The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (27 page)

Vespa wandered off on a tour of inspection while da Lentino and the girl discussed financial arrangements. He rejoined them when Consuela exclaimed, “Two? On the same day! My goodness, is that not rather unusual?”

“Is something wrong?” asked Vespa.

She turned to him. “Signor Cesare says there were two prospective buyers for the quarry paintings, and that he wishes he'd not accepted the first offer.”

Vespa looked at the proprietor questioningly. “Is that so remarkable? Mr. Jones is quite famous, after all.”

Signor Cesare spread his hands and shrugged. “Rather unusual, let us say. For there to be an interest,
si,
that it is not remarkable. But for the second would-be buyer to fly into such a passion—for him to demand the name and direction of the purchaser—this, ah, but it is
indeed
remarkable!”

Prompted by Vespa's significant glance, Consuela asked for the names of the two men. The buyer was a Mr. Leonard Harrison of Tunbridge Wells. The disappointed gentleman, Sir Montmorency Gridden of Shrewsbury.

“Had you a previous acquaintanceship with either?” asked Vespa.

Signor Cesare replied that he had not, and in answer to another enquiry divulged that Mr. Harrison had paid cash, and, yes, but of course he had noted the direction. He crossed to a desk at the rear of the room. “A very well-favoured young gentleman, I may tell you. And evidently exceedingly well to pass, as you English would say, for I recall that his friend remarked the paintings would look well in the Great Hall, whereas Mr. Harrison appeared to favour the morning room in the east wing.… I should have it writ down somewhere.…” He rummaged among the contents of a handsomely carven wooden box, and took out a card. “
Si,
this it is—Leonard Harrison, Esquire, Partridge Towers, Tunbridge Wells.”

Consuela watched in silence as Vespa read the card frowningly.

Signor da Lentino's gaze went from one to the other, and anxiety came into his dark eyes. “Something—it is amiss, Captain? I promise you the money it was paid in full, and the gentleman he is of a consequence. Very fine and his manner most proud.”

Vespa muttered, “My aunt lives in Tunbridge Wells, and my brother and I spent several summers there while we were in school. I never knew anyone of the local society by the name of Leonard Harrison. Nor can I recollect a great house called Partridge Towers.”

“A newly built home, perhaps,” suggested the proprietor hopefully.

Consuela said, “Signor Cesare has a fine eye for detail, Captain. No doubt you could describe the gentleman for us, sir?”

Flattered, he answered, “But gladly. He is the tall young man, with shoulders,” he spread his hands, “very fine, like so. His features they are good, but excessively. His eyes—ah! now this I have forget! But of an excellence and filled with pride. His hair—the light shade—how would you describe? Saxon.”

“Blond,” supplied Vespa rather grimly.

“
Si.
This it is the word.”

Vespa asked, “Might Mr. Harrison's eyes have been blue, perchance?”

Consuela glanced at him sharply.

Signor Cesare pondered but could only recall that they were light.

“His friend,” persisted Vespa. “Also of large build, but dark-haired and heavier, and less—er, attractive?”

“You know these men?” asked Signor Cesare, increasingly apprehensive.

“You have indeed a fine eye for detail, sir,” said Vespa evasively. “As to the disappointed gentleman, you say he was angry. Did you think he meant to seek out Mr. Harrison?”

“This, it is possible, Captain. He is the older man of great violence and not to be denied. I have his name but not his direction, only that he is the aristocrat.” He shook his head and looked sombre. “He have eyes that burn right through a man, and
such
a temper! I should not care to displease that one! Ah! You will forgive? There is the customer arriving. I must attend him.”

His manner made it clear that he would vouchsafe no more information, and Vespa and Consuela left the gallery.

The sky had clouded over, and the temperature had dropped several degrees. Vespa offered his arm and led the way along the street.

Consuela said, “Well, you properly scared him. He'll tell us nothing more!”

“He told us all we may need.”

“You surely do not suspect the buyer to have been Larson Gentry?”

“Why not? The description fits.”

“Then that is all that fits! In the first place, Sir Larson is so deep in debt there are rumours that he hides down here from his London creditors. He could not afford to buy one of my father's paintings—let alone three! And to have such a sum in cash on his person—no! Most unlikely. Besides, he never seemed even slightly interested in Papa's work.”

