The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (37 page)

“I'll wait till he gets back,” said Hawes. “Molly's over to me brother's farm in Blandford fer a week, so she's safe from—from the perisher.” He swung back to snatch up the half-full bottle. “I'll wait. And I'll find that cheatin' Captain. And this time one o' they murderin' Quality'll pay for their—their wicked ways! Now—you—out!”

Ryan ran eagerly outside and down the step. He watched the big man march off, saw him pause to tilt up the bottle again, and chuckled. It had been tricky. Like standing in front of a cannon what might go off any second. He'd earned every penny of what he'd been paid. By grab, but he had! Humming to himself and well pleased with his efforts, he walked quickly to the copse where he'd left his horse, and rode into the grey curtain of the rain.

17

Durward Cramer dismounted a short distance from the quarry. Once or twice he'd suspected he was being followed, and as he tethered his horse in amongst a cluster of stunted trees, he peered around keenly. It had rained all day, and now a cold fog was rolling in. The chances of anyone having seen him were remote. The Captain, the Dandy and the Don, as Gentry called 'em, were all off somewhere. Nosing about, probably, much good it would do 'em. Vespa wasn't likely to ride out here on such a miserable day, even if he did come home, and if Ryan had done his work well, the curst busy-body captain would cease to be a nuisance. There were, he reflected, cunning minds at the top of this scheme. Cunning, coupled with a ruthlessness that sometimes was a bit astonishing and that heightened his unease as he emerged from the trees and went to the gate.

The steps looked wet and slippery, which was natural enough after all the confounded rain that had fallen this week. He trod down them with care, then paused, glancing up tensely as his horse neighed. The meeting was tonight, but if the others suspected he was down here now, there'd be hell to pay. He strained his ears, but there was no further sound. He was likely borrowing trouble. They trusted him. Up to a point. Grunting resentfully, he picked his way down. He was just as good as what they were. Maybe he didn't have their finicking ways or their posh talk, but he'd been good enough to risk his neck for 'em. 'Specially in that gallery business. He hadn't seen no cause to risk another Capital act. But it was the fact that the others
had
felt that particular murder justified which had convinced him his suspicions ran in the right direction.

The tunnel loomed up; a gloomy, forbidding hole in the hillside. He clambered over the rubble at the entrance and groped around gingerly, then swore as he disturbed a web and the owner galloped across his glove and up his sleeve. He shuddered as he brushed it away. One thing he couldn't abide was spiders! Horrid, unnatural things! But the lantern was here, just where they'd left it, and there was plenty of oil. He hadn't brought his light-bottle, but with the old reliable tinder-box he lit the wick and turned down the shutters so that a single bright beam slanted away from the entrance. He played the light across the narrow rock passage and the debris-littered floor, his eyes searching.

There was something about this place; something the others knew. What they didn't know was that he was clever enough to guess there was a deal more to the whole business than he'd been told. The clue was in this ugly place—somewhere. And he'd find it, by God, but he would! And then they'd be forced to own that he was a
very
downy bird, and they'd have to treat him like an equal!

He pushed on, following the bright beam as the tunnel drove deeper into the hillside, ever alert for potholes, his eyes straining through the blackness, searching, searching.…

At the brink of the quarry other eyes were searching. Consuela had felt trapped in the house, knowing that Captain Jack and his friends were on their various quests while she sat and did nothing. When the fog started to thicken, however, she'd begun to repent her decision to bundle up in her cloak and hood and go for a long walk. It was as she'd approached the Alabaster boundary that she'd heard a horse coming up behind her. She'd hidden behind a gorse bush, guiltily aware that she was breaking her promise to Jack; although she was
walking,
whereas she'd promised not to
run
into danger. She'd crouched lower, holding her breath as the horseman passed by. Durward Cramer! What on earth was that nasty man doing on Alabaster land? She had followed, of course. Her heart had started to race when she realized he was heading straight for the quarry. It had raced even faster when she'd startled his horse and the animal had let out that great neigh of fright.

Now, as Cramer had not come to investigate, she had crept to the quarry, and finding the gate to the steps open, had peeped over the edge.

