The Water Nymph (20 page)

But this encouragement was gratuitous, for Crispin could read his victory on the sheriff’s face. “Thurston, the Burgundy,” he repeated, and this time Thurston’s departure went unhindered.

To Crispin’s disappointment, however, his interruption did not lure the searchers from their work. Before his eyes, they carefully unhooked the clasps around one of the panels below his book-shelves and used the ax to pry the panel off. Crispin was wishing that Thurston were back with the wine already as the panel pulled away to reveal an opening. He was not even swallowing, let alone breathing, when the beady-eyed man took a lit candle and inserted both it and his head into the opening.

He exclaimed something that sounded to Crispin like, “I’m an asses mother,” and pulled his head out of the opening. His face was white and his eyes, though still beady, were opened so far they looked almost normal.

“What is it?” Basil was there, beside him. “Did you find her?”

The beady-eyed man moved his head first right, then left, and Crispin wanted to kiss him. The man gulped, reached his hand in, and brought it out. “I found this.” The light of the candle sent prisms of color around the room as it was caught in the facets of the ruby bracelet the man was holding up. “And that’s not all.” He reached in again and pulled out a gold cord with eight thumbnail-sized emeralds dangling from it, a choker set with two dozen diamonds, and a pair of matching earrings.

Basil shot a look of sheer malice at Crispin, who had thrown himself into a chair and was chortling audibly next to the raven, who was dancing a jig and repeating, “Get the ax, forty-two, pull the daisy,” over and over again.

“Do you think to toy with us, Lord Sandal?” Basil’s bulging eyes flashed. “Do you think we are playing at something here?”

“No, my friend.” Crispin felt cordial. “Nothing of the kind. It is merely that I have been looking all over for the family jewels and could not think where I had left them. They must have slipped back behind a book.”

Crispin had never before seen the objects being displayed, was certain that they did not number among the famed Foscari family jewels, nor had he known of the secret compartment under his bookshelves. He was laughing for each of those reasons, as well as the expression on Basil’s face, but they were not what made his laugh so resonant. Although all of that was amusing, what was more than amusing was the relief that swept over him when he saw that while they had uncovered a treasure trove, his
tesoro
was still safely hidden.

He played the unconcerned, jovial host. “I cannot thank you enough for recovering my precious objects. This really does call for some wine.”

Thurston appeared then and began pouring and distributing beakers of the King of France’s finest vintage to the searchers, even giving a small sip to the raven. Basil would not let them bring the cups to their lips until Crispin and his bird had each taken a swallow, but soon the sound of containers being greedily emptied could be heard. Crispin gestured to Thurston to refill the glasses, but Basil intervened, earning him little gratitude from Crispin and even less from his men.

Crispin’s wine caper had bought him a moment’s respite, but in the end the search continued unimpeded. He tried again to intoxicate the men when it was discovered that his armoire had a false floor, but a sign from Thurston told him he need not waste any more of his remaining barrel of France’s finest, and nothing but an old shoe buckle was found.

They had just finished probing the last of the crevices of Crispin’s half-ruined apartment—including, at Basil’s order, a thorough dismantling of the burnt-out hulk of Crispin’s bed—and were making ready to extend the search to the other forty-odd chambers of Sandal Hall, when one of the searchers whistled out. He was in the privy off the library, studiously studying something on the floor.

Crispin rushed over to him, breathing down his neck, straining to see, but there was nothing there. Or so he thought until he looked at the man’s hand.

One ruby red hair shimmered between the man’s stubby fingers. One glorious, precious hair, a jewel in an unsuitable setting. Crispin’s first impulse was to eat it, thus disposing of the evidence, but Thurston’s voice intervened.

“This is an embarrassment, Your Lordship,” the steward said, hanging his head. “I should be checking on the staff more closely. Clearly that redheaded chambermaid lost it when she was cleaning the privy. I am very sorry, my lord.”

“You say this belongs to one of the staff?” The sheriff was asking Thurston, but he looked at Crispin.

“Yes.” Crispin coughed. “That is quite right.”