“What about the men you've seen lurking about Alabaster? Could not Gentry have been one of them?”

She said hesitantly, “It is possible, I suppose. I only saw them at dusk or at night-time, and not closely enough to recognize anyone.”

“Well, I saw him! Making off with my furniture!”

She said nothing, but he caught her glancing at him from the corners of her eyes.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed indignantly. “You don't believe me! Why on earth would I make up such a silly tale?”

“I didn't say you made it up. Only—”

“Only my mind is still playing me tricks, as it did when I chased the ‘bee' on Sunday! Just as yours convinces you that your father was murdered, no doubt?”

“You don't believe me. Why should I believe
you?
I suppose you will next say the disappointed buyer was Lord Alperson!”

“Well, that's not impossible, is it? Your Italian friend said the second buyer was an old aristocrat with a horrible temper. Once again, the cap fits!”

“If Lord Alperson wanted my father's paintings, why didn't he come and buy them years ago, instead of waiting till—till they became more costly?”

“It was my understanding that his lordship and your father didn't cry friends—to say the least of it. Mr. Jones would likely have refused to sell to him.”

“True. But Alperson could have hired an agent to buy them. No—it's just too foreign to his nature. He's the most clutch-fisted old miser I ever knew, and doesn't give a button for art.”

“Lord give me strength! Here I am come all this way to try and help you, and all you will do is argue! I know what it is! Ladies are much too dainty and coy to admit they're hungry, but I shall ask that you indulge me by accompanying me to luncheon. You'll likely feel better after you've had some food.”

With not an instant of coy daintiness, Consuela smiled and admitted that she was “ravenous”.

13

“I were away down to Yeovil, visiting of my mother, else I'd have made myself known to you sooner nor this, sir.” The round little man in the shiny frock coat took off his hat, whereupon his thinning grey hair was ruffled by the rising wind. He smoothed his hair, nodded emphatically several times, and exuded good fellowship. He had come upon this fine example of a London beau strolling along the village street. At a safe distance behind, Dicky-Boy followed the beau, doing his best to emulate the graceful walk of the young exquisite. “I am the mayor of this village,” announced the little man, thinking that the landowner was so obvious a Dandy that he'd not be likely to enjoy country life. He replaced his hat and thrust out his hand. “George Fletcher by name, sir. And proud to welcome you to your fine inheritance, Captain Vespa. Get away from there, Dicky-Boy!”

Manderville returned the handshake and glanced over his shoulder at the brawny youth, who went slouching off, grinning and muttering to himself.

“Harmless, I promise you,” explained the mayor as they walked on together. “But—” He tapped his temple and looked mournful.

“How unfortunate. He has a good pair of shoulders.”

“Aye, he's strong in body. But when it comes to the cock-loft…” Mr. Fletcher shook his head with such rapidity that he was obliged to re-seat his hat. “Imagines things, he do, poor lad, and goes round giving himself airs to be interesting, as they say.”

“It's a failing shared by all too many,” drawled Manderville. Perfectly aware of the searching look that greeted his remark, he added, “And lest you judge me as being tarred with the same brush, I must refuse the honour of your identification.”

“Ah … Er, eh?”

“I am not Captain John Vespa.”

“You bean't?” His face a study in disappointment, the mayor exclaimed, “Oh, dear!”

“I contrive to bear up under it. Do not abandon hope, Mayor. Life has its brighter side, and the Captain is a very good man. My name is Paige Manderville. I'm staying at Alabaster Royal.”

Brightening, Mayor Fletcher said, “That explains it, then. You'll be a friend of the Captain. I knowed you was the same type of gentleman. So I wasn't far off, was I?”

“Oh, yes. We're not in the least alike. We served in the army together. More or less.”

They were interrupted at this point by the Widow Davis, who had decided to sweep the step of her shop when she saw the mayor and the handsome Mr. Manderville approaching. It was some minutes before Fletcher was able to break into her monologue, but they escaped at last, and proceeding to the village green sat on a stone bench and watched the ducks squabble and bustle about collecting their lunch.

The mayor imparted the information that it was going to rain, and Manderville said gently that Mr. Fletcher knew best. Encouraged by this admission, Mr. Fletcher observed that he had mistaken Mr. Manderville for Captain Vespa because he knew that the Captain was not so dark like Mr. Sherborne had been.