There was no sign of him. But he was down there, she knew it! She bit her lip uneasily. Did she dare follow? If he caught her, there'd be nowhere to hide except for the pile of rocks near the entrance. If she could just get that far, she could watch, and listen. It was a great risk, for he might reappear at any second, but risks and adventure went hand in hand—no?

She was trembling with nervous excitement when she reached her rocky sanctuary, and crouched behind it. After a moment, she could hear sounds from the tunnel; muffled sounds, as if Mr. Cramer was far away. What on earth could he be up to? Was something hidden there, perhaps? Had he taken part in a great jewel robbery and smuggled his ill-gotten gains here? Was that what Papa had found?

She crept from her refuge and climbed over the tumbled debris at the entrance, taking care not to cause any to fall or rattle. Far ahead, she could see a glow. Cramer had brought a lantern, then. One would need a light, for it was very dark in there. Still, she could see well enough to follow, at least a little way. If she could just get a hint of what the nasty creature was up to, Jack would be so proud—well, at least he wouldn't be too angry. She crept along carefully. My goodness, but Cramer had gone a long way. It would be easy to get lost down here. She'd already passed two side-tunnels, which might be useful as a hiding place if Cramer came back.

The air was getting musty. She brushed a cobweb from her hair and gave a gasp as she heard a faint scurrying sound. Rats! Of course, there would be rats. Every tunnel had rats. And after all, an adventure wouldn't be worthwhile if everything was neat and tidy.

Cramer's light was going downhill. She hesitated. She'd come much farther than she'd intended, and this tunnel seemed to go on forever. All right, just another minute, and she'd turn back. Well within that minute she halted abruptly. Cramer had stopped. She could see him clearly now, shining his light on a great pile of fallen rock where a cave-in had evidently blocked any further progress. She heard him cursing. He must not have known the tunnel ended here. He'd give up now. He'd come back! She must get out. Hurry! Hurry!

She turned, her heart thundering, and gave a squeak of fright as she saw the dark shape towering behind her. Her instinctive scream was cut off as strong hands seized and shook her hard. Struggling, sobbing with terror, she knew that she had found at last the men who'd murdered her father.

*   *   *

The team was at a full gallop now, and the sound of the coach thundering over the bridge and along the drivepath brought Strickley into the courtyard, running.

Vespa pulled up and was out of the curricle almost before the lathered team had come to a plunging halt. He tossed the reins to Strickley, shouting, “Is my father here?”

The steward nodded. “A half-hour ahead o' ye, sir.”

Limping rapidly into the house, Jack gave a sigh of relief as Sir Kendrick came from the drawing room with Corporal frisking at his heels. “Thank God you're safe, sir,” he gasped, wringing his father's hand. “When Mama told me—”

“Ah. So that's where you've been.” Waiting until Thornhill had divested his son of hat, gauntlets and the caped driving coat, Sir Kendrick led the way into the drawing room. “I spent the night with the St. Alabans in Reading, and when I reached here took the liberty of desiring your new—ah—footman, to start a fire.” He settled into a chair by the glowing hearth. “You'd best warm yourself, lad. You look as if you'd been dragged through a gooseberry bush.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I expect I do, sir. I left Richmond at eight o'clock.”

“Did you, by Jove!” Sir Kendrick patted the adoring Corporal, but refused to allow him to sit in his lap. “Then you made jolly good time! I can but hope such reckless speed has not jeopardized your rather precarious health.”

Pouring brandy into a glass, Jack knew with a trace of irritation that his father would attribute his unsteady hand to his ‘precarious health' and that it would be pointless to declare his health much improved. He said, “I'd have started out earlier, but the fog was too dense.”

“I'm glad you didn't attempt it. Why the desperate haste, or these kind concerns for my safety? Ah—your mother, of course.” Sir Kendrick held up his glass and watched his son thoughtfully as Jack limped over to refill it. “I suppose she has told you, with high drama, of my latest misdeeds. Oh dear! You look grim. Am I
such
a villain, my dear boy?”

