The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (8 page)

His hopes that some of his neighbours might call were soon dashed. The only caller had been the unfortunate post-boy, who'd come with considerable trepidation to the front door, demanding payment of his fees plus damages for the wrecked chaise and the slain hack. Vespa had questioned him about the accident, but had gained only the information that “they was a pair of proper down-the-road gents.” When they'd refused to stop, the boy said, he'd been sure Vespa was dead, so he had taken the surviving hack and ridden in search of help. By the time a constable could be persuaded to accompany him to the scene of the wreck, there was not a sign of the coach, the dead horse, or the ‘corpse'. The post-boy had been given “a proper bear garden jaw” about telling raspers to officers of the law. “I 'spect gypsies prigged the horse,” the boy said aggrievedly. “And the coach.” Vespa paid the fees and gave the boy a generous douceur, but he was not, he'd declared, “a flat”, and denied responsibility for the damages.

While allowing Secrets to rest her hurt knee, he had began to explore his silent mansion. His first reconnoitre was cursory, involving merely the opening of doors and a quick scan of the dusty, furniture-shrouded interiors. In some cases he discovered rooms leading into connecting rooms. In others, he was thwarted by doors so warped he would exhaust himself in a doomed battle to get them open, prompting a resolve to hire a carpenter as soon as possible. He was continually astonished by the size of the mansion, and stunned when he came upon a good-sized ballroom, hushed and forlorn in its cobwebby emptiness, and flanked by several ante-rooms. In addition to that long-unused chamber, by the end of his preliminary exploration, he had discovered twenty bedchambers—some with adjoining parlours, dressing rooms or servants' rooms; a once extensive library with many dusty books still on the shelves; a schoolroom, weapons and game rooms; a sewing room, study, morning and breakfast parlours; the very large drawing room; a daunting fifty-foot-long formal dining room; the kitchen, scullery and flower rooms, pantry, butler's study, and quarters for at least thirty servants.

On his second tour, he started out armed with a pad and pencil to make notes of the approximate positions and dimensions of the various rooms, and determine which were in repairable condition and which must be closed off. This proved a more taxing endeavour than he'd anticipated. He was irritated to find that he still tired easily and that to persist after his wounds began to throb was to invite a night of misery.

On a late afternoon at the end of his first week's occupancy, he was pacing off the dimensions of a large ante-room at the south end of the ground floor, accompanied as always by Corporal. Once again his night's sleep had been disturbed, this time by a piercing scream. Once again, he'd limped into the corridor only to find it deserted; and once again, he'd woken this morning wondering if any of it had really happened.

The day had been grey, the skies overcast and the sun never putting in an appearance, which might account for the fact that this end of the house was exceptionally chill, and so quiet that he felt deafened by the stillness. He gathered his sketch-pad and papers together and stared down at them, lost in thought. During this entire week he'd scarcely uttered a word to a soul except for the sulky post-boy and an occasional exchange with Strickley. Grudgingly, he faced the fact that he was becoming bored with peace, and dissatisfied with his Spartan menu. And, although he loved to read, he missed human companionship. It was not that he was tired of Alabaster Royal, or that he believed all the ‘ghost' nonsense, but he'd be dashed glad when his friends responded to his letters, or when his coaches and the team arrived.

His introspection was interrupted by an enquiring bark. Corporal sat in the doorway, watching him expectantly. Amused, he said, “Think it's dinner-time, do you? Well, you're likely right, but there's not a banquet awaiting us, I'm afraid.” He reached out to the shaggy little creature, and it started eagerly towards his outstretched hand, only to dart away suddenly and race from sight.

“No banquet, no faithful hound, is that it?” Vespa gathered up his sketchbook and limped into the corridor. There was no sign of the dog, but a scampering sounded from the flight of back stairs that led to the first floor. Vespa hesitated, but the light was fading, and he was cold and hungry. Corporal could find his own way down. He wished it was not so far to the livable part of his inheritance.

It was as he turned away that he caught the first whiff. He jerked to a halt and sniffed. It could not be! Onions frying? And—woodsmoke…?

