The Pimpernel Plot

5

The Blakeney estate looked like a scene from an historical romance. All day, starting shortly after ten in the morning, guests had been arriving for the festivities. Most came in three main shifts. The earliest arrivals came for the shoot, attired in their finest sporting clothes and bringing with them their guns and servants, as well as a full change of clothing for the evening. Others came in time for high tea in the afternoon, following the shoot. The greatest number came for dinner, which was served promptly at seven.

The grooms were kept busy by the constant stream of coaches and carriages as the cream of London society arrived with their liveried footmen. A parade of richly enameled coaches with gilt trim and coats of arms kept the stablemaster and his charges working throughout the day to see to the comfort and feeding of the horses.

By midafternoon, the grounds of the estate were full of strolling couples, women in silk dresses and velvet robes, their hair elaborately arranged and topped with stylish hats with plumes, which they wore at rakish angles; men in suits of velvet and brocade and silk, richly embroidered and trimmed with lace and gold. Jewelry flashed in the sun, adorning throats and bosoms; in some secluded wooded spots, a few daring couples sported with no clothes at all, the women biting down on hand-kerchiefs to avoid crying out and drawing attention to their scandalous behavior. A large group stood on the upper terrace, looking down into the maze and laughing and shouting encouragement to those attempting to puzzle out the pathways through the hedges and those few who knew the secret of the urns kept it to themselves, enjoying the befuddlement of their unenlightened friends.

Lord Grenville was in attendance, as was William Pitt.

Edmund Burke was one of the late arrivals, coming in time for dinner. His rival in Parliament, Charles James Fox, followed closely on his heels. The Prince of Wales was one of the earlier arrivals and, though he shot poorly that day, he enjoyed himself immensely, taking a liking to the fashionable Sir Percy Blakeney from the start. Sheridan, the playwright and politician, arrived shortly after teatime and began to drink at once. A number of the gentlemen started to take bets to see how long he would remain standing.

The Blakeney staff left nothing to be desired as they worked tirelessly all day. The cooks outdid themselves with basted chicken, roast pheasant, steak and kidney pies, boiled vegetables, small sandwiches, scones, biscuits and plum puddings, fruits and tarts, and gallons upon gallons of wine and stout. There was an orchestra of strings to accompany the dancing after dinner and those much too full for such activity retired to the sitting rooms, where the women and the men congregated separately on either side of the ballroom in their respective parlors, the women chatting, sipping cordials, and playing card games while the men enjoyed their pipes and port.

Beneath a haze of smoke, they puffed on their long clay churchwardens and short clay pocket pipes filled with shag and Latakia. Several of the wealthier guests proudly showed off their meerschaums, which were in great demand, but could only be procured by those rich enough to hire skilled carvers to create them. Intricately carved from deposits of hydrous silicate of magnesia, a mineral substance formed by nature from the remains of prehistoric sea creatures, these exquisite pipes were treasured by their owners, who were fond of comparing their abilities to season them. Several of the gentlemen actually had their servants instructed in the proper art of smoking them, so that the pipes could be smoked constantly throughout the day until, after some two hundred bowlfuls or more, they had colored from an alabaster white to a light rosy pink, to a golden yellow and finally to a rich, dark brown. These pipes were as ostentatious as Sir Percy’s guests and they represented the wealth, stature, and fancies of the men who smoked them. Some were artfully carved into the shapes of stags being attacked by wolves, others bore the aspect of hunters and their dogs, nude women and the heads of 17th-century noblemen. Everywhere there was evidence of pampered luxury and rich indulgence and, in such surroundings, it was hard to believe that just across the Channel, there were people starving in the streets of Paris.

