The Courtship (32 page)

“Thank you,” Lord Beecham said.

“Teeny is a superlative girl,” Flock said, and lowered his head mournfully. “She did not tell me about the letter.”

“It will work,” Lord Beecham said. “It must.”

“I agree. Bring champagne, Flock.”

“Why champagne now, Father?”

“One must always think positively, Nell. If we celebrate now, doubtless we will be celebrating the same thing again when you and Spenser are wedded.”

“Is my valet still breathing, sir?”

“It has been a close thing, my boy. Flock and Nettle usually just eye each other and sniff, like two stray dogs in the same territory. However, it is Teeny who has stayed their more violent tendencies.”

“What has she done?”

“She has informed them that she is going to marry Walter Jones. She told me, however, in private, that Walter is a ne'er-do-well and that she will have to teach him what's what. She told me that she has memorized all of your excellent discipline strategies, observed many of them and has selected the ones she believes will be most efficacious with Walter if ever he strays. She is fully prepared to use them.”

Helen laughed so hard that Lord Beecham had to rub her back.

Later that afternoon, while Helen was at her inn in Court Hammering, seeing to her accounts and doubtless doling out punishments, Lord Beecham was working on the leather scroll in her small study. He was humming. The translation wasn't going too badly now. Reverend Mathers had helped considerably. Poor Reverend Mathers. He paused, frowning. He would write to Lord Hobbs in hopes that he and his Bow Street Runner, Mr. Ezra Cave, had discovered something.

Lord Beecham looked up when Flock cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“My lord, there is a Lord Crowley here to see you.”

“The devil, you say. What does that damned man want, I wonder? Oh, the devil. I will come now, Flock.”

Jason Fleming, Baron Crowley, was in the drawing room, alone, standing by the fireplace. He was staring down into the empty grate. He turned slowly when Lord Beecham walked into the room.

“You wonder why I am here,” Lord Crowley said without preamble.

“Yes.”

Lord Crowley shrugged. “Everyone believes that I murdered Reverend Mathers. I did not.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I came to see if you knew more now. He was murdered because of the scroll, wasn't he?”

“I have no idea.”

“Come, Heatherington, there is no need to be coy. Damnation, there are men following me everywhere I go. I imagine that one of them is dogging my tracks as we speak, probably standing right outside that window, staring in at me. Lord Hobbs won't leave me alone; he continues to come by with his questions. He speaks to everyone I know. I know he believes that I killed Reverend Mathers. I did not kill the man.”

“You believe then that it was Reverend Titus Older who stuck the stiletto in his back?”

“No, more's the pity. That silly old fool wouldn't have the guts.”

“Then I cannot see that there is another available suspect, can you?”

“No, dammit, and that is what frightens me. I tell you, Lord Hobbs wants me hung and he wants to do it soon. He has spoken to everyone. I am not received. An opera girl recognized me the other night and refused to let me bed her, can you imagine?”

Lord Beecham could, but he didn't say anything, just shrugged. He frankly did not know what to make of this. Crowley coming to him for help? More likely, this was a ruse and Crowley was here to steal the leather scroll. But hadn't he already stolen the copy? He wouldn't need the original scroll.

Lord Beecham lightly flicked a small piece of lint from his sleeve. “I think perhaps you did it. You have a reputation for having a black soul. You are ruthless. You deal with scum. You are a luckless gambler, always betting, always losing, always in need of money. You have probably killed before, why not again? I cannot see your conscience pricking you overly. Yes, I can see you doing just about anything to refill your pockets.”

“Damn you, I am a man who looks for opportunities. But I didn't kill Mathers. Perhaps it was you who stuck that stiletto in his back.”

“I suppose that is possible,” Helen said from the doorway. “However, why would he kill anyone, Lord Crowley? He already has the scroll in his possession. You are a half-wit, sir. You are making no sense.”

“Ah, Miss Mayberry. A pleasure, ma'am.” Lord Crowley managed an elegant bow. “You are looking well, I see. Beyond well, really.”

“Naturally,” she said. “Lord Beecham, Flock tells me that there is a very nice man outside by the name of Ezra Cave. He is our Bow Street Runner, I believe, here, keeping an eye on Lord Crowley.”

“I was mad to come here,” Lord Crowley said, stomping toward the door of the drawing room. “You will not believe me, no matter what I say.”

“Give us one good reason to believe you, Crowley,” Lord Beecham called after him. “Just one.”

Crowley looked back and forth between them, then blurted out, “Just perhaps Reverend Mathers wasn't murdered because of the scroll.”

“Ah, now that is a rather unique way of looking at the business,” Lord Beecham said.

“I don't know, not for certain, but I heard that his brother, Old Clothhead, as Reverend Older calls him, was fighting with him constantly. Perhaps he wanted the scroll, perhaps not. Perhaps he was jealous of his brother, perhaps he was finally pushed over the edge and stabbed him in a rage. He stole the scroll as an afterthought. Maybe he already knew it was valuable. That fellow also needs money. You'll not believe this, but he is married to a very young girl, and she is always encouraging him to buy her baubles and jewels. Yes, Old Clothhead sounds desperate. Surely he is an excellent suspect.”

“Why don't you tell Mr. Ezra Cave what you just told us?”

“I done 'eard it all, milord. Sounds 'avey-cavey to me, but I'll pass it on, to 'is lordship, see wot 'e thinks about Old Clothhead wit' the sticker.”

“Damn all of you, I did not murder Reverend Mathers. I did not even know that you met him in the British Museum!”

“Now, sir, ye'll burst yer liver if ye squawk like that.”

