Gather Ye Rosebuds (13 page)

“Five pounds for the village, and that is my final offer.”

“Then you may go to the devil!”

“His lordship might be interested to hear about your uncle’s criminal doings with young Jones,” he said, his smile stretching to a grin.

There was another tap at the door. We all three—Steptoe, Mama, and myself—froze. “That will be Weylin!” I whispered.

“The clothespress!” Steptoe said, and darted into it while Mama and I stood gaping.

The tap came again. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to answer it. It was Weylin.

He smiled and said, “Very charming, Miss Barron,” while his eyes traveled over my face, lingering in an approving way at the cluster of curls hanging at my shoulder.

Mama came pelting forward and said, “Let us go below. I am famished.” She herded Weylin out the door on a stream of chatter. “I cannot imagine why, because I scarcely moved all day, and had that delicious tea. There is something about traveling that always makes one so hungry.”

We got Weylin away without his seeing Steptoe, but I was extremely uneasy to think of that wretch alone in our room, pawing through our belongings. The dreadful word “criminal doings” reeled in my head. I could see no solution but to give him the extra five pounds per quarter. We would be his banker for the rest of our mortal days.

As soon as the waiter arrived, I excused myself to dart upstairs. Steptoe would expect me to return, and be waiting.

“Just order whatever you are having for me, Mama,” I said, while the waiter poured wine and the others examined the menu. “I have forgotten my handkerchief. I shan’t be a moment.”

Weylin said, “I have a handkerchief, Miss Barron, if—” He noticed my strained expression, and said no more. I think he assumed some feminine need, and was too gentlemanly to press the unwanted handkerchief on me.

I left and hastened up to our room. The lamps were still burning. “You can come out, Steptoe. I am alone,” I called to the clothespress. There was no reply.

The door was ajar. I went and opened it. He was gone. I quickly checked my jewelry box. Mama’s small diamond brooch and my pearl necklace were still there. I was about to leave when I espied a note stuck into my brush on the dresser. It said, “Mr. John Brown, Molyneux Park, 10:00 tonight.” Molyneux Park was a small private hotel catering to families and commercial travelers. John Brown presumably was Steptoe, and ten o’clock was the hour at which he would condescend to see us—but why did he use an alias?

I slipped the note into my reticule, wondering about that ominously vague “criminal doings.” Bearing in mind our conversation with Bradford of the Kashmir Jewelry Shop, I could make an educated guess. I had an inkling what had happened to Barry’s five thousand pounds, which so mysteriously disappeared as soon as he joined us at Hernefield. He had bought himself a cottage at some village near Tunbridge Wells, from which he conducted his criminal activities. Thank goodness he did not use Hernefield as his base of operation.

The only light in this dark tunnel was that such a thieving scoundrel must have his cottage stuffed full of money. Ill-got gains, to be sure, but the cottage at least belonged to him. Mama could sell it. We must try to learn the names of his victims, and return money equivalent to the value of what he had stolen. The future looked unpleasant, and over it all hung the menacing presence of Steptoe, who would bleed us dry.

I prepared a polite face and returned to the private parlor. Mama looked at me with blatant alarm. To allay her fears of imminent disaster, I said with a smile, “Now I can enjoy dinner. What did you order for me, Mama?”

“Roast pork with prune sauce.”

“Lovely.”

Weylin said, “We were just discussing Steptoe.”

I looked to see if Mama had revealed any secrets. She said hastily, “We were wondering if he meant to be in touch with us, since Lord Weylin saw him near our hotel.”

“I expect we shall hear from him later this evening,” I said nonchalantly.

“Very likely,” Mama said, nodding her comprehension.

The meal progressed satisfactorily after that. Weylin joked about the broad criminal streak that ran in his family, with himself no better than he should be, what with breaking into a house that very night.

“Does that make us accessories?” I asked.

“Not unless you choose to come with me,” he said, with an inviting look.

I would have liked to go along, but of course, the meeting with Steptoe took precedence.

He continued his indirect persuasions. “The house belongs to me, by rights. And even if I were caught, the fact that it was bought by my aunt would give some justification.”

“You need not worry on that score,” Mama said. She had obviously not figured out that he wanted me to accompany him. “The law would never deal harshly with a lord.”

