The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (24 page)

“He's my steward. And groom. And general factotum. I'll tell you all about it after I put a glass in your hand. Jupiter, but Toby will be glad to see you!”

“Broderick?
Here?
Now I
know
I'm leaving!”

It was late afternoon before Broderick returned. Following an enticing aroma to the kitchen, he found Vespa seated at the table, Corporal under his chair, and both watching someone shrouded with sheets who labored at the stove. “By Jove!” he exclaimed happily. “Have we found a chef, Jack? I brought—” Momentarily, words failed him and he clutched at Vespa's shoulder for support. “
Manderville?
Mayfair's debonair darling … in a
kitchen?
No! It can't be!”

“You're right,” said Manderville blandly.

“B-but—well, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Leaving.”

“Hopefully, not before he finishes our dinner,” said Vespa, and added with a wink, “He can cook, Toby!”

“He—
can
?”

Manderville turned, looking stern and waving a wooden spoon in one hand. “I do not cook, sir! I
create
!”

“It's jolly decent of him,” said Vespa, laughing at Broderick's goggle-eyed stupefaction. “Especially since Alabaster Royal has been a great affront to his sensibilities.”

Manderville bowed and slanted a glance at Broderick. “You have some comment, surely?”

“I am…” gasped Broderick, “speechless!”

Exultant, Manderville exclaimed, “By George! In that case, I'll be able to overnight! You may tell your alleged valet to prepare me a room, Jack.”

Suspecting the motive behind the condescending air, Vespa said, “That's good of you, Paige, but I won't hold you to it. You'd likely be more comfortable at the Gallery Arms. And even if you did stay here, we wouldn't expect you to work for your keep.”

Manderville stirred the contents of the fragrant pan carefully, put down the spoon and turned to Broderick. “You had to be here! And you've told him, of course.”

“He knows Oxford didn't roll out the red carpet for me, and that I've invited myself to his hospitality, if that's what you mean.”

“You and your runaway tongue! Now I suppose you're waiting for me to bare my soul.”

“Sorry to disappoint, m'dear fellow, but I really haven't the remotest interest in your soul—naked or fully clad! All I'm waiting for is whatever you've got in that pan.”

With a resigned sigh Manderville folded his arms and met Vespa's eyes levelly. “Truth is, I'm properly in the basket,
mon capitaine.
I came here to foist myself off on you. Toby knows, else I'd have bluffed it through.”

Broderick said indignantly, “Now dash it all, Paige, you know blasted well I wouldn't rat on a friend!”

“And you both should know me better than to talk of foisting, or ratting,” said Vespa. “Next you'll be thinking I require a formal application from prospective guests. Still, I'm very sorry about your hard luck, Paige. I thought your future and your fortune were secure.”

“So did I. But my father's man of business contrived—to his own good. By the time we realized what he was about, he'd absconded with the bulk of Papa's bonds. There's enough left to keep the family going, but—” He shrugged resignedly.

“Gad! What a rotten show. And—all your lovely prospective brides?”

“Found better prospects. Natural enough.”

Reminded of his lovely Marietta and his own shattered hopes, Vespa nodded sympathetically.

“So I started making the rounds of my friends.” Manderville turned to his pan again and said a low-voiced, “But they were all so dashed—kind. Couldn't bear it. Everywhere I went in Town—Hell! I decided to get away, and then I remembered you and your windfall, and came here.”

“Only to find my windfall was a rotten apple,” said Vespa.

Manderville whipped around, his handsome countenance flushed. “No, truly, Jack. I didn't mean—Deuce take it, I came to sponge off you! I hope I'm not so crude as to really look a gift horse in the mouth!”

Vespa threw back his head and laughed. “So I am become a gift horse! And the only people who'll deign to visit me are two impoverished rascals!” Manderville and Broderick exchanged uneasy looks, and he went on with a grin, “You can't know how glad I am to have you here—whatever the reason. And you shall both earn your keep by helping me solve the riddle of Alabaster Royal!”

