The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (10 page)

“You've my sympathy, ma'am.” Pondering, Vespa said, “But, even if Mr. Jones caught Gentry taking what didn't belong to him, I can't believe the man would have murdered your son-in-law over a few pieces of furniture.”

“Perhaps not,” said the duchess. “Perhaps Gentry have nothing to do with poor Preston's death.” She leant closer, her eyes narrowed and glowing eerily. “Perhaps it was the evil influences of your terrible Alabaster Cat!”

5

It was dusk when Vespa made his cautious way along the upper corridor and the light came but dimly through a few open doors or the window bays. His fascination with ‘Lady Francesca' and her granddaughter had enabled him to ignore his steadily worsening headache, but as he limped along the dusty corridor he knew he was in for one of the attacks he dreaded. No doubt his fall had not helped matters, and the duchess' frying pan had added to the damage. If his vision started to narrow he would be in trouble, for he could scarcely see now and he must be on the lookout for the sudden steps up or down.

He forced himself to concentrate on his dinner partners. They were both unhinged, of course. That bloody-minded girl was capable of anything. It was obvious that her father, poor fellow, had met his death due to his own carelessness, and if madness ran in the family, the late Mr. Jones had likely been as ripe for Bedlam as the rest of 'em.

At this point he blundered into a jog in the corridor, and had to cling to the wall for an unpleasant minute before going on. A dulled saw was cutting a path between his temples.… But he could still see. He'd be all right. Only … Lord, this was an endless walk.

The Italian ladies … Yes. Well, embarrassing as it was to admit such gullibility, he'd actually started to give some credence to their tale until the duchess had uttered that final piece of folly. He could still see the glow in her eyes as she'd hissed, “your terrible Alabaster Cat!” If she had started raving about some bloody apparition with its head tucked under one arm—that might have been a touch less ridiculous. But who ever heard of anyone being haunted by a cat? Wait, though. He paused beside an open door. The Alabaster Cat … It sounded familiar. Hadn't Mama said something about a cat? And didn't one of the legends have to do with—

Leaves were blowing all about him; at least, it sounded as if they were inside. Perhaps not all the windows were closed, or there might be a hole in the roof. Clinging to the door-jamb, he peered upwards, half expecting to see clouds. The ceiling was miles above him. He could see no holes, although it was weaving about in an odd fashion. He watched it until the door closed on his hand. Anger cleared his head. “What—another one?” he snarled, and pushed the door wide again. The room was like a black cave. Not a glimmer of light showed from the window. Certainly, there must be a window somewhere. “Show yourself, you skulking coward!” he shouted, clenching his fists.

A voice, echoingly far away, enquired, “Can you get up?”

Crazy Consuela …

The leaves were pressing in, tightening their hold.

It was, he suddenly realized, not leaves, but an arm around him. He blinked until he could see just the outline of her face.

“Yes, I followed you,” she said. “You are ill. I could see you would fall.”

She was tugging at him, and he found that he was on his knees. “I wonder you … cared,” he mumbled, managing to stand.

“I didn't. Grandmama was worried about you.”

Irritation was added to his embarrassment, but he asked, “Did you hear the leaves?”

“Try to stand up straight. It's not far now. Lean on me.”

Lean on this termagant? Let this tiny bundle of ill manners and hatred help him? Never! He tried to walk unaided, but was mortified to find that he was clinging to her while she struggled to support him.

“I'm … so sorry,” he stammered. “It's my—head, you see. Doctor—doctor said I'd have—headaches and—and start imagining things.”

Instead of answering, she began to grumble, her voice rising in anger but coming from a great distance.

A cup or something was at his lips.

“Proper driv to the ropes, ain'tcha, Cap'n. Take another swig o' this, and you'll look alive.”

Vespa swallowed, coughed, and blinked into the lugubrious countenance bending over him. He was sprawled on his bed. A branch of candles brightened the room, but there was no sign of Miss Consuela Jones.

“Strickley?”

“Aye, it's me. Let me give yer a hand up.”

Vespa accepted the steadying arm gratefully. “It was good of you to come inside.”

