Mayhem in Bath (9 page)

Standing by the fender. Ragwort slipped a friendly arm around Bodkin. “Don’t fret, for I’m sure we’ll find her.”

“I do hope so, for I love her very much,” Bodkin replied.

“Cheer up. It’s Halloween in a day or so, and just
think of
the fun we’ll be able to have at these horrid humans’ expense!”

Bodkin’s face lit up a little as he remembered his pumpkin. “Oh, yes, Halloween ...” he murmured. Ragwort then led him from the room, down through the house into the gardens at the rear.

By now, Polly and Hordwell were driving up along George Street on their way back to the house. Polly was still smarting from events at the Pump Room, and felt as if everyone they passed was whispering about it, which was impossible, of course. She could not believe she had tossed water over Sir Dominic Fortune. What on earth had possessed her? But then, if he hadn’t been so impossible, it wouldn’t have happened. And if Uncle Hordwell hadn’t been so deliberately awkward and difficult... Her thoughts were interrupted as she realized the carriage was approaching Zuder’s. She recalled the odd scene she’d witnessed earlier and hurriedly requested the coachman to halt.

Hordwell looked curiously at her. “Stop? Why?”

“Oh. I just wish to go to Zuder’s.”

“Not to spend
my
money, I trust,” he said quickly.

“If I spend anything, it will be my allowance, which, incidentally, I used to pay for your wretched wheelchair a little earlier,” she reminded him, and climbed down to the pavement.

He affected not to hear. “Just remember that we have to leave for the review in a short while,” he said, clasping his hands on one of his walking sticks, and looking out of the other window.

Polly resisted the temptation to slam the carriage door on him. What a parsimonious old skinflint he was, she thought, wondering how on earth her dear sweet mother could have had such an odious brother.

The carriage drove on, and she went into the pastry cook’s. The shop was very busy, and the babble of conversation was almost as great as that in the Pump Room. Waiters scurried between crowded tables, and everything smelled of coffee, sugar, and vanilla. Only one waiter wasn’t serving, and he hovered in readiness near the counter, so she quickly made her way toward him. “May I have a word with you?” she asked, giving him one of her most dazzling smiles.

He was instantly her slave. “Oh, yes, madam.”

“I know it’s none of my business, but I was passing the shop earlier today, and saw Herr Zuder and all of you standing by that table over there.” She pointed. “Could you possibly tell me what had happened?”

“Certainly, madam. It was all very strange. You see, when we opened up this morning, we found that someone had broken in overnight and helped himself to whatever took his fancy. It seems he climbed in through a broken skylight in the roof. It’s been tied securely now, and will be properly repaired tomorrow.” His brows drew together. “What we can’t understand is how no one noticed anything from the street. There are always carriages driving by after dark, yet no one seems to have seen whoever it was, even though he sat right by the window!”

They didn’t see because Bodkin is invisible, she thought, and a plate by itself would probably not attract attention. As the waiter hurried away to one of the tables, she thought about what she’d discovered. She knew the brownie’s sweet tooth, and was sure that if he’d come here once, he’d come again. She must try to leave a message where he was bound to find it, and the obvious place was the skylight. There was a door at the rear of the shop, and after making sure no one was paying her particular attention, she slipped through into the hallway beyond, where it was much cooler and quieter. Her breath stood out a little as she hurried up the uncarpeted staircase. Four steep flights later she was in the attics, and it didn’t take her long to find the offending skylight. It had indeed been very securely tied, but using the little scissors she’d always carried in her reticule since requiring to urgently cut the knotted lace of a friend’s ankle boot due to a bad sprain, she poked and pried until she’d loosened the knots. The skylight immediately jerked slightly ajar, and the morning breeze swept coldly over her as she searched in her reticule for her notebook and pencil. She scrawled a swift message.

Bodkin, Uncle Hordwell swears the agreement in the ledger was meant to be a temporary thing with Nutmeg’s comfort and well-being in mind. He intended to suggest to her that she might like to stay in Bath for a while until her house in Horditall had been refurbished, but she walked out before anything was put to her. I believe him, and so must you. Please come to me at 1 Royal Crescent, so we can talk, Polly.