Long after they had enjoyed Manderville's chicken fricassée and adjourned to Vespa's newly cleaned book room, they were still discussing that riddle. Broderick said in a hushed tone that he acknowledged that such things as wraiths and spectres were abroad in the world. Manderville admitted that his introduction to the manor had been unsettling, but he inclined to the belief that some living intruder lurked about Alabaster and had been paid to frighten people away.

“But—why?” asked Vespa. “The house is half-way decayed; some of the furnishings are not so bad, but—”

“Good enough for your friend Gentry to try to liberate,” put in Broderick.

Manderville argued, “But we are talking about attempted murder. With all due respect, on that score I have to agree with Jack. The estate is isolated and a long way from Town. The quarry is no longer producing, and the house itself—well, its reputation alone renders it practically un-saleable and not sufficiently valuable to justify one murder, if Miss Jones is to be believed, and two, if Jack's life is also threatened.”

Broderick threw up his hands. “Then if they ain't after the furniture or the estate, what the deuce
are
they after? You don't pop about running coaches off the road, strangling young ladies, rigging up murderous ambushes, and indulging in churchyard target practice for no reason.”

Vespa said thoughtfully, “Perhaps there's more than one plot.”

Manderville nodded. “From what Toby says, you've certainly got more than one enemy.”

“Jack's thinking of Miss Jones,” said Broderick, yawning. “He's convinced her father really was murdered here, and that it is connected somehow to all this monkey business. Am I right, old chap?”

“What you are is half asleep,” said Vespa. “I mean to ride over and see Preston Jones' paintings in the morning. Perhaps we'll know more then.”

To an extent, his optimism was justified. Broderick declined to accompany him next day, saying he wanted to “poke about” the first floor and see if he could unearth something of real value. Manderville rode with Vespa. The Jones cottage was large, thatched, whitewashed, and set in pleasant grounds. Manderville found it delightful. He also found Consuela delightful, which caused her to regard him with distrust, whereupon he at once transferred his considerable charm to Lady Francesca. If she was not deceived, she was amused, told him he was a “charming rascal”, and led the way to a spacious studio at the rear of the house where Mr. Jones' works were stored.

Vespa had expected to be impressed, but as he discovered scenes of the village, the Church of St. Paul, the old inn, children playing around the pond, several canvasses depicting various local folk and their cottages, he was awed by the talent of the artist and his inspection became less a search than an appreciation.

“If you mean to admire each canvas for half an hour, we'll be here for several days,” drawled Manderville, bored.

“And if you had an eye for art, sir, you would be as enthralled as the Captain,” riposted Consuela.

“I have, instead, an eye for a beautiful woman.” Manderville offered his arm to the duchess. “May I beg that you grant me the pleasure of a stroll in your gardens, ma'am?”

“But you waste your time in this flirting with an old lady,” she advised him.

“How so, ma'am, when there are no old ladies present to flirt with?”

Laughing, she said he had a glib tongue, took his arm and went happily off with him.

Consuela scowled after them. “A fine rake you have for a friend, Captain Jack.”

“Mmm,” he said absently. “How splendid these are. Your father painted Gallery at all seasons, I see.”

“And Alabaster Royal also.” She walked to another stack of canvasses. “I put those over here. I thought you'd like to see them all together. Captain … Ah! Have you found something?” She ran back to his side and scanned the painting he was staring at with such an intent expression. It showed the village green in springtime. A pig was roasting on a spit over an open fire-pit, children were dancing and weaving colourful ribbons around the Maypole, and to one side the twisted little figure of Molly Hawes watched them with ineffable sadness.

“Poor child,” murmured Consuela. “You have taken quite a liking to her, no?”

“Yes. These people at the tables, are they all villagers?”

“Most, I think.” She leant closer. “I cannot identify everyone. Sometimes, on special feast days, there are visitors, you know. Relations from nearby villages, or even from outside the county, who come and join the celebrations.”

“What about this fellow?” He pointed to a tall, dark-haired individual who was part of a group gathered around a cask of ale. Most of the men appeared to be enjoying a convivial tankard together, but the tall man had turned away and was gazing off to the east.