Weylin continued his inviting looks, but when I ignored them, he did not come right out and ask me. He promised to call and let us know what he discovered, if he was back by eleven. If he arrived later, he would meet us for breakfast in the morning. We did not linger after dinner. Weylin was eager to be off on his evening’s romp. As soon as Mama and I were in our room, I handed her Steptoe’s note.

She read it with a
tsk.
“This wretched fellow will beggar us, Zoie. I don’t know what Weylin will think when he learns the whole. I half wish we had told him. He was so forthcoming about his aunt’s peccadilloes, he will think us sly.”

“Let us learn the whole truth from Steptoe before we confess. If Weylin recovers his aunt’s fortune, he will be in a good mood. I own I do not like conning him.”

“He is much nicer than I thought. Quite human, really.”

“Yes, but not so nice as to continue friends with the relatives of thieves.”

We passed the time until our meeting in talking and looking at the journals. At a quarter to ten we called for the carriage and left for the Molyneux Park Hotel. It was a small, respectable place facing the Commons. We inquired for Mr. Brown and were directed to his room.

Steptoe answered the door promptly. “Punctual!” he said, drawing out his watch. He held the door and we entered.

His condescending manner was enough to make me fly off the handle before I had even set foot in the room. It was a large, comfortable room that he could certainly not afford on his butler’s salary. A bottle of wine sat on the bedside table, with a cheroot in a dish beside it.

“We have no time to waste, Steptoe,” I said. “If you know anything, tell us.”

“Five pounds,” he said.

Mama gave an angry
tsk
and said, “Very well.”

Steptoe stuck his fingers in his vest, waited until he had our total attention, then announced, “Lindfield.”

Mama and I exchanged a surprised look. “Lindfield!” we both exclaimed together. Mama said, “But that is where—”

“Never mind, Mama,” I said quickly, before she could say more. “It is clear Steptoe knows nothing about this matter.”

“I saw Barry McShane in Lindfield on two occasions,” Steptoe said, coloring up in annoyance.

“Was he wearing a clerical collar?” Mama asked.

Steptoe took it for sarcasm and said, “Certainly not! I tell you he was there. Once I followed him from Tunbridge, and once I went back when he said he was going to London, to check up on him. He went into a Tudor cottage on the High Street at ten o’clock at night, and did not come back out, though I waited for over two hours. It will be extra for the information on the house,” he said, when he realized what he had said. “Our bargain was five pounds a quarter for the name of the village.”

I gave Mama a damping look, for she seemed on the verge of speech, and I did not wish her to reveal the significance of that Tudor house. “Have you not heard, Steptoe?” I asked, smiling. “Verbal contracts are not worth the air they are breathed on. Come along, Mama, we are wasting our time here. We shall expect you to be back at your post at Hernefield by noon tomorrow, or you will not receive any salary at all.”

“We had a bargain,” he said angrily.

“The bargain was that you would tell us what we wished to know. My uncle did not live in that cottage. We happen to be acquainted with the owner. You may have seen him visiting our friends. That is hardly worth twenty pounds a year for the rest of your life, is it?”

I rather wished I had said nothing, but Steptoe’s blush suggested he thought he had made a fool of himself. “What was the secret, then? He always let on he was going to London.” He thought a moment, then said, “He had a ladybird!”

“What of it?” I asked airily. “He was a bachelor, after all. The world will hardly condemn him for that. Let us go, Mama. Remember, Steptoe—noon tomorrow, or you may consider yourself dismissed.”

We scooted out the door before he could put two and two together—that Uncle had the copy of Lady Margaret’s necklace, and the lady he was visiting was Lady Margaret. Apparently Steptoe had not spotted her.

Mama and I had a long discussion of all this after we returned to our hotel. “I can see Barry visiting Lady Margaret,” Mama said, “but staying two hours? That sounds like a friendly visit.”

“At ten o’clock in the evening, it sounds like a
very
friendly visit,” I agreed.

“Zoie, you are not suggesting that they were... paramours? You are forgetting Mr. Jones.”

“Perhaps she had a paramour for each day of the week,” I said, and collapsed in mirth on the bed. “I wonder if Weylin will discover this secret when he breaks into the love nest.”

