The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (42 page)

There seemed to be a lot of noise nearby. Puzzled, he looked up.

Light glared. Still holding the coach lamp, Sir Kendrick backed into the tunnel. He looked pale and desperate. Someone was following, crouched and muttering softly and swinging a great club, the end glittering as it caught the rays of light.

“You stupid dolt,” panted Sir Kendrick, backing away. “You can't prove it was my coach!”

“Oh, yes, I can!” said Josiah Hawes, gloatingly. “I gotta witness, now. But I don't need no witness. I'm judge and jury, melor'! And you're sentenced to be—”

Sir Kendrick turned and fled deeper into the tunnel, and Hawes growled like a hungry animal and splashed after him.

Jack called weakly, “Hawes! No! They'll … hang you!”

There came another glow. Paige Manderville, his elegance wet and muddied, waded in, a lantern held high. “This is no time to take a bath, dear boy. Where did they go? Poor old Toby told us—Oh, my Lord! No! Stay out, m'dear! We'll have to—”

Consuela was bending over him. “Dear Captain Jack! You've saved my life again, and—
Paige!
”

“I know.” The dark water surged powerfully, and Manderville steadied her, then grabbed Jack's sagging form. “Dammitall! The river must be at the flood! Hey, Strickley, somebody! Lend a hand here, before we have to swim for it!”

It seemed an unreasonable suggestion. Jack registered a protest. “I don't think … I care for a swim … just now,” he said wearily.

A long way away, a man screamed, the sound echoing and echoing into a complete silence.

19

A soft hand was stroking the hair back from his forehead.

“Consuela…?” He started up eagerly, and pain lashed out with such fierce intensity that he was sent spinning into darkness again; but not before he heard a girl weeping.

His father and Hawes had gone off somewhere together.… Only, something was very wrong … if he could just remember what it was.…

Consuela gasped, “He is
not
your son!”

Sir Kendrick's voice: “The Lord forbid … The Lord forbid … The Lord forbid…”

“But Sherry was fond of you.…”

Consuela was speaking again, sounding so troubled that he wanted to see if he could help. “He's not
trying,
Toby! He keeps re-living it, over and over again. I think—his poor heart, it is broken! He doesn't
want
to live!”

“Oh, I, er, wouldn't say that.” Broderick coughed and sounded miserable. “But, you can, er, see why he might … er…”

Lady Francesca said softly, “Your tears won't help him, my little meadowlark. Only your prayers…”

Consuela should not be unhappy. He didn't want her to cry.…

It was terribly hot. Spain was hot, of course. Sometimes. Perhaps he could go for a swim now. Paige had said something about swimming … a long time ago …

A dog was barking. He opened his eyes, moved restlessly, and caught his breath.

At once Broderick was bending over him. “Well, this is much better,” he said heartily. “How do you feel, old pippin?”

Puzzled, he said, “Are we still in Spain?”

Broderick leant closer. “What? Can't quite hear you, dear boy. What is it?”

But he didn't have to repeat his question, because his chest hurt so intensely that he remembered. Instead, he asked, “Who … shot me?”

Broderick's hesitation was very brief. Then, “Alperson,” he answered firmly.

But Jack had seen his quick glance at someone who hovered nearby, and he knew.

He turned his face to the wall.

This time, Consuela was very cross. “You are a wretched, wretched Englishman!” she scolded. “You have had a great shock and—and disappointment, and you are very sad. This, we all know. And we are sad, too. And your brother, would, I am quite sure, be sad for your sake.”

Sherry … Yes, Sherry would have understood. Dear old Sherry.

“… have lost your lady-love too, I know. And it is all very hard. Life
is
hard sometimes. But that is no reason to make up your mind not to live, because life can also be good, and beautiful, and full of laughter and happiness! God gave you a kind, warm heart, Captain Jack. And a—a very nice body. And”—fingers touched his cheek gently—“and a face that is most good to look upon. You have friends—you would not believe how many have come! And you have family and—and others who—care very greatly for you. The man you loved as your father was bad. I know it is a great grief, but you should think to yourself that it is better he was
not
your father, instead of lying there wanting only to be—” Her voice broke. She blew her nose and sniffed. “What is to become of Corporal, I should like to know? And where will poor Thorny, or Peg, or Harper find anyone to give them employment if you persist in—in leaving us?”