There
was
someone in his house, by George! The woman he'd seen that first night, no doubt. And not content with trespassing, the wretched creature had the gall to be cooking in one of his bedchambers!

“Confound the wench!” he growled, starting awkwardly up the winding stairs. “It's not my stupid head after all! And this time I've caught her!”

4

Steps were difficult, stairs worse, but rage is an excellent stimulant, and Vespa climbed at a quite respectable speed and arrived in a rush at one end of the dusty upper corridor. Breathless, he came to an abrupt halt. A young woman knelt a few yards from him, caressing Corporal, who wriggled and wagged his small tail ecstatically.

“Poor little soul,” she cooed. “Does he never brush or—”

At this point Vespa recovered sufficient breath to snarl, “Perhaps you'd be good enough … madam, to explain—”

The intruder leapt to her feet and crouched, facing him.

He had a brief impression of a tiny, somewhat plump form, an untidy mass of jet black hair, and wide blue eyes that hurled loathing. Red lips curled back from gnashing white teeth.
“Ora basta! Vada via! Vada via!”
she cried shrilly, and on the words, turned and with a swirl of petticoats and an unseemly display of ankles, ran wildly along the corridor.

Vespa spoke French fairly well and had picked up a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese. These admonitions he could not quite place, but he had the impression he'd been told to do something, and that the something was very probably a demand that he leave.

“Devil take it!” he gasped. “I've got a foreigner in my house, not a ghost! A spy, more like!”

That a foreign agent would dare order him out of his own home brought his rage to the boiling point. He fairly leapt along the corridor and shot around the corner, remembering too late that the manor had been built on different levels. A short flight of stairs shot at him. His fight to retain his balance was doomed, and with a startled shout he plunged down, lost his footing and fell heavily.

For a few seconds he lay there, dazed, the breath knocked out of him.

There came a clicking of claws, and Corporal was licking his face and whining. Vespa opened his eyes, and beyond the dog saw pink skirts and a ridiculously small pair of sandals. Immediately, he closed his eyes again.

“If you are dead,” said the spy, speaking English this time and with no trace of an accent, “you deserve to be.”

‘Vicious little traitor,' thought Vespa. ‘Come a few steps closer, madam, or Señorita, or whatever you are, and I'll show you if I'm dead!'

The sandals crept towards him. “Are you … really … dead?” she asked, seemingly suffering a belated twinge of conscience.

The skirts swished at him. She bent low and touched his face. With a swift pounce, he sprang up and caught her arm. A shriek rang out and he was struggling to hold a wildcat. Small she might be, but she was strong and agile, and as quickly as he secured one arm she freed the other. The sandalled feet lashed out also, and he was the recipient of a torrent of undecipherable and undoubtedly unflattering words.

“Be still, you little termagant,” he panted, holding her in a crushing grip.

“Beast! Monster! Typical
male
that you are! Release me at once!”

He yelped and jerked his hand away as she ducked her untidy head and bit his wrist. “I'll release you all right, my girl!” he panted, tightening his hold on her squirming form. “Into the custody of Constable Blackham!”

Her response was another kick. “Let me go, you—you fiend! Is this how you treat a lady?”

“If you'd try to
behave
like a lady for just a minute, you hoyden, I might—”

“
Brute!
Take that!”

Another voice, even more shrill than that of his captive, entered the unhappy wrangle. Simultaneously, something slammed at Vespa's head. Very hard. And down he went again.

Through a blurred and painful interval, he could hear the girl laughing.

“Bravo! Oh bravo, Grandmama! You got him fairly. And with the frying pan! You have rescued me from the hideous beast!”

The older female voice, having a decided foreign accent, said uneasily, “
Si,
but I trust it is not that I have killed the wretch! He looks very bad, Consuela.”

“Pah! He
mauled
me! Only see my poor arm. I shall be bruised. Besides, he is very strong and likely no more than dazed, if … Oh, dear. His head is bleeding. You did hit him rather hard, Grand-mama. I wonder if he
is
dead this time.”

“
Mama mia!
Then I am a
murderess?
Aieee! I shall be hanged, surely!”

