Death Devil's Bridge by Robin Paige Page B

with engravings of hunting scenes, was furnished with comfortable chairs. The room was reserved for the select society of the village, while the rest were relegated to the common room, with its straight-backed wooden settles and rickety stools. The parlor was low-ceilinged and dark, but large enough to seat Bradford’s party of seven at a long plank table before the fireplace. On this September evening, the blazing fire warmed the air to a considerable degree more than comfort might have required. Mr. Crawley, the publican, was red-faced and sweltering as he ran to and fro carrying dishes and replenishing wineglasses.
    A Londoner used to dining at Claridge’s or the Carlton might have complained that Mrs. Crawley’s substantial repast (which opened con brio with a brown Windsor soup; proceeded with flourishes to poached mackerel with gooseberry sauce, pigeon pie, steak and onions accompanied by creamed potatoes and a dish of boiled carrots; and concluded upon the lighter notes of custard tart, a local cheese, and apples) was more suited to a robust rural appetite than to a refined urban taste.
    Still, the food had been hot and ample and the wine adequate, and as Bradford sat back with a cigar and surveyed the company, he could congratulate himself that he had fulfilled his social obligations. Inviting this unruly crew to Marsden Manor was out of the question, and he could not impose further on Charles and Kate Sheridan. As far as Bradford was concerned, his friends could content themselves with poached mackerel and pigeon pies and be glad of it.
    Except that they were not his friends, if by that word one intended to designate gentlemen with whom one was intimate. Bradford glanced down the table, reflecting somberly that there was not a man present whose company he would willingly have chosen. Taken individually, each member of this roguish fraternity suffered from certain defects of character, taken as a group, the defects of each amplified the defects of every other. Bradford knew something scandalous and unsavory about most of them, and during this momentary lull in the conversation he allowed himself the caustic amusement of reflecting on it.
    The Honorable C. S. Rolls sat at the far end of the table smoking a Turkish cigarette. The most debonair of the lot, he was fast becoming notorious for his unrestrained recklessness. Charming, witty, and handsome, Rolls had a reputation among women of all sorts (including Ivy Thompson’s girls of the Colonnade in Regent Street), and it was rumored that he had recently been seen at White’s, where he had lost a large sum at the tables, the beautiful wife of a certain sporting gentleman at his side.
    It was that dare-devilish womanizing that troubled Bradford, and he frowned when he thought of Rolls’s casual familiarity with Patsy. That she was a willing partner in this romantic escapade was no justification, for in Bradford’s estimation, his younger sister had scarcely a brain in her pretty head. Bradford’s frown became a scowl. He should have to caution Patsy about Rolls before anything more serious than a flirtation occurred between them—except that cautioning his sister was like dropping a red flag before a bull. In that regard, she and Rolls were quite alike. If it were not for the fact that a liaison would mar her chance of marrying into the Thornton property, Bradford would say that the two deserved one another.
    But Rolls’s wasn’t the only disreputable character in the lot. Occupying the left side of the table were three of the drivers, none of whom would take prizes for virtue. Nearest Rolls sat Wilhelm Albrecht, suave and confident as he carried on a conversation across the table with Harry Dunstable, who looked like a Liverpool haberdasher with his fat cigar and vulgar red-and-green checked vest. Albrecht caught Bradford’s eye, raised his glass in a mocking salute, and smiled, his monocle glinting mockingly in the