The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (4 page)

As he rode off, the dog lay down and ignored him, but when he looked back a few minutes later, it was following. He repeated his earlier advice more forcefully, and the dog scuttled away, but his next backward glance revealed it prancing along in the rear again. It was shaggy and unkempt, poor little creature, but perhaps it lived nearby and was homeward bound, in which case he need not worry about it.

An hour later, he was decidedly worried. The crossroads had not yet materialized. He was relieved to encounter a lone shepherd who advised that Alabaster Royal was “just a wee bit further on”, and to be sure to skirt it if he was going to the village.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I'm not.”

“If ye bean't going there-aways, why ask full-ish questions?”

“I mean I'm not going to the village. I'm going to Alabaster Royal.”

The shepherd gawked at him with his mouth at half cock. Vespa nodded and rode on, trying not to hear the hoots of laughter and some shouted warnings about ‘accursed' old houses.

Considerably more than “a wee bit further on” he did come to a crossroads, but there was no signpost. The clouds were heavy and leaden, and a drifting mist made it impossible to tell east from west. The grey afternoon was fading and it would be dusk all too soon. He swung around to the crossroads again just as a dirt clod flew up from the high point of the bank that edged the road. Curious, he urged Secrets towards a steady shower of earth and rocks. Closer investigation revealed a deep hole and the hind-quarters of a familiar and busily excavating dog. As Vespa approached, the little animal paused in its work and sat down, panting at him in a satisfied fashion.

“What are you after, I wonder?” Vespa rode closer, and muttered, “Be damned!” Beyond the bank the ground fell away into a narrow ditch. Lying there, invisible from the road, was the signpost, one arm pointing at the sky and proclaiming with rather forlorn inaccuracy:
TO GALLERY-ON-TANG.

He stared down at it, his aching head puzzling at the matter sluggishly. If the post was rotted and had broken off of its own accord, it would not have left a hole in the ground. Even if he'd dozed off in the saddle and Secrets had slowed her pace, it was unlikely that the dog had outrun her and undermined the signpost in so short a time. Nor could such a small creature have dragged it over to the ditch and pushed it in. It must, he deduced, be a case of malicious vandalism.

A gust of wind chilled him and he pulled his wits together. He was tired, bruised and hungry, and there was nothing to be gained by sitting here scowling at a slain signpost.

Turning Secrets onto the left-hand fork of the road, he reflected that this had not been an auspicious start to his “quiet and peaceful” stay in the country.

Soon, he came into more rolling country. The gorse bushes and tufty grasses gave way to greener turf. Clumps of trees were dotted about. He was heartened when the scenery and the road continued to improve, and he saw signs of human habitation again: cultivated fields and low rock walls, a barn, and then a small farmhouse with smoke curling from the chimney. He turned off to approach the house, and as he rounded some tall poplars a low hill came into view, about three miles distant. Along its crest the chimneys and roofs of what must be a very large house were silhouetted against the darkening sky.

His heart leapt. He had found Alabaster Royal at last!

*   *   *

It was almost dark when Vespa followed the rutted track that had once been a drivepath and passed through sagging and rusted lodge gates, one of which stood partly closed, the other having fallen off to lie half buried in mud. The small gatehouse was deserted, the windows broken, and weeds rioting in what had once been flower beds.

The drivepath disappeared into the overgrown grasses of a wide park. He gave up trying to follow it and struck off in a straight line towards the house. He crossed a hump-backed walled stone bridge over a swift-flowing stream and found the path again, leading through rose gardens that had gone wild, and between a double row of yew trees so in need of pruning that he had to bend low in the saddle to avoid being swept out of it by trailing branches.

The manor loomed ever larger; two storeys high, long, dark, and forbidding, the entrance flanked by twin round, conical-topped towers that soared upward like impregnable stone guardians. Most of the tall windows were shuttered, but a few stared out like black eyes that followed his progress suspiciously. The early evening was unseasonably chill, and a rising wind moaned among the chimneys and rattled gates and shutters.

Vespa shivered, but refused to be intimidated. At least he had procured some food. The motherly farm wife had been appalled when she learnt of his destination, but she had very kindly sold him some thick slices of roast pork, cheese, bread and a jug of ale, all of which were packed into the box he balanced on the pommel before him. Even if there were no provisions in the manor, the caretaker could get some fires burning, and with luck he would soon dine for the first time in his life in a home of his own.