“I would very much like to see this maid.” Basil used the same tone he might have used if a child had told him there were three pink unicorns in his garden. He smiled his oily smile. “Please have her sent up. Unless she is mysteriously unavailable.”

“Certainly.” Crispin nodded heartily. “Thurston, bring the girl who cleaned the privy. The one with the red hair. And do not dawdle.”

Crispin had no idea if he had any servants with red hair, could scarcely remember if he had any servants at all, so tightly was his mind gripped with anxiety. He knew that according to the Queen’s law, if they did not find any evidence of Sophie’s presence, they could merely search his house, but then would have to leave. If they found out that the hair belonged to Sophie, however, if they found any evidence at all of her presence at Sandal Hall, they could occupy his house for days, weeks even, dismantle it brick by brick, to find her. Sophie’s only hope, his only hope, was to convince them that it was not her hair, that it belonged to someone else.

As the minutes mounted into almost half an hour, Crispin grew more anxious and Basil more smug. The searchers had ample time to complete their reinspection of Crispin’s privy closet, without finding another telltale red hair, as well as finish with Crispin’s apartment entirely, and had set about removing all forty paintings of famous Sandal ancestors from the walls of the long gallery, before Thurston reappeared accompanied by a tall, dark-eyed woman. Crispin recognized her at once as one of the women he had helped free from prison three days earlier. What Crispin had not noticed then, had been too preoccupied to pay attention to, was that she had long reddish brown hair.

“Here is the maid.” Thurston led the woman forward. “She is called Helena.”

Basil took one look at her and blanched. “But—” he began and cut himself off.

“Is something wrong, Basil?” Crispin was all solicitousness. “You look peaked.”

Basil was not meeting his eyes because he was staring at Helena, who was staring back at him impassively.

“Do you two know each other?” Crispin asked upon observing this.

“No.” Basil’s answer was positive. “But I see that she does indeed have red hair. It must be hers that was found in the privy. Men, continue your search.”

“Don’t you want to compare the hairs, sir?” the sheriff asked.

“That will not be necessary. Back to work, all of you.” Basil waved his arms around. “Sound the walls to make sure there are no hidden compartments. Leave nothing untried. I know she is here. I can feel her.”

Crispin, who had learned years earlier not to be astonished by anything his steward did, was astonished. When the men had returned to work and Helena had disappeared through one of the serving doors, he led Thurston to a corner and demanded, “How did you do that?”

Thurston cleared his throat. “I happened to know that Miss Helena had the misfortune to come upon Lord Grosgrain the younger in the arbor that connects Hen House and Grosgrain Place yesterday.”

“He did not harm her in any way, did he?” Crispin asked, his face becoming dark.

“No, my lord. But he was naked. And reading odes to beauty, sir. Of his own composition.”

“Basil? Naked? Reciting poetry?”

“Yes, sir. To a cat, sir. Wearing the sapphire tiara you gave his stepmother two and a half years ago.” Thurston sounded as if he were apologizing for having to mention such things. “As you can imagine, Basil was not overcome with delight to have been so discovered. And I merely surmised that presented with a choice between having his unfortunate behavior revealed to the sheriff and yourself or dismissing the evidence of the hair, he would select the latter.”

Crispin, who was trying simultaneously to picture a cat in a tiara while avoiding picturing Basil naked, took a moment to respond. “Absolutely marvelous,” he said finally. “That was utterly, simply, incredibly marvelous. Comple—”

Crispin would have continued his torrent of laudatory adverbs if a whoop from the other end of the long gallery had not stopped him. It had been emitted by the stout searcher, the one who would never get another opportunity to quaff the King of France’s wine if Crispin had anything to say about it.

“I think we have it this time!” The stout searcher called out to his colleagues. “I found a secret door!”

Crispin wheeled to look at Thurston, to take solace in his always calm, always reassuring presence, but instead of being by his side, his steward was rushing toward the yelling man, with Unseemly Haste and a frown crinkling his brow.

