The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (19 page)

“I did, but I have no proof of any wrongdoing. The most I can accuse the fellow of is trespass, whereupon Gentry would affect to be very much the injured party being punished for seeking to make honest restitution. The Constable had insufficient grounds to press charges.”

“I can't fault him for that.” Sir Kendrick added gently, “It don't make much sense, does it, John? You're, er—quite sure it wasn't—”

“A mental aberration? Quite sure, sir.”

“Yes. Well, don't get bristly. I'd forget the business if I were you. Enjoy your lady and your privacy, my dear boy, and live a quiet life. That's the way to get well.” Obviously troubled, he attempted to conceal it with a light-hearted recommendation that John keep “a weather eye out for the Alabaster Cat,” and with a fond smile and a firm handshake, left him.

Jack waved from the top of the steps as the luxurious coach rumbled down the drive. For a moment longer he stood there, looking rather grim. Clearly, his father was convinced that his mind was playing him tricks. Not only that, but in the other matter Sir Kendrick had jumped to a conclusion that all too many others would reach. It would not do. He went slowly towards the kitchen, rehearsing his ultimatum.

When he delivered it, the duchess put down her rolling pin and regarded him gravely. “You are sudden, Captain.”

“Not really, ma'am. I didn't approve of this arrangement from the start, if you recall. Now, my father has gone off with a false impression. My friend has arrived, and I expect other gentlemen. You surely must see that it just will not do for an unwed lady of Quality to—”

“Rubbish,” interrupted Consuela, carrying a large tablecloth and a pile of napkins into the kitchen. “You did not object when we worked together this morning. Oh, yes, I heard you demand that we leave your hallowed halls!” She came with her light dancing step to stand in front of him and peer up into his face. “There is mud in your hair, and your coat is torn and stained. So do not be maligning your innocent friend as an excuse to be rid of us. What has happened?”

Vespa gritted his teeth. “Very well, if you must have it. I was set upon by—by some louts, and my horse took fright and threw me.”

Consuela's lip curled. “Another fib! I've seen you ride, even when you were feeling badly, and Secrets is a polite lady; she'd never—”

“What you believe or disbelieve carries small weight, ma'am. The fact is that I have incurred the enmity of Sir Larson Gentry, Durward Cramer, Lord Alperson and heaven only knows how many other dim-witted local citizens. This is evidently a most violent area, and I've enough to occupy me without being held responsible for the safety of two ladies who would do better to keep to their own home. Besides which—”

“Who asked you to be responsible for us?” demanded Consuela, her cheeks flushed and her eyes stormy. “Grandmama and I are quite able to—”

“The fact that you are under my roof makes me responsible, as you know very well. Besides which, my father heard you singing, and assumed that you—er, I mean—”

“So that's it! He fancies I am your opera dancer! What has that to say to anything, when you know it is not so? Only think, Captain Jack. Grandmama and Manning are here to shield my reputation. We cook and clean for you, and improve rather than harm your silly old house. We are getting closer all the time to the truth. I can
feel
it! Do not chase us off only because you are afraid of your high and mighty Papa!”

“Con-su-ela,” said the duchess warningly.

“Yes, yes. I know I have no right to protest our dismissal, Grandmama! But what does he mean to do next? Have us dragged out in chains?” She tossed the linens onto the table and stretched her hands out to Vespa pleadingly. “Ah, forgive! I am naughty, and say things I do not always mean. But—let us stay, I beg you! The answer to my dear father's death lies in this house. I
know
it! And if I am not here, it will all be forgotten and his murderers go unpunished. He was such a gifted and good man.
Please
let me stay and—”

She looked so heart-broken; but hardening his heart, Vespa cut off those imploring words. “I came here in search of peace and quiet, Miss Jones. Not to hunt about for clues to a non-existent murder! With you gone, I may have some small hope—”

“Ooh, but you are a great
stupid!
” Tears of frustration glittering on her long lashes, she cried, “Very well, we will leave! 'Faith, but I can scarce wait to see the—the last of you!” And with a muffled sob and a swirl of petticoats, she was gone.

