The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (30 page)

During the long dark hours he had mapped out a busy schedule for the following day, but when he awoke it was already ten o'clock. A habitually early riser, he was vexed to have slept so late, and even more vexed when he remembered that this was Wednesday, the day of the Flower Show at which he'd promised to meet the lovely widow. He could despatch Strickley with an apologetic note, of course, but Esme Stokely was an old friend, and had been devoted to Sherry. No, it would not do. His neat schedule would have to be abandoned. Or, perhaps … rearranged?

His friends had also overslept, and he found them lingering in the breakfast parlour. Manderville, looking heavy-eyed, expressed a marked lack of interest in such mundane pursuits as Flower Shows. He had already met Dicky-Boy, and thought it hilarious that Vespa had hired the youth. When asked to help with the schedule, he volunteered to visit the duchess and Miss Consuela this afternoon and find out if there had been any further disturbance at the Jones cottage. First, however, he intended to search the cellar for any golden objects that Preston Jones had planned to decorate with cloisonné. Broderick, seemingly none the worse for last evening's cards and Cognac, agreed to ride into the village and report last night's prowler to Constable Blackham. Vespa thanked them both for their help, and hurried upstairs to finish dressing, pausing with a grin as a crash from the direction of the kitchen was followed by his new parlour-maid's voice exclaiming, between giggles, “Dearie me … oh dearie me!”

Thornhill had set out the wine-coloured coat and pearl grey pantaloons that had arrived with his trunks from Richmond, and was brushing his caped driving coat. Lost in thought, Vespa belatedly realized what the valet was saying.

“… seems to have disappeared, Captain. I'd not mention it, save that I chanced to overhear Lieutenant Broderick speaking of enamels. I would not for the world have you think I eavesdrop on your conversations, for never has Aldrich Wolfram Thornhill stooped to such common behavior, but—”

Vespa interrupted sharply, “What has disappeared?”

“Why, the old snuff jar, sir. I put it in your room when first you took me on as your man. I noticed it was somewhat scratched, but I thought it rather charming and utilized it as a vase for some flowers. I cannot think what has become of it.”

“I can!”
This
was what his mind had been trying to tell him! One of the things, at all events. Toby had said cloisonné was used for several things, including jars! “By Jupiter!” he exclaimed. “I gave it to Molly Hawes!”

It was essential that he retrieve the jar: not because of its possible intrinsic value, for even had it been solid gold it would not have justified the murder of Preston Jones, nor the following violent incidents. But it occurred to him that it might possibly be the object the thieves had sought, and that, failing to find it at Alabaster Royal, they'd searched the Jones cottage again. But what on earth could be so important about a snuff jar on which the surface was damaged? The only way to find out was to inspect it more closely. He might find a clue to the puzzle, such as a miniature map of some kind, or a hidden message.

Convinced that he was on the right track at last, he rejected Corporal's pleas to accompany him, told his friends to dine at the Gallery Arms at his expense, and with a vase of sparkling crystal carefully wrapped and on the seat beside him, he drove out.

The morning was bright but cloudy. Autumn was painting splashes of rust and scarlet on the trees, the air was cool and already an occasional leaf fluttered down. Vespa held his team to a steady pace, the autumnal colour sending his thoughts back to the previous September. He'd been in Madrid then, with Wellington; his lordship in a rare good humour, and his own spirits sunk in numbing despair because Sherry's death had at last been confirmed. It didn't seem possible that more than a year had elapsed, nor that his own circumstances were so changed.

Whoever would have guessed that after all the grief and pain and disappointment that had beset him, he would find a measure of contentment in a run-down and isolated old house. But it was so. He was, in fact, beginning to feel quite at home in what Papa would call his bucolic setting. And if new troubles had sprung up around him, they seemed less formidable as he drove along this peaceful country lane. He encountered only a tinker rattling past in a battered and overloaded cart, who advised him cheerily that it would rain before sunset.

Minutes later, he turned into the lane where the apothecary lived. The cottage was neat, and a bright-eyed maid directed Vespa around the side and into the back garden. Mr. Kestler—a spare, hunched-over individual—was supervising a middle-aged man with a bandaged head who was chopping wood. The apothecary viewed Vespa with suspicion and upon being handed a calling card demanded to know if he was here to “settle accounts”.