Marguerite Blakeney was the instant center of attention, attired elegantly, yet simply in a dress of ivory-colored silk, which set off her auburn hair and fair complexion to their best advantage. Her easy manner, her sweet, musical voice, and her delightful, carefree laugh immediately captivated all the men, and her graceful charm and open friendliness held off the envy of the women who had not been so richly blessed by nature. Everyone admired Sir Percy Blakeney’s clever, witty wife and although they found Sir Percy to be a charming, outrageously stylish, and generally decent fellow, they wondered at the pairing of this bright, elegant French actress and the vague, inane, and dull-witted peacock who was all plumage and no substance. The women smiled knowing smiles and said that Marguerite had married Blakeney for his money, though not one of them faulted her for making a good match. The men, especially the younger ones, paid careful attention to the exaggerated, incroyable fashion of his Parisian suit, his droll, insouciant manner, and his fatuous laugh. In Blakeney, they saw a proper model to emulate: a man of studied elegance, good grace, and vapid wit; someone socially companionable, yet non-threatening; rich, yet unambitious; gregarious, yet unprepossessing; politic, yet apolitical. In short, a man perfectly suited to climb to the highest rung of the social ladder and remain there, comfortably perched.

The highlight of the evening, however, occurred when Andrew Ffoulkes arrived, along with Tony Dewhurst, just as dessert was being served, the timing of their arrival having been agreed upon between the three of them and prearranged. They brought with them, of course, the distinguished Duc de Chalis.

There had been, since the beginning of the French Revolution, a steady stream of French emigres arriving on the shores of England. It began, for the most part, in 1790, in the month of February, when the National Assembly introduced a new military constitution allowing for conscription and abolishing the purchase of commissions. When, in 1791, the Legislative Assembly replaced the oath of allegiance to the king with a new military oath, the aim being to prevent an army of Royalists that would be in opposition to the Revolution, military officers, most of them noblemen, left France in droves. They were soon followed by civilian aristocrats, who saw the writing on the wall; it thereafter became quite commonplace to hear the king’s English being mutilated in drawing rooms throughout all of London and its environs. However, in recent months, when the blood of the ci-devant oppressors was needed to fuel revolutionary fervor, the steady stream had become an almost nonexistent trickle and, as a result, the sudden appearance of the Duc de Chalis was an occasion for surprise and speculation.

A murmuring went through the crowd when de Chalis was announced. With all seated at the dining tables, Ffoulkes, Dewhurst and de Chalis at once became the focus of everyone’s attention. Surprising as the French aristocrat’s arrival was, even more surprising was his announcement that he had only narrowly escaped the guillotine, having received the death sentence from the Committee of Public Safety, and that he and his sons would have been headless corpses had they not been rescued by a daring Englishman.

“Who was this splendid fellow to whose courage we owe the pleasure of your company, good sir?” the Prince of Wales asked.

“I regret to say,” said the elderly de Chalis, in perfect although accented English, “that I cannot tell you his name, Your Highness.”

“What?” said the prince. “But see here, my dear fellow, we must know the name of this brave chap, so that we may single him out for the accolades which are justly his. This is no time for modesty. England needs her heroes. Tell the fellow to come forth!”

“I am afraid that I have been misunderstood, Your Highness,” said the duke. “I did not mean that I will not tell you his name, but that I cannot tell you his name. It is unknown to me. What is more, I can no more describe him to you and this fine assemblage than I can tell you his name. I have learned that I have never seen his true face.”

At this remark, another wave of murmuring swept through the crowd, but it was brought to a quick halt by the Prince of Wales rapping his hand upon the table for silence.

“But how is this possible, Monsieur le Duc? How can this man have rescued you from certain death and you have never seen his face?”

“I have never seen his true face, Your Highness,” replied de Chalis. “This Englishman is a consummate actor and a master of disguise. I know him only by a curious appellation imparted to me by certain individuals who are in league with him. This man prefers to do his work in secret and it seems that he has set himself the task of saving as many innocent lives from the guillotine as possible. Would that I knew his name and face so I could thank him, for I owe him everything, but all I know of this gallant gentleman is that he calls himself ‘the Scarlet Pimpernel.’ ”

“Say what?” slurred Sheridan, leaning forward drunkenly and fixing his bleary eyes upon the duke. “The Scarlet Pimple, did you say?”