Vespa muttered, “Phew!”

The duchess pulled out a chair and sat down. “And now if you please, you will tell me. What really happened?”

He crossed the room to glance up and down the corridor, then closed the door. Returning to lean back against the table beside her, he gave a low-voiced account of what had transpired on Consuela's ‘short-cut'.

The old lady frowned, pondering, then asked, “Who knew you meant to ride through the vale?”

“You come to the heart of it, ma'am. No one knew. I didn't decide myself until the last minute.”

“Still, you might have been watched. A signal could have been given. Perhaps the rope was loosely tied and hidden from sight until the intended victim approached, and only then drawn taut.”

He shook his head. “Unlikely, I think. Such methods would indicate a long-planned scheme. Despite what I said to Consuela about having made enemies, I've only been here a short time and pose no real threat to anyone. I have no wish to alarm you, but—”

“But you think my granddaughter was the intended victim and that you rode into a trap meant for her?”

“I think it the most likely explanation, yes.”

“Then you must also believe that Preston really was murdered.” A hand trembled to her throat. Paling, she faltered, “Oh, St. Peter, St. Peter! Do you thinking those evil men really come here in the night to put an end to the dear child?”

“My lady, I honestly don't know. But combining that attack with the ambush today makes me wonder if your granddaughter may indeed be suspected of knowing something, or having seen something she was not meant to see. It may have nothing to do with the death of your son-in-law. I may be jumping to the wrong conclusion entirely. Whatever the case may be, this is no place for her. It is too isolated, and her tendency to wander about alone is dangerous. I do urge you, ma'am, to take her home and keep her away from Alabaster Royal. For her own sake. Have you some reliable menservants about the place?”

“My coachman and gardener are faithful and have been with us for years.”

“Then I'd suggest you warn them, and never allow Consuela to go about unescorted. And for heaven's sake lock your doors at night!”

“This we will do. And my husband he have intact me how to fire the pistola. Never look so worried, Captain. We're not weak and helpless by any of the means. We know how to defend ourselves, this I promise you.”

“Good. But I want you to promise also that if you have ever a cause for alarm, or suspicion, you will send for me at once.”

She smiled at him and patted his hand. “You are very good, considering the trouble we have causing you. Thank you. I will take her home at once. Also, I will of a certainty be consulting my patron saint.”

“Who is, I gather, St. Peter? Or have you others, perhaps?”

“No! Never! He is the best for me. Not, I remark you, that I have anything against the rest. Matthew and Mark are very fine, I feel surely. And Luke must be a lovely saint, though he was a physician, which is unfortunate. But, Peter, he is—well,” she leant closer and dug Vespa in the ribs, saying mischievously, “he is just a little bit like me, you know? He tries. But he makes mistakes. So he will better sympathize with my small dilemmas, I think. Now you must try not to be judging of my Consuela too harshly. She is fiery—her Papa was right to call her his meadowlark—one minute calm and contented, and the next, poof! soaring into the skies. But she has the goodly heart, Captain Jack. She will be guided by me.” Lady Francesca smiled and did not voice her qualifying thought: ‘In most things!'

With some qualifying thoughts of his own, Vespa left her and went slowly up the stairs.

*   *   *

A fire brightened the hearth of the small dining room (which Broderick described as “vast”). From the mulligatawny soup through the salmon served with cauliflower and a potato soufflé, the sliced sausage, raised mutton pie and a light as a feather lemon
gateau,
the food was excellent and the wines superb. Thornhill waited at table with smooth expertise, and at length breathed a suggestion into Vespa's ear that since there were no ladies present, the gentlemen might wish to retire to the drawing room with their port.

The ladies were very much absent. There was not the faintest echo of a feminine voice. Soon after the two men had settled themselves before the drawing-room hearth, Vespa heard some activity outside, followed by the sounds of a departing carriage. Lady Francesca, her intrepid granddaughter and their nervous maid were, he deduced, returning to their own home. Lady Francesca would surely keep a watchful eye on Consuela now, especially after dark, so that she'd not be prowling about where she had no business—

“… bother myself, when you haven't heard a word I said,” complained Broderick.

