Time's Fool by Patricia Veryan Page A

affairs!” Rossiter had taken Falcon at his word and had avoided him like the plague, but although they were not, nor ever could be friends, he had never heard of Falcon being less than square and above-board in his dealings, and could not credit that the man was a liar.
    Impatient to be at home and get to the bottom of it all, Rossiter knew better than to risk a gallop on bad roads made worse by heavy rains. There were few travellers abroad on such a dismal night. An occasional solitary horseman or a labouring carriage would loom up and quickly disappear again. Rossiter swung his mount around a laden wain bound for London’s early market, oilcloth tied over the cargo, and a cheery hail issuing from what appeared to be a pile of sacking but was presumably the driver. Half an hour later, a stagecoach rushed past at reckless speed with a great blaring of the horn and a thunder of hooves. The heavy wheels sent up another spray of mud, but Rossiter was glad to see the coach, since it bore testimony to the fact that the roads were passable, at least as far as Canterbury.
    He turned east three miles before reaching that city, and at once conditions worsened. The moonlight filtered between wind-whipped glistening black branches to show a lane that was a river of mud and ruts. Rossiter guided the horse along the hedgerows, but there were places where the ditch was steep and treacherous and he had to go cautiously. He had dreamed so often of returning to his home, but had pictured doing so on a bright, sunny morning, through grounds brilliant with flowers, the great house waiting in serene dignity to welcome him, and the mill lifting its ancient roof against the trees. This was a far cry from such a pleasant homecoming. There was something ominous about the stormy night. The wind seemed to howl a warning; the sudden gusts might almost have been striving to push him back the way he had come. Foolish fancies, he thought. Born of weariness and a nagging worry.
    His unease intensified when he reached the lodge gates. There was no sign of life, nor did anyone respond to his hail. The rain began to pound down again. He dismounted, muttering curses, tethered the hack to a shrub and struggled with the heavy gate. Riding on again, it occurred to him that either everyone at the Point must have gone early to bed, or the trees had become very dense, for he should by now have been able to see some light from the windows of the main house.
    He guided the horse along the drivepath, his eyes straining up the hill for some sign of life. By the time he reached the moat he had accepted the fact that his family must be in Town. Some servants had certainly been left, but they had evidently retired. He crossed the bridge and rode around to the stableyard. Not a glimmer showed from the long building that housed the outside staff. His shout echoed eerily but brought no response. He threw one leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle, then staggered. Lord, but he was so tired he ached with it. Angry and frustrated, he shouted again. “Dammit! Where is everybody?”
    He had as well have questioned the puddle his boot splashed into, and not wasting more time he led the hack into the barn and his cold fingers groped for tinder box and flint. The feeble flame revealed a row of stalls with only one occupant, a sway-backed old grey that blinked at him sleepily. The animal must belong to a servant, but where the deuce were all the other horses? His mind was too numbed to grapple with the problem now. He must get to his bed before he fell asleep on his feet. First, however, the hack must be tended. Wearily, he lighted a lantern. Ten minutes later, having rubbed down the animal and provided it with oats and water, he took up the saddlebags, tossed them over his shoulder, and stumbled across the yard, making his way through the kitchen garden and up the back steps.
    Unprecedentedly, the door was locked.
    It was the last straw. With a cry of wrath he