“Oh, hush, Richard!” said his dinner partner, an aspiring actress well out of her depth in this society, whose knees had been tightly clamped together throughout all of dinner in order to frustrate Sheridan’s groping fingers. She gave him a shove with her elbow, not very hard, but hard enough, considering his state, to topple him from his chair and send him to the floor, where he remained.

A gentleman seated across from him turned to face a friend of his across the table and, indicating the seat vacated by the dramatist, quickly said, “That’s five pounds you owe me.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” said Dewhurst, at the same time motioning the servants to prepare a place for the old Frenchman at the table. “A small, star-shaped red flower, I believe.”

“How very fascinating!” said Lord Grenville. “I say, Dewhurst, can you shed any light upon this situation?”

“Only a little, I’m afraid, milord. For the most part, I am as much in the dark about this singular gentleman as are the rest of you. As some of you may know, Percy and I are old acquaintances, having met abroad and spent much pleasurable time together on numerous occasions. Percy was the proud owner of an absolutely splendid yacht, a beauty of a schooner called the Day Dream. We had sojourned in the Bay of Biscay aboard that lovely craft and I had determined that I had to have her.”

“The Pimpernel, Dewhurst!” said the Prince of Wales. “What of this Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“I’m getting to that, Your Highness,” Dewhurst said, beginning to saunter round the table slowly, enjoying his role immensely. He came to the spot where Sheridan had fallen, stepped over him and paused a moment, then picked up the playwright’s glass, which was still three-quarters full. “Faith and I believe ole Richard’s finished with this glass. Well, waste not, want not.” He took a sip, then glanced down at the floor. “I say, Burke, I’ve heard that Sheridan could really hold the floor in Parliament and now I see that he’s adept at holding the floor here, as well.”

This sally was greeted with uproarious laughter and Edmund Burke, especially, laughed heartily, pounding on the table and shouting, “Well said, well said!”

“Tony, stop with this nonsense and get on with it!” said William Pitt. “What does Percy’s boat have to do with this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“A great deal, Bill, a very great deal,” said Dewhurst, “and I might add that it is my boat, now.”

“What?” said Marguerite. “Percy, you sold the Day Dream to Tony Dewhurst?”

“Odd’s life, m’dear,” said Finn, “what do I need with such a boat in London? Sail her upon the Thames? Better employ a racing horse to pull a plough, I say.”

“Yes, well, Percy sold the Day Dream to me,” Dewhurst went on, “and I might add that he was very generous, doubtless anxious to stop my constant pestering of him on that account. Well, gentlemen and ladies, much as I am loath to admit it, I am not much of a sailor, I’m afraid. In fact, I’m not a sailor at all, being quite content to leave such matters in the very capable hands of the Day Dream’s Captain Briggs, who had agreed, with Percy’s urging, to stay on with his entire crew. However, I suddenly found myself in the situation of a child whose eyes were bigger than his mouth, for when I sat down with Briggs and became acquainted with the amount needed for the upkeep of the Day Dream, I was somewhat taken aback. I mean, what do I know of such things as hauling, painting, scraping, caulking, and so on? Though I am not known for being frugal, I could see that I had acquired a most expensive toy. Therefore, when Briggs informed me that he had been approached by an agent acting for some gentleman with regard to hiring the Day Dream for the purpose of bringing some goods over from France, I was quite agreeable. After all, a toy that pays for its own upkeep is considerably more attractive than one which slowly bleeds its owner dry.” He chuckled. “As Ffoulkes here, an experienced sailor, told me, a boat is nothing more than a hole in the water into which money is poured.”

There was some laughter at this, but clearly, the audience was growing impatient to hear about this Scarlet Pimpernel.

