The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (16 page)

Vespa unfolded an old map and scanned it critically. “‘Us' inferring that you consider yourself and your Mama to qualify for the sobriquet of ‘sensible', I take it.”

“Of course. My Mama, especially, was of a high intelligence. And she was bright and gay, and charming. And so very
alive!
”

“She sounds to have been a fascinating creature. Did she object when your father mocked her?”

“He did no such thing. He adored her. We all adored her! His poor heart broke when she died. And I missed her so.…” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “I still miss her.… And now I have lost them both, and you—you must poke fun at her!”

“No, no!” Dismayed, he protested, “I meant no such thing. Please don't cry. I was only teasing because you said
all
men dislike intelligence in a lady.”

“So they do.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “Well, I mean—
most
men do.”

“But not your Papa.”

“Most assuredly not my Papa! He was proud because he could enter into really deep discussions with Mama and she would defend her point of view and not be browbeaten. He was proud of me, too, and said I had a good mind. But I know he wanted me to be more—English. He tried always to teach me to be less outspoken and—well, he said I was … volatile.” She peeped at him from around the apron. “Am I? Dreadfully?”

He pulled out the drawer of an armoire and said with a smile, “I'd say rather that you have plenty of spirit, which will help you get over life's rough spots. And I do believe, Miss Consuela, that no matter what you may think, many gentlemen admire a lady with an informed mind.”

Brightening, Consuela lifted a cobwebby marble clock from the mantelpiece and set it gingerly on a desk. “Do your parents discuss things like politics, or world affairs?”

Vespa was silent, trying to recall such a discussion, or any discussion between his father and mother. With something of a shock he realized how seldom he had seen them together. Even when they did meet it seemed that they really had nothing to say to each other, Sir Kendrick being invariably distinguished, distant and formal, and Mama lovely, dissatisfied and querulous.

Watching him curiously, Consuela said in an awed whisper, “You don't know! Good gracious! Are you never all together—like a family?”

“Of course we are! Is that what you talked about with your father? Politics and world affairs?”

“Sometimes we did. More often, it was little things. Like—the wonder of a sunset, or the grace of an eagle in flight, or the innocence of a little child. Papa found beauty everywhere, and he taught me to see it also. I think that is why he was such a magnificent artist. He didn't view things the way ordinary people do. Most people would look at Corporal, for instance, and see a little grey and fawn dog. Papa would have seen every slightest variation of colour, every shading in his long coat, the way the tufts in his ears stick out, the sheen on his little nose, every single whisker. He missed nothing.” She clenched her fist suddenly, and pounded it on the desk. “That is why I am so sure he meant what he said!”

Vespa turned from poking through a shelf of books and stared at her. “But I thought you said you didn't know anything?”

“I don't. But he did! On the very day he died, he was so
excited!
He said, ‘I was right, my little meadowlark! I found it. Oh, that such evil exists in a civilized world!'”

“Evil? You never told me that. But what has it to do with Alabaster?”

“I don't know! I don't
know!
But so soon after he said it, my dearest Papa was—was killed.”

“Didn't you ask what he meant?”

“He wouldn't tell me. He said better I should not know, and—”

A small grey shape darted across the floor with Corporal in frenzied pursuit, and Consuela kept her promise and screamed.

8

While waiting for luncheon to be served, Vespa read his correspondence. His friend in Bristol was on an extended visit to St. Petersburg, and his country home had been shut down. His steward wrote to say that Captain Vespa's letter had been forwarded and he would no doubt receive a reply within “a reasonable time”. “‘Reasonable time' meaning—never,” grumbled Vespa. “Not that I need bother you with my difficulties now, I think. What the deuce are you doing in Russia, Brooms?”