Vespa eyed him levelly, then turned to the man with the chopper and held out his hand. “I'm Captain Vespa. I'm sorry you were injured in my service. Your name, I believe, is George Cobham?”

A twinkle came into the tired blue eyes, and Cobham shook hands and said humbly that he was grateful to have been sent here to be taken care of.

“You must not have heard me, sir,” said the apothecary in his high-pitched whine. “I asked—”

“If I had come to settle accounts,” said Vespa coolly. “I heard you, and I had, but now I see that will not be necessary. Climb in, Cobham, I'll drive you home.”

“What d'ye mean—not necessary?” shrilled Kestler. “I treated your confoun—your employee's injuries and—”

“And must have found them trivial since you put him to work so soon,” said Vespa, with a shrewd eye on the wood pile. “It appears you've had more than your ‘pound of flesh', Kestler.”

“‘Pound of—of
flesh',
sir? Of all the—How dare you, sir?”

“Good gracious, man, what are you spluttering about? You surely don't mean to stand there and ask for money after you've made my man work for his keep? That's illegal, Kestler! The truth is, you likely owe
me
for his services!”

“I—
illegal,
sir?” gobbled Kestler. “By—by God, sir!”

“Yes, well, I'm glad to see you're a religious man. But since you evidently believe Mr. Cobham to be quite recovered—”

George Cobham was grinning from ear to ear.

The apothecary, realizing he had met his match, and realizing also how the tale would resound through the countryside, got a grip on his temper and pulled together a lip-cracking smile. “Ah, you military men will have your little jokes, Captain. No, to say truth, Mr. Cobham is far from recovered. Concussion, you know. A tricky business. But it ain't good for a fellow to be confined to the house for long periods, and we came out to get my patient some exercise and fresh air. He's going along fairly well now. Another day or so—”

“Of most excellent food and pampering,” put in Vespa.

“You may rest assured, sir,” said the apothecary, rubbing his hands together.

Vespa smiled. “How does that suit, Cobham?”

“I'd like some of that there—er, excellent food and pamperin', sir,” said the patient, with a sly wink.

“Very good. Then assuming Mr. Cobham will receive such at your hands,” said Vespa, “you may send me your reckoning, Kestler. Good-day to you. Come and see me when you're quite well, Cobham.” With a wave of his whip, he turned the greys and drove out.

The apothecary watched him with grudging admiration, and muttered something about “vest-pocket lawyers”.

“You say something, sir?” enquired Cobham, innocently.

Kestler's wolfish grin dawned. “I said there goes a—er, real top sawyer. Now come in the house, my poor fellow. It's time for a nice cup of tea. We can't have you overdoing, can we? Your Captain wouldn't like that.”

“No, I 'spect he wouldn't. It's not every gent would go outta his way for his workmen. Very nice of him, I must say.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the apothecary through his teeth. “Very nice.”

Vespa was smiling to himself as he guided the team along the lane. Kestler was probably competent at his trade, but he was one of the grey people of this world. The old pinch-penny would benefit from a wife like—like Peg, who'd bring some sunshine into his life. The contemplation of such a union made him chuckle as he approached the dirt track leading to Josiah Hawes' little house. He would be even less welcome here, he knew, so he stopped the team a short distance from the cottage. Before he could climb from the curricle, his name was called in an eager childish voice.

Molly came up at an ungainly run and welcomed him, her little face flushed with pleasure. “Can I come up in your coach, sir? Please? Just for a minute?”

When she was joyously enthroned beside him and had recovered her voice, she asked, “Did you want to see my Pa? He's at work. He works at Mr. Simms' farm this month.” Her eyes clouded. She added sadly, “I 'spect you'll go away now, 'cos you didn't come to call on me.”

