‘But when there is no grandson it must surely be you who are the heir?’
‘Precisely, but there is a grandson, dear cousin. Did you not know that?’
‘Certainly I know that there was Ludovic, but he is dead after all!’
‘Who told you Ludovic was dead?’ asked Shield, looking at her under knit brows.
She spread out her hands. ‘But Grandpère, naturally! And I have often wanted to know what it was that he did that was so entirely wicked that no one must speak of him. It is a mystery, and, I think, very romantic.’
‘There is no mystery,’ said Shield, ‘nor is it in the least romantic. Ludovic was a wild young man who crowned a series of follies with murder, and had in consequence to fly the country.’
‘Murder!’ exclaimed Eustacie. ‘Voyons, do you mean he killed someone in a duel?’
‘No. Not in a duel.’
‘But, Tristram,’ said the Beau gently, ‘you must not forget that it was never proved that Ludovic was the man who shot Matthew Plunkett. For my part I did not believe it possible then, and I still do not.’
‘Very handsome of you, but the circumstances were too damning,’ replied Shield. ‘Remember that I myself heard the shot that must have killed Plunkett not ten minutes after I had parted from Ludovic.’
‘But I,’ said the Beau, languidly polishing his quizzing-glass, ‘prefer to believe Ludovic’s own story, that it was an owl he shot at.’
‘Shot – but missed!’ said Shield. ‘Yet I have watched Ludovic shoot the pips out of a playing-card at twenty yards.’
‘Oh, admitted, Tristram, admitted, but on that particular night I think Ludovic was not entirely sober, was he?’
Eustacie struck her hands together impatiently. ‘But tell me, one of you! What did he do, my cousin Ludovic?’
The Beau tossed back the ruffles from his hand, and dipped his finger and thumb in his snuff-box. ‘Well, Tristram,’ he said with his glinting smile. ‘You know more about it than I do. Are you going to tell her?’
‘It is not an edifying story,’ Shield said. ‘Why do you want to hear it?’
‘Because I think perhaps my cousin Ludovic is of this family the most romantic person!’ replied Eustacie.
‘Oh, romantic!’ said Sir Tristram, turning away with a shrug of the shoulders.
The Beau fobbed his snuff-box. ‘Romantic?’ he said meditatively. ‘No, I do not think Ludovic was romantic. A little rash, perhaps. He was a gamester – whence the disasters which befell him. He lost a very large sum of money one night at the Cocoa-Tree to a man who lived at Furze House, not two miles from here.’
‘No one lives at Furze House,’ interrupted Eustacie.
‘Not now,’ agreed the Beau. ‘Three years ago Sir Matthew Plunkett lived there. But Sir Matthew – three years ago – was shot in the Longshaw Spinney, and his widow removed from the neighbourhood.’
‘Did my cousin Ludovic shoot him?’
‘That, my dear Eustacie, is a matter of opinion. You will get one answer from Tristram, and another from me.’
‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘Not just because he had lost money to him! That, after all, is not such a great matter – unless perhaps he was quite ruined?’
‘Oh, by no means! He did lose a large sum to him, however, and Sir Matthew, being a person of – let us say indifferent breeding – was ill-mannered enough to demand a pledge in security before he would continue playing. Of course, one should never play with Cits, but poor dear Ludovic was always so headstrong. The game was piquet, and both were in their cups. Ludovic took from his finger a certain ring, and gave it to Sir Matthew as a pledge – to be redeemed, naturally. It was a talisman ring of great antiquity which had come to Ludovic through his mother, who was the last of a much older house than ours.’
Eustacie stopped him. ‘Please, I do not know what is a talisman ring.’
‘Just a golden ring with figures engraved upon it. This of Ludovic’s was, as I have said, very old. The characters on it were supposed to be magical. It should, according to ancient belief, have protected him from any harm. More important, it was an heirloom. I don’t know its precise value. Tristram, you are a judge of such things – you must make him show you his collection, Eustacie – what was the value of the ring?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Shield curtly. ‘It was ver
y old – perhaps priceless.’
‘Such a rash creature, poor Ludovic!’ sighed the Beau. ‘I believe there was no stopping him – was there, Tristram?’