“Remarkably astute,” drawled Manderville. “The Captain is from home at present, but if you call at the manor this evening, I'm sure he'll be glad to receive you.”

The mayor's eyes fell away. He shuffled his feet and muttered, “Call at the manor … Ah. That I must do, er—soon. Very soon.” After another series of rapid nods, he enquired, “And—er, what does you think of Gallery-on-Tang, may I ask? Mighty small in your view, eh? But you'll allow as it's pretty?” Manderville allowing that much, he went on, “We've our share of history. Alabaster Royal's haunted, as you'll have discovered, eh?”

He waited hopefully, and was disappointed when Manderville contributed no hair-raising accounts of grisly spectres, but merely asked, “Is Alabaster your only historical spot, Mayor?”

“Lor' bless you, no, sir. Take the church, now. A monastery it were in olden time, only Oliver Cromwell's soldiers tore it down, and when they restored it—after the Restoration that were”—Mr. Fletcher laughed heartily and slapped his plump knee—“and there's a neat play on words, if I says so myself. Interested in history be you, Mr. Manderville?”

Smiling politely at the ‘neat' witticism, Manderville said, “Not at all.”

Mr. Fletcher was nonplussed, seeing which, Manderville repented. “But I'm being obtuse, I fear. Actually, Mayor Fletcher, I'm in search of the coroner. I presume there is one in Gallery-on-Tang?”

“In-deed, there be! I'm it, sir. When I'm not mayor-ing I'm crownering.” Nodding vigorously, he gripped each lapel of his coat and asked with a solemn air, “How might I be of assistance, Mr. Manderville? Crowner Fletcher, at your service.”

“Thank you. Actually, I'm interested in a tale I heard, concerning a famous artist who used to live nearby.”

“Ah, you'll be meaning poor Mr. Preston Jones. Famous indeed, sir! World-famous, I wouldn't be surprised. Met a sad end, he done. Not to say downright tragic.” The ‘Crowner' leant closer, glanced about, and murmured dramatically, “
Frighted
to death, he were, poor gentleman! But he shoulda knowed better than to go out there. A evil place is that Alabas—er—not meaning no offence, sir! But—facts is facts, bean't they now?”

“Allowing for the fact that everyone interprets facts differently, yes. I was told Mr. Jones accidentally fell to his death in the quarry, but I fancy you have more information than is given to the general public.”

Crowner Fletcher beamed and gave vent to so violent a series of nods that Manderville wondered he did not get a crick in his neck. “Very true, sir,” he said. “A sad case it were. There's them as holds”—he glanced around cautiously, and apparently mistrusting the ducks, lowered his voice—“There's them as says ‘John Barleycorn' had a hand in that there ‘accidental' death. Now Mr. Jones liked to bend the elbow, surely. But I never knowed him to be shot in the neck, as they say. To my mind, if there
was
spirits involved, they wasn't out of no bottle! More likely the poor gent saw … the Alabaster Cat!” He pulled in his chin, pursed his little mouth, and opened his eyes solemnly. “Wouldn't take no more'n one look, and you see what happened!”

“Then at the inquest you found no cause to suspect foul play?”

“Depends what you means by ‘foul play', Mr. Manderville. If you was to listen to Dicky-Boy, he'd tell you he see Mr. Jones come outta the manor so lushy his friends had to hold him up. Trouble is, poor Dicky-Boy's always seeing things as nobody else do. Mr. Preston Jones, he were a very shy sort of gentleman, and didn't have no particular friends as anyone knows of. He'd have a brew with the apothecary and Mr. Ditchfield now and then, but they're not the type of men as would go out to the manor secret-like and get roaring drunk. No, sir. The fact is that if Mr. Jones hadn't of kept going where he shouldn't oughta have goed, he'd likely never have see the Alabaster Cat!”

Manderville drawled lazily, “Conversely, if John Barleycorn had a—er—hand in the matter, there's no telling what Mr. Jones may have seen.”

The whole trouble was, the good mayor later told his buxom little wife, them London dandies was always funning, and one couldn't never tell whether they meant the silly things they said, or whether they was just pulling a chap's leg. “That Mr. Manderville,” he added thoughtfully, “he's a proper Non-Peary, as the Frenchies say. He'll have all you ladies in a twitter, I'll be bound. He's got a fancy way with words, surely.”