Delsie (12 page)

It was half past one when they were through, and
Delsie was beginning to think she would be very hun
gry indeed before she got back to the Cottage, but there
was another delight in store for her. They repaired to
the inn for luncheon, there to meet deVigne and Sir
Harold. Delsie had partaken of an occasional repast
there with her mama, on special occasions, but she had
never before been shown to the best table, with half a
dozen waiters nipping smartly about, filling glasses,
and pressing a variety of dishes forward. It was a banquet. She was nearly as excited as Bobbie, who said happily that when she was grown up, she would eat all
her meals at inns. “I
love
eating away from a house. Isn’t it fun, Mama?”

“Great fun,” Delsie agreed warmly, feeling as young
and inexperienced as the child, and blushing when she
saw deVigne regarding them with an amused smile.

She soon learned that in the view of the other adults,
taking a meal at the inn was in the nature of a vile
necessity. “I believe this is old mutton,” Lady Jane
complained, shoving it aside. “Pass that pigeon along,
Max. Let us see if it is edible.”

“This is a bad claret,” Sir Harold proclaimed, shak
ing his head sadly. “I would have done better to have an ale, like you, Max.”

After dinner, Sir Harold and deVigne left in the former’s carriage, and the ladies continued their shopping
for household items. “There is no reason you should
be sunk to making such purchases as beeswax and tur
pentine yourself, Delsie, but that Mrs. Bristcombe, you
know—I doubt she has ever heard of them. We shall have this lot delivered. I don’t plan to carry a jug of
turpentine in a carriage with me. I like to get into the
everything store from time to time. I find my servants will go on buying the same things forever, and never
bother to try the new products. Now just take a look
at this! Dr. Cropper’s New Patching Cement, for mend
ing broken china without leaving a trace. I threw out
a very nice vase last week, only because the patching cement left yellow smears all over it, and when we tried to get them off, the vase fell apart in our hands. I’ll try
a bottle of this.”

A great many fairly useless items of this sort were selected, before the ladies had their carriage called to
return to the Cottage. Lady Jane entered, and over a
cup of tea they proceeded to have their parcels brought
in for a leisurely inspection, the most enjoyable part
of any shopping spree, to compliment each other on
their sagacity, and wonder whether the mother-of-pearl
buttons bought at the Venetian Shoppe were not exact
replicas of those seen at Bolton’s at a fraction of the
cost.

“Yes, I think we have paid double for the pleasure
of having our buttons sewed onto a cardboard, instead
of left in the box. Next time we shall know better,”
Delsie said,

It was pleasant to consider that such extravagant outings as this were now a part of one’s life.

Chapter Eight

While the ladies were still engaged at their happy, feminine chore, deVigne came in unannounced. “I didn’t bother to knock, fearing the butler would be tired from
her shopping,” he said.

“What is this?” Jane asked. “Delsie is surely not
acting as her own butler. What is amiss with Brist
combe?”

“Mrs. Grayshott’s house is not yet in order,” deVigne
told her. “She has a severe servant problem. Do you happen to know what happened to Betsy Rose, Aunt?
We can discover no servants in the house but the Bristcombes—and the governess, of course.”

“She left a year ago, Betsy Rose,” Jane answered
promptly. “She got married to a local layabout. I made sure she had got herself a bad bargain, but have seen
her since in the village looking fine as a star. A silken
gown the hussy had on her back. Baggage.”

“She must have nabbed herself a smuggler. The
silken gown sounds like it. They bring in a good deal
of silk here, as well as brandy,” deVigne thought. “An
drew didn’t replace her?”

“Lord only knows!” She threw up her hands. “I was here very little more than yourself, Max. Only to visit
Bobbie. I don’t believe she ever was replaced. And are the Bristcombes jogging along with no help at all, then?
No wonder the place is gone to rack and ruin. Still, I
don’t know what Bristcombe can be doing if he is not
working inside the house, for it is clear as glass he
hasn’t touched the lawn or flowers.”

“The apples were allowed to rot. They were not picked at all,” Delsie added.

“This business must be settled at once,” deVigne stated. “Can you recommend a couple of village girls
for us, Jane? For maid’s work.”

Delsie felt the old familiar annoyance at being relegated to an onlooker in her own life. “You forget, deVigne,
I
am more fully acquainted with the village girls than anyone else here. I have in mind a couple of
my old students who will do very well. We had a few
girls at the Parish School in the winter, when they were not needed at home for farm work.”

“Sorry.” He bowed his head to indicate his error. “I
seem always to seek your approval for the wrong
things. You will hire two girls yourself, then, I as
sume?”

“Certainly I shall. Did you put the ad in the paper about Mr. Grayshott’s debts?”

“Yes, and also inquired discreetly about any bur
glary in the village. There was none.”

This last statement had to be explained to Lady Jane,
who was thrown into a tizzy of delight at the unexpected
finding of a bag of gold in one’s orchard. She declared
that she would run home that instant and have a look
under her own trees. Her parcels were taken to her
carriage by Lord deVigne, turned footman for the oc
casion. “My place for dinner tonight, Delsie,” the dame
called as she left. These reminders always raised a glow of happiness in the widow’s bosom. It was so novel and
pleasant an experience to belong to a family, and such a jolly, happy family too.

When she was gone, deVigne said, “Might this not
be a good opportunity to discover the key of Andrew’s
vault? It must be looked into for the settling of his estate.”

“Where should I begin to look? I haven’t a notion
where he would have kept it.”

