The Coldstone (35 page)

“Bowyers have always known as there was something hid. 'Twas Colstones that didn't believe. By all reckoning some of 'em didn't believe no more than what their own eyes could see. Stubborn, hard folk some of 'em were, and none too easy to live with. Jervis wasn't none too easy to live with—Miss Arabel was in the rights of it there—he didn't think of nothing but himself and his land. He'd ha' thought more of his daughters if they'd been young filly horses ‘stead of yuman beings. Miss Arabel was in the rights of it there. Mind you, I don't say as he'd ought to let her marry that Jew. His grandson's the very moral of him, and why she wanted him, Lord knows. I wouldn't ha' taken him myself if I'd never seen another man and didn't know there was one. Give me another cup of tea, my maid, and leave the sugar in the bottom of the cup. Wilful waste makes woeful want.”

Susan had set out gingerbread and currant cake. She and Anthony had washed off the worst of the coal-dust. His hair was wet and dark. Her cheek was pale. They sat side by side on Gran's old Windsor chairs, and felt very young and happy—tea and currant cake in the middle of the night, and Gran in her woolly shawls drinking cup after cup and emptying the sugar basin.

“I'm
frightfully
sorry for Cousin Arabel,” said Susan.

Mrs. Bowyer sniffed.

“Not but what I'm glad she got her letters,” she said.

“What letters?”

“Oh, there was letters passed. And when it all come out, Jervis took 'em away, and he kept them for a stick to beat her with, and after that she didn't give no more trouble. I dunno what was in them, but she fretted something cruel, poor little toad, and I'm glad she got 'em in the end.”

“How do you know she got them, Gran?”

Mrs. Bowyer stirred her tea and sipped from the spoon.

“'Twas a few nights ago, and I woke up same as I woke to-night and along of the same reason. 'Twas the click of the chimley door waked me. I'd have to be sounder asleep than I'll ever be this side the grave not for to wake if so be anyone lays a hand on the chimley door.”

Susan looked at Anthony, and Anthony looked at Susan. Mrs. Bowyer nodded and stirred her tea.

“I come down and I set the kitchen door ajar. And 'twas all dark, but 'twasn't all still—there was a kind of a fidgeting and a kind of a rustling, and a kind of a sighing sound like someone taking their breath in a hurry. And then I heard Miss Arabel say ‘Oh dear!' once or twice as if she was frightened. And then she fetched out one of they 'lectric lamps, and turned it on, and I could see as she'd got her skirt held up with a heap of letters in it. And she set the light down on the kitchen table and picked up a two three of the letters and held 'em where she could see the writing, and she cried a bit and kissed the paper—Lord knows what was on it, poor soul.”

“Oh—” said Susan.

“And after a bit she opened the chimley door and went away. And when she'd gone I went in and down and along to have a look, and right by the end of the passage behind the picture, on the left-hand side, I see a bit of the wall open—a kind of a cupboard it was. Did you find it, lad?”

“I found it open,” said Anthony. “Sir Jervis' diary was inside. And I'm afraid I startled Cousin Arabel. Her letters must have been there too. She left the door ajar, or I'd never have found it.”

Mrs. Bowyer nodded.

“That would be the way of it. Put a little water in the pot, or we'll run dry.”

Anthony jumped up and fetched the kettle. He wondered how many cups of tea Gran was good for.

“What'll you do with what you found down under, lad?” said Mrs. Bowyer when her cup was filled. “There's plenty of milk—don't stint it.”

Anthony laughed.

“Sell it, and live happy ever after.”

“Look here, Gran,” said Susan, “this is what I don't understand. You told me a story all about Philip Colstone telling Will Bowyer he'd raised the devil, and a fire up by the Coldstone, and how frightened Will Bowyer was, and how nobody would ever go near the Coldstone afterwards.”

Old Susan Bowyer's black eyes became intent.

“Well—and what if I did?”

Susan leaned across the table.

“
Because
in the message in
The Shepheard's Kalendar
Philip Colstone says he put the treasure in a secret place—‘Will Bowyer knows, none else.'”

Mrs. Bowyer clasped her fingers about her cup.

“What did he mean?” said Susan. “First he says he was going to bury the treasure under the Coldstone, only fire came out. I suppose there was gas or something, and it caught fire from his torch. And then he says he put it in the secret place and cut Merlin's sign on the stones to keep people away.”

Mrs. Bowyer nodded.

“The tale I told you was true enough. Will Bowyer ran out in the night like I told you, and he met Mr. Philip, and that's what he said to him, just the way I told you. And if he told the tale like he did tell it, maybe it was by Mr. Philip's orders. Bowyers never did tell Colstone secrets unless they were bid, so I'll be bound he said what Mr. Philip told him to say—and more than that no one never knew. But I think they put the treasure away together safe and sure before they went off to the fighting. Mr. Philip would tell Will what he wouldn't tell his own wife, for they'd fallen out, as I've heard tell, and a six months after he was killed she took and married a cousin of her own that she and Mr. Philip had had words about—so he wouldn't tell her nothing. And his boy was only a matter of six years old, so, as I read it, he told Will Bowyer, and he wrote his message in the book where you found it, and he give it to Will to take to his son.”

“But what happened?” Anthony was leaning forward too.

“Give me another cup of tea,” said Mrs. Bowyer firmly—“and only four lumps this time.”

“What happened?” said Anthony. “If Will Bowyer knew, why didn't he tell the boy?”

“Will Bowyer never come home,” Mrs. Bowyer's voice was as solemn as a knell. “He never come home because he died by the way, of his wounds that he got fighting with the Spaniards, and when those that was with him brought the book to Stonegate, there wasn't no one that could read the message right, only Bowyers always believed as there was something hid.”

“How did they know, Gran?”

“Maybe Will Bowyer talked in his sleep afore he went away. Maybe he said a word to his wife—maybe he didn't.” She pushed away her cup and got up. “It's time we all went to our beds. Susan, when I knock on the floor, you'll come up.”

She took Anthony by his hands, and as he bent down to her, she kissed his forehead.

“God bless thee, Colstone,” she said, and turned to Susan. “God bless thee, my maid,” and kissed her too.

She went up the stair and left them together.

With his cheek against Susan's cheek, Anthony asked,

“
Will
you be bored—living down here—with me?”

“No, I won't.”

“That blighter said—”

She put her hand over his mouth.

“I won't be bored—I shall love it. I like everyday things, and being happy, and having a garden, and driving in a car, and—and puppies and kittens—and Gran just across the road. I do love Gran.

“Do you love me—
Susan?
”

“Yes, I do—you know I do—
Anthony!
”

They kissed and were silent, and kissed again. The clock ticked and the wall lamp shone on them. The darkness outside was beginning to thin away. In half an hour the birds would be calling to each other.

Old Susan Bowyer leaned out of bed and knocked three times on the floor with the heel of her shoe.

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1930 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3348-0

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

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