The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (12 page)

Mrs. Blackham approached, and halted.

The constable's demand that Cramer cease his cursing in the presence of a lady was ignored until Vespa jabbed his cane under the man's ribs, rendering him too short of breath to continue.

Mrs. Blackham jerked up her head so that the poke of her bonnet flapped wide and for the first time Vespa viewed a rosy-cheeked face and a handsome pair of smiling dark eyes. “Thank you very much, I'm sure, sir,” she said.

He bowed. “My very great pleasure, ma'am.”

As he left them, he heard the lady advising Cramer that it was not lawful to sleep on a public street.

Gallery-on-Tang, thought Vespa, was a most satisfactory village.

6

En route to the Gallery Arms, Vespa was captured by two very determined matrons selling tickets to a Flower Show to be held the following week on the grounds of Coombe Hall, a nearby beauty-spot. He purchased two tickets. The ladies were pleased with him, and he was pleased also, because prior to his army days he had enjoyed working with the Richmond gardener from time to time. He looked forward to restoring the grounds at Alabaster. Some well-planned flower beds and shrubs would soften the stark appearance of the old building. Another item to be added to his List of Things to Be Done.

Word of his encounter with Cramer had spread. Several boys ran up and appointed the tallest to ask shyly how he'd managed to overpower a much larger man. Other children pressed in, and before he knew it, he'd admitted to having learned the art of self-defence at Eton and played cricket for Oxford. These glorious distinctions spurred earnest pleas that he help organize a cricket match after Church on Sunday.

The afternoon was waning by the time he at last rode out, with their jubilant thanks ringing in his ears, Corporal's bone in a bag tied to the pommel, and much to occupy his thoughts. When he reached Alabaster, Strickley was repairing the paddock fence. He came over to take Secrets, and Vespa dismounted, tossed the bone to a very tired small dog, and accompanied Strickley into the barn. He watched his steward unsaddle the mare, and asked what he knew of Miss Robina Alperson's death.

“Same as what everyone knows,” said Strickley, heaving the saddle over a rail fence. “The old lord ranted and raved fer months about it, he did, laying the blame everywhere 'cept where it belonged. But it ain't none of your bread and butter, Captain, though he'll try and make out different.”

“From what he said, I gather Lord Alperson felt animosity towards Mr. Preston Jones, also. Any particular reason?”

Strickley began to rub down the mare. “He don't need no reason, sir. He just plain hates everybody. Miss Consuela was friends with poor little Miss Robina. Stood up to the old lord, she did. Only thing it got her was he ordered her off his property and she weren't allowed to go there no more. Still, his lordship told everyone Miss Consuela had knowed about Miss Robina's gentleman friend, and encouraged her, what led to her death. Mr. Jones went out to Redways and threatened to have Lord Alperson up for slander, and there was a real fuss.” Strickley shook his head. “A mighty good brooder is his lordship, and once he gets something in his brain-box, it stays there. You'll hear from him again, Captain. He'll do you a mischief, if he can.”

“Then I'm forewarned. Has he ever, to your knowledge, ‘done a mischief' to anyone?”

Strickley's big hands paused. “That he has. Though to prove it would be something else again. Above the Law is rich folk, and his lordship's as full o' juice as they come.”

Vespa advised him that no man was above the law in these modern times, and left him, wishing he could believe it. He walked around the back of the house, entered by the door at the south end of the building, and climbed the stairs to Lady Francesca's ‘apartments'. There was no response to his knock, and when he opened the door and stuck his head inside the impromptu kitchen, it was evident that the ladies were not ‘at home'.

He decided to have another look at the room where the door had slammed on his hand yesterday. A peculiar business that. He'd be most interested to see why the curtains had been so tightly drawn that there had been no sign of a window.

He advanced cautiously, thrust the door wide, and stared in speechless outrage. Today, the window draperies were pulled back and sunlight flooded into the spacious, and at the moment unoccupied, room. A four-poster bed was made up. A framed sampler hung above a fine old chest of drawers on which a brush, comb, and male toilet articles were neatly disposed. Before the windows a geranium in a pot graced a small table flanked by two chairs; there was a large clothes-press against the end wall, a mirror hanging beside it and a wash-stand nearby with pitcher, bowl and tidily hung towel. The furniture shone, and the floor was immaculate.

