The Riddle of the Lost Lover (13 page)

“More like a fine case of senility,” said Broderick.

“Or an artful dodge,” murmured Vespa. They both stared at him, and he went on: “Well, only think, if this man really is a collector, he's probably too shrewd to go about advertising what he's really seeking.”

Manderville said dryly, “If he's seeking a flying carpet he'd do well not to spread that about else he'll find himself in Bedlam with not so much as a dishcloth on the floor!”

“Very probably, but it would certainly prevent charlatans from trying to foist off imitations or raise their prices when he's in the vicinity, as they would if word got out that he's after something very special.”

Curious, Broderick asked, “I suppose Calloway had no more details about this ‘special' rug?”

“Only one. It has a name, apparently. I knew I wouldn't remember, so I asked Sean to write it down for me.” Vespa tugged a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to his friends.

Manderville glanced at the paper and remarked that it sounded like a Polish name.

Broderick however took one look and was galvanized. “The
Khusraw
Carpet? Lord save us all! Was Calloway quite sure of the name?”

“He said his great-aunt told him, and that it had sort of stuck in his mind. Why?”

“Then it's as we feared! I'm truly sorry, Jack, but this Kincraig must be mad as a mangle!”

“Is this as bad as the flying-carpet business?”

“Practically. It's a legend almost, going back to about the sixth century.”

“Gad!” exclaimed Manderville. “The rug must be of better quality than the one my grandmama bought! Hers is only about fifty years old and already showing moth fang marks!”

“The Spring Carpet of Khusraw,” said Broderick, fixing him with a stern look, “is of Persian origin and was made for the palace at Ctesiphon. It was said to have been designed to represent an elaborate garden complete with ornamental waters and pathways. And it had a religious significance, in that it also represented Paradise. By all accounts it was exquisitely beautiful, even apart from the fact that the ‘dirt' was of woven gold, the border was of emeralds to resemble grass, and all the flowers and trees and what have you growing in the garden were of precious gems.”

Vespa said incredulously, “And people
walked
on this treasure?”

“I don't know about that,” said Broderick. “But you're right about the treasure part. It's believed to have been the wealth of the nation, and to have made a profound impression on visiting potentates of the time.”

“It would have made a profound impression on me, I can tell you!” Interested, Manderville lost his lazy drawl and asked, “How large was it? Ten by twelve inches?”

“I think it measured about eighty-some square feet.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Vespa. “It must have been priceless! Even if Lord Kincraig found it, I shouldn't think anyone now living could afford to buy the thing!”

“Well, you're right, of course. It was seized when the Arabs defeated the Persians in the seventh century. They cut it up. The Caliph is said to have been awarded the largest piece, and after him, a few other notables. The balance was distributed among their warriors, and you may guess their shares were not large. Most of them sold their pieces, but even then they were valued at about a thousand pounds each. Fact is, we're talking about something that ceased to exist almost twelve centuries ago, Jack. If any of the segments could be traced today, which I very much doubt, they'd likely be found in museums or locked away in the vault of some sultan or princeling!”

“Why on earth would any rational man go hunting something that no longer exists?” muttered Vespa frowningly.

“Said it yourself, old lad,” said Manderville, watching him with compassion. “Best give it up, Jack. Our long-lost lordling cannot be a rational man!”

Broderick shook his head and sighed. “Mad as a mangle! One thing, though. Monteil's lurking about. He's after something.”

After a pause, Vespa said, “I suppose it's possible Lord Kincraig really is on the track of a remnant of the Spring Carpet?”

Manderville said, “Anything's possible, but take my advice, dear boy. Let's go home.”

6

Vespa and Manderville rode out alone next morning, Broderick having left them to visit his family prior to rejoining his regiment. The host of the Inn of the Black Lamb had contributed another piece to their puzzle, and they now had the name of Lord Kincraig's estate and clear directions as to its location.

