The Golden Leopard (31 page)

She glanced at Duran, seated directly across from her, but he was studying the wine swirling around in the glass suspended between his hands. She continued to watch him surreptitiously as Lord Philpot described the visit of his son and daughter and their families, the stately funeral, and how he had arrived home in time to hold Clarissa in his arms while she drew her last breaths.

For all the solemnity of his monologue, the luncheon was surprisingly pleasant. Lord Philpot sometimes got lost in his own reminiscences, but she was fascinated by the picture he sketched of a long and happy marriage. By the time they moved to the drawing room for coffee, she was entirely at ease with him, so much so that she found herself describing the purpose of her unusual wedding journey.

“A native idol, you say?” Lord Philpot rubbed his chin. “I’m a shareholder in the Company, as you are aware, but I’ve no interest in Indian art. Not to my taste. All arms and legs, those carvings and statues. And that monstrous Pavilion at Brighton! What happens when an Englishman gets caught up in a passing fancy.”

“But other than the king,” she said carefully, “do you know of anyone with a passing fancy for Indian artifacts?”

While Philpot considered the question, he offered Duran a cigar that, to her disgust, was accepted. “Do you mind, my dear?” Philpot asked belatedly. “Clarissa always left the room when I smoked.”

She shook her head, but when neither man ignited his cigar, she knew her true feelings had been obvious. She must learn how to conceal them.

“There’s Old Holcombe, of course, up in the Mendips, but I’ve heard nothing of him for several years. He’s the one restored that castle, you know, or worked at it until his money ran out. He had a nephew, his sister’s son, taken in as an infant when both parents went down from typhus. Doted on the boy, never mind the hands. Webbed like a duck’s paddlers.”

From the corners of her eyes, she saw Duran come to attention.

Philpot was absorbed in his story. “The story was he had his forefingers cut free before he went off to school, but it turned into a bloody mess and he wouldn’t let a surgeon have at the others. Later, after being sent down from Oxford, he took up with a bad crowd. Flattered they’d have him, I daresay, but the gaming cost him every penny he had. Then they let him sign vouchers, and soon he was nose-high in River Tick. The Beast is no man to be indebted to, I can tell you that. He holds the mortgage on the family estate in Kent. That drove Holcombe north to the castle keep, and he never comes out of it that I know of. Odd bird. Always was.”

“I know his reputation,” Jessica said. “What became of the nephew?”

“Went out to India five or six years ago, which is why I thought to mention him. Swore he’d pay off the mortgages and restore the family fortune, such as it was, or die trying. I heard he wound up in the Company army.”

“His name wasn’t Bickford, by any chance?” Duran had put down his wineglass and was leaning forward in his chair. “Is Holcombe the family surname, or a title?”

Philpot’s wide forehead wrinkled as he considered. “Never heard of Bickford. The family name is Holcombe, but the old fellow picked up a baronetcy or something of the sort by selling Egyptian gewgaws at a loss to the Regent back in ‘07. It didn’t stick, though. He’s always been called Old Holcombe. Never married, either. As for the boy, he is meant to inherit the castle, but the estate is probably willed to the legitimate heir, Holcombe’s brother. The Beast will have it in the end, though. He always gets what he sets his sights on.”

“A most unpleasant gentleman,” Jessica said, looking for a way to bring the subject to more fertile ground. She couldn’t imagine why Duran had developed a sudden fascination with Old Holcombe and his relations. “It happens we are also attempting to trace four men who spent time in India and may have returned to England within the last year. Are you by chance acquainted with Percival Fairleigh? Geoffrey Laxton? Paign Goudhurst, or William Romsey?”

“I’m afraid not. Well, I knew a Fairleigh from Norfolk, but that was at Eton. No contact since.” His brow furrowed. “The other . . . How is Goudhurst’s first name spelled?”

“P-a-i-g-n. An unusual name.”

“For a Christian name, yes. But it was the surname of Old Holcombe’s nephew. Richard Paign, or perhaps Robert. I cannot recall, and it probably means nothing. I’m sorry I cannot help you, my dear.”

Duran spoke up. “As you say, there is unlikely to be a connection. But if Holcombe’s castle is not too great a distance, it might be worth paying him a call.”

She could tell he wanted her to agree. “I don’t see why not. But if we are to make a stop before Clifton, where lodging has been reserved for tonight, we must be on our way. Would you be so kind, Lord Philpot, to provide us the direction?”

Disappointment in his eyes, Philpot nonetheless smiled and lumbered to his feet. “I’ll have John Coachman sketch a map for you to take,” he said, tugging the bellpull. “The castle is perched in the Mendips, and the roads in that area are poor. Mind you, Holcombe may not admit you. Reclusive chap, and certain he is about to be robbed at any moment. I’m told he hires bullyboys and keeps dogs.”

When Philpot had gone to secure the map and a basket of refreshments for their journey, Duran rose and beckoned Jessica to a display of hunting scenes occupying most of one wall. A younger, more slender Lord Philpot rode to hounds in several of them.