“Let’s start with his desk.’“

They went to the study and looked through drawers,
which yielded a welter of papers, but no keys. “Here
is something—the receipt for the Bristcombes’ wages
for the last quarter of this year. He paid them two
hundred and fifty pounds! You told me two hundred, deVigne.”

“Servants
do
get an increase from time to time,” he
pointed out.

“Usually for improved service. They aren’t worth
half that.”

“You are mentally comparing to your own salary as a teacher,” he said, correctly.

“They got room and board as well.”

“Along with all the sheets and towels they could carry off.”

“You may laugh at me all you like. They are over
paid, and I
will
be rid of them.”

“That is your affair. Now, about the keys—his bed
room very likely. He seldom left it the last few months.”

“There is a table covered with medicine bottles and
things just by his bed. It may be there.” She excused
herself and went to the room. She returned with not
only the key, but another bag of gold.

“I found the key at the very back of the little drawer, hidden in a bottle under some pills,” she explained.

“You’re a sharp observer. How did you come to find
it?”

“I pushed aside the papers—designs for some sort
of an engine he had in mind, they looked like—and there was this one bottle. When I lifted it, it seemed
very heavy, and then I saw the key, and at the very
back of the drawer, this bag. It is just as I said. The
pixies have been coming here for years and leaving
bags of gold.”

The bag was emptied and discovered to contain the
same sum, one hundred guineas. One bag of gold
deVigne could credit having become misplaced in the
garden by accident. He had thought it was Andrew’s entire savings, which he had somehow dropped in the garden while drunk, but two identical bags holding the
same sum was more than coincidence.

“What the devil can this mean?” he asked, frowning.

“There are bound to be others around the house. Let
us try if this is the key to the vault.”

Without further ado it was tried, and it opened the vault, which was found to contain another ten of the
canvas bags, each with what looked intriguingly like
a hundred guineas, though they did not count them.
“Where did they come from? I don’t understand!” the
widow wailed, more chagrined than pleased to have
this small fortune in her hands. No more did deVigne
seem pleased.

“Could it be an income from some source, some in
vestment?” she wondered. “He was used to be a partner
in the shipyards, was he not?”

“He was the major owner. The Blewes Shipyard used
to be the Grayshott Shipyard. He took Blewes in as junior partner when he married. When Andrew began
drinking after Louise’s death, Blewes gradually took over, becoming first senior partner, then later buying Andrew out entirely. Andrew foolishly put his money into unsound investments that went broke. He was always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme, instead of contenting himself with a good dividend. He blew the last of his money in setting up a small manufactory in Merton to produce a contrivance of his own invention.
Some mechanical contraption to turn a spit it was, for roasting meat, you know. Quite clever, really, but it
didn’t catch on. He had no commercial enterprise going
at the time of his death, however. I have been to see
his solicitor. I can’t imagine where this money could have been coming from. It is an utter mystery to me.”

“I’ll be arrested. I know it as surely as I am sitting
here,” she said resignedly. “You have married me to
a thief! Oh, what shall I do with all this money?”

“I suggest you return it to the vault for the time
being, and keep a close hand on the key. Here, take
this bag you saddled me with too.” He handed back the
bag he had taken for her.

“Yes, you are eager to clean
your
hands of the evi
dence, and palm it all off on me
,
” she charged, accepting
the bag gingerly, as though it were dirty, and stuffing it into the vault with the others. “That is twelve hundred guineas we have found today, and we haven’t even begun to look about the house yet.”

“He wouldn’t have left it sitting around the place
under plants or on window ledges. He wasn’t
that
se
nile.”

“Never mind trying to put a respectable face on it,
calling it senility. He was an alcoholic, which is much
worse. I shall have a good look around as soon as you have left.”

“Is that an oblique hint for me to leave, and without
a glass of Andrew’s excellent brandy to prepare me for
the cold winds of December?” deVigne inquired.

“I hope I am not so uncivil. Let us go into the saloon, where I endeavor to keep a few twigs smoldering to ward off the worst of the weather.”

DeVigne went to kick the few logs into flames, while the widow fetched the decanter and one glass. She had no taste for the strong beverage. When she returned, deVigne sat very much at his ease, fingering a bolt of
black crepe she had bought that morning.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass. “May I make a suggestion? I cannot speak for others, but for
myself, I like a very small glass of brandy, not a brimming vessel. I can’t drink the half of this, and it is a shame to waste it.” He carefully tossed half a glass into
the fire, where it flared into leaping flames, blue and
green.

“How lovely!” Delsie exclaimed, smiling at the show.
“Now I know something useful to do with that dreadful
drink.”

“Wastrel! If you discover a hogshead of the stuff you
don’t want, I’ll take it off your hands.” He turned back
to the materials on the sofa beside him. “Pity you must
be confined to black for a year. You would look well in
brighter colors,” he mentioned, examining her face, as
though selecting his preferred shade.

She felt a sudden warmth at the personal tone the
conversation was taking. “I am used to black,” she answered dampingly.

“I have never seen you in anything but dark colors.”

“I didn’t begin wearing black till after my mother’s death. I was obliged to dress somberly when I worked
at St. Mary’s. Now, of course, I am a widow, and when
they put me in Bridewell for possessing stolen money,
I daresay I shall have to wear black there too.”

“I shall use my influence to have you transported if you prefer it, ma’am,” he offered kindly.

“I knew I might depend on you to do the right thing
by me, so caring as you have been for my every comfort!
Pray make it America, and not Australia. I think I
would prefer even wild Indians to the sultry climate
that prevails in the latter.”