Alabaster Royal!

Gad, but it was enormous!

Secrets clattered into a cobbled courtyard. Mr. Jermyn had advised that the caretaker, one Hezekiah Strickley, would see to it that there were livable quarters in the house, and oats and hay in the stables. Vespa halted the mare, and shouted, “Hullo? Strickley?” There was no response. Secrets sidled nervously, but he promised to see to her wants as soon as he'd found caretaker and kitchen. With an effort that racked him, he swung his leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle. He was so stiff he could hardly walk, but he felt triumphant; he'd managed not to drop his precious box.

Among the keys in his pocket were two, both gigantic, labelled
FRONT.
Tethering the mare to a post, he limped up the eight deep steps and discovered that the doors stood slightly ajar. Frowning, he pushed them wider and walked into a great gloomy high-ceilinged hall. His shouted hail was no more productive inside than it had been in the courtyard, save that his voice echoed lingeringly. The fellow couldn't be far away if he'd left the front doors open. Vespa started across the hall, peering through the dimness in search of the kitchen. The air was musty and icy cold. If Strickley didn't appear by the time he'd taken care of the mare, he'd have to see about lighting a fire.

There arose a faint whispering sound, as of leaves drifting across the stone-flagged floor. At the same moment he sensed that someone had crept up to stand just behind him. In the chill, hushed immensity of Alabaster Royal it was an eerie feeling and he whipped around, his nerves taut.

The small dog raced past and disappeared into the gloom.

*   *   *

Vespa awoke when his elbow slipped from the chair arm. The fire on the hearth of what had evidently been the breakfast parlour was almost out, and the candles had burned low. He stretched, yawning. His homecoming hadn't been quite as dismal as he'd begun to fear, although the caretaker had not yet put in an appearance. It was disgraceful that Strickley should have gone off—to the nearest tavern probably—without securing the front doors, but so far as he could tell, the man was not in the house. He'd found the kitchen, which was predictably enormous, and a very large pantry, the shelves bare except for a bowl containing four eggs, a dish of butter, a loaf of bread and a jug of milk. Gourmet fare, he thought cynically.

Having lighted candles and left his box of food on the long table, he'd unearthed some towels and gone out to tend to Secrets. The barn and stables were located behind a line of cypress trees, and as solicitor Jermyn had promised, there was an ample supply of hay and oats and a lantern, which fortunately contained oil and a usable wick. There were many stalls, one of which had been occupied recently. The absent Strickley's hack, no doubt. He'd wrapped wet cloths around the mare's knee and promised himself to put a flea in the caretaker's ear. The emptiness of the stables and the rather odd whispering voice of the wind had made him feel peculiarly solitary, so that he'd been glad to finish his tasks and return to the house.

At least fires had been laid on several hearths, and there were baskets of logs. He'd settled down here because it was the smallest room he'd been able to find and the table and chairs were clean. He was almost too tired to eat, but he kept awake long enough to enjoy some excellent cheese, bread that he toasted before the fire, a slice of the cold pork and a mug of ale. Yawning, he packed the rest of the food into the box, and deposited it on one of the shelves in the pantry beside the ‘provisions' Strickley had laid in. He took up his valise and a candlestick, and with a grim lack of enthusiasm embarked on a search for the master bedchamber, which solicitor Jermyn had advised was prepared for him.

Making his way back to the main hall, he saw many doors farther along the wide, flagged corridor, some standing wide, but he had no least desire to explore tonight. Perhaps because he had so recently known the cacophanous uproar of the battlefield, by the time he reached the loom of the massive staircase, the quiet seemed to press on his eardrums.

At the top of the stairs he was confronted by another wide corridor, stretching off to either side. He turned to the right. The first door was so warped he was unable to force it open. The next was in better condition, and he went on with more success, peering into rooms that yawned in a black emptiness, or were cluttered with dusty furniture, but none that could be judged ‘ready for occupancy'.