“No you will not!” The girl sounded frightened, but she added, “I will lose no more loved ones. We'll—we'll carry him to the quarry and push him in, and—and no one will ever know!”

Indignant, Vespa gasped, “Why, you wicked little flint-heart!” He tried to sit up, but fell back with an involuntary groan.

Something dabbed at his forehead.

The older lady exclaimed, “Ah, but he has been hurt before this, my Consuela. And see, he is no more than a boy!”

“I am five and twenty,” protested Vespa feebly.

“Exceeding elderly, in fact, is it not so?”

He could see her clearly now, and judged her to be at least sixty. She was slight and even smaller than her granddaughter. The years had etched lines into a face that must once have been lovely; the chin was firm still, but the flesh below it was not, and there were deep creases about the eyes. Those dark eyes were bright; Vespa saw kindness there and entered a plea. “Don't let her throw me in … the quarry, ma'am.”

“Pish! My little meadowlark? Never would she do so evil a thing.”

A rebellious murmur sounded from the “meadowlark”.

Despite his pounding head, Vespa asked the old lady, “Will you tell me what you are doing in—in my house?”

A twinkle came into her eyes. “Cooking dinner.”

“Is it steak and onions?”

“No. It is stew.”

He sighed wistfully. “It smells heavenly.”

“And you are hungry,
si?
Why then you must join us, and we will make the explainings and all will be comfortable. Now do not scowl so, Consuela, or your pretty face will grow lines before you are old. Come and help the Captain like a good girl. We owe him dinner, at the least.”

‘At the
very
least!' thought Vespa.

*   *   *

“But of course I am a duchess! Am I not Francesca Celestina of Ottavio? Was not my dear late husband, God rest his soul, Ludovico, Duke of Ottavio?” Ignoring a murmur from her granddaughter, the “duchess” swept on, “It is a small duchy, this I own. On the French border, but—”

“—But my Grandpapa went to his reward before he could inherit,” interposed the “meadowlark”, ladling a dumpling onto Vespa's plate. “So that his younger brother became the Duke.”

“By all the laws of decency,” said the duchess, glaring at her, “my Ludovico
should
have become the Duke! Give the Captain more of the meat, do, Consuela. He is skin and bone, and has eaten nothing save bacon and eggs and cheese since he came here!”

A cup of strong tea had helped restore Vespa, although his head still ached unpleasantly. Seated at a small table in a stark but immaculate bedroom that had been converted to a makeshift kitchen, he said, “I couldn't get this door open when I was looking over the manor. Now I see why. May I ask for how long you have been enjoying my involuntary hospitality?”

Consuela's head jerked down and she hissed in his ear, “You see good food set before you, Captain John Vespa! Eat, and keep your mouth closed!”

“Difficult of accomplishment,” he drawled. “Moreover, although you appear to know my name, madam, I've not been—er, favoured—with yours.”

“‘Favoured' being the correct word,” she said haughtily. “I will tell you that I am Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones.” And with an airy wave of the long-handled spoon that promptly sprayed gravy in all directions, she sank into a regal curtsy.

Vespa wiped gravy from his cheek.
“Jones?”

“Certainly, Jones!” Taking a seat at the table, she demanded, “Why not Jones? What, I should like to know, is wrong with Jones?”

“Not wrong, my love.” The duchess passed a basket of warm bread that smelled almost as delectable as the stew. “Regrettable, but not wrong.”

“About my darling Papa there was nothing regrettable! He was the best man who ever lived! And the most clever and talented, and—”

“And English,” put in the duchess.

“That—yes,” admitted Consuela. “But how should one blame him?”

“I'd say, rather, he might have been congratulated,” said Vespa.

“Yes, you would! Because you are English, which is bad, and a
man,
which is worse,” she retaliated fiercely. “And if you had a vestige of manners, you would wait till my Grandmama says grace before you attacked your food like any hungry pig!”

Gritting his teeth, and knowing his face was red, Vespa bowed his head as grace was duly said. “Pray forgive my lapse of manners,” he then murmured drily. “I fear I am not familiar with the protocol to be observed when dining in a bedchamber.”