Recovering his voice, Vespa snarled, “Some damned hedge-bird has made himself comfortable!” and stamped inside.

The few items of clothing in the press were rather threadbare but had been carefully patched; a high-crowned hat showed much wear, as did a pair of boots that were nevertheless brightly polished. The sampler which hung above the chest of drawers depicted several bluebirds fluttering recklessly about the head of a lion. The legend, artistically flourishing, read:

What you cannot as you would achieve,

You must perforce accomplish as you may.

“And having accomplished it nicely, you makebait,” he said wrathfully, “you've been properly caught!”

Seething, he went in search of a pistol.

As he neared his own chamber, he was astounded to hear a deep bass voice raised in song. The rogue must be quite demented to show such brazen indifference to discovery. The thought gave Vespa pause. His pistol was in his room, and the voice appeared to be coming from there. The clothes he'd just found had been tailored to fit a large individual—a large madman, apparently. Common sense whispered that he was unarmed, and would be well advised to go in search of reinforcements. “The hell I will,” he muttered, and pushed open the nearest door. Luck was with him; a dusty set of fireplace tools still stood on the hearth. Snatching up the poker, he hurried out, prepared for battle, his advance accompanied by the strains of “John Peel”.

“I'll give you a ‘view, view halloo'!” he growled, and threw open his bedchamber door, holding the poker poised and ready.

It was not the room he remembered. Rich draperies billowed softly at now sparkling windows, on the small table a handsome snuff bottle, pressed into service as a vase, held wildflowers which lent colour and fragrance to a chamber that exuded cleanliness. Furniture and floors glowed with unsuspected richness, and the once murky cheval glass was spotless.

“John Peel” was abandoned. The singer, tall and stout, his black hair worn rather longer than the current style and framing a round, double-chinned face, looked up from brushing Vespa's new riding coat and offered a flourishing bow. “At last I am granted the felicity of meeting you, Captain Vespa,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “You are somewhat taken aback, I perceive. I trust my song did not annoy. Pray allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thornhill, and—”

“Blast your effrontery!” cried Vespa, striding to face him. “What you are is a rascally vagrant who has dared invade my house! I presume you're aware that I've a perfect right to shoot you where you stand!”

The brilliant dark eyes widened and Thornhill said in agitation, “I beg you will not resort to violence, sir. If you do not choose to avail yourself of my services, I shall grieve, but depart. Nor shall I present you with a bill despite—”

“A
what?
” thundered Vespa.

“I have spent some considerable time and effort in restoring this room and another of your bedchambers that had been most sadly neglected. I think you will find, Captain, that—”

“Have done! You
trespassed
and arranged a room to suit yourself, and well you know it! Put down my coat at once!”

“As you wish, sir. Though it stands in sad need of proper pressing.” Laying the coat tenderly on the bed that now looked so neat and tidy, Thornhill murmured, “A peerless cut, but not Weston, I think. I would guess it to have the touch of Balleroy, the émigré genius who has hung out his sign in Clapham. You are to be commended on your taste, sir, if I dare remark it. There is a chill on the air. Would you wish me to start a fire before I remove your riding boots?”

Vespa tossed his poker aside and with a swift pounce reached for the pistol case he'd left on the highboy. It was not there. He whirled. The case was in the intruder's hand. He lifted his gaze to meet a velvety smile.

“I took the liberty of cleaning these for you, sir.” Thornhill opened the case and offered one of the deadly duelling pistols, butt first. “A fine pair of weapons, although in my opinion, and intending no least criticism, in the hand of a member of the Quality they might be the better for just a touch more chased silver. It is my way, you see, to try and anticipate the needs of my employers, though I'd certainly not have presumed to do so had I been aware that the duchess was mistaken. Will you not be seated, Captain? A glass of Madeira, perhaps?”

“What are you babbling at now?” asked Vespa, taking the pistol and inspecting it carefully.

“Why, her ladyship convinced me that you stood sadly in need of the services of a valet of the first rank, sir. A charming and most persuasive lady. I could not bring myself to deny her.”