Duran, laughing, pointed to the hind end of a horse jumping a fence, but his eyes were intense. “Listen carefully,” he said, “and pretend we’re talking about these paintings. Shivaji is to know nothing of what Philpot just told us. Do not under any circumstances mention Paign by name, or refer to a nephew of Holcombe who went to India.”

“You think it’s significant?”

“I know it is. Shivaji found Bickford’s body, I told you that, and described to me what he’d seen. The fingers, some of them, were deformed. He didn’t specify how, but I’d wager that Bickford, like Paign Goudhurst, was a name adopted by Holcombe’s nephew.”

“Goudhurst is a village in Kent,” she said. “It makes sense he’d choose something familiar to respond to, such as part of his real name and a place he knew well. But why are we concealing this information from Shivaji? I thought you wanted to go to the castle.”

“I do.” He directed her attention to a picture of a fox encircled by a pack of long-toothed hounds. “It will be your task to persuade him to make the detour without handing him our trump card.”

“I . . . But how? He didn’t want to come
here.
I’ll never convince him to follow another of my whims.”

“On the contrary. You could talk the paint off a wall. But this time, princess, you’ll be strictly on your own. If Shivaji thinks I’m in favor of dropping by the castle, he’ll whisk us off in the opposite direction.”

“He will in any case. Without an incentive, such as the information you intend to withhold, why should he listen to me? And you overestimate my talents, Duran. When we were gulling Gerald, my knees were knocking the entire time. Matched against Shivaji, I haven’t a chance.”

“Ah,” said Lord Philpot from the doorway. “You like my paintings. Well, mine in that I commissioned them. Did you recognize anyone in the pictures?”

“If you are referring to the handsome gentleman on the splendid bay, I did indeed,” said Jessica, smiling. What a love he was, and only days after his wife’s death, how lonely he seemed to be. She resolved to visit him whenever she could. When Duran was gone, it would probably be often.

The compliment pleased Lord Philpot, who, she was sure, had never much resembled the Adonis in those pictures. “Here it is, then,” he said, beaming. “A map to Holcombe’s Folly—that’s what we call it, but don’t tell him—and a letter of introduction in case it proves useful. A gift as well, because he’s a greedy chap. And there’s a nice basket being put into the carriage, although your valet insisted on inspecting the contents.”

That last was a question, Jessica apprehended.

“Old habits die hard,” said Duran with a shrug. “Before I employed him, Shivaji was a food taster for a petty tyrant in the Punjab. Poisons ate away half his stomach, which is why he’s always got a sour expression on his face.”

Lord Philpot’s eyebrows shot up. “The devil you say! But they must hire out cheaply, those native chaps. I mean, that is quite an entourage of foreign servants you travel with.”

“An affectation, m’wife tells me.” Duran lifted his arm, letting his coat sleeve fall back to disclose the jeweled bracelet. “Like this one. The spouse of a successful businesswoman has to keep up appearances.”

“Never mind him,” Jessica said, crossing to take Lord Philpot’s arm. “Sometimes he fancies he’s amusing, but that’s only when the malarial fever is on him. Happily, it’s not contagious.”

As she bade farewell to her host in the courtyard, she saw Duran emerge from the house with a lit cigar between his teeth. He sauntered to the carriage, slouched against the door panel, and said something to Shivaji, who was standing quietly nearby. When the valet glanced in her direction, she assumed the remark had concerned her.

Because she was nervous, or perhaps because she sensed Lord Philpot would be glad of it, she drew closer and brushed a kiss over his flushed cheek. “I shall call on you soon,” she promised, “here or in London.”

Tears sprang to his eyes, and unable to bear seeing them, she kissed him again and fled in the direction of Shivaji. From deep sorrow to deep trouble, she thought, mentally girding herself for battle.

“Memsahib,”
he said, bowing, “your errand has been satisfactorily concluded?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave him what she hoped would pass for a smile of gratitude. “Lord Philpot said we arrived at precisely the moment his spirits were plummeting. His family had just gone, leaving him to mourn alone, when the necklace his wife had longed for was given into his hands. It was as if she’d put it there, like a message of enduring love. Is that possible? Might
we
have been sent, as emissaries of a sort, to . . . But no. How absurd. And yet, such a pleasant concurrence, don’t you think? My insistence on honoring an obligation, and his need of what I brought to him. So strange. Oh, but you have been waiting, and we must be off. Clifton next, is it? Well, I shall have a nap.”

With another smile she turned toward the coach. “You had better finish that quickly, Duran, or throw it away.”

Eyes narrowed, he took another draw on the cigar while Arjuna opened the carriage door and lowered the steps.

Philpot’s map was scrunched in her hand. One foot on the step, she looked down as if she’d never seen the paper before, removed her foot, and stood for a moment as if undecided. Then, with a small sigh, she went back to Shivaji.

“I suppose I should tell you about this,” she said, “although it is no doubt unimportant. When I explained to Lord Philpot why we could not remain longer, which he very much wanted us to do, he became quite enthusiastic about our errand. I think he wished to be of help, to repay us for our trouble, but unhappily, he did not know of any collectors we might have overlooked. Then, just before we were to depart, he recollected that a well-known but somewhat dodgy character connected to the antiquities trade is in residence not far from here.