“I suggest we let sleeping dogs lie,” Weylin said, rising in a smooth motion. “There is nothing to be learned at this late date. I have business in London tomorrow, so I shall take my leave of you, Miss Barron. I shall risk boring you by repeating what I said earlier. If you learn anything more of this business, I wish you will let me know, and I shall also tell you if I chance across anything.”
I murmured a vague agreement, and he left. I sat on, mulling over the matter. To Lord Weylin, with London and his politics to distract him, the affair of the necklace was a mere curiosity. For me, it loomed larger than that. I felt my uncle, and ultimately Mama, had been bilked of that missing five thousand pounds. The secret was buried at Tunbridge Wells. A trip there was well worth the effort. And to ensure smooth sailing, Weylin would be in London, well removed in case I learned something to Barry’s discredit.
It was equally possible that Lady Margaret was no better than she should be, in which case I would not hesitate to inform him. The idea had not quite been put to rest that the illustrious Lady Margaret had conned my uncle into buying a fake necklace, and sold the genuine article in or around Tunbridge Wells. Would Barry have been fool enough to fall in with a bargain like that? Had Lady Margaret been younger and prettier, she might have hoodwinked him, but she was a stout matron—stylish to be sure, but with little left of her beauty. I was sorry I had let Weylin walk off with the glass beads in his pocket. They might jar someone’s memory at Tunbridge Wells.
I jumped up to go after him, and noticed that he was still in the hallway, talking to Steptoe. They had their heads together like conspirators.
“Is there something amiss, Lord Weylin?” I asked, stepping toward them.
“I shall see myself out, Steptoe,” he said to the butler. Steptoe darted off.
“I was just quizzing him a little,” Lord Weylin explained. “As I suspected, he saw nothing at Tunbridge Wells. He knew my aunt used to go there, and was trying to frighten you. I fear there is nothing to be learned at Tunbridge.” He gave the sort of measured look a cat gives, just before leaping on a mouse.
“Indeed, there is no point in going all the way to Tunbridge,” I agreed. He was the last person I wanted to go there.
We exchanged good days, and he left. After he was gone, I remembered I had not gotten the necklace back from him.
Chapter Seven
Mama and I set out for Tunbridge Wells at nine the next morning, despite an early shower that promised to destroy our trip. She was not hard to convince once I had related the gist of Lord Weylin’s visit, and held out the lure of recovering her brother’s five thousand pounds. She was firmly convinced that Lady Margaret had taken advantage of Barry’s susceptibilities.
“He was always putty in the hands of a lady,” she said, as the carriage rumbled through the mist.
“I never saw any evidence of weakness for ladies, Mama. He scarcely looked at them.”
“He used to, when he was younger. A leopard does not change his spots. She fed him some tale of woe that she needed the money, and he, like a regular green-head, handed over every penny he had in the world. And to think—”
To divert the story of her paying for his coffin, I said, “Lord Weylin says no such sum appeared in Lady Margaret’s bank statements. Surely Uncle Barry was not such a gudgeon.”
We were back to the unanswerable question. “Where did the money go, then?” she demanded.
These thoughts had been running around in my head for hours, and when the rain let up, I put them aside and enjoyed the scenery. The carriage progressed through pretty countryside, all gleaming from the recent downpour that left the leaves dripping with crystal pendants of rain. The sun came out, striking each droplet and broadcasting tiny prisms. Borsini would have enjoyed it. He could turn his brush with equal effect to either landscape or the human form. I regretted missing my lesson.
With a longish luncheon stop to rest Mama’s aching bones, our trip took seven hours. It was four in the afternoon when we entered that picturesque, hilly moorland where Sussex turns into Kent, with Tunbridge Wells nestled in its folds. We hired a room at Bishop’s Down Hotel, behind the Pantiles and facing the Common. It was late in the day to begin making inquiries, but we strolled out to see something of the town before darkness descended. At Tunbridge, one goes to the promenade called the Pantiles, where all society struts to see and be seen.
