the slamming of doors and the clap of heavy boots on hardwood. Harlow had a mournful premonition that his solitude was about to be violated.
“....spread out on the countryside between Crickwood and Barrow Heath. Hodson with twelve men will scour the downs while six men under Bates will form a detachment and inspect Wiggins Farm. There’ll be no getting through our net, by jingo! No, sir indeed! Afternoon, Harlow! Blast, why are you lolling about in here with the drapes all shut? It’s like a bally tomb!”
“Precisely, sir, and if you would be so good as to keep it that way....oh, hell!”
The elder Mr. Barnstabrake had flung open some of the drapes and unleashed a piercing ray of sunlight which stung Harlow’s beleagured optic nerves.
Mr. Barnstabrake senior was outfitted in the most splendid hunting dress his wardrobe could furnish, with a wicked smallsword at his side which looked painfully delicate hanging as it did from his over ample frame. Nothing so terrible had ever happened in the neighborhood in Mr. Barnstabrake’s lifetime, and he was enjoying every glorious moment of it.
Not so Mr. Stokes. With Sir Walter still ensconced in the metropolis, Mr. Barnstabrake did the next best thing and appropriated the reputable knight’s secretary into his entourage. Mr. Stokes stood stiffly in fresh riding attire with a brace of pistols (his own duelling set) thrust awkwardly into his belt. He had spent the entire morning galloping across the countryside in the wake of the indefatigable Mr. Barnstabrake who with boundless energy had assumed command of the whole situation not an hour after Miss Watson had disappeared the evening before. And he had hardly even stopped for breath since, a redoubtable feat to be sure, given how much the man had been using his lungs.
“Bully, if it isn’t a splendid day! Damned if there has been such catastrophe in this county in a generation! The whole neighborhood is out in force. We will have recovered poor Miss Watson before nightfall, I shouldn’t wonder. Our efforts will not be forgotten for a long time, mark my words!”
“Indeed, they may well be remembered for as much as a fortnight!” The quip was uttered softly and Mr. Stokes had not intended that it bemuse any but himself. But Harlow heard the remark.
“Blast if you can’t take your bally search somewhere else, I’m bally dying at the moment and wish to be left alone.”
“Eh? Just a little knock on the head, what? Never hurt anyone, much. You’ll be on your feet in no time. That’s the Barnstabrake spirit!”
“This Barnstabrake spirit is rather more inclined to take leave of its mortal coils sooner than later. If you would be so kind sir as to dispatch a boy or two with a few barrows of some cool, soft dirt to yonder garden, and then you can just carry me through the window like Mr. Gates and bury me promptly. I would be much obliged.”
“Yes, Gates! Damn the brigand! No, no question that’s who we’re looking for, mark my words!”
“Eh what? Gates?”
“Yes, Gates” interjected Mr. Stokes, “It would appear that Mr Gates was seen at the ball only a short time before the abduction, and has himself since disappeared.”
“Except when the party under Simmons spotted him on the downs at dawn. Damn near got him, too, if he hadn’t been so damn nippy on his feet. That’s what comes of a life of thieving and vagrancy! Ruinous on the soul, but teaches you to run fast. He fled into Crickwood, and is probably still hiding in the forest, like some thieving fox, but we’ll hunt him down! I’m meeting with Burnsdale and Sir Gerrard Botts in thirty minutes, we’re going to assemble all the horses and hounds we can muster and uproot every shrub in Crickwood until we find him!”
“Him? You mean Gates?”
“Of course I mean Gates, confound it!”
“Are you sure that it’s Gates who’s got her?”
“Oh course I’m sure, who else could it be?”
“Sorry, sir, I just....”
“Oh, take a nap, boy! Coddle that lump on your head until you have enough Barnstabrake blood flowing in your system to join the hunt with everyone else...if we aren’t already finished by then. Come on Stokes, we have horses to commandeer!”
Stokes ruefully followed the elder Barnstabake back to the drive, wishing for nothing more at the moment than to be in bed with a cold towel over his eyes. It was worth it to have seen young Harlow put down like that, though. A rare and splendid spectacle indeed.