Vespa sank into the chair Thornhill drew up, but kept the pistol handy. “Was that before or after you'd broken into my house?”

“Oh, but I did not break in, Captain.” Setting a glass of Madeira at Vespa's elbow, Thornhill explained, “I assisted the duchess and Miss Consuela to move here, you see, though I must own I did not think Alabaster Royal a—er—suitable setting for the ladies. At that time they believed this house to have been abandoned, and Miss Consuela was frantic with anxiety to learn why her dear father had been murdered here, so—”

“Rubbish! From everything I've been able to learn, Preston Jones met his death by accident. Besides which, because a house is empty does not give every Tom, Dick or Harry the right to move in and settle down.”

“Exactly so, sir.” Thornhill's expressive eyes were reproachful. “But I would not presume to make such a remark to her ladyship.”

Vespa looked at him levelly. “You've a clever tongue, and you know damned well I was referring to you, my fine charlatan.”

“Ah. In that case I make every effort to understand your point of view. My present circumstances being what they are. Shall you dress for dinner, Captain?”

Change clothes before eating a cheese sandwich in solitary state? “No I will not,” said Vespa testily. “What I'll do is march you along to find the duchess and discover just what mischief you're about!”

Thornhill smiled kindly. “By all means, sir. No doubt you will wish me to pull off your riding boots first. And—er—perhaps a wash and a change of linen might not come amiss, if you intend to meet the ladies. The duchess, you know, is a stickler for manners.”

Vespa restrained a grin, and while Thornhill removed his boots, advised the interloper in barracks-room language exactly what kind of rogue he was. He kept a wary eye on the clearly unrepentant ‘valet of the first rank', but had to admit that Thornhill did indeed seem to excel at his calling. His slightest wish was anticipated, the man's movements were smooth and graceful, his manner politely deferential with just a trace of the proprietary air of a long-time retainer.

The duchess, Thornhill imparted, was below stairs. They started down, the valet in the lead, and Vespa following with one hand on the pistol in his waistband. As they went, he became aware of a most heavenly aroma. ‘Freshly baked bread, and roasting beef,' he thought. ‘They've moved to where there are proper cooking facilities, by Jupiter!'

Thornhill bowed him into the kitchen.

“Well, well,” he murmured.

Wrapped in a voluminous apron, the duchess stood at the table, beating vigorously at a bowl of batter. Similarly protected, Miss Consuela sat nearby, shelling peas. And, again, all was neat and radiated cleanliness. And the smells!

“Ah, so you found him, did you, Thornhill?” Lady Francesca paused at her labours, and smiled fondly at Vespa. “How very much better do you look, my dear boy. A capable valet he can do so much for his master.”

“If my looks expressed my mental state, ma'am, they would convey at the very least—amazement. Perhaps you will be so kind as to explain what you are doing in my kitchen, and why you would suppose I'd hire this rascally vagrant as my valet.”

“I told you, Grandmama,” said Consuela, with a dark frown. “You will get no thanks, no appreciation from this one. After all you have done!”

“Hush, child. It is that the good Captain he does not comprehend. Now do sit down, Vespa, though a gentleman he has no business in his kitchen, you know.”

“I suppose it is pointless for me to remark that
you
have no business—”

“But my dear, as your housekeeper this is
my
domain, until Thornhill hires us a proper cook, at which time I—”

“
You?
My
housekeeper?
Madam, you cannot be serious! I gave you no encouragement to believe—”

“Encouragement, is it?” burst out Consuela, dashing peas into the bowl. “We are so good as to offer to work for you in this horrid old ruin—”

“In exchange for our—er—temporary quarters,” put in the duchess.

“—And you, with your foolish hoity and toity, fling our kindness back into our teeth! So—go!” Consuela tossed a pea pod over her shoulder and stood up, unfastening her apron. “Hire yourself a fine cook and a splendid housemaid, to say nothing of—”

“You?”
Vespa gave a shout of laughter. “If ever I saw anyone less like a housemaid! No, really, Miss Consuela, you cannot be serious. A duchess in my kitchen? A lady of—of Quality sweeping my floors?”