Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [251]
Two mornings later, entering her daughter’s room, Kate was struck by the flatness of the bed, and then by the sight of a folded paper laid dead centre of the untenanted pillow. Unfolded, it proved to be a witty and delightfully-written apology from her daughter for upsetting the household, coupled with the information that, having some business of vital importance to transact north of the Border in the immediate future, she had taken the liberty of leaving for a few days without permission, as she just knew that Kate would make a fuss and stop her. She would be back directly with some heather, and Kate was not to worry and not to speak to any strange men. She had, Philippa concluded, taken Cheese-wame Henderson with her: thus becoming the only known fugitive to persuade her bodyguard to run away, too.
It was a typical Somerville letter, and in other circumstances Kate no doubt would have been charmed by the spelling alone. As it was, she roused the neighbourhood for ten miles around, and there was no able-bodied Englishman within reach of Flaw Valleys who slept in his own bed that night or the next.
To no avail. With perfect thoroughness, Philippa had managed to vanish. And riding back and forth, frightened, on her grim, fruitless search, Kate Somerville saw, but did not comprehend, that the big tinker who had spent the summer mending ironware under a huddle of rags in her meadow had now picked up his belongings and gone.
Philippa Somerville disappeared on the Feast of the Holy Cross and was missing still next day, the 15th September, the day on which Jerott Blyth rode north to bring Joleta home to her brother.
On that day also Cormac O’Connor called at St Mary’s, in unwilling response to a sharp summons from Gabriel himself, and brought with him as a peace offering a special cartload from his contraband warehouse at Leith.
*
By then, a hundred miles north at Boghall, Lymond’s coldly purposeful attack on Graham Malett had reached its inevitable end.
‘We are gathered here today,’ he had said, ‘for the purpose of destroying Sir Graham Reid Malett,’ and their ensuing deliberations began with the crash of a chair as Lord Culter thrust himself upright. ‘By God, are we?’ said Lymond’s brother, and Sybilla’s quick breathing faltered. Beside Alec Guthrie, unmoving, Margaret Erskine’s eyes filled with tears.
It was Fergie Hoddim, next to Thompson’s comfortable solidity, who said drily, ‘It’ll all come out in the evidence, man. We’re none of us all that simple that we’ll condemn a man out o’ malice—either one man or the other. Let him have his head. There’ll be no hope for St Mary’s else.’
‘Sit down, Richard,’ said Lymond without looking up. ‘You have quite adequate support, as you see. The onus is on me to convince you. I am attempting to do this now because time is against me. I have three somewhat depressing handicaps. I do not have the goodwill of any of the Knights of the Order, who might otherwise have been here to substantiate Gabriel’s actions in Malta. De Nicolay is the only detached observer I can offer, if he will allow himself so to be used. Secondly, I do not at present have all the evidence I need to overthrow Graham Malett. If I had, I should be speaking now to the Queen Dowager, and not to you. And thirdly, I have, by my own history, every possible motive—personal, religious, professional—for wanting Graham Malett out of the way at any cost, which will in itself discredit nearly everything I say.
‘You may conclude from that,’ said Francis Crawford, looking up without change of expression, ‘that knowing the risks, I am putting before you something I think is more important than individual failure, or even individual life and death. And that if by any chance at the end of this meeting you are convinced’—a smile fleetingly appeared in his eyes—‘you can rest assured that against these odds, your decision must be correct.’
It was an impressive opening, thought Adam Blacklock, sheltering his eyes behind one long,