Vespa started. “Oh, your pardon, Toby! 'Fraid I was woolgathering. May I freshen your glass?”

“Thought you'd never ask. Thank you. As I remarked—when I was talking to m'self just now—your sire missed a jolly fine dinner. Has the duchess really gone?”

“Yes. And taken my”—Vespa smiled faintly—“my ‘bird of paradise' with her.”

Broderick set down his glass and took up the short clay pipe and tobacco humidor that Thornhill had put on the table beside him. “I've been very patient, old lad, but this would seem a propitious moment for the rest of the story you promised me.”

He was a good listener and made only occasional startled exclamations while Vespa related Consuela's part in the events of the past few days. At the finish, he was silent.

Watching him, Vespa asked, “Well? What does the great brain make of it all?”

“Nothing profound, Jack. Only, it seems that far from finding peace and quiet, you've stepped into an assortment of unpleasantnesses. If some rascal is determined to scare you off, he could possibly have installed a resident ‘ghost' in this great rambling place.”

“Perhaps, though I'd like to know how any trouble-maker could create the sounds of leaves rushing about, when there's no wind nor any leaves in sight. Or cause the temperature in a room to go from chilly to positively arctic within a minute. Or—”

Broderick interrupted with a grin, “Thought you didn't believe in ghosts.”

“I don't. But … there's something decidedly odd about this house, I'll have to admit. Even so, what could it have to do with the other business?”

“The ‘other business' being that you were knocked off the road on your way here; the signpost was deliberately concealed; this Gentry fellow and his bosom-bow have been looting your house; some aristocratic old duck who's properly dicked in the nob blames you for his granddaughter's death; two murderous louts broke into your cellars; and today you damn near broke your neck thanks to an involuntary dismount. And you're half-way convinced that the luscious Miss Jones' life is threatened as well.”

“Of course her life is threatened! Those two thieves came near to strangling the poor girl, and this afternoon's ambush was set up on a route nobody could have known I meant to follow. It was intended for Consuela. And she would certainly have been killed!”

“Am I wrong in thinking that you have no especial, ah—interest—in the lady?”

Marietta Warrington's beautiful face came into Vespa's mind. His so missed and so yearned for love. More than a year since last he'd seen her. By this time she was very likely betrothed to some other lucky fellow. He suffered a wrenching pang, and thought, ‘I mustn't do this. I mustn't keep grieving for Etta and for Sherry. That was another part of my life. It's done.'

Broderick saw the long hands clench, then Vespa said, “Whether or not I have a special interest in Consuela, you may be damned sure I would mind very much indeed if
anyone
was harmed on my land!”

“Yes, of course you would. I didn't mean— Well, never mind that. What about the business of the coaching accident and the signpost? You surely must see that it all ties together?”

“I didn't think so at first. Cramer is the type of boor who finds it jolly good fun to hurt people.”

“Charming. But you believe that the lovely Miss Jones stands in danger of being murdered by some unknown conspirators for reasons equally unknown?”

“It sounds unlikely, I know, but … Have a look at this, Toby.”

Broderick took the sketch Vespa handed him. “I say! This is a jolly fine piece of work. Preston Jones, isn't it? Why ever did you fold it, you uncouth Philistine?”

“I'm no expert on art, but—”

“Small doubt of that! What a
beauty!
Only look at the subtlety of her expression. Jones was truly a master. I've seen several of his works, have you?”

“Very few, but what I—”

His eyes glowing with enthusiasm, Broderick swept on. “D'you know, this puts me in mind of—what was it, now? A sketch. By … Hans Holbein, that's it! Only of a man, not a lady. And the Holbein was done in silverpoint, of course.”

“Really. Well—”

“Oh, yes. In early days most sketches were made with the brush—they were in the Orient, at least, till fairly recently. Well, recently in the grand scheme of things. I suppose it changed to an extent beginning with the Renaissance when pens came into use.”