“And so I agreed to hire out the Day Dream, so long as I was not using her,” said Dewhurst. “Well, imagine my surprise when I discovered that the goods brought over from France were the Duc de Chalis and his family! Briggs passed on a note to me, signed with this star-shaped flower, begging me, as a man of some position, to use my influence to help the Duc de Chalis and his sons begin anew in England and to pardon the slight deception in the name of freedom and humanity! What is more, I have learned that the moment that our new arrivals here set foot on English soil, a note, signed with that very star-shaped flower, had been delivered to Citizen Fouquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, informing him that the guillotine had been cheated of three victims and that this was only the beginning!”

There was spontaneous applause at this and it took some time for the tumult to die down before Dewhurst could continue.

“Well, needless to say, my friends, not only was I astounded at the daring of this adventurer who is unknown to me, but I was humbled by his dedication to the principles that we all, as Englishmen, hold to be so dear. This Scarlet Pimpernel, as he calls himself, is a sterling example to us all. I know not who he is, nor do I know why he has chosen to cloak himself in secrecy, but I do know this: I am proud that, in some small measure, I was able to assist him. I have instructed Briggs that in the event he should be approached once more in a similar regard, he is to return in full the fee paid for the hiring of the Day Dream and make the boat available at any time for this Scarlet Pimpernel, to use as he sees fit, with my most sincere compliments, for further daring rescues! Ffoulkes, here, has consented to join me in doing everything in my power to make those rescued by this gallant at home in England and I urge all of you here this night to join me in a toast to this courageous man and to lend him your support! Gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass high, “I give you the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

They all rose as one, with their glasses held aloft, and echoed the toast.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel!”

God damn, thought Finn. Too bad we can’t recruit this character into the corps. He’d be a natural. They all drank the toast and sat back down to engage in animated discussion and interrogation of the Duc de Chalis. The remainder of the evening was taken up with speculation concerning the Scarlet Pimpernel. Dewhurst and de Chalis could not have played their roles any better. The unknown Englishman had instantly captured everyone’s imagination.

After dinner, many of the guests went dancing in the ballroom, but a large group of gentlemen congregated in the parlor, there to smoke their pipes and sample the bottled fruit of Blakeney’s cellar while they discussed what went on across the Channel and, in particular, the involvement of the unknown Englishman in the rescue of French aristocrats.

Edmund Burke took advantage of the situation to launch into a heady polemic concerning his opinions on the revolt in France. Finn lit up his pipe and sidled up to Dewhurst speaking not quite quietly enough to avoid being overheard.

“What’s he on about, I wonder?” he said, in a somewhat bored tone.

Sheridan, who had regained consciousness and, though unsteady on his feet, seemed intent on draining Blakeney’s cellar dry, heard him and lurched over to them.

“He’s on about the Revolution once again,” he said unevenly.

“I’ve heard this dreary song before in Parliament. Though he seems to have committed it to memory, it doesn’t get much better with repeat performances.”

Burke, meanwhile, was gaining steam in his diatribe against the leaders of the Republic.

“It is right that these men should hide their heads,” he said, vehemently. “It is right that they should bear their part in the ruin which their counsel has brought on their sovereign and their country. They have seen the medicine of the state corrupted into its poison! They have seen the French rebel against a mild and lawful monarch! Their resistance was made to concession; their revolt from protection; their blow aimed at a hand holding out graces, favors, and immunities!”

Sheridan belched loudly and Burke shot him a venomous look.

“I say, Burke,” said Finn, “that was a most torrential outburst. I am truly awed by the fervor of your oratory. Would that I could speak with such a passion. Is there, then, no hope for France at all?”

“None, if they continue on their present course,” said Burke, grasping his lapels and puffing himself up. “People will not look forward to posterity who never look backward to their ancestors.”

“True, true,” said Finn, putting on a thoughtful look. “If we English look backward to our ancestors, we will find them running about with their arses hanging out and painted blue. Faith and we’ve come a long way since then, eh, what? What with such humble beginnings, think what posterity lies ahead for us!”

For a moment, there was total silence as everyone stared at him uncertainly. Burke looked totally bewildered, but a smile began to twitch at the corner of Sheridan’s mouth and the playwright hid it with his hand.

