“The inn was crowded. That was not unusual. It was popular, and on a Saturday afternoon when servants were celebrating the last of their half-day, and shop owners and countrymen were spending a little of their coin before heading to their homes, it seemed to be packed nearly to the rough-hewn timbers that held up the roof.
Susan Ironholder, no she was Susan White now, married to Rupert White, the stable hand, was serving beer and food to the crowd.Rightly, she should have been Susan Barrette, but her husband had taken the name White. He explained that it was somewhat in the spirit of the knights of old who covered the devices on their shields to hide their origins, or so he said. The truth was not so grand. Sir Barrette had not only disowned him, he had denied him the use of his name.
‘My father has turned away from me,’ he explained. ‘Therefore, I shall be a blank shield as in the days of old. He expected me to come running home as soon as I forked up the first dung pile. But I have not, and I will not.’
It was a fine piece of folderol, such as young men will engage in and old men perpetuate. It went about as well as might be expected.
At first, it seemed love would overcome adversity. But Rupert was used to finer things, and to being constantly amused. Soon, most of his pay went to drink and games of chance. Susan was obliged to turn over her pay to him, but she managed to hide at least a portion of her tips, saving for those inevitable rainy days. She didn’t say much of her days at home, but now and then there was a bruise on her arm or she moved in a painful sort of way. We knew, those of us who worked with her. But what were we to do?
That fateful night, a huddle of young men were playing dice on the hearth inside the inn, while a shabby minstrel coaxed a spatter of notes out of a battered lute. In a corner, three gentlemen and Rupert White were playing cards.
Rupert caught at Susan’s sleeve as she passed the table, and whispered something to her. She frowned at him, but pulled some coins from the pocket of her apron, and gave them to him. He then went back to his game.
A stuffed owl presided over the room from a perch above the fireplace mantle. Another group of jolly good fellows were casting darts at the shabby bird, and taking bets as to whether they could hit the creature’s glass eyes.
I had come down to get a bucket of beer for My Lady. No, do not you be a-laughin’ now. She liked to have a pint before going to bed. Said it did her more good than all the wine in the world. But truth be told, she wanted news of Rupert, poor dear. She never agreed with the way her husband disowned their second son, but there was little she could do about it. That night was a special one, for Sir Barrette was out, and I’d smuggled her granddaughter in to see her.
As I watched, one of the dart throwers missed the owl, and a chunk of daubing fell off the chimney. No one thought anything about it. Daubing fell off that chimney all the time.It leaked a little smoke, and a spark or two from the resultant opening.
The dice throwers got into a shoving match, and the boys began scuffling on the hearth. The barkeep went around the bar, snapped his towel at them, and told them to calm down else he would throw them out.
No sooner had he gotten that settled, when Rupert stood up, picked up his winnings and staggered over to the fire. ‘I won,’ he announced to the room. ‘Barkeep, set one up for everybody.’
That was just the height of rudeness because Mr. Gerard, the barkeep and owner, was the proprietor and his employer when Rupert was on duty. But that was Rupert all over. He somehow never forgot that he was a knight’s son, even if he was disowned and trying to go around with a blank shield and all.
The round was served. One of the other card players stood up, walked over, and poured his free drink over Rupert’s head. ‘You’re a cheat an’ a liar,’ the fellow says. And then he gave Rupert a shove that landed him in the fireplace.
They must have been drinking Blue Ruin because the liquor caught fire and the flames roared up the chimney, sending sparks out the break in it, into the thatching of the roof. Rupert rolled out of the fireplace, and across the rushes. That set them alight as he went.
Susan screamed, and rushed to him, beating at the fire with her apron. That just caught the apron and her skirts. I was at the door when the ruckus started. I’m ashamed to say, I simply dropped the bucket of beer and I ran. When I looked back there was fire shooting up from the roof, and people were running everywhere. Some got out, and some burned up with the inn. But both Rupert and Susan died that night.
Old Elizabet gazed out over the audience. “I never told m’lady what had happened. I let her think that it was already ablaze before I got there. She learned soon enough that the inn had burned and them both in it. Sir James just said it served him right, and that no one was to ever speak his name again.”
Mr. Ironholder held fast to Tiffany’s hand, tears running down his cheeks. “My girl,” he said softly. “My poor girl.”
Tiffany patted the hand that was in hers, unsure how to comfort him. As it was, he comforted her instead. “Don’t you worry, now. This is just an old man’s foolishness. I grieved for them both, a long, long time ago.”
“That is all fine and good,” Lord Ronald blustered. “But it scarcely has anything to do with my nephew and I. Lord Nevard, I thank you for attending this farce, but my horses will catch cold standing about in their traces. We really must be going.”
“Oh, I’m finding this to be excellent theater,” Lord Nevard said benignly. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Dandridge. Unless I am greatly mistaken, Constable Brooks’ presentation is scarcely begun.”
“I have no time for this folderol,” Lord Ronald said angrily. “We must be on our way. While you might have discovered the foolish precedents for this orphan girl, something of which I am by no means convinced, it really has no bearing upon my nephew or I.”
“I’m afraid we must continue to impose upon you,” Lord Nevard interposed beneficently. “Pray be patient. That was only the opening act.”
Constable Brooks nodded at him. “Thank you, Lord Nevard. The next part is a bit more complex, and I believe I’ll just tell it out as it occurred.”
He cleared his throat, glanced at Percival and said, “After Lord Northbury commissioned me to look into Miss Bentley’s past, I took the liberty of looking into how the property where the inn stood was registered. According to the records, both the oldest son and the youngest died without heirs. If we can prove Miss Bentley’s identity beyond all doubt, she is the only living descendant of that family.”
“I’m what?” Tiffany blurted out.
“Only if we can prove it, mind. And we have some other matters to consider. Although we can be sure of the provenance of the knife, we are less sure of Tiffany Bentley’s origins. The Sister who admitted her to the orphanage died of cholera the following year, so we have no sure witness unless Bentley left some word in the papers that remain at the bakery.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Ironholder. “Tiffany looks just like my Susan did.”
“How delightful,” Lord Ronald sneered. “I need to get my nephew out of here so that he can receive the care he requires.”
Constable Brooks focused on Lord Ronald. “What an interesting point of view. Would that care be similar to the care his father received after a hunting accident a few years ago?”