“No, it weren't. That there Miss Jones run to the stables screeching and bellering like seventeen nuns! Little thing like her, ordering a cove about something dreadful. Let's have yer boots orf first—that's the barber.…” He went on talking, the words coming alternately clearly and muffled to Vespa's ears. “Proper caution … got spirit enough fer two … inter yer nightshirt … Lift yer arm up a bit, canyer?… Yi! Caught a nasty one here, din't yer.… With a shape like hers…”

His voice rumbled into the distance.

*   *   *

By eleven o'clock it was already warm. The sun slanted brightly through the open casements of the breakfast parlour, and the scent of blossoms hung on the summer air. After a long sleep, a wash and shave, some hot buttered toast and a scalding cup of coffee, Vespa felt like a new man. He sat at the kitchen table for some time, pondering the events of the previous day. It had all been so very weird, and viewed in the light of this radiant morning it was hard to tell where reality ended and hallucination began. His head was clear now, thank heaven, but last night—well, it had been a bad attack, that was all. Hopefully the last. Refusing to brood over his erratic mental state, he began to draw up a list of Things to Be Done.

First, he would confront Lady Francesca and demand that she and her granddaughter leave Alabaster Royal at once. After he'd thanked Miss Consuela for her help, of course. He frowned uneasily. Which might be a trifle difficult. Secondly, he'd have a look at Secrets, and if the mare's leg was healed, he'd ride into Gallery-on-Tang, see if there were any letters, and arrange for more provisions to be sent out. After that, he must really inspect his property and find boundary lines and such-like. Strickley could help with that. And there was still the upper floor to be properly gone through.

It was a good list, he decided. But there was no real need to accomplish it all in order. He pushed back his chair and muttered, “John Wansdyke Vespa, you are a craven coward, sir!” And postponing the first item on his list, he went in search of his steward.

Strickley was nowhere to be found and his sway-backed old bay horse was gone from the stables. Corporal, who had been sprawling in the sunshine, woke up and trotted over, his little tail vibrating. He accepted a friendly caress and went so far as to roll over and allow his stomach to be stroked. Together, they went to the paddock. Vespa whistled and Secrets tossed up her head and cantered to him. She was a pretty sight, her coat gleaming in the sunlight. Her leg appeared completely healed, she was full of spirit and greeted him affectionately. He led her to the stable-yard, noting that Strickley had cleaned up several loose boxes and that the barn was markedly neater. Secrets stood politely for him while he saddled up, but the moment he was in the saddle she started to frolic and caracole.

“Show-off,” he scolded fondly. When they were clear of the yard, he gave her her head and they were away at the gallop. The warm fragrant air rushed past his face; the sun beamed like a benediction from clear cerulean skies. His spirits rose, and he thought optimistically that, despite last night's little set-back, his health was returning at last. Soon, he would be a whole man again.

A distant summons caused him to rein in the mare and glance back. Far across the park a small shape tore after them at frantic speed. He patted Secrets' sleek neck and told her they must give the little scrap a chance to catch up, and they proceeded at a sedate trot.

It was Vespa's first real look at his acreage. The neglect was marked. Beyond the weedy park the land was overgrown with shrubs and deep grasses. Occasional boundary hedges were shaggy and unrestrained, and the low walls dividing fields were crumbling into disarray. In places the ground fell away into deep crevices, as swiftly to rise into rolling hillocks. Having ridden for some distance, he came into sweeping level meadowland. It looked more promising, and he dismounted, secured the reins to a shrub, and knelt to tug out a clump of dandelions and take up a handful of earth.

The dog came up, panting, and flung himself down beside his adopted human.

“Look at this, Corporal,” said Vespa. “Jolly good loam. D'you know, I'm inclined to believe we could farm here and make a dashed fine go of it. I'd like to make something worthwhile of the old place.” He sat down and looked over the stretch of countryside to where the chimneys of the manor rose against the sky. There was serenity here, and beauty, with only the calls of birds to disturb the quiet of the summer morning. He felt comforted and at peace. Sherry would have liked Alabaster Royal, if only he'd taken the time to inspect the property. To know that one's family had dwelt here for generations was a warming thought. Made a fellow think that this was where he really belonged. Not that he was forgetting Richmond, of course, only—

“Well, well!” A jeering voice shattered his introspection. “Only look, Durward. The lord of the manor, squatting in the dirt like any cloddish ploughman, and chatting with a mongrel!”

