The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (23 page)

“Why, I came to see you, of course,” she said coquettishly, tucking her hand in his arm. “How well you look! I'd heard you had one foot in the grave, and here I find you officiating at a cricket match! Nothing keeps you down for long, does it, my dear friend?”

“Thank you for that, Esme. Jove, but I'm glad to see you! Do you stay in the neighbourhood? Would you like to have a look at Alabaster? May I beg to take you to dinner? I want to know all that you've been doing, and—”

She laughed. “Mercy! My country home is just north of Salisbury, have you forgot? I have dinner plans tonight, and must leave at once, I'm afraid. Ah, but I disappoint you! I am so sorry. I know! Do you go to the Flower Show on Wednesday? I have my prize roses entered. Perhaps we could meet there and have a really nice chat about old times. And—new times, no? Ah, here is my footman. I must go, Jack! Till Wednesday, then—
au revoir.
”

She was gone, leaving behind a breath of the sweet scent she wore, and the memory of the fondness in her fine green eyes.

He thought belatedly of little Molly Hawes, but when he glanced about there was no sign of her.

11

A light wind came up during the night and by morning the sky was cloudy and the temperature had dropped. Undaunted by the weather, Broderick was eager to look over the property, and Vespa was only too willing to take him on a tour of the estate. They rode out shortly after breakfast. When they dismounted at the quarry site an hour later, the smell of rain was on the air and the wind was blowing in fitful gusts.

Broderick tethered his mount and started towards the pit. “Is this where Miss Consuela's sire met his end?”

“A little farther to the west, I think. Beyond the steps where the rope is tied across—” Vespa paused. The rope was no longer tied across the break in the railing and the gate at the top of the steps was wide open. “What the devil…?” he muttered, limping to investigate.

Corporal caught up with them, tongue lolling, and started to report to Vespa, but then wandered to a nearby clump of shrubs. Glancing after the dog, Broderick called, “I think you have company, old boy. Jolly neat little hack tied over there. Side-saddle.”

Vespa had no doubt as to whom the “jolly neat little hack” belonged. His suspicions were soon confirmed. Far below, Consuela hoisted the skirts of her riding habit so as to climb over a pile of rubble by the tunnel entrance.

“She's a spirited chit,” said Broderick admiringly. “That's no easy path for a lady.”

Vespa's only response was a series of French and Spanish oaths. He started down, but Broderick pulled him back.

“Do try not to be so silly. I'm aware you were—are—a dashed fine climber, but just at the moment you've only one reliable hoof. I'll go. No, Jack! If you mean to persist, I'll deck you, I swear it!”

His usually mild countenance was stern, and one fist was clenched and ready. It was just like Toby to be loyal enough to knock him down. Vespa swallowed his pride and watched in fuming anxiety as his friend scrambled down the steep and crumbling steps. “Hey!” he shouted.

Consuela spun around and stared up at him, obviously dismayed.

“If Toby falls,” called Vespa furiously, “it'll be your fault, Miss Bird-wit! Get up here at once!”

What she did was to back away and hold up her hand warningly as Broderick approached. There was a brief and obviously acrimonious discussion, then Broderick grasped her wrist and growled something, and although she wrenched free, she marched to the steps. Broderick followed, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

She reached the top with a swirl of wind-driven skirts, and one glance at Vespa silenced the angry words she'd prepared to utter.

“Are you gone quite out of your senses?” he raged, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her hard. “I
told
you not to come here again! Bad enough you must be so pig-headed as to defy me, but to risk your life by going down those steps was the height of folly!”

Incensed, she fought and struggled, jerking out demands that he remove his “filthy hands” from her person and promising to shoot him dead. A sharp kick from her riding boot sent him staggering, and on the instant her little pistol was in her hand. There were dirty streaks down her face, her eyes were narrowed and glittering with rage, and with her hair windblown and her skirts muddied she looked wild and eager to pull the trigger.

Vespa said unsteadily, “You won't shoot anyone dead if someone murders you first. As you deserve!”

“And you are afraid that if I should be slain on your precious property—as was my dear Papa—you will be blamed! Much you—” She stopped with a squeal as Broderick, who had crept up behind her, reached around and snatched the pistol from her grasp.