The door in the long gallery turned out to lead to a forgotten storehouse, filled with the toys and games that had been confiscated from Crispin and his brother, Ian, by The Aunts when they misbehaved. He saw their set of bones, and tennis rackets, a shovelboard stick, and, best of all, the checkers that Crispin had received from his grandfather Benton Walsingham for his tenth birthday.

Crispin had still had energy, at that point, to run his hands over the games and smile at the memories they evoked, smile at the prospect of teaching his niece, Tullia, to play with them when she was old enough, smile at the unnecessary perturbation the discovery of a heretofore unknown room had caused the imperturbable Thurston. He had still had time and room in his mind to think such idle thoughts, because he had not yet begun to worry about Sophie, worry first about her running out of candles if the search went on much longer, then about her starving, then about her being found.

Two other false alarms revealed more compartments with jewels—more emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds than Crispin had ever dreamt of possessing, not to mention the pearl tiara or the aquamarine doublet clasps. Even then he had still had enough energy to indulge in the savory image of Sophie draped in the gems, outshining their luster with her own. But by the time the last door had been found, the one that led to a long tunnel with four cells off it, ending in a large, round, chamber beneath his garden, Crispin had to admit that he was tired. And anxious.

At the beginning of the search, Crispin had not actually been concerned that it would uncover its object. Sophie was well hidden, Thurston had seen to that. But as the time wore on, as minutes turned to hours and hours to half a day, as the thoroughness of the searchers continued to turn up hidden compartments and rooms, his concern grew. Could she possibly be
that
well hidden?

When the nagging of this thought managed to suck the pleasure even out of tormenting Basil about his lousy alibi, Crispin knew he had to do something. Part of him thought it would be better to get away from Sandal Hall, to take a walk, to pay another visit to Lawrence, to do anything but pace back and forth as the walls, floors, moldings, and furnishings of his house were dismantled. But he could not bring himself to leave. If Sophie was going to be found, if she was going to go back to prison, he wanted to be there.

It was not her going back to prison that concerned him the most, although that would be unpleasant. It was what could be waiting for her there. The warrant that Basil had shown him was authentic, but it was also suspicious. To begin with, it was not the normal warrant that would be issued to find an escaped criminal. In addition, Crispin knew that it was no easy task to get a warrant to search a nobleman’s house, particularly one as wealthy as he was. It certainly would have taken more than the anonymous tips Basil alluded to. It would have required influence, significant influence inside the Queen’s Privy Council. And perseverance.

Whoever was the real impetus behind the warrant had to be both powerful and powerfully taken with the idea of finding Sophie Champion. Not in the interest of justice, but for some other reason. And Crispin did not like that thought at all.

Nor, if he was being especially honest, did he like the thought of not spending the night with her that night. Or of not hearing what it was she was going to say before Thurston had interrupted them on the bank of the Thames.

Crispin was startled when a shout from the adjacent room signaled the discovery of some new hollow panel or other, but his heart stopped racing as soon as he saw that it was just more jewels. He decided to forgo the extraordinary thrill of watching the rest of the search for the much more mundane pleasure of digging in his garden and was just heading to his apartment to change when a brisk voice called out to him.

“Nephew,” Lady Priscilla chirped, beckoning him into The Aunt’s sitting room. “We have drawn up a list of candidates to be your wife, and we want to go over them with you. Now.”

“I cannot thank you enough, but just at the moment I have an appointment,” Crispin improvised.

“No appointment is as important as settling this question of your marriage,” Lady Eleanor informed him, pointing him into a stern-looking straight-backed chair. “Now, sit down and we shall describe the girls to you, and you will pick one. Who is first, sister?”

“Althea Bordine,” Lady Priscilla read out from a pile of papers in front of her as soon as Crispin was seated. “A very good family, the Bordines, from Hertfordshire. Althea eats only cabbage.”

“Eats only cabbage?” Crispin repeated, shifting in the narrow seat.

“Yes. She says that our modern diet, with so many ingredients, ruins the palate and corrupts the digestion,” Lady Priscilla explained. “Think how salubrious that will be for your children.”

“Not to mention economical,” Lady Eleanor added. “Your father, our brother, dear Hugo, was a great one for economy.” She paused to sigh in the great man’s memory. “Who is next, sister?”