Lord Crowley looked ready to commit murder now. He grabbed his cloak and cane from a stolid Flock and slammed out of the front door of Shugborough Hall.

“The strange thing,” Lord Beecham said thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his jaw, “is that I believe the fellow. He's afraid. He's really afraid.”

“But Reverend Mathers's brother, Spenser? Old Clothhead?”

“I don't think that's right either, but who knows? Now, Helen, let us all have some tea and have Mr. Cave tell us what he has discovered.”

It amounted to nothing much at all. Mr. Ezra Cave prepared to take his leave to return to London an hour later. “I got my fivers in all sorts of pockets, milord, and me ears plastered against all sorts of walls wot got blokes on the other side speaking in whispers amongst themselves. Something will pop out, ye'll see.”

After Ezra Cave had left, Spenser and Helen looked at each other, each feeling the instant pull, the drugging desire. They both held to their places. It was a close thing. They would have leapt on each other if Lord Prith hadn't chosen that particular moment to stroll into the drawing room.

“Something I never told my little Nell here,” he said to Lord Beecham, “but if I had to describe Gerard Yorke, it would be that he was a fraud. Oh, yes, I know, he was a hero then, and everybody believed him to be Lord Nelson's right hand. And perhaps it was true at one time. But by the time I met him in '01, it was clear to me that he was a deceitful creature, all decked out with ribbons and braid. This letter you got from him, Helen, it is what I would call a preliminary exploration. He wants something, don't doubt it. What he wants, I just can't figure out. I'm sorry, Spenser, but Gerard is alive. I can smell him.

“Look to your back. If you need help slitting his bloody throat, call me. Where is Flock? Flock! Oh, there you are. I want you to rub my shoulders. All this excitement has left me stiff.”

And Lord Prith walked out of the drawing room, Flock on his heels. They heard him say, “I wonder if one could mix champagne with some sort of sweet cream and perhaps have a perfect concoction to rub into one's shoulders?”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said. She turned bewildered eyes to Lord Beecham. “I don't understand any of this.”

“I don't either, but I believe it is time you and I returned to London. We need Douglas Sherbrooke. He knows everybody in the Admiralty. We have got to get to Gerard's father, Sir John Yorke. I'll send a message to Douglas, make sure he and Alexandra are still in London.”

Lord Beecham walked to Helen, automatically raised his hands to touch her, then immediately lowered them, and took a quick step back. “No,” he said, “no. Now, I believe that you and I should discuss what I have added to the translation on the leather scroll.”

Rather than translating word for word, Lord Beecham pulled out several sheets of foolscap from Helen's desk drawer. “I have put together a narrative. There are still many concepts, ideas, words missing that Reverend Mathers scratched his head over. But what we have here, Helen, is the good beginnings of a story.

“No, please sit over there.” He pointed to the settee, a good eight feet distant.

She sat on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped together, all her attention focused on him. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Helen.”

“ ‘THERE WAS A POWERFUL magician in Africa who divined that he needed a particular boy to gain something he wanted in Persia. He used guile and deceit and managed to lure the unsuspecting boy to a hidden place in the mountains, telling him that if he did exactly as he was told he would gain riches beyond belief. He sent the boy underground to fetch him a very old lamp that was protected by powerful gods who knew the magician and wouldn't allow him to come near, but the boy, the magician had divined, they would allow.'

“ ‘The boy took the lamp, but he wouldn't give it to the magician until the magician helped him out of the cave. Enraged by the boy's refusal, the magician sealed up the cave and returned to Africa. The boy would have died there but for the lamp.'

“ ‘When the boy emerged from the cave, he was changed. There was power in him that shone like a beacon, and all saw this power and knelt before it. It was rumored that the lamp appeared, then disappeared. When the boy had lived out his years and died, the lamp disappeared. Everyone believed the lamp was probably taken by the magician from Africa. It was not. That magician was long dead.'

“ ‘It was I, Jaquar, the old king's advisor, who took the lamp. Even as I write this, I know that I will seal the accursed thing into this iron cask. I am sending it away, to be hidden forever, this history and warning with it. Leave it hidden, deep, without light.' ”

Lord Beecham looked up a moment, and Helen said, “And somehow it came into the hands of the Knights Templar until the one Templar gave it to King Edward. Come Spenser, keep going. What did the lamp do? Why does Jaquar call it accursed? Why hide it deep, without light? Surely there must be something more?”

“There is nothing more that is important, just greetings and closings and what Reverend Mathers called more admonitions to the unwary.

“That's all, Helen. It is a history of the lamp, or whatever it may be, more formally written than I have translated, but in essence it is accurate enough. It was recorded in the second century before Christ, in Persia.”

“It is very nearly identical to the tale of
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
except for the ending, of course, and the warning from this Jaquar.”

“Yes. It seems to me, then, that the history of the lamp was well enough known, widely enough spoken of, that it became incorporated into the
Arabian Nights
. We have verified the bloody lamp, Helen, but it hasn't helped us one whit to find it. I believe the only conclusion is that someone took it from the iron cask. When? Perhaps hundreds of years ago. Perhaps it was never even buried at all. Who knows? In any event, we know it existed at one time and that it was powerful and, according to this Jaquar, dangerous.”

Helen was humming under her breath, a habit he recognized she did when she was concentrating utterly. She said, “But I wonder. How old was it before the magician from Africa went after it? Another one hundred years? Perhaps a thousand years older?

“How long was it buried in that long ago cave, hidden away, deep, and in darkness? Why didn't this Jaquar simply write down why the lamp was dangerous? And how did it end up in the storerooms of the Knights Templar?”