The sky was white and the air frigid but Vespa was elated because he believed his search to be almost ended. East Anglia continued to impress him with its prosperous farms, large flocks of sheep and lush paddocks where thoroughbred horses grazed. “And I'd expected to encounter only desolate miles of fen and swampland,” he told Manderville. “When you think that most of this is reclaimed land, it's a real achievement, don't you think?”

“Too flat for my liking,” grumbled Manderville, shivering, “and too damp. Water everywhere!”

“It's not so flat as the Low Countries. And do you notice the light?”

Not at his best early in the morning, Manderville squinted about and observed that it was usually light by nine o'clock.

“But not this light. Everything seems so crystal clear. The Kincraig estates are well-named.”

“Lambent Grove,” said Manderville, and added cynically, “Let's hope it will shed some lambency on the whereabouts of your elusive rug merchant, since you
must
persist in this search for disillusion.”

“Hold up a minute.” Vespa drew the grey to a halt and dismounted, waiting for Corporal to catch up with them.

“He'd go along better if he didn't haul that stupid doll everywhere,” grunted Manderville. “You should take it away from him.”

“I did. Twice. But he manages to find it. It's in no condition to give to Molly now, so he may as well keep it.”

Corporal arrived, puffing around the cherished toy that was firmly gripped between his jaws, and Vespa picked him up and deposited dog and doll in the shallow basket he'd tied to the pommel. Mounting up again, he said, “You've been a great help, Paige, but d'you know, I really think I've reached the end of my search. If you were to ride fast you could likely come up with Toby and be back in London tomorrow.”

Manderville looked at him obliquely. “Trying to be rid of me, Captain, sir? Well, you'll not. I promised I'd stand by you, and we Mandervilles don't break our given word.”

“Even if it kills you, eh? You've been in the doldrums since we left Town, don't deny it.”

“I'm concerned, I'll own.” Staring fixedly at his horse's ears, Manderville said, “I don't want— That is to say— Deuce take you, Jack! If you must have it, I've a strong feeling you're galloping straight to Point Nonplus! I wish you'd forget about this quest of yours. After all, these are modern times. Nobody gives a button about who was your actual father, or whose natural son you may be. You've built an honourable name for yourself, that's all that counts.”

“Thank you.” Taken aback by this cavalier view of the almost fanatical emphasis the
haut ton
placed on Lineage and Family, Vespa said wryly, “I'm grateful for the vote of confidence. But—if you had a daughter whom you loved dearly, would you permit her to marry a man who doesn't know who his father might have been? Or—worse perhaps—with a name that at any moment will be disgraced past forgiveness?”

“Nobody could blame you for Sir Kendrick's misdeeds. And Britain has countless ‘Fitz's' and ‘bar sinisters' who've become great men despite their—er, clouded parentage.”

“A nice evasion, Paige. But Lady Francesca has made it perfectly clear that I'm not presently a
bon parti
for Consuela. She's right. No man in my position could in honour propose marriage to such a—a darling girl,” He paused, then said huskily, “I won't bring shame to her. I must
know,
do you see, Paige? I
must!
”

Manderville scowled at his horse's ears, and after a pause grunted, “Well—there it is. You can see the chimneys over that stand of oaks to the—”

Vespa caught his arm in a hard grip. “How do you know? By God, you've
been
here! Why in the
devil
didn't you tell me?”

“I told you I think you're disaster bound. Besides, this Kincraig may not be your man, you know, and—”

“'Morning, gents.” A wiry individual with snow-white hair but wearing green livery watched them from behind tall and delicately wrought iron gates. “Oh, it's you again, sir,” he said with a nod to Manderville. “'Fraid I can't tell you no different today. His lordship's away. As usual.”

Manderville met Vespa's enraged glare. “Now I'm properly dished!” he moaned and, spurring his horse, rode back up the lane.

Restraining the impulse to follow and strangle him, Vespa said curtly, “I've an urgent message for Lord Kincraig. Is there a butler or steward in residence who can tell me where to reach him?”

The elderly gatekeeper swung one gate wide while looking curiously after Manderville. “Aye. Mr. Barnard's up to the house. He's the butler. The young master was here yest'day, sir, but I dunno but what he's gone already.”