“Anconia Rasher-Rasher, of the Rasher-Rasher’s of Norfolk. Your father, dear Hugo, went to school with her father,” Lady Priscilla told Crispin.

Crispin looked grim. “What does she eat?”

“Oh, Anconia eats everything. But she will live only in a gray house. That is, a house in which all the furnishings are gray. She believes color dulls the senses and blocks the path to spiritual salvation.”

“She is a terribly spiritual person,” Lady Eleanor went on before Crispin could express his dismay. “It is said that she regularly communes with Archangel Michael. That sort of spiritual upbringing would be wonderful for your children.”

“Wonderful,” Crispin muttered. He could have sworn his chair was getting more narrow.

“Do you like her, nephew?” Lady Priscilla asked enthusiastically. “Shall we stop, then? Is she your selection?”

“No.” Crispin was surprised to note that he almost shouted the word. He tried to shift in his seat but found that he was stuck. “No, pray go on,” he said, gesturing awkwardly. “You went to such effort, I should really hear them all.”

“Very well.” Lady Priscilla consulted the list for the next name. “Appollonia Saint Alderghiest.”

“Saint Alderghiest.” Crispin experimented with crossing one ankle over the other and decided against it. “Is she another spiritualist?”

Lady Eleanor shook her head indulgently. “No, no. If anything, she is a bit of a rebel.”

“Yes,” Lady Priscilla picked up. “She will not touch water.”

“Do you mean she does not know how to swim?” Crispin asked.

“No,” Lady Priscilla went on. “She won’t take a drop of water. Not to drink. Or to bathe in. She does not believe in it. She has not bathed in, oh, how long would you say, sister?”

“I believe she said twelve years. Ever since she was out of swaddling.”

Crispin’s genuine interest in this incomprehensible behavior, as well as his very real fear that The Aunts had contrived to hold him hostage by pinning him to his chair, were both suddenly overtaken by a chilling realization.

“How have you organized this list?” Crispin asked, trying to sound casual.

“Alphabetically, of course,” Lady Priscilla replied. “Your father, our brother, dear Hugo, always said that was the only way to organize a list.” .

“Alphabetically by first name,” Lady Eleanor expanded.

“Alphabetically by first name,” Crispin repeated, thinking that those were the four most terrifying words in the English language. “And we have reached Appollonia.’ How many names are on the list, would you say, dearest aunt?”

Lady Priscilla did not answer right away. Instead, she shuffled through a tall sheaf of papers on the table in front of her, her lips moving as she counted the names down. This had gone on for a long time, an ominously long time, when she looked up. “I lost count for a moment, but I should say not more than one hundred.”

“One hundred.” Crispin pronounced each syllable carefully.

“Shall we continue?” Lady Eleanor asked, then frowned. “Nephew, why are you sitting like that?”

Lady Priscilla, not wanting to miss an opportunity to improve Crispin, joined in. “Yes, why are you slouching? Your father, our brother, dear Hugo, never slouched. ‘Posture makes the man,’ he always used to say. Now, going on to Arianne Corner-Bludstone—”

Crispin did not wait to hear more. He rose abruptly from the chair, almost taking one of its arms with him, executed a quick bow to both Aunts, spluttered something about not feeling well, and was out of the room before they could comment or even realize what had happened.

He stalked down the hallway like a madman, greedily drinking in the air of freedom, and almost ran over Basil and the sheriff as he rounded the corner to his apartment.

“There you are,” Basil pronounced, pulling back as if from a venomous snake.

Basil’s discomfort restored a large part of Crispin’s good humor in a flash. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked convivially.

“I have just come to say, Lord Sandal, that we have finished.”

“Must you go so soon?” Crispin shook his head. “Pity, it is nearly time for dinner and my cook really is superb. Tell me, did you find her?”

“Not this time.” Basil tried to make the words sound threatening.

“Does that mean I can count on a return visit from you tomorrow?” Crispin asked hopefully. “If this is to be a regular thing, I will have to restock my cellar.”

“Where have you hidden her?” Basil demanded.