Had Harper and Peg stayed on, then? Somehow, he'd thought they'd left.

“If you had any rumgumption, Captain Jack Wansdyke—Vespa,” said Consuela, suddenly fierce, “you would strike back! You would go and find out who your
real
father was! If Sir Kendrick—forgive me for speaking his horrid name!—if he hated him, then your father was probably a very fine gentleman. Indeed, he must be, to have sired such a gallant and … courageous, and—and kind-hearted man as—as you.” A smothered sob, then a tremulous, “There! I've said all I care to—to say! Good-bye!”

Who his real father was … If he had any rumgumption … His
real
father …

With a great effort, he said feebly, “Please—don't cry.”

Consuela squealed.

*   *   *

Jack gazed out at the snowy landscape and thought it very beautiful. It was also very cold, but the drawing room was cozy. Logs crackled companionably on the hearth, two branches of candles added their warm glow to the grey afternoon, and a third candelabra shone on the painting that now hung over the mantel, replacing the one he had placed there with such— Replacing the other. Alabaster Royal in some long-ago springtime, with a mighty war-horse tethered at the front steps.

He was grateful, now, that he had survived; that he could be at peace in his old manor house. Consuela's scold had marked the turning point at which he had begun to fight for life instead of desiring only to be done with it. His recovery had been steady, and as soon as he was well enough, his friends had told him what transpired on that fateful day.

Broderick had learnt in Salisbury that Mrs. Stokely was far from being Sir Kendrick's great love, and the widow's discovery of her betrayal, and her impassioned and bitter description of her rival, had left no doubt of that lady's identity. The conclusion had been inescapable: Sir Kendrick must be in some way involved in the attack on his son, and perhaps in the deeper plot. Poor Broderick's race to warn his friend of the new source of danger had ended when Josiah Hawes had mistaken Broderick for himself and smashed him from the saddle. Dicky-Boy, a petrified witness to the attack, had gulped out his long-concealed knowledge of who owned the coach that had brought about the tragic accident. Hawes, maddened with rage, had rushed in pursuit of Sir Kendrick, leaving Dicky-Boy to care for Broderick.

Returning from a fruitless search of Shrewsbury for the ‘disappointed' purchaser of the Preston Jones paintings, Manderville had come upon Broderick attempting to mount his horse with Dicky-Boy's help. Their combined explanations had so alarmed him that he'd stayed only to demand that Strickley and Thornhill be despatched to his aid at once, then he'd ridden at the gallop for the Jones cottage. Luckily, he'd caught a glimpse of Josiah Hawes running towards the quarry, and had the presence of mind to follow.

Jack had been carried back to Alabaster. Manderville had lost no time in acquainting a horrified Constable Blackham with most, if not all, of the details of the plot. Blackham had protested that he lacked the authority to deal with so terrible a conspiracy, especially since highly-born and powerful aristocrats were involved. The tale must be relayed to Bow Street, he said, and he and Manderville had journeyed to London for that purpose. Returning, Manderville's infuriated description of his reception at Bow Street had seemed justified when, although there had been a great flurry of activity over the attack on Jack, any mention of the conspirators had been met with a bland assurance that matters were “being looked into”.

Peg and Harper had left Alabaster Royal, but had been so shocked upon hearing of Jack's injuries that they'd at once come back again, Peg having convinced herself that the Alabaster Cat had done its duty and was unlikely to return. Her courage was also bolstered by a visit to Mother Wardloe, from whom she had purchased even more potent charms, against which no ghost or goblin might prevail.

When ten days had passed with no further word from Bow Street, Consuela had lost patience, and, judging that Jack was sufficiently recovered to be left in Lady Francesca's charge, had gone to Town herself, accompanied by her maid, and escorted by Paige and Toby.

Jack's heart beat faster as there came the sounds of hooves and carriage wheels crunching on the snow.

Corporal started to twitch in his sleep and make smothered yips and yelps, then sprang up with such a start that he tumbled from his Person's blanketed knees. He cast a quick and embarrassed look at Jack, then raced to the front door, barking importantly as the carriage halted outside.