The height of the season is from July to September, but already in early June there was no shortage of tourists. The serious-minded folks who came for their health were not of much interest to me, even “at my age.” An air of propriety hangs over the town, encouraged by such biblical names as the Mount Ephraim Hotel, and even Zion. Despite all this, there was a smattering of lightskirts, come to prey on the elderly gents.
We went to the Pantiles and duly admired the beauty of a colonnade on one side, a row of lime trees on the other. I had some hope of getting into the shops, but Mama felt the need of the chalybeate waters for her aching joints, so we went to the Pump Room, and paid one farthing each for a glass of impotable mineral water, which left us longing for a nice cup of tea.
As soon as Mama finished her water, we left to walk the length of the promenade before returning to our hotel to rest and change for dinner. It was just in front of King Charles the Martyr Church that we met Lord Weylin. Had we seen him first, I would have darted into a shop, and he would have done the same had his eyes been sharper.
But we spotted each other at the same instant. Our eyes met, we both stared, caught between shame and anger. He swallowed his annoyance and came pacing forward, forcing a rictus-like smile onto his face.
I had barely time to warn Mama before he was making his bows. While I despised his duplicity, I could not but admire the smooth manner in which he carried off the embarrassing meeting. There is something to be said for breeding after all.
Without a blink of embarrassment, he said, “Ladies, what a delightful surprise. I am just on my way to London, and stopped off on the chance of discovering some clue to our mystery.”
London, I need hardly say, is north of Aldershot. Tunbridge Wells is due east. One does not require much geometry to know that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and not a trip around a right angle.
“We have just been trying the water,” I replied blandly.
“You are brave.” He smiled.
“We are on our way to our hotel,” was my next effort at civility.
“I shall walk along with you. Where are you staying?”
“Bishop’s Down.”
His smile grew more strained by the moment. “I am putting up there myself,” he said.
“Oh, then you are not proceeding to London today!” I exclaimed, in no joyful way. “I understood you had urgent business there.”
“Politics is seldom urgent. Like the mills of the gods, Whitehall grinds slowly.”
“But it grinds exceedingly small,” Mama said. She is a keen devotee of her Bible.
Weylin laughed as though it were a famous joke and replied, “I don’t know about that.” That eruption of laughter told me he was quite as embarrassed as I at being caught out in his lie.
He did not offer his arm, but he walked between us toward the hotel and at the corner put his hand on Mama’s elbow, which she later said was very prettily done. She had not thought him so obliging.
As we walked along, not a word was mentioned about what had really brought us all to this resort of valetudinarians. Lord Weylin inquired how the Book Society was coming along, and I confessed that no major strides had been made during the twenty-odd hours since our last meeting. He mentioned Mrs. Radcliffe as an author who might appeal to the ladies. I said that we had all enjoyed her gothic tales very much in our youth, but were interested in more worthwhile literature now.
He peered down and said, “In your youth! I don’t see any gray hairs, Miss Barron.”
Mama informed him I was a quarter of a century old. He examined my face as minutely as our brisk pace allowed. When we came to the next corner, I felt his hand at my elbow, but as it fell away as soon as we reached the safety of the walkway, I was forced to conclude it was my advanced state of decrepitude that occasioned the gesture.
We were soon at the hotel. We thanked Lord Weylin for his escort, and were about to escape when he gave a frustrated
tsk
and said, “This is foolishness. Why are we treading on eggs? We all know why we are here. Let us get our heads together and see what can be done about finding the necklace.”
“We are not looking for your aunt’s necklace,” I said. “We are trying to discover what happened to my uncle’s money.”
“Five thousand pounds,” Mama said importantly.
“Presumably the two are mixed up somehow. Money, however, is anonymous. Once in circulation, it is indistinguishable from any other money. A unique necklace, on the other hand, might be traced, and might have some bearing on Mr. McShane’s money. What do you say, ladies? Shall we discuss it over dinner? I have hired a private parlor, and would be delighted if you would be my guests.”
“I daresay there is no harm in it,” Mama said, with an uncertain glance at me. Lord Weylin seemed quite surprised at this lukewarm acceptance.
I said, “We would be very happy to join you, milord.”
“I shall be waiting for you here in the lobby at seven.”