Sir Larson Gentry came riding up. He was mounted on a mettlesome chestnut, and accompanied by a pretty girl and a large, dark, coarse-featured man, the sight of whom caused Vespa to stiffen angrily. Clambering to his feet, he drawled, “Trespassing again? I recognize your friend for the lunatic who ran my coach off the road and killed a good horse. I'll require an explanation of the fellow.”

It was a calculated insult, but the big man did no more than give a mockingly exaggerated bow.

The girl's blue eyes widened. She was very fair, her features delicate and her hair arranged in loose curls under a pert little hat. Her dove grey riding habit hugged a slim and shapely figure, and she managed her bay mare with graceful expertise. There could be no doubting that she was related to Gentry, for the resemblance was strong, but there was a sweetness to her face and a gentle expression in her eyes that spoke of a very different nature. She said in a soft but dismayed voice, “Oh, Mr. Cramer—you never did?”

“Of course he didn't,” said Gentry, grinning broadly. “Now, forgive me, dear sister, but I suppose I must make you known to our unfortunate neighbour. Miss Ariadne Gentry—Captain Vespa, who is, I grieve to say it, quite lacking in hospitality.”

Vespa bowed to the girl, who was obviously embarrassed by the ill-mannered introduction. “Your friend and I have unfinished business,” he said, looking fixedly at Cramer, “which we cannot discuss while a lady is present.”

“I'm shivering in my shoes,” jeered Cramer.

“Evidently,” said Vespa. “But do your shivering elsewhere. You have no right-of-way across my land, Gentry. Be so good as to leave it.”

“With all the pleasure in the world. We must have strayed onto your poorly preserved preserves by accident. How pathetic that you're obliged to resort to that scruffy mongrel for companionship. But it's all you're likely to lure to your ghastly mansion, my poor fellow. Unless you have perhaps managed to hire a butler?”

“I have managed to recall where I heard your name before. Something to do with an unpleasantness at—White's, was it? But—no. Of course, it wouldn't have been White's.”

Gentry's handsome features turned brick red and his eyes flashed to the puzzled look on his sister's face. “Come along, m'dear,” he said harshly. “Can't waste time here.” He spurred his horse to a canter, and Cramer and an obviously bewildered Miss Ariadne followed.

“
Rompé'd
you, by George!” muttered Vespa. It had been a shot in the dark, but a man of Gentry's type was almost sure to leave a sullied trail that would deny him admission to the best clubs. Mounting up again, he resumed his tour of inspection, thinking it a pity that a delectable creature like Mistress Ariadne should be related to the obnoxious fellow.

For a while the lush greenness of the meadow continued, but gradually the grasses became clumps, separated by bare, pebbly soil. Ahead, a great gash in the earth was backed by the starkly denuded upthrust of all that was left of a high hill. There was a rickety-looking rail fence along the edge of the quarry workings. Beyond it, the ground fell away to a deep hollow littered with rock-piles, abandoned picks and shovels and broken carts. A tunnel leading into the hillside was partially blocked by rocks and shale. It was a grim and forlorn sight. Dismounting, Vespa thought it sad that this rape of the land had been permitted, but the family fortunes had probably benefitted, and very likely some of the rock had gone into the construction of his manor house.

He walked to the edge and peered down the sheer drop. Poor old Preston Jones wouldn't have stood a chance if he'd gone over here. The rail fence trembled under his hand. A man would have to be a fool to lean on such a flimsy structure—if that was what Jones had done.

Corporal ran to sit on his boot with a proprietary air, and Secrets came up and nuzzled at his neck. “Jealous,” he said, stroking her nose. He dispossessed the dog and walked slowly along the length of the rail fence, Corporal prancing ahead and the mare thudding along behind him. There was a crude gate, and some steep, rough-hewn steps leading down to the quarry floor. Just past the gate the rail fence was splintered and broken, and a length of rope had been tied across the gap as a makeshift safeguard. Perhaps this was where the artist had plunged to his death. Vespa stood contemplating the scene, lost in thought until a drifting hawk drew his attention to the sky, and the position of the sun told him the morning had ended.