Delsie (13 page)

“You may be sure I shall do all in my power to ease
your shipment to America. Plead for the widow, like
the Good
Book says. I’ll see if I can’t get you isolated from the murderers and the less desirable of the crim
inal element. But seriously, where could he regularly
steal such a sum? One would think even the most sim
ple-minded of victims would tumble to it after a couple
of times, and take some precautions to prevent ten or
twelve repetitions.”

“What was the one bag doing in the
orchard,
that
is what I cannot fathom.”

“Right in the orchard was it, or at the edge?”

“In the middle, under one of those little runted trees. Why are those two smaller than the others? Do you
know?”

“I believe Sir Harold told me, after I returned from
a season in London one year, that two trees had died, and Andrew replaced them. It is not unusual to lose a tree. I have a couple of smaller ones in my own orchard, but they never produce gold, only apples.”

“If that ingenious husband of mine has invented a
means of turning apples to gold, it is a pity the secret
died with him. Bobbie calls them the pixie trees, and
says they are more valuable than all the others put
together. Is it usual for a smaller tree to have a better
yield?”

“No, it is some nonsense they’ve been filling her head with. I wouldn’t encourage her to believe that ignorant sort of superstition.”

Again the widow bristled.
“I
have not been filling
her head with superstition, milord. It is Mrs. Brist
combe. I am trying to discourage the idea of pixies.”

“Sorry again, cousin. Why is it I invariably raise
your hackles?—and I am fairly walking on eggs, too.
You are very sensitive, I think?”

“Perhaps it is rather that
you
are insensitive,” she replied, and felt she had gained a point, though it was a somewhat arbitrary charge.

“Let us hope that under your tutelage I shall become
more finely attuned to your sensibilities, ma’am. Jane is kind enough to tell me I am a biddable fellow, and we are all, we bachelors, more amenable to being led
by a pretty young lady than anyone else.”

Delsie’s eyes widened at this leading statement, but before she could
give voice to any objection, he spoke on calmly. “No,
don’t try to quell me with one of your schoolteacher’s
scowls. I have been out of the schoolroom a good many
years. And never had such a delightful tutor when I
was in it either,” he finished with a little suggestion
of a smile. Then he immediately arose. “I have a distinct
sensation I should take my leave, before the teacher
brings out her ruler to slap my knuckles.”

As he entered the hallway, Bristcombe lounged in through the front door, wearing shabby clothing and with his face not shaved.

“Ah, the mysterious vanishing butler!” deVigne said
ironically, raking the man from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the incipient beard, the muddied boots.
“Mrs. Grayshott has been wondering where you keep
yourself these days, Bristcombe. When a lady pays a good sum for a servant’s time, she expects him to per
form his duties. You do not appear to serve as a butler
in this establishment. At least one
hopes
it was not
your intention to show me the door in that getup. From
the jungle at the front door it is clear you have not
turned gardener. May one inquire how you
do
manage
to fill your days?”

“I’ve been getting wood,” he said, though he carried
no wood with him.

“Mrs. Grayshott will be happy to hear it. While we
catch a glimpse of you, there are a few points that want mentioning. You will leave lights burning for Mrs. Grayshott when she is out in the evenings, and remain
up and about till she is safely returned, after which
you will lock up carefully. Do you understand?” he
asked, in a polite tone that carried an unmistakable
threat.

“Yes, milord,” Bristcombe mumbled sulkily.

“Good. Otherwise it will be necessary to find ser
vants who know their duties.”

DeVigne was not chided by so much as a glance for
his interference on this occasion. Delsie was happy to
have the unpleasant chore of a scolding done for her. DeVigne took his leave, and Bristcombe came into the
saloon after Mrs. Grayshott.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Grayshott, but me and
the missus would like to go visiting my folks tomorrow. Just five miles down the road past the village. Sunday
was our regular day off when the master was alive.”

“By all means, go ahead.” And what a relief to be rid of you, she added to herself.

“We’ll go after your luncheon and be back by dark, or soon after. I’ll be here to lock up for the night, and
leave the lights on for you and all,” he added in quite
a humble tone.

She was half pleased and half angered that the
baron’s brief lecture to Bristcombe had proved so efficacious, when she had been wrangling to less avail with
the wife for two days. She took her purchases upstairs
and spent an agreeable hour going through fashion
books choosing patterns for her new gowns. Next she
went to the escritoire and wrote the notes to the village girls she wished to come to her. She would send them
into the village with a servant. The recipients would not appreciate having to frank them. This done, she
began sorting through the desk to discard those items
belonging to her predecessor that were now useless.

She debated for five minutes whether to keep or discard
the printed stationery bearing the name Mrs. Gray
shott. Her inclination was to throw it into the grate
and burn it up as fast as she could, so much did she dislike the name, but in the end thrift overcame incli
nation, and she kept it for rough notes and lists. As she
reassembled the drawers to her own convenience, she recalled Bobbie mentioning a secret panel at the back of one. Worked with a button, she had said. She examined drawers for buttons, and found, cleverly concealed on the underside of the top drawer, a little but
ton. When she pushed it, a soft click was heard, and
the back panel of the drawer fell forward to reveal
another canvas bag. “Oh, no!” she moaned softly to
herself, pulling it out. No counting was necessary. She
was becoming very familiar with the weight of a
hundred gold guineas.

Chapter Nine

News of her latest discovery
was brought to her relatives as soon as she was seated in Lady Jane’s cozy saloon with a glass of sherry in her hand that evening.
Jane was enthralled, and confirmed on the spot she
would go to the Cottage the very next day to help her conduct a thorough search, from attics to cellars.