Jack met the wistful dark eyes and said levelly, “Mother was distressed, which I cannot like to see. My concern for your safety has to do with the bowl you—”

“That
blasted
bowl!” Sir Kendrick's brows met over the bridge of his nose and he said an explosive, “Damme! I will tell you I was never more vexed! Had I known the confounded artist had foisted a damaged article off on me…! Especially since I'd commissioned it as a gift for you! And the
exorbitant
price I paid for the thing! Yes, that's vulgar, I know, but if your mother hadn't kept it hidden all this time, I might have been able to make things right. Whereas now—” He checked abruptly. “It's irritating past permission, but—what the devil has it to do with my safety?”

“Mama said you brought the bowl with you, sir. May I see it?”

“Of course you may see it. Ring for your latest oddity to fetch it here, and you'll soon compre—” He broke off, clapping his hands over his ears. “My dear God! Where did you find that monstrous bell? In Salisbury Cathedral? This house is beyond the pale! I vow—”

His vow was not to be completed, for he was rendered speechless as Peg rushed in, stumbled over her apron, dropped a wobbly curtsy, and pushed back the mob-cap which had fallen over her eyes.

“Yez, zur?” she lisped sunnily.

Managing not to see his sire's sagging jaw, Jack asked quietly for the bowl Sir Kendrick had brought.

“Zur Kendrick?” She stared at the baronet, nonplussed. “I thinked yer name were Zur Vezpa.”

“Sir Kendrick Vespa,” explained Jack.

“It's in a b-box,” said his father feebly. “I left it in the dining room.” He watched numbly as she nodded and went skipping and lurching on her way. “I won't ask,” he muttered. “I won't even ask! Oh, Jack! My
poor
boy!”

Chuckling, Jack said, “Her name's Peg—”

“A square peg in a round hole, obviously! What happened to her teeth?”

“I understand that another—er, lady knocked them out with a beer bottle. But she's willing, you see, and—”

“
Willing?
My dear fellow, you've that luscious little bird of paradise to please you, why would you—”

“I mean, she's a willing
worker!
And she has charms and talismans to protect her from the ghosts, so—”

Sir Kendrick groaned and held up one hand. “Spare me. Ah.” He lowered his voice. “‘Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return…'”

Jack managed to hide a grin, but glancing quickly at Peg, he was glad that she appeared not to have heard the quotation. She beamed at him, dumped the box unceremoniously in Sir Kendrick's lap, bobbed one of her ghastly curtsies, and hopped and skipped away.

“Well, my boy,” said the baronet, lifting out the bowl. “Here is your father's magnificent gift! You will see why I intend to take it at once to this artist fellow's house and demand his heirs make good my purchase price.”

Jack inspected the bowl carefully, marvelling that he had held this in his hands on his first day at the Richmond house and not dreamt the painted scene was of his own land. There was the distant loom of the quarry hill, and, on the other side of the bowl, the spreading might of the manor. And there also were the same little marks, that made it seem as if the enamel was scratched. There were no such defects on the painting of the manor. Just on the quarry side.

The fantastic idea that had hovered around the edges of his consciousness since his encounter with Leith in Tunbridge Wells began to take firmer shape, and the need to investigate, to prove or—as he hoped—disprove his theory took on a compelling urgency. Pondering, he looked up.

Sir Kendrick was watching him intently. “You seem more intrigued than outraged,” he said with a smile. “You're such a good-natured fellow, John. Do you mean to tell me what is troubling you so?”

“I'm afraid you're not going to like it, sir. But, well, it began when I was on my way here—or at least, I believe that may be part of the peculiar business.…”

For the next ten minutes Sir Kendrick listened without interruption, his eyes seldom leaving his son's face. When the tale was told, there was complete silence in the room.

Jack waited uneasily. He had left out a few details, deeming them so bizarre that his father would laugh outright.

Sir Kendrick had shifted his gaze to the fire. He stared into the flames expressionlessly, then said, “I'll be damned! And you really believe that several attempts have been made on your life; that Jones was murdered; his daughter almost slain; and the gallery fellow done away with? And all by reason of this—
bowl?
”