A calling card inscribed “Mrs. Martin F. Tidwell” fell from his father's letter, which was longer than his usual hurried scrawls. Jack read it eagerly. Sir Kendrick trusted all went well—or as well as could be expected—in Dorsetshire. He himself was involved in a “sticky international matter” that kept him very much occupied. “I fancy you also are busy and I trust you are not overtaxing your strength. As a most eligible young bachelor you've doubtless been inundated by the County society—especially the match-making mamas, eh? Don't let them exhaust you, my boy.” Jack smiled wryly at this, and read on:

Lady Faith spent a few days in London and met an old friend whose uncle has a country seat in Dorsetshire. He's rich as Golden Ball, I hear, and has a good deal of influence. I urge you to cultivate his acquaintanceship. One never knows, John, when a powerful ally may be useful, and you're relatively unknown in the district. On the other hand, of course, you may very well be bored to distraction in your bucolic ruin and ready to return to civilization. I need not say that such a sensible decision would very much please me and delight your mother.

In that connection, Felton—you'll recall my man of business—was surprised to receive a tentative enquiry about Alabaster Royal. Some mushrooming Cit, no doubt, wanting to acquire the prestige of a country seat at low cost. It was all Felton could do not to laugh in his face, and he very properly advised the dimwit to view the property in person before proceeding any farther. That should put a stop to the matter, eh? If anyone does come down and make you an offer over a hundred guineas, I'd snap it up! Ha, ha! Much chance of that!

Well, this is all I've time for, my dear boy. Let me know how you go along, and don't forget to pay a call on this gentleman. The lady says her card, which I enclose, will serve as your introduction.

I am, as ever,

Yr. devoted father to command, etc. etc.

Amused, Vespa thought that the only thing Papa had forgot was to tell him the name of the gentleman he was to call on. He took up Mrs. Martin F. Tidwell's card and turned it over.

The name of his prospective “powerful ally” was written in a neat feminine hand on the back: “Lord Malcolm Alperson.”

*   *   *

After luncheon, Vespa and Consuela resumed their search for anything of unusual value in the upstairs rooms. The duchess wandered in occasionally, but soon retreated, sneezing, from the dusty air. Consuela gave it as her opinion that much of the remaining furniture was quite fine and should fetch a good price when the property was put up for sale.

“What makes you think I plan to sell out?” demanded Vespa from the depths of a huge press.

“You never mean to stay here, surely?”

“Why not? The old place has its own charm, and—” He was interrupted by the sudden slam of the open door. He emerged from the press as Corporal shot into it and hid in the corner. The room grew very chill and the daylight dimmed to an eerie glow. Vespa tensed, his heart beating rather fast.

Consuela skipped to his side and whispered nervously, “I think I am very brave to stay in your haunted house!”

“Let's have a look at these ghosts.” Hurrying to the door, he wrenched it open. The corridor stretched out in chill emptiness. A murky window in the opposite room revealed a sky covered with dark clouds. He said, “I think your ‘ghost' was the east wind, Miss Jones, nothing more. Come—see for yourself.”

Standing very close behind him, Consuela whispered, “How can you be so stubborn? Don't you feel how unnaturally cold it is? Haven't you heard—them—at night?”

He argued firmly that an old and long abandoned house was bound to be a trifle damp. “And who do you fancy trots about the passages after dark? Some of my more infamous ancestors, their sinful lives having denied them heavenly admission? The case is, I think, that you have a perfervid imagination.”

“Do I so? Then what are you staring at? Oh, Lud!” Her voice squeaked a little. “That door was closed when we came in here!”

“So I thought.” Vespa took the pistol from his belt. “More uninvited guests, probably. Stay here!”

He crossed the corridor and gave the opposite door a strong shove. The hinges were rusted and let out a piercing squeak, echoed by a smaller one, and a voice at his ear hissed tremulously, “Why didn't we hear that noise when it was opened?”

“I thought I told you—”

“I'm not going to stay in there all alone!”

“Then keep behind me.”

She stayed very close behind him, gripping his coat as he moved into what had at one time been a study. It still held a fine old library table, a cracked leather armchair, several bookcases and three straight-backed chairs. But there was no sign of life.

“Voilà!”
he said with a stifled sigh of relief. “No spirits, spectres, or visible vagrants. You may release my coat-tails now.”