Vespa rode through, and said, “I only hope I've come to the right house. Is this the residence of Lord Peter Kincraig?”

“Nay, sir. Our master's Christian name do be Blair. A odd sorta name, bean't it? Now the family name be Keith—what sounds more like his first name. Only it bean't. Proper contrary—backwards, says I.”

Vespa scarcely heard the words. Blair! And the ‘ai' repeated in ‘Kincraig'! His heart leapt. Another link in the chain? Or was he building too much on coincidence? “Blair!” He realized that in his excitement he had spoken the name aloud. The gatekeeper was staring at him, doubtless thinking he was properly dicked in the nob. Glancing down, his heart gave another lurch and he flung himself from the saddle.

The gatekeeper was deathly white. His hand, shaking violently, clutched at the grey's mane.

Vespa threw an arm about the frail shoulders. “My poor fellow. You're ill!”

The old man mumbled something.

Alarmed by the fear that he had suffered some kind of seizure, Vespa dispossessed Corporal and his doll then helped the gatekeeper into the saddle and led the grey along the winding drive.

The house was quite a distance away. It was a large Elizabethan structure of handsome brown carstone, the main block rising to three storeys, with a two-storey wing jutting to the west. The roofs were high-pitched and contained a row of oriel windows; the windows on the lower floors being tall and narrow. The chimney-stacks were also tall, and elaborate. All the wood trim and the balustrade that edged the steep flight of steps leading to the front entrance were a creamy white. Noting inconsequently that the house and grounds were very well maintained, Vespa eyed that long sweep of outside steps uneasily, and he was relieved when in answer to his hail a neat, darkly clad man appeared from the west side of the house and hurried towards him.

“Your gatekeeper's been taken ill,” Vespa shouted. “Are you the butler?”

“I am. Come this way if you will, sir.”

Vespa followed the path leading around the west wing and discovered another single-storey wing at the rear.

With the butler's help he guided the gatekeeper from the saddle and supported him into what appeared to be the servants' hall.

The elderly man sank onto a chair. “I'm all right … now, thankee, sir.” He watched the butler who was pouring a glass of wine. “It were just … the shock, Mr. Barnard. Thought fer a minute I seed a ghost.”

The butler handed him the glass. “Here you are, Shubb. I thank you for bringing him up here, sir. May I ask … what…”

The polite words ceased, and, again, Vespa saw a hanging jaw, and a pair of glazed eyes that regarded him in stark disbelief.

“Might I … ask your name, sir?” faltered ‘Mr. Barnard.'

“It is Vespa. Captain John Vespa. Perhaps I am in the wrong place. I've an urgent message for Lord Kincraig.”

Butler and gatekeeper exchanged glances. Barnard regained his composure, but his voice still shook when he said, “Rest here till you feel better, Shubb. Will you step this way, Captain?”

He ushered Vespa through an inner door, past a great kitchen where maids peeped curiously, and up a flight of stairs. They entered a long corridor where parquet floors gleamed, and finely carven chests and benches were spaced about the walls. Next came a very large and luxuriously furnished saloon, and then a smaller but even more luxurious drawing room with one of the finest plastered ceilings Vespa had ever seen. Lowering his gaze, he found the butler watching him intently, and he said with an apologetic smile, “I fancy you are accustomed to rude visitors who gawk at this ceiling.”

“It has been featured in several guide books, sir.” Barnard gestured towards the hearth. “The painting is also much admired.

Vespa was at first struck by the fine Queen Anne fireplace. A portrait hung above the mantel, and— He stood perfectly still then, staring at the lean face, the strong nose and chin, the sensitive mouth and the wide-set hazel eyes that might be described as ‘tawny.'

But for the powdered wig, it might have been a portrait of himself.

The butler's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You see why Shubb and I were so taken aback, sir. This is a portrait of the late Robert Keith Lord Kincraig, taken in his youth. You'll be—of the family…?”

Vespa stammered, “I came here … hoping to—”

“What the devil? Are you gone demented, Barnard? Throw this fellow out! Or I will!”