Vespa assured her that he had indeed come to call on her, and added to her delight by taking her on a short drive around the field. She had never dreamt, she informed him in an awed whisper, that she would ever ride in such a grand coach. When he halted the team, he was thanked repeatedly. Taking up the parcel beside him, he said, “It was my pleasure, Mistress Molly. Now I wonder if we could make a trade, you and I.…”

In very short order, with the cloisonné vase safely bestowed under the seat, he turned the team to the south-west, waving farewell to a small girl ecstatic with joy over the prismatic colours she could awaken by turning her new vase in the sunlight.

It was half past one o'clock and the pale sun had disappeared behind thickening clouds when he reached Coombe Hall. It was a charming estate, the well-manicured grounds thronged with ardent horticulturists. He found Mrs. Esmeralda Stokely engaged in a politely fierce dispute over the merits of her ‘cabbage' rose, as opposed to a militant old gentleman's ‘French' variety. As soon as she glimpsed Vespa, the widow's lovely face lit up, and she abandoned her rival and hurried to give him both her hands.

“Jack! You
did
come! Rogue that you are, you're so late I thought you meant to disappoint poor me.”

Her gown was of palest blue-green, the filmy silk clinging to her willowy figure revealingly; the poke of her straw bonnet was adorned with lace of the same shade, the guinea-gold curls shone, and her famous green eyes flirted with him charmingly. As he bowed over her hand he knew that although Sherry had been her first choice, she had a fondness for him and would probably accept if he offered. He was fond of her also, although no more so than of many delightful young ladies he had squired to
ton
parties or danced with at Almack's, or in Spain, or at the balls his mother so happily planned.

With Sherry gone, he knew he'd have to wed someday and provide heirs to the Vespa name. But there was plenty of time; he was not yet thirty. His most immediate task was to win back to health. Besides, even had he been contemplating matrimony, Esmeralda Stokely was a beautiful and much-admired lady, and she deserved better than to be shackled to a man whose heart had been irretrievably given to another.

Today, however, he was glad of their friendship, and he shared her merry chatter, adroitly parrying her more provocative remarks, and grateful for the fact that she did not once refer to his cane or seem repelled by the scar down his temple. When she had consigned her beloved prize roses to the jealous care of her gardener, he accepted her offer to conduct him among the many tables and displays and more elaborate exhibits.

She was quite knowledgeable and instructed him on the various merits of charmingly arranged bowls and vases of chrysanthemums, dahlias, the less exotic wallflowers, daisies, lupins and many fine rose exhibits. In the process, he met several people he knew, all of whom were delighted to find him up and about so soon. They were heart-warming encounters, each resulting in invitations to dine or to visit, which further lifted his spirits.

The young widow murmured with a twinkle, “Popular as ever, aren't you, Jack? Especially with the ladies. Did you notice how jealously they all looked at me? I vow it will be all over Town tomorrow that I'm your new flirt.”

He chuckled. “Flatterer! I saw the ladies taking careful note of that dashing gown, and the pretty way you dress your hair. As for the men, they could scarce—Oh, your pardon, ma'am!”

He had failed to notice an elderly lady who turned abruptly from admiring a tiered display of lilies-of-the-valley. She tottered as he brushed against her, and he took her arm steadyingly.

She slapped his hand away. “Keep your distance, young man!” she snapped in a thin harsh voice. “I know your kind of buck.… Not a shred of manners in the whole worthless breed! Shame to your fathers!… Disgraceful!”

“Whoops,” murmured Vespa, as she went off, grunting anathemas on today's male youth and leaning heavily on her cane.

“There goes a female you didn't charm,” teased Mrs. Stokely softly. “To think one of his lordship's gallant Captains would knock down a white-haired old lady! I am most shocked!”

“Oh, gad! Was she white-haired?” He glanced after the frail figure anxiously. “How could you tell under that heavy veil?”

“You can see it poking out under the back of her bonnet, silly. She's been behind us for some time. In fact I'd begun to think she was as captivated by you as”—she peeped at him coyly from behind her fan—“as the rest of us!”

“Do you think I really hurt the poor lady? Perhaps I should go and—”

She caught his arm. “What we should do is go and claim that lovely arbour over there. No, really, Jack, I'm a trifle tired, and would really like to rest for—Oh, bother! My gardener is waving. You must excuse me just for a minute. I'll come back and find you, directly, I promise. If anyone has damaged my roses…!”