Consuela had already done so, and went over to poke at the clutter atop the library table. “I would have thought—Oh, no! You're doing it again! What is so fascinating about the floor?”

He held her back as she hurried to him. “Look—here, and over there.”

“Four clean spots,” she said. “Something stood here.”

He nodded. “Until it was removed, very recently. And replaced in the wrong room.”

“Your Grandpapa's desk, you think?”

“Yes. I had noticed the room Gentry's louts put it into was too crowded.” He frowned thoughtfully, then gave himself a mental shake. “Only look at me, reading something sinister into so simple a thing as the laziness of Gentry's hirelings. They simply couldn't be bothered to carry it this far along the corridor. Well, let's get on with this, Miss Housemaid.”

Consuela turned to the library table. A corner of her apron caught on a leather-bound book, and it fell, releasing a shower of old bills and notices. “At least, there are no mice,” she said, stooping to gather them up. “Most of these are duns, and— Oh! My goodness!”

Vespa looked at her sharply. She stood pale and rigid, gazing at the sheet of paper she held.

He hurried to her side. “What is it? Do not dare to faint!”

She smiled wanly but her hand shook as she gave him the paper.

It was a head and shoulders sketch of an extraordinarily beautiful young lady of India. The dark, long-lashed eyes, the set of the lips, betrayed both hauteur and determination, and her chin was held with a proud upward tilt. A jewel was set in the centre of her forehead, thick dark hair was wound into a rope that hung over one shoulder, and a sari draped gracefully about her. The paper was raggedly torn, and on the lower edge a column of figures had been added up and totalled. But if this had been no more than a preliminary sketch it showed a remarkable degree of skill.

Awed, Vespa asked, “This is your father's work?”

“Yes.” She said sadly, “Do you see how clever he was? I doubt this took him five minutes to sketch, yet he has captured both the lady and her personality. So many artists, they portray the face, but it is blank and the nature of their subject is quite lost.”

“One indeed senses that this lady must be formidable. Did he know her well?”

“I don't recall that he knew her at all. Certainly, he never mentioned her.” She tilted her head and added musingly, “Which is odd, you know.”

“How so?”

“Because he delighted to—what he called ‘discover' people, and when he met somebody interesting, he could scarce wait to tell us all about them. This lady is so very beautiful, I'd have thought … But then, she might be a complete stranger he'd chanced to notice. He could do that. Just a glimpse of someone, and he could sketch them to the life, even weeks later.” She sighed nostalgically, looked up, and frowned. “Now what are you thinking? That she was his—his paramour? Well, and you are wrong, as usual! If that were so, I
would
have known it!”

“Miss Jones!” He threw a hand to his brow and cried, “Spare my blushes!”

“Fiddlesticks! Most of the officers I've met could not blush if they tried!”

“Gad, what a harsh judgment!”

She chuckled. “A candid one, I own, but by now you should know better than to take me for a missish widgeon. And
I
knew my Papa.”

“Poor fellow. Did you allow him no secrets at all?”

“And you speak of harsh judgments. Now you seek to paint me as the tyrannical— Ah, but I see that you are laughing at me again, wretched male that you are!”

He asked whimsically, “Is that any way to address your employer?”

“You are a great tease, Captain Jack Vespa!” Her sparkling smile dawned, and she coaxed, “Come now, be nice and tell me what were you really thinking about?”

“I was wondering why your father's sketch is in here.”

“Possibly because there is a charming view of the little bridge from this window and Papa would have—” She broke off, her eyes widening in indignation. “Oh, that has nothing to say to the case, has it? You are vexed because he dared to invade your holy ruin! Why do I trouble myself to help you?
Why?
” Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she flounced towards the door, only to halt abruptly in front of a bookcase and say in a very different voice, “Oh, Captain Jack! Come and look at this!”

She blew dust from the carving of a miniature coach of state. The detail was astonishing, and the removal of the dust revealed traces of blue and gold beneath. “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed. “A fairy-tale coach!”