The senior Mr. Barnstabrake was not the only individual who found the recent events in Potham on Heath to be a source of exciting inspiration. The Barbarians Howard were uniform in their opinion that this was nothing less than the best thing that ever happened, and having spent the entire day in closeted discussion unravelling the mystery for themselves were eager to inform their elder sister of their discoveries.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
They found Fanny in the sewing room trying to distract herself with a book of folklore.
“Fanny! Have you heard it all?”
“Heard...?”
“The ABDUCTION!”
“Ah, yes. You needn’t concern....”
“It’s alright, we’ve solved it all!”
“We have!”
“You have?”
“We have. And we know who did it.”
“You do?”
“Aren’t you going to ask us who it is?”
“Well, I suppose..”
“Why, it was Black Abraham, of course!”
“Black Abraham?”
“Of course!”
“But why would Black Abraham....”
“Because that’s what he does! He’s always coming into the country to kidnap girls!”
“He only did it once.”
“But it made him famous! And wouldn’t he want be made famous again?”
“I don’t know, he got into such trouble and and they did catch him after all.....”
“They wouldn’t catch him again, he’s a pirate and he’s smart and he’s got a ship and he’ll carry her off to some faraway place and then send off ransom notes until everyone pays him such a heaping amount of money...”
“And isn’t it just beastly that he had to carry off that girl! He should have taken us. We’d be splendid pirates!”
“Girls aren’t any good at all good for adventures, except for you Fanny. He should have taken you instead, then he could have taken us too and then we’d all be pirates!”
“Wouldn’t that be ever so jolly?”
“Most definitely not. I have no desire to be abducted by anyone, I don’t care how great a pirate it may be. And you, young scoundrels, need to be a bit more serious. Poor Miss Watson is in such terrible trouble, you should not be so flip in your manner! Besides, you have no idea it was Black Abraham that did it. It could have been anyone. Perhaps even someone in the neighborhood we know. I’ve sent word to your father to come home at once, and in the meanwhile you are not to be out of doors after nightfall.”
“Coo! What if it’s old Adam Rank, I always said he had a mean unsporting look!”
“Harlow would have thrashed old Adam Properly.”
“Not with him being all soppy over that girl! He ought to have been on his guard, what with pirates and highwaymen about and all.”
“How about that big swell Gareth Larch? He’s only been in the neighborhood an entire year, so he’s practically a foreigner!”
“I think he’s far too fat to have given Harlow any trouble, and he’s definitely not a pirate; he talks too much. Pirates don’t waste time talking for hours and hours about the weather!”
“Coo! Do you think it could have been Black Abraham after all?”
“That will be enough from you two! Enough talk of pirates and highwaymen and whatnot. Go upstairs and practice your lessons. Now.”
The two elementals of chaos scampered obediently off, still sufficiently wound in their exuberance not to protest against the terrible injustice of the recently issued command. Fanny attempted to return to her book, but found herself as before merely gazing at the printed words without cognition, her mind preoccupied.
She was worried. Miss Watson was not a close friend, but she was a sister in Fanny’s set, neighborhood, and of course sex, and she was very young. She was a good young woman, if overly flirtatious, and Fanny was not one who could set aside her concern easily. And even disregarding the fate of a sister, what of the rest of the neighborhood? A world of safety and security had been shattered in one terrible moment, and she found little to relish in the scent of danger arising from the hearth.
Of course, there were other kinds of women.
There was a hollow clack of a door opening and a tense looking servant girl curtsied and announced the arrival of Miss Bellingham. The young woman swept into the room and kissed Fanny on the cheek in the manner of a dear friend, which in Fanny’s view she most distinctly was not. She was not of a mood towards hospitality for Miss Bellingham’s eccentricity.
“The world stirs about us with a feral energy, I fear we have awakened terrible forces with our indifference.”
“Indifference, Miss Bellingham?”
“To the Girdle of Nature, of course. To the suckling fauns at Gaia’s bosom! To the Old Men of the Trees! To the great bears of the hills and the sparrows on the wing! To the Sylphs of the Air and Kobalds of the Earth! To the...”
“I really am not of a mind that Miss Watson was carried off by sparrows, my dear Miss Bellingham. Pray be serious, these matters cannot be taken lightly!”