The master bedchamber was discovered at last, situated on the north-west corner of the house. It was extremely large, and furnished with a great tester bed untidily made up, a wash-stand, some ugly old chests and presses, and a more modern dressing-table. The room was frigid; in fact it seemed much colder in here than it had been in the stables. He undressed, scooped a spider out of the water pitcher, washed hurriedly, and shrugging into his nightshirt even more hurriedly, climbed into bed. The sheets were like ice, but he was inured to frosty nights under the Spanish stars and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

*   *   *

Why was he wide awake? He lay very still, listening intently, and heard a soft scampering sound. He'd completely forgotten that scruffy little mongrel! It was probably wandering about, trying to find a way outside. On the other hand, perhaps the errant ‘caretaker' had at last deigned to return. Probably he had a key to one of the outer doors and had let himself in. At least, he could let the dog out. Vespa grunted, and closed his eyes again, only to open them very wide.

Faintly, but distinctly, someone was laughing: the soft, provocative laughter of a woman.

“Why, that slippery damned rascal!” he snarled, climbing out of bed and throwing on his dressing-gown.

He found his tinder-box and re-lit the candle, then carried it along the corridor, his bare and cold feet making no sound on the boards. There was not a glimmer of light other than his own, nor any sound except for the whisper of the wind. Beyond the stairwell the corridor made a right turn. Taking it at speed, he all but fell down three unexpected steps. The sudden jolt sent a vicious jab through his injured leg, and the swirl of a woman's skirts disappearing into a nearby room exacerbated his already frayed temper.

“Strickley!”
he roared.

Not a sound. Not a movement.

Seething, he hobbled to the room the woman had entered. If he surprised the pair cavorting on the bed, they'd cavort out of his house,
rapido!
A soft laugh faded as he tore the door open and lifted his candle high. He had a brief impression of a big room furnished only with sparsely stocked bookcases. Even as he realized it was completely empty, for no apparent reason his candle went out.

“Confound it!” he muttered, then shouted again, “
Strickley!
Come out at once, you blasted makebait!”

The silence was absolute. The wretched caretaker undoubtedly knew every nook and cranny of this very large old house, and had rushed his woman into hiding. Well, she'd been seen—and heard! So just let Strickley try to deny the business in the morning!

Meanwhile, he was shivering with cold and did not intend to play Hunt the Caretaker. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and shafts of moonlight were now slanting through the occasional recessed windows. He was almost to his bedchamber when he felt something brush past. It must be that miserable mongrel. “I suppose I've got to go down and let you out,” he grumbled, trying unsuccessfully to see the little creature.

There was neither an answering bark nor the patter of paws. He heard instead an unexpected sound: the throaty purring of what must be a very large cat.

“Just what I need,” he groaned. “A house full of immoral servants, uninvited mongrels and now a trespassing moggy. Where are you, cat?”

The feline declined to respond, but with a sudden frenzied rush of paws the little dog scampered over his feet and into the master bedchamber. When Vespa limped in, re-lit his candle and peered under the bed, the dog's eyes reflected the candle flame, and the scrawny tail made a few spasmodic attempts to wag, but neither threats nor promises of some of the pork convinced it to move.

Vespa made a grab, but the dog wriggled out of reach. He told the little pest in French, Spanish and German all about its ancestors, and crawling back into bed once more, grumbled himself to sleep.

*   *   *

Waking to a brisk and radiant morning, Vespa tugged on the bell-pull. Tugs and curses went unanswered and he resigned himself to the fact that his careless caretaker was either in a drunken stupor or had left the house once more. He washed and shaved uncomfortably in the ice cold water of the wash-stand jug, and went in search of sustenance, the dog emerging and padding busily after him. En route he discovered many rooms in various states of disrepair and also realized that the house had been several times added on to during its long life. His first impression had been that it was built in a long two-storey rectangle, but he soon found that some sections were constructed at different levels to follow the contour of the land, with resultant varying roof lines. Parts of the interior woodwork were very fine, but several rooms showed the effects of damp. There were chambers with magnificently carven or painted ceilings, others with fallen plaster, or mantelpieces and ceilings darkened by the smoke of centuries of fires. The windows throughout were mullioned, and he came upon several odd little octagonal-shaped ones placed at jogs in the passage, not designed to open, but set with stained glass, dimmed by dirt now, but that he thought would be charming when cleaned.