The bell had been disconnected during the invalid's long convalescence, but Peg responded to Corporal's warning. She trotted across the hall, peered anxiously into the drawing room, nodded brightly at the sole occupant, and dropped a wooden spoon she'd forgotten to leave in the kitchen. There was a brief difficulty when she tried to pick it up while her foot was still on the handle, but she prevailed at last, and went, giggling and breathless, to open the door.

Jack caught a whiff of frosty air, and tensed when he heard the cheerful and familiar voices. Toby and Paige, and the lighter and eager tones of Consuela. His hands gripped hard at the arms of the chair. He mustn't let them see how anxious he'd been, or Consuela would start looking at him worriedly.

Peg collected coats and cloaks and scarves, and went off, laden, and with many “Dearie me's” as she tripped over trailing garments.

Paige moaned, “My new driving coat, Peg…!”

Consuela cried eagerly, “Where is he?”

Broderick said, “What—downstairs now? I say!”

Flying feet, and Consuela was at his side, cheeks rosy from the cold, bright eyes searching his face, and her cold little hands going out to him. “Oh, Jack! How
well
you look!”

“Jupiter,” said Broderick, coming up to grip his shoulder, but very gently. “We can't call you a skeleton any more, old fellow! You positively radiate health, be damned if you don't!”

Manderville shook his hand and told him that Toby was a liar, but that he did look a lot better than he had done. “Harper!” he shouted. “We're all half froze! Bring us hot cider, you hedgebird!”

“And sustenance!” added Broderick, pulling up a chair for Consuela. “I'm fairly starved!”

Jack said, “Tell me about little Molly. What did Lord Belmont have to say about her?”

“Nothing polite,” answered Manderville indignantly. “What a crusty old curmudgeon! Gave me a proper bear garden jaw, only because I—”

“Because you told him to cut to the chase and stop his roundaboutation,” interposed Broderick, grinning. “He's a dashed good doctor, Jack. He thinks he can help the little girl, but says it will take time, and she must stay in Town for several months. Hawes didn't like that much.”

“No, so then
he
got a bear garden jaw,” said Manderville.

“And the upshot of it all was that we told him he could stay with her, and that you'd stand the huff, so all was right and tight,” finished Broderick, regarding Jack somewhat apprehensively. “That
was
as you wished, I hope?”

“Exactly as I wished. If anyone can help her, Lord Belmont's the man to do so. Thank you, both.”

Manderville straightened his cuff and eyed the sleeve critically. “What d'ye think of this coat, Jack? Balleroy made it for me whilst we was in Town. It would look better with a lace cravat, don't you think?”

“Lace cravat?”
snorted Broderick. “Good Gad, Paige! Men haven't worn lace cravats for—what? Fifty years, at least!”

“Not so!” said Manderville. “M'father's wearing a deuced fine froth of lace in his portrait, and that was only painted in 'ninety-three. I really think I may reintroduce lace cravats. Devilish attractive with a coat like this, you can't—”

“Oh,
do
hush, Paige,” said Consuela, laughing at him. “You're not letting Jack say a word. I want to know how he is feeling, and if he has heard from his Mama.”

He assured her that he was feeling “splendid”. The last word he'd had from Lady Faith had been a letter, despatched the day before the confrontation in the quarry. His mother had been horrified by the scandal “that wickedly treacherous and immoral Esmeralda Stokely has loosed upon the
ton.
” Poor Lady Faith's nerves and hurt pride could stand no more. She was leaving “within the hour” with Cousin Brian as her courier to his father's plantation in South America. She hoped Jack would follow as soon as he could tear himself away from his “haunted ruin”, but for herself, she desired not to set eyes on London for at least a year!

Several members of his family had posted down to Dorsetshire when they were advised of his illness, and his eldest uncle had despatched a letter to Lady Faith desiring that she come home at once. As yet there had been no reply or any indication that the lady contemplated a return to England. Having relayed that information, Jack was obliged to restrain his own eagerness for news when Harper carried in fragrant hot cider and toasted currant buns, and Peg arrived with a brimming tray of half-full mugs of hot chocolate.