“Of course I am being serious, Fanny dear. Of course, poor dear Agatha was not carried off by the sparrows. They don’t possess such vibrations. Nor do the Sylphs, for they are of Light and can bear harm to no one. No my dear, I’m quite certain this is very much the work of the Kobalds, for they are crafty and bear a slight very ill indeed. They may be small, but they are capable of great leaps, you know, and it would have been quite easy for a Kobald Prince to biff poor dear Harlow in the head with his little fist.”
“I daresay Mr. Barnstabrake would not appreciate your manner, Miss Bellingham. This is far too serious a business. We have no luxury for idle fancies.”
“Hush, Fanny dear! Do not speak disrespectfully of the Kobalds. They are keen of ear and quick of temper! Besides, I have been roaming the countryside all morning, you see-”
“I do see. The twigs and mud sticking about your person are hardly un-noticeable.”
“-and I have found all sorts of Clues and Indications. I am quite certain it was Kobalds. Dr. Ford believes it was wolves, but he told me not to tell anyone.”
“What do you mean!”
“There were wolf footprints everywhere about Wingham Manor this morning, and Dr. Ford says he found some hairs in the wound on Harlow’s head which he thinks might be wolf fur. He told me not to tell a soul, as it would bode very ill for poor Agatha if it were true (being eaten by wolves and all) and he doesn’t want anyone to know until he’s sure. It’ all such very queer behavior for wolves, he says. But it’s all nonsense, of course, I’m sure it was really Kobalds. They are Cunning and may disguise themselves as all manner of beasts with their Arts.”
“Tell me more of what Dr. Ford said!”
“Can’t, my dear Fanny, he made me promise not to breath a word, and I never break a promise. It produces bad vibrations. Besides, I don’t remember any more. It was really not all that important since I already knew it was Kobalds.”
“Oh for goodness sake! Stop talking about Kobalds!”
“You’re quite right, Fanny dear! It doesn’t pay to speak of them in gossip. It offends them.”
“Do you in all seriousness really believe it was Kobalds, Miss Bellingham?”
“Goodness, I quite forgot! See here!” Miss Bellingham reached for her reticule from which Fanny noticed with curiosity a long wooden peg protruding.
"What on earth is that?”
“A Kobald’s walking stick, of course!”
Fanny examined the object. It was of rough finished hardwood, a shaft nearly twelve inches long with a rounded handle not unlike that of a common rolling pin.
“It’s a belaying pin.”
“Beg pardon, Fanny dear?”
“It’s a belaying pin, Miss Bellingham. They’re used aboard ships to secure line to the bulwarks. Sailors sometimes use them as makeshift cudgels as well......Where on earth did you find this?”
“Near Wingham Manor, not a dozen yards from where poor Harlow was biffed. Everybody is far too busy looking for that Mr. Bates..”
“Gates?”
“Perhaps, I don’t know. Whoever he is, everyone is far too busy looking for him to pay proper attention to Clues. I’m quite sure it’s Kobalds; the walking stick proves it!.”
“Why should anyone be looking for Mr. Gates?”
“I don’t know, perhaps they think he did it. See, look at the side there, there’s the name of the Kobald who owns it!”
Examining the belaying pin more closely, Fanny observed some crude lettering carved along a portion of its length.
“Ardent Fancy?”
“Isn’t that a splendid name? Just the sort of name a Kobald Prince might have.”
“It sounds rather more like a ship to me. In fact it seems rather that I have heard of such a ship. But why carve it on a belaying pin?”
“Because it’s a walking stick, silly goose, and that’s his name. The Kobald Prince’s I mean. I must be off! I wish to show this to Dr. Ford. Perhaps this will convince him that it really is Kobalds after all.”
Fanny bid her farewell nearly to empty air as Miss Bellingham soared out of the room as abruptly as she had entered it. Fanny resumed her book, pondering all she had just heard. Where had she heard that name, Ardent Fancy?
On a sudden inspiration, she arose and found her way swiftly to the nursery, where the young barbarians were engaged drawing pirates in their lesson books. After a brief interrogation, Fanny extracted what she she had already begun to suspect and left her astounded brothers to their creative vandalism.
She leaned against the nursery door as she closed it behind her, her breast heaving with an uncertain excitement as her thoughts turned over what she had just learned.
The Ardent Fancy, as she had been precisely informed, was a forty-four gun merchantman currently interred by the Admiralty after having been captured in pitched battle with the ship’s former captain.....who was none other than the infamous pirate, Black Abraham himself!