“France, my dear Blakeney,” Burke said, in an effort to get things back on track, “has bought poverty by crime. You’ve just returned from Paris, surely you must agree that France has not sacrificed her virtue to her interest, but rather she has abandoned her interest that she might prostitute her virtue.”

“Odd’s life, that may well be,” said Finn. “I’ve had my estate in Rouen seized for the purposes of securing needed revenue for the new French government. A bad business for me, I’m afraid, though an advantageous one for them. It might well be in France’s interest to prostitute her virtue if she makes such gains by it. I’ve known not a few demimondaines who have rebuilt their crumbling virtue in a like manner.”

Sheridan started coughing, but Burke seemed totally at sea. He gazed at Finn in complete astonishment.

“As for this Pimpernel fellow whom everyone seems so concerned about,” Finn continued blithely, “I cannot flaw him for his boldness or idealism, but given all the bloodletting being done across the water, rescuing one or two aristocrats would seem like pissing in the wind, no? Still, I do wish the fellow well and I only hope that the French navy does not learn of Dewhurst’s part in all of this, else they might well try to sink his newly purchased boat. Though, in truth, I doubt that they have any craft that would be capable of catching her.”

“As for that,” said Dewhurst, with a grin, “if the French did sink the Day Dream, it would relieve me of the expense of maintaining her! However, you’re quite right, Percy, there is a certain amount of risk in lending aid to this Scarlet Pimpernel. Yet, any risk I may incur is nothing compared to the risks that he must take. I admit that there might be some risk for me, but what is life without an element of risk? Nothing but mere existence. If you ask me, gentlemen, this Pimpernel fellow is a true sportsman! I can think of nothing quite so game as playing leapfrog with the French and thumbing your nose at Danton, Robespierre, and the entire bunch of them!”

“There is much more than sport involved in this affair, young Dewhurst,” Burke said, stiffly. “We cannot afford to merely thumb our noses at the French. This Revolution of theirs is a plague and the precautions of the most severe quarantine ought to be established against it!”

“Begad, that was well said,” said Finn. “You know, Burke, someone told me tonight that when you rise to speak in Parliament, your fellow members are moved to go out to dinner. I can well see why, since such passionate invective must do a great deal to stimulate the juices! It is fortunate for us, gentlemen, that we’ve already eaten. As it is, such fine speech ought to do great wonders for our digestion.”

There were chuckles at Finn’s remarks, though they were quickly stifled. Burke had gone red in the face, but Finn had a look of such guileless stupidity upon his face that the politician could think of no way to reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn could see that Sheridan was biting on his finger in an effort to keep from laughing. Later on, the playwright drew him to one side, in a corner somewhat removed from all the general discussion.

“See here, Blakeney,” Sheridan said, speaking thickly and swaying from side to side, “I have not yet quite decided what to make of you. You seem to be a male Mrs. Malaprop at times, and yet I see a bit of Swift in you, I think. You seem to be laughing up your sleeve.”

Finn affected a look of puzzlement. “I’m not at all sure what you mean, old fellow. Truthfully, I’d never laugh at any guests of mine, though I must admit that your rendition of the dying swan at dinner was a bit amusing. I’m afraid that I don’t get your meaning.”

Sheridan stared at him for a moment. “I think you do Blakeney. Yes, I think you do. I don’t know if you pricked Burke on purpose or if it was just a happy circumstance of all your rambling babble, but you’ve roused my curiosity. Tell me, what is your real feeling concerning the revolt in France and this Scarlet Pimple or whatever his name is?”

“My real feeling?” Finn said, raising his eyebrows. “Begad, my real feeling is that I’m glad to be out of it! The climate in Paris is decidedly unhealthy at this time of year. I’m happy that de Chalis has seen fit to seek a change of weather. Doubtless he will live longer. As for any others who choose to follow his example, I can only wish them bon voyage and hope that they encounter no difficulties in making their travel plans.”