Consuela shook her head dubiously. “I cannot recognize him with his back turned. Why?”

“He doesn't seem to be part of that group.”

“He's holding a tankard, like the rest. Why do you think he's not part of them? Because he's looking away? Perhaps something caught his attention.”

“I suppose your father would leave to the viewer's imagination what it was that had distracted the man in the picture.”

“He might. Only look at how many thousands and thousands of people wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles so mysteriously.”

He grinned. “Very true, and I'm making mountains out of molehills, no doubt. All right, let's have a look at the Alabaster paintings.”

She led him proudly to the canvasses, and watched, pleased by his delight as he scanned views of the manor at twilight; bathed in the sunshine of a summer's afternoon; clothed with white in a wintry landscape; stark and sinister under a cloud-streaked moon with trees whipped by wind and a faint greenish glow emanating from a first-floor window.

Consuela left him, saying she would order some refreshments. Engrossed, he scarcely heard her as he looked through the rest of the paintings. There was a charming view of the manor on a bright day in springtime, as it might have looked in its prime. A richly caparisoned war-horse was tethered at the entrance. Fruit trees were gay with blossoms, the yews neatly trimmed, the lawns lush and green, and bluebells, daffodils and tulips splashed their rich hues along the drivepath and beside the stream. He was inspecting three landscapes of the area around the quarry when Manderville, who had sauntered back into the room, said with a laugh, “By Jove! Now these are really worth a look, Jack!”

He had found several canvasses stacked in a far corner. They were all nudes, apparently of the same lady in different poses: one reclining on a sofa, another in a window-seat, the third curled up in a deep chair and the last lying on her side on a purple rug in front of a hearth, the firelight glowing on the rich curves of hip and waist and breast, and awaking a warm shine on the cloud of dark hair that hung past her shoulders.

“
What
a cuddlesome chit,” said Manderville. “But he should have shown us her face, and in this one I really think he might have dispensed with that zephyr scarf.”

“Ooh!” exclaimed Consuela, hurrying to join them. “I had set those aside!”

“Why?” Manderville took up the fireside portrait. “They're jolly fine. I wouldn't mind owning this myself. The lady has a beautiful body. What d'you say, Jack?”

“I'm no authority, but I'd say his technique was magnificent.”

Manderville grinned broadly.

“And if you could afford one of Papa's works,” said Consuela, “which would you choose, Captain?”

He hesitated. “Why, it would be a difficult choice, but—I'd dearly love to own the one of Alabaster as it would have looked long ago. I wonder if—”

“It is not for sale,” she interrupted, glowering at him. “And if you are quite finished with criticizing my father's work—”

“I wasn't criticizing. They're magnificent!”

“Especially the one of your precious ruin.”

“Well—yes, but—”

“I cannot be wasting my time like this. Good-day to you, gentlemen!”

Disappointed, he protested, “But you said you were ordering some refreshments.”

“We have none, sad to tell. So nice of you to have paid us a call. And you may wipe that smirk from your face, Lieutenant Paige Manderville, for it does but verify all the naughty things I have heard of you!”

Walking out to the horses, Vespa shook his head. “I'm sorry she took you in dislike, Paige. Truly, that girl has the most shrewish nature I've ever encountered. I suppose she was annoyed because she thought I was criticizing her father, which I certainly hadn't intended.”

Manderville chuckled. “Lord preserve me from such single-minded devotion!”

Stiffening, Vespa said icily, “Perhaps you'd care to tell me what you mean by that remark.”

“Don't cut up rough, Jack. You're a bright lad, all things considered, but where women are concerned you see only Marietta Warring—”

“Damn your eyes! My feelings for Miss Warrington have nothing to do with you—or Consuela Jones!”

Manderville threw up a protecting arm and implored, “Don't strike me! But they have everything to do with it, you blind dolt. You were scorning her! Miss Jones was the nude model, and instead of admiring her truly voluptuous shape, you admired the old boy's
technique!
Lord love us!”