“Oh, but that is unfair!” she cried, rounding on him. “Two great rough men against one girl! Besides, I would not really have shot him!”

Broderick said gravely, “I can't know that, Miss Consuela. Anyone who would kick a fellow who just had fifteen pieces of steel cut out of him is capable of anything.”

Her gaze shot to Vespa. His face was unreadable, but he was pale and there were beads of perspiration at his temples.

To the horror of both men, she sank to her knees, bowing her face into her hands and weeping so despairingly that they rushed to console her.

“It's all right, it's all right,” said Vespa, trying to lift her. “Please don't cry.”

“I am a … horrid, wicked … girl!” she sobbed. “Again, I have h-hurt you! You're right. I d-deserve to be—to be murdered!”

“No, no! I didn't mean that. Really. I'm perfectly fine. You didn't hurt me. Much.”

“Look. Here is your pistol.” Broderick pressed the weapon into her grubby hand and, in desperation, offered, “You can shoot me, if you like.”

She smiled quiveringly, and allowed herself to be guided to a nearby cluster of rocks. Broderick used his handkerchief to dust off a suitable boulder, Consuela sat down, and Vespa dabbed his own handkerchief at her tear-stained cheeks.

She murmured her thanks, and said with a despondent sigh, “What have I become? Oh,
what
have I become?”

“More to the point, Miss Consuela,” said Broderick, “what were you about down there?”

“I remembered something.” She looked up at Vespa earnestly. “I told you that Papa made many sketches and paintings of Alabaster Royal.”

“Yes. You said he enjoyed to paint the old place.”

“He did.” She took his handkerchief and blew her nose. “Some were of the manor. But there were others. Several of the little bridge, and a very nice picture of that poor child Molly Hawes picking flowers not far from here. And there were a few of the quarry. I never liked those because this place is so stark and ugly. And I think Papa didn't like them, either. They weren't up to the standard of his other works, and one wasn't right at all.”

“In what way?” asked Vespa.

She said frowningly, “I don't recollect exactly. It just looked—odd, somehow. Perhaps the canvas was damaged. After Papa—after he died, the owner of the gallery said his works were now much more valuable.” She scowled, and added through her teeth, “It was a beastly thing to say!”

“Clumsy, I grant you,” said Broderick. “But the fellow was right, you know. Down through the centuries the work of any artist has been much more highly priced after his death. Just think of poor old Raphael, for instance. He did a painting called
St. George and the Dragon,
and I believe he was paid at most forty guineas for it. Today, it would sell for fifty times that amount. Then there's the great canvas by—”

“Yes. Thank you, Toby,” inserted Vespa hastily. “I don't quite see, Consuela, what all this has to do with your venturing down into the quarry.”

She opened her eyes at him as though he were very dull-witted. “Why, because we couldn't find it, of course! We've sold some of Papa's paintings—those I could bear to part with. So I decided to let Signor da Lentino at the Salisbury gallery see what he could get for the ugly one of the quarry. Only—it wasn't there.”

“You said your father didn't much like it,” Vespa pointed out. “Perhaps he painted over it.”

“No. I saw it soon after the funeral. And I stuck it at the back, behind the others, because I wanted only to look at the best. Grandmama and I searched and searched, but it has disappeared.”

“Any others gone, ma'am?” asked Broderick.

“Yes. The portrait of Molly Hawes. I hadn't finished cataloguing them all, of course. It had gone out of my mind until last evening when I was thinking about the sketch we found in the manor. And I thought that if I came and looked at the quarry again, I might remember what was wrong with that one odd painting.” She searched Vespa's face. “It
might
be important—no?”

He nodded. “It might, indeed. But not so important as to risk your life for. What I would like to do, if I may, is come and visit you, and see the paintings you still own.”

She agreed to this, and accepted meekly when Broderick volunteered to escort her home.