After stretching out to tuck the note in a prominent position beneath one of the slates, she tied the skylight again, and then hastened downstairs again. She passed unnoticed through the shop and out into the street. Just over five minutes later, she arrived at Royal Crescent, where she was greeted in the hallway by the sound of sobbing coming from the library. Puzzled, she went to see who it was, and found the entire staff facing her white-faced, furious uncle. The maids were crying, their aprons raised to their eyes. Polly looked inquiringly at Hordwell. “Whatever is wrong. Uncle?” she asked.

“Well you may ask, well you may ask!” Hordwell cried. “My most precious belongings have been stolen, as well as my brush and comb, handkerchiefs and shoes.”

Polly stared at him, Bodkin leaping to mind. This was just the sort of thing a boggart-brownie would do!

Hordwell glared at the little gathering. “Who was it, eh? Who robbed me?” They all vehemently protested their innocence, but he wasn’t convinced. “Don’t think to gull me, you rascals! One of you, maybe more, entered my room and removed my property. Who was it? I
demand
to know!”

Polly looked at him in dismay. “Uncle, you can’t make unsubstantiated accusations. If there has been a theft, then we must inform the relevant authorities, but I have to say that I do not believe any of the servants would do such a thing. My guess is that it was a burglar from outside.” A certain brownie, to be precise. “Indeed, Uncle, I believe you should apologize to everyone for maligning them so.”

Hordwell scowled. “Apologize? Now look, Polly, I’m not about to—”

She interrupted. “I’m convinced they are innocent, and that you must therefore make amends for your unjust accusations.” She did not doubt she was right, for the servants’ expressions of outrage were clearly sincere, and besides, she would lay odds upon Bodkin being the real culprit.

With ill grace, Hordwell did as she said, and after a moment the servants all shuffled out. As they went, Polly halted Giles. “Please see that someone reports this unfortunate incident to the authorities.”

“Certainly, Miss Peach.”

As the door closed behind them all, Polly looked at her uncle. “I’m very sorry you’ve been robbed, but you really should not accuse people like that.”

“Well,
someone
stole my things!” he pointed out angrily.

“Yes, and the authorities will be told.”

“They won’t do anything about it.”

“Maybe, but at least you have the comfort of being wealthy enough not to suffer too much,” she said.

“That’s hardly the point! And I certainly can’t replace my account book.” He closed his eyes a little faintly. “Oh, my account book...”

She ushered him into his chair and poured him a glass of cognac. “Here, sip this and take some deep breaths. You’ll feel a little better presently.”

“I doubt it, oh, I doubt it,” he muttered, taking the proffered glass and gulping the contents. “Another one, if you please, my dear.”

“But, your gout—”

“To perdition with my gout!”

She poured a second glass. “What of the review?”

“Eh?” He looked blankly at her.

“The review, and the luncheon party that will be right next to the Duke and Duchess of York?”

His lower jaw jutted. “I am no longer in any mood for such frivolity,” he grumbled, remaining firmly in his chair.

She was dismayed. “But, Uncle, you’ve already informed the Gotenuvs you’ll be there, and you’ve presumed upon their hospitality by including me as well!”

“I know, but I now feel too fragile for such rigors. You will have to go without me!”

“Uncle Hordwell, I don’t even know the Gotenuvs.”

“Then you will have to introduce yourself. I will hear no more of it, Polly. You go on your own, and that is the end of it. I insist.”

She didn’t argue anymore, for he’d had a nasty shock, and she didn’t wish to upset him further. But right now, the last thing she wished to do was go alone to an army review.

Chapter 11

When it was time to leave for Claverton Down, Polly emerged from the house in her best cream silk gown, gray velvet spencer, and pink straw hat. She carried a pink pagoda parasol, and there was a knot of late pink dianthus pinned to her lapel. But as the carriage started off, Bodkin hastened invisibly from the basement area of the house next door and jumped aboard. He and Ragwort had seen the carriage at the curb again, and Ragwort had asked his friend Giles, the footman, why it was needed. The brownie stowaway made himself as comfortable as he could in the luggage boot. Ragwort had now introduced him to the other brownies on Royal Crescent, but they didn’t know anything about Nutmeg. Ragwort had promised to make a thorough search of Sir Dominic’s house this afternoon, as it seemed the only place she might possibly be. Bodkin leaned forward to press his nose to the little window at the rear of the carriage. He could see Polly’s pink hat, and scowled at it. He’d teach her a lesson for letting him down. Oh, the devilment he was going to get up to at the review!