We thanked him and hastened along to our rooms. When we were behind closed doors, Mama said, “I do not look forward to dining with Weylin. It is a pity we agreed. I don’t suppose I could claim a sick headache, and we could eat in our room?”
“We shan’t do much good locked in our rooms, Mama. Weylin is right. The necklace will be easier to trace than the money, and it might lead us to some clue.”
Mama cast a knowing look at me. “You are setting your cap at him, in other words. I take leave to tell you, Zoie, he has no interest in a lady your age.”
“I am not setting my cap at him! And furthermore, he is a good decade older than I.”
“He is only thirty-one.”
(Only
thirty-one, you see. A gentleman close to a third of a century is a mere bantam cock, while a lady was an old hen at twenty-five.) “Your papa remembered very well the day he was born. Old Lord Weylin set off fireworks at Parham. His mama had been trying for half a dozen years to produce a pledge of her love, and was afraid it would be a girl when she finally managed to become enceinte. Everyone came from miles around to see the baby. It was the talk of the parish.”
“Was there a large star in the sky to guide them to Parham that night?” I asked.
Mama sniffed her displeasure at such a sacrilegious joke. Still, if I had had any notion of setting my cap at Lord Weylin, that story would have stopped me. A man whose birth was announced with a public display of fireworks was obviously above my touch. Not that I had planned to chase after him, but when an eligible man crosses the path of a lady
my age,
it is only natural to consider it.
We had an hour’s rest before changing for dinner. I spent the time planning how we might set about discovering any clues to the vanished necklace and money. Really it was a good thing Weylin had joined forces with us, because he might at least know where his aunt stayed in Tunbridge Wells. As he was staying at Bishop’s Down, it seemed that his aunt might have stayed here, too. We could question the staff as to whom she met. A tour of the jewelry shops and pawnshops was another possible lead, in case she had hawked the necklace. No doubt Weylin had brought the copy with him, which might serve to jog the jewelers’ memory. That was why he had taken it!
What I could not think of was any manner of finding out what had become of Barry’s money. It would be just like life if Lord Weylin, who had no need of more wealth, should recover his prize while Mama and I went home empty-handed.
Mama fell into a light nap. At six-thirty I shook her awake and we both made our toilettes for dinner. Not knowing how long we would remain, I had brought two evening gowns with me. I wore the better of them for dinner with Lord Weylin. Borsini had talked me into wearing gowns of a classical design, to go with my “classical” face. Mama calls my draped togalike white crape with gold ribbons around the hem a shroud, and tells me I look a quiz. In fact, I have received several compliments on it, and thought a sophisticated gentleman like Lord Weylin might not despise it.
“Oh, Zoie, you are not wearing the shroud!” Mama exclaimed, when she looked up from her own toilette to see what I had on.
“We are only going down to Weylin’s private parlor, Mama. No one will notice what I wear.”
“He will notice.”
“But then, we have agreed I am not chasing after him.”
“And a good thing it is, for you look a quiz, Zoie. Ever since you began those painting lessons, you have let your wardrobe fall into a shambles. And your hair looks very odd, too, in that funny old knot. I have not seen one like it since we buried Grandmama. I hope we do find Barry’s money, for you will need every penny of it to nab a husband.”
“It is too late to change now,” I said crossly, and went downstairs with my confidence in tatters. It requires confidence to carry off a new and different style. I feared I looked ridiculous, and wished I had not worn the shroud, but was too stubborn or proud to change.
A very elegant-looking female stopped and turned around to examine me as we crossed the lobby. Her expression was not one of mirth, but of interest. The little incident brought my confidence back. When Lord Weylin came toward us, I met him with my head high, and a civil smile on my face.
Chapter Eight
I was aware of Lord Weylin’s eyes examining me in a way they had not bothered to do before. His face wore an impassive, polite smile, but the eyes betrayed at least a latent interest in me as a woman. They lingered a moment on my black hair, before moving slowly to my eyes, and lips. I think it was the “shroud” that first caught his attention. Borsini describes it as “clinging to the womanly outlines of the body.” But Weylin was too polite to let his gaze rest on my anatomy.