“Indeed,” said Sheridan. “And what of this Pimpernel chap?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to think of him,” said Finn. “He seems like quite a bold and dashing fellow, destined to be all the rage of London. He’s already won the hearts of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst and, I’ll wager, of most of the women here tonight. What do you think of him, Sheridan?”

“I think he’s a monumental fool who’ll get his head chopped off,” said Sheridan, adding a belch for punctuation. “But I must admit that I admire his pluck.”

“Perhaps you’ll write a play about him,” Finn said.

“Not I,” said Sheridan. “His tale is the stuff of romantic fiction for women to sigh over in their drawing rooms. Besides, he has only just begun his mad career and chances are it will be cut short by the public prosecutor’s blade.”

“That would be a pity,” Finn said.

“Aye, it would. I wouldn’t even have enough material for my first act.”

By midnight, the guests had all departed. Marguerite went up to bed, exhausted. Ffoulkes and Dewhurst were the last to leave, along with old de Chalis, who quietly told Finn that if there was ever anything that he could do for him, he had but to ask. When they had gone, one of the servants came up to Finn and handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?” said Finn.

“One of the guests told me to give this to you after everyone had gone, milord,” the servant said.

Finn tensed. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know, milord. A gentleman.”

“What did he look like?”

The young man shrugged. “He looked like a gentleman, milord.”

Finn frowned. “Never mind. That will do. Go on about your duties.”

He opened up the note. It was short and to the point. It said, “The maze, at one o’clock.” It was unsigned, but Finn knew who it was from.

The house seemed strangely empty now that all the guests had left. As Finn walked back into the reception hall, the heels of his shoes made sharp echoing sounds that filled the spacious room, which only a short while ago resounded with laughter, boisterous conversation, and violin music. It was a lovely way to live, Finn thought. It might be very pleasant to spend the next several years as Sir Percy Blakeney, if it wasn’t for the fact that his lifespan could be drastically curtailed by some error he had yet to make.

There was still some time before one o’clock. Finn quickly went up to his rooms and changed out of his elegant, cream-colored suit, dressing in black riding clothes and boots, the better to blend in with the darkness. Just to be on the safe side he tucked a short dagger into his belt and took along a polished ebony sword cane with a heavy, solid silver head.

It was chilly and a mist had settled on the grounds. His boots made slight crunching sounds upon the gravel path as he walked around to the side of the house, his crackling steps a percussive counterpoint to the chirping of the crickets. He stepped off the path and onto the grass, heading for the elaborately arranged rows of perfectly trimmed hedges, eight feet high and four feet thick. There was no evidence of any other human presence about save for himself.

It occurred to him that the setting was perfectly suited for a trap. In the darkness, with the tall hedges all around him, it would be virtually impossible to see anything. Finn had good night vision, but the visibility was limited as a result of the darkness and the mist. The thought that somewhere nearby would-be a man trained at least as well as he was made him move slowly and cautiously as he entered the maze. Lucas had shown him how the placement of the urns indicated which turn to take. The benches were positioned so that the urns could only be seen from the correct paths, the view of them being otherwise blocked by the benches. Obviously, Mongoose knew this trick as well, else why choose the maze for a meeting place?

Moving with stealth, Finn made his way to the grassy square at the center of the maze. He could make out the ghostly white benches placed around the perimeter of the square, but not much else. He wished he had been issued night glasses, but the fact that he lacked such equipment did not mean that Mongoose would be equally at a disadvantage. Still, there was nothing else to do but sit down upon a bench and wait until Mongoose made his move. Finn waited nervously in the darkness, listening to the chirping of the crickets. At a little after one o’clock, he heard a faint sound of movement close by and then a familiar voice called out, softly, “Delaney?”

“I’m right here,” he said. “What’s the matter, can’t you see me?”

There was a chuckle that seemed to come from only a few yards away, but Finn could not accurately gauge the direction or the distance.

“Nice try, Delaney, but I happen to know that you weren’t issued night glasses. The only thing they gave you was a hypo ring, which just goes to show you how paranoid they’re getting.”