“I shall die of shame!”

“And so will he.”

Mama soon found new causes for worry. “It still does not explain what he did with that missing five thousand pounds.”

“Perhaps he gave it to his light-o’-love—Lady Margaret.”

“The waste of it! And where did he get all that jewelry he was selling, and what was he doing with the paste necklace?”

“Perhaps the jewels all belonged to Lady Margaret, and he was selling them for her. Old Macintosh was well to grass.”

“I daresay that could be the answer. And Barry put on that clerical garb to fool Mr. Bradford.”

“At least it has got Steptoe off our backs. How I enjoyed lighting into him.”

“I cannot get over the slyness of the pair of them. You would think Barry and Lady Margaret were strangers, to see them pass on the street with a nod, and all the while they were paramours. It is odd she would choose Barry when she has a colt’s tooth in her head. I am thinking of Mr. Jones.”

It was indeed odd, but I felt the mystery had been solved. Even my uncle’s possession of the paste necklace was now comprehensible, if not entirely clear. If he sold her jewelry for her, it could have come into his possession in some harmless way. I was in a good mood when the servant brought a note to our room at ten past eleven.

“From Lord Weylin, madam,” the servant said. “He said if your lights were out, not to disturb you. As I heard voices—”

“That is fine.” I glanced at the note, requesting us to go to the parlor if we were still dressed. “You may tell Lord Weylin we shall be down presently.”

The servant left, and I said to Mama, “Weylin is back, Mama. He wants to see us. This should be interesting.”

“You go, Zoie, and tell me what he has to say. I am ashamed to face him.”

“I cannot imagine why. It is his aunt who had the string of lovers. Barry is relatively innocent.”

“Aye, if we have heard the whole of it.”

“Goose!” I said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before running downstairs to tease Lord Weylin.

Chapter Fourteen

I found Weylin standing with his back to the door, gazing out the parlor window at the street. The door was open; he had not heard me come in. A glass of brandy sat on the table. I had not seen him drink brandy before. Indeed the hotel ought not to have had this contraband drink on the premises. I stood a moment, admiring his tall body and exquisite tailoring. His shoulders drooped, as though he were fatigued, or sad. In the dim light, his caramel hair looked black. The brandy and the weary posture suggested he was disturbed, which told me he had learned of his aunt’s infamous carrying-on.

Something stirred in me. I had come with the intention of enjoying his shame, but found that I wanted to comfort him.

“Lord Weylin,” I said softly, to catch his attention.

When he turned, I saw that his expression was troubled. His eyes looked dark, his face drawn. He gazed at me a moment, then a slow smile moved his lips. It crept up to light his eyes in a warm welcome. “You came alone,” he said. “I hoped your Mama might have retired.”

“She is still awake, and curious to hear if you learned anything. Bad news, was it?”

He came forward and took my hand to draw me toward the table. We sat. “No news at all, really.”

I knew he was not telling the truth. His manner, his refusal to look straight at me, were as good as an admission. I put my hand on his wrist and said, “You can tell me, Weylin. I think I know the secret already. I have been speaking to Steptoe.”

His other hand came out and covered mine in a firm grip. “I am sorry, Zoie. I had hoped to shield you from the sordid truth. I meant what I said earlier. There is no reason the world need know what your uncle was up to.”

The womanly compassion dwindled to curiosity. “My uncle? What about your aunt? She is the one who had a lover!”

“Lover?” He looked confused. It darted into my head that he meant to deny it. “Are you referring to Mr. Jones?”

“Of course. And he is young enough to be her son.”

“He
was
her son. That was her guilty secret. I don’t know how McShane discovered it, but it is pretty clear he knew, and took advantage of it. There were letters, receipts, a deal of evidence that McShane had been extorting money from my aunt.”

I snatched my hand back. “I don’t believe it! You are making that up to hide her shame.”

“An illegitimate child is hardly less shameful than having a lover,” he said crossly.

I did not really care if Lady Margaret had a whole platoon of illegitimate children. What vexed me was that he had turned Barry back into a scoundrel, just when I thought we had reclaimed him to relative respectability. “What did you find?”