“My dear neighbor,” Crispin said, jocularly, “I assure you that I have not hidden Sophie Champion anywhere. I have no more secrets from you than you do from me.”

Basil tried to look menacing and ignore Crispin’s last comment simultaneously. “I will be back,” he said, clenching a fist. “I will be back with another warrant, I promise you that.”

“And I shall look forward to it. It is a joy to see a gentleman take such undisguised—one might even say naked—pride in his patriotic duty,” Crispin commended him. “Indeed, if you were any more eager to get Sophie Champion arrested, I would think you had murdered Richard Tottle yourself and were trying desperately to pin it on her.”

Crispin had spoken his parting words to the man’s back, but Basil now swung around to face him. “What did you say, my lord?”

“Nothing.” Crispin smiled widely. “Just a little banter between neighbors. Good day, Lord Grosgrain.”

Basil stood, quivering for a moment, then turned and stomped down the stairs and out of Sandal Hall in the company of the sheriff. The searchers followed, and Crispin had a broad, fake smile for each of them, especially the beady-eyed one. When they had all gone, when the front door was closed and bolted, Crispin turned and hollered, “Thurston!”

There was no answer.

“Thurston,” he called again.

Nothing.

This was bad. “Thurston, man, where the devil are you?”

“I believe he said he was going for a walk with a lady, my lord,” a timid serving boy told Crispin.

“A walk?” Thurston never went for a walk. “Why? Where? When?”

“I do not know, my lord. Not long ago, my lord. I am very sorry, my lord.”

Crispin prided himself on being terrifying to his enemies, but not to fifteen-year-old serving boys. “Thank you,” he said politely, taking himself in hand. “You have done very well, and you need not apologize.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am sorry, my lord,” the boy repeated, simultaneously bowing and running down the hall.

Crispin cursed under his breath as he crossed the threshold into his library. Thurston was the only person who knew where Sophie was hidden, the only person who knew how to bring her back, and now he had disappeared. Gone for a walk? Idiocy! What if something happened to him? Crispin wondered with alarm. What if he got run over by a carriage, or trampled by a horse, and never came back, and Sophie wasted away from hunger? It probably would not take her long, she was most likely wasting away already, and if Thurston delayed any longer…

Crispin’s mind spun round and round ridiculous hypotheses of the terrible harm that might at that very moment be befalling Thurston, while Grip chattered by his side. “King of France,” the bird called out. “Get the ax, King of France, forty-two, pull the daisy, King of France, get the girl.”

Still devising terrible ends for Thurston, Crispin toyed idly with the items on his desk. There were quills, papers, a statue, a book about plants, and a short dagger some aged relative had given him when he was ten, which he now used to open correspondence. The desk had been his father’s, along with the statue, and he had not bothered to change or move either of them when he inherited the library. It was not that he was sentimental in any way about his father’s possessions, or even about his father. “Dear Hugo” had always been much more of a mythic construction propagated by The Aunts than a real figure in Crispin’s life. Not only did he seem so perfect as to be unapproachable, but he had also been too busy to pay any attention to his sons. Crispin’s most frequent memories of his father were of discovering him in one of the pavilions on the family estate in the country, completely lost in the buxom embraces of a wildly moaning chambermaid.

“Get the girl, King of France, pull the daisy,” the raven chirped.

When he had inherited that estate, Crispin had picked up where his father had left off with the chambermaids, proud that at least he could emulate the great man in something. But his father must have heard something in those moans, found something in those buxom embraces, that Crispin did not. Those affairs, those years of affairs, had left him unfulfilled. Crispin had wondered about “dear Hugo” after that, about the man who could be content with such passing pleasures, and had even asked himself if perhaps it was not a deficiency on his part that he could not be.

Grip hopped up and down. “Bring the ax, King of France, forty-two,” he chorused.

Crispin had sold that estate before leaving England two and a half years earlier and had sold off most of his father’s furnishings at Sandal Hall, but he had kept the library desk because it was commodious. And the statue that stood on the corner, because it was there. He looked at the statue now, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time, and was struck by how very ugly it was.