“Where are you?”

“Nearby,” Mongoose replied. He chuckled once more. “Where’s Priest? I didn’t see him at the party.”

“He’s around,” Finn lied. “I didn’t see you, either. But then, the way you keep changing your appearance, I wouldn’t have recognized you anyway. What’s your face look like these days? The last time I saw you, it had been rearranged a bit.”

The brief silence told Finn that he had scored a hit with his reference to the torture that had disfigured Mongoose.

“Well, we both look a bit different these days, don’t we?” Mongoose said. Finn realized that he was moving as he spoke. He seemed to be just outside the center of the maze now, in one of the paths between the hedgerows. Walking softly, Finn moved in the direction of his voice. “I see you’ve got de la Croix with you,” Mongoose continued. “Oh, yes, that’s right it’s Private Cross now, isn’t it? Well, it appears to be quite a reunion, all of us back together once again.”

“It must be kismet,” Finn said. “After the way you bungled your last mission, I thought they’d never let you near a field assignment again. Yet here you are. What a surprise.” Finn turned down another pathway, his eyes straining to penetrate the mist and darkness. “I heard you were busted down to desk jockey. Seems to me you were pretty lucky to get even that.”

“I wasn’t meant to be a glorified clerk, Delaney,” Mongoose said, with an edge to his voice. “Having me sitting behind a console was a sinful waste of talent and ability.”

“Your talent and ability almost got you killed last time,” said Finn, moving closer. “If it hadn’t been for us, Adrian Taylor would have vivisected you.”

“Perhaps,” said Mongoose. “Who’s to say how it might have turned out without your interference? You may have saved my life, in which case I suppose I should be grateful, but you also ruined my career. I realize that the one shouldn’t cancel out the other, but somehow it seems to. You’ll pardon me if I don’t seem properly appreciative.”

“Why don’t we cut out this kids’ game, Mongoose?” Finn said. “Come out and show yourself.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to do that just yet,” Mongoose said. “You see, we really have no basis for trust in this relationship. I know you’ve sent Priest to see Fitzroy. I just came from there. They didn’t see me, of course, but I saw them. The funny thing is, I really was your contact. We could have worked together, had you chosen to, but Fitzroy will obviously have me checked out. To tell the truth, I expected it. He’s served his purpose, however. It really doesn’t matter. The only thing you have accomplished is adding more spice to the game.”

Slowly, noiselessly, Finn slid the sword blade out of the cane. Mongoose sounded very close now, just on the opposite side of the hedge, separated from him by about four feet of bush.

“It was really very boring in evaluations,” Mongoose said. “It was a dead end for me. There was no challenge. This way-”

Finn plunged the sword deeply through the hedge, following it with the length of his entire arm. He heard Mongoose gasp.

“Very good, Delaney! But not good enough.”

Finn heard the sound of running footsteps. Cursing, he pulled the sword back out of the hedge and took off at a sprint, brushing his hand against the hedge as he ran to feel for the next gap in the bushes. He reached it, plunged through, made a quick right turn and ran down the path after Mongoose, his sword held out before him. Mongoose was running for the exit and there was only one way to get out of the maze beyond which the grounds were open for several hundred yards.

Finn came to a bench, noticed the placement of the urn, and turned down the path to the left. A right turn, another left…and he came to a dead end, running right into a leafy wall blocking off the pathway. Startled, he was confused for a moment until he realized that Mongoose must have moved the urns as he entered the maze behind him. He ran back the way he came, this time taking the “wrong” turns. He came to a dead end again.

“Son of a bitch!” he swore. Mongoose had only moved some of the urns. But which ones had he moved? It took him almost a half an hour to find the exit. By that time, Mongoose was long gone. Finn stood at the entrance to the maze, breathing hard. Except for the sounds of the crickets and his own labored breathing, he couldn’t hear a thing.

Thick fog obscured the grounds. He felt the tip of the blade. It was wet with blood.