Claverton Down lay a mile or so out of Bath, and the carriage was soon caught up in a throng of fashionable vehicles driving to the review. The jam of traffic became worse close to the down, for the presence of royalty was always a magnet second to none. Polly lowered the window glass and leaned out. The sound of a brass band drifted on the air, and she could also hear a particularly loud sergeant-major shouting orders. Rows of army tents adorned the open grassland, each one providing quarters for six soldiers. Six fine cavalry horses were tethered outside each tent, and hay bales and water troughs were all around. Soldiers were either putting the finishing touches to their spotless regimentals, or grooming their mounts. Sunlight flashed upon golden epaulettes, medals, and polished brass buttons. Plumes fluttered from bearskins, and banners streamed in the autumn breeze that swept pleasantly over the down.

Numerous stalls sold drinks, gingerbread, and pies, and among the many hawkers who’d converged on the lucrative scene was the enterprising Pump Room flower woman, this time selling posies of asters, the regiment’s emblem. Apart from the drab army tents, there were a number of much larger, brighter private tents, culminating in the purple-and-gold splendor of the royal pavilion. Nearby, all the private carriages were drawing up in lines of military precision, and ladies and gentlemen strolled everywhere, waiting for the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of York.

Polly’s carriage took its place among the others, and she climbed down to join the general perambulation that preceded the review. Bodkin alighted as well, his presence detectable only by the prints of his feet upon the grass. Keeping close to Polly, he looked around to begin his campaign. But as he did so, he was astonished to see numerous other brownies, some in groups, some alone, all intent upon enjoying the review as much as the humans. Some arrived the same way he did, seated in relative comfort at the back of carriages, but some walked, while others—mostly daring young males—chose to hang onto horses’ tails, causing thee riders or coachmen to wonder why their animals were so nervous and skittish today.

Bodkin hadn’t realized that town brownies joined in human entertainments as much as their cousins in the country. At Horditall all the local brownies attended weddings, anniversaries, christenings, fairs. May Day, Christmas, and—of course!—Halloween. Now it was clear the same things went on in towns. His eyes began to gleam, for he had seen several notices regarding the Halloween festivities in Sydney Gardens. These other brownies were bound to be there, all of them indulging in a little friendly mischief, and he would be there too. But there would be nothing friendly about Bodkin of Horditall and his famous jack-o’-lantern! He and Ragwort were going to subject old Hordwell, clammy Lord Benjamin, and traitorous Polly to an unforgettable Halloween!

As Polly raised her pagoda parasol and walked slowly past the lines of carriages in search of the count and countess’s pavilion, she sensed nothing of Bodkin close behind her, or of the other brownies all around, for they all chose to be invisible at such a very public occasion. Her most immediate thoughts were of her Russian hosts, whose luncheon party she really did not wish to join; indeed she still felt it was an imposition, but she’d promised Uncle Hordwell, and she was a niece of her word. The purple-and-gold royal pavilion stood out from all the others, not only by its size and regal colors, but also by the gilt coronets surrounding its canopy, and of the elegant but lesser tents on either side, she couldn’t guess which might be the one she sought. There was nothing for it but to ask at each entrance until she found the Gotenuvs’. Hesitantly she folded her parasol and approached the first, where a number of guests were sipping champagne. The far end of the tent was taken up with white-clothed trestle tables that groaned beneath the weight of a very fine buffet luncheon, and by the shrillness of the guests’ voices, she guessed they had been imbibing for some time.

She was about to discreetly ask one of the more matronly ladies if this was the Gotenuvs’ party, when her dismayed glance fell upon two familiar faces by the buffet Polly did not know their names, but recognized the couple from the Pump Room. The army officer’s head was bandaged as a result of the blow from the falling glass, and it seemed to Polly that he still looked a little dazed. Or maybe such a vacant visage was customary. The woman wore a primrose gauze gown, and her sky blue pelisse was adorned with a knot of forget-me-nots. The wispy net scarf around her tall-crowned hat floated when she turned her pretty head, and she was all fluttering eyelashes and fascination as she leaned on the man’s arm. Polly thought wryly that if anything,
he
should be leaning on
her
arm. He certainly looked wan enough after his unfortunate morning mishap!