All the way back to the manor Vespa pondered the business of the missing paintings. He was still deep in thought when he went into the house and struggled up the stairs. It was probably a simple case of the canvasses having been mislaid. Or perhaps they had been shipped to the gallery at a time when Consuela was too lost in grief to remember events clearly. Such things happened. After Sherry was killed he had seemed to lose touch with many details of daily life, as though even in the heat of battle he'd been too numb to be fully aware of what went on around him. He could find nothing that might connect Preston Jones' paintings of a little girl and an old abandoned quarry with the artist's untimely death. Even less to lend weight to Consuela's conviction that her Papa had been brutally murdered. The Salisbury gallery would be worth a visit, though, if only to see more of Mr. Jones' works—especially if there were any views of the manor. It would be rather nice to own such a painting, provided he could find one he really liked, and if the price was not beyond his means.

It came to him that, aside from the occasional clamourings of the wind, the house seemed even more hushed than usual; almost as if it were holding its breath. He shrugged away such a whimsical notion. Naturally, it was quiet. Thornhill had gone to Salisbury to collect a new coat from his tailor. Strickley was in the barn tending to Secrets, and Corporal, worn out from his long run, had curled up in a favourite spot in the kitchen and gone to sleep.

Captain John Wansdyke Vespa was quite alone in his manor.

The deepening sense that he was
not
alone was as foolish as it was disconcerting.

He turned into the upstairs corridor and started towards his suite. Within seconds, soft footsteps were following. He jerked around, his hand dropping to the pistol in his pocket. The corridor stretched out, silent, yet quivering with almost-heard sounds; empty, yet not empty. Perhaps he was to meet the weeping woman, as Toby had done. Perhaps his optimistic belief that he was getting better was unfounded, and this was another manifestation of a condition that was worsening. He thrust that dread from his mind and walked on, trying to blot out the sounds. They were different now; odd rustlings, a whispering as of subdued voices, and the continuing padding footsteps. He wouldn't look back. There was nothing to see. But the rustling became the voices of leaves again, hurried by the wind across a stone floor. The air whirled about him, icy and paralyzing. He clenched his hand hard on his cane, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting an illogical but near overwhelming terror. The wind was very strong today, it wasn't so surprising that—

Something clamped onto his shoulder. His heart bounced into his mouth. His blood seemed frozen, and with an involuntary shout he spun around, the pistol flashing into his hand.

“Se rendre! Se rendre!”
The tall and elegant young man behind him made a rapid backward leap and waved a jewelled quizzing glass agitatedly. “A fine way to receive a guest!”

Vespa stared in astonishment at a lean face framed by thickly waving auburn hair and enhanced by high cheekbones, a classic, well-cut nose above a shapely mouth and firm chin, and a pair of green eyes just now full of indignation. “Paige Manderville!” he gasped. “You crazy gudgeon! You damn near gave me a heart seizure, creeping up on me like that!”

“I wanted to surprise you. Though I needn't have crept with the wind making such a commotion. Why is this passage so beastly cold?” The quizzing glass was levelled at Vespa and a magnified eye scanned him critically.

He said eagerly, “You heard it, then?”

“I'm not deaf, dear boy. You're white as a sheet! If you mean to die, I'm off!”

“No, I don't mean to die, you unnatural clod! What a thing to say! Actually, I go along pretty well.” Vespa restored the pistol to his pocket and reached out. As they exchanged a firm handshake he said, “What a magnificent coat! Weston, I suppose.”

Manderville smoothed an exquisitely cut sleeve of forest green superfine, and said casually, “No. A new man, actually. Set himself up in Clapham.”

“Not Balleroy? Gad, to think I patronize the same tailor as the mighty Beau Manderville! Now come along to my room and while I get out of these boots you can tell me what the deuce you're doing here.”

“Leaving.” Manderville adjusted his pace to Vespa's as they proceeded along the corridor. “I came expecting a luxurious mansion—not a ghost-ridden ruin. You disappoint me, Jack. Really, you do.”

Quite aware of the grin that belied the words, Vespa opened the door to his suite. “You don't believe in ghosts, surely?”

“Don't I?” Manderville inspected a chair carefully before lowering his immaculate person into it. “I hadn't thought I did. Now—I'm not so sure. Where are your servants? I didn't see a sign of life except for your groom. Odd sort of fellow, ain't he?”