“From attic to kitchens,” Delsie corrected. “Any gold
stashed in the cellars may remain there.”

“My dear, that is the likeliest place to have put it,”
Jane pointed out.

“I saw black beetles in the kitchen. There would
certainly be rats in the cellars. I shan’t go near them,”
she stated firmly.

“I have been looking for an excuse to get into An
drew’s cellars,” deVigne claimed. “If he has a hogshead
of that brandy you like to throw on the fire, I shall take it as my fee for looking for gold.”

“Agreed!” Mrs. Grayshott declared. “And it was you
who threw it on the fire,” she added.

“Brandy will not put out a fire,” Sir Harold informed them.

His spouse repressed the urge to tell him to shut up, and said instead, “It is odd finding one of the bags in
Louise’s desk. Do you think she put it there? That An
drew has been acting this way for so long?”

‘There is no way we shall discover it now,” her
nephew replied.

“Is it possible he had more money that you knew?”
Delsie asked. “You mentioned he lost a good deal in
poor investments, but might he not have kept some
cash on hand, in the house?”

“I can’t think so. He was eager to get his hands on
Louise’s settlement in cash, and told me at the time he
was in tight waters financially. That was three years
ago, more or less, for he went through his roll very quickly after Louise died. Went on a big binge of selling
everything. In fact, he sold his own yacht to settle some accounts. You recall he had kept the
Robert-Lou
for his
own use, Jane?” deVigne asked.

“Yes. When he sold out to Blewes, he kept the small
est ship and fitted it up for a pleasure craft. Too big,
of course, and I don’t believe he had it out above two
or three times. It was foolish to keep it. Well, it required
a crew of six or seven men, and Andrew himself never
was much of a sailor. It was a sentimental gesture,
keeping it and naming it for his wife and daughter. He
sold it to some fellow in Merton, I think.”

“His own uncle took it off his hands. Old Clancy it
is who has the
Robert-Lou,”
Sir Harold told them.

“I wish I could remember...” Delsie said, staring
into the leaping flames. Everyone looked at her to hear
an explanation of this pregnant statement. She went
on: “During those few very brief conversations I had
with Mr. Grayshott, just before and after the ceremony,
he talked about money.”

“I made sure he was wooing you,” Lady Jane
laughed.

“No, he asked me to take good care of Roberta, then
said something to the effect that I would be rewarded for it. He mentioned that Louise’s portion and the Cot
tage were for Bobbie, but said
he
had some money—
something of the sort.”

“His personal effects were left to you—in fact, in the will the wording is that his estate entire is bequeathed to his wife,” deVigne outlined. “It is no fortune—some few pieces of jewelry, his horses and carriages, his patents, which I think he still, at the end, believed might be worth something.”

“The spit was a clever idea,” Lady Jane suggested.

“For some people still use a dog in a wheel to turn the
spit, you know, and it is disgusting to think of having a dirty old dog in the kitchen.”

“He never could peddle the hundred or so he made
up,” deVigne reminded her. “About the horses and car
riages, cousin, you would be well advised to sell them. I don’t hesitate to make the suggestion, as the hunters are a man’s high-bred goers, and the sporting carriage is an extremely precarious high-perch phaeton.”

“Yes, and the traveling carriage is a great lumbering
coach a hundred or so years old, not useful at all,” Lady Jane added. “Every strap on it would break if anyone sat inside, I am convinced.”

“What happened to Louise’s silver, the art collection,
all that fine furniture?” Sir Harold demanded petulantly.

“That was all gone years ago, my dear,” his wife told
him, with scanty patience. She had listened to him rant for two months when the sale had taken place.

“Andrew used to have a fine residence in Merton,”
deVigne explained aside to his widow. “The Cottage
was never intended for more than a summer residence, to allow them to bring their family home and still have some privacy. Andrew and I never did rub along very
congenially, as I originally made some efforts to dis
suade her from accepting him. The Merton place was
sold off some years ago.”

“You think these bags of gold I keep finding come
after that date, then?”

“It is difficult to believe Andrew would have parted
with his patrimony—and his yacht, which he loved—
if he had had a fortune sitting around in gold. It must have been acquired since that time.”

“He was into some illegal business. That is the only explanation,” Sir Harold assured them. “Never liked
the fellow above half. Don’t see why you let your sister
have him, Max.”

“He seemed a rising young gent at the time. The
best of a bad lot, for some of his family are hardly
presentable. As to
letting
Louise do anything, you for
get, Harold, what a hothead she was. She paid very
little attention to the commands of a younger brother, and with her fortune in her own hands, she would have certainly dashed off and married him if I had forbidden
the match.”

“Give the devil his due, he made Louise a good husband. Till her death he was a proper gentleman,” Jane
reminded them. “It was losing her, so devoted to her as he was, that turned him to drink, and the drink
accounts for the rest of it. Well, the drink and lack of breeding, for a real gentleman would not have gone to pieces only at losing a wife.”

“He was beginning to drink pretty heavily before Louise’s death,” deVigne mentioned, “but she kept him
under some control.”

“So no one knows how to account for the gold?” Mrs.
Grayshott asked, to call them back to order.

No one had a sensible suggestion on the subject, so they turned to other topics, deVigne to inquire of Mrs. Grayshott whether she had contacted the village girls,
and what she would like done with the carriages and
horses. It was agreed he would take them to auction,
and suggested that he would be happy to look about for some replacement more suitable to a lady’s needs. Lady
Jane was caught by her husband to hear a lengthy
exposition of the many historical atrocities committed in the lust for gold. To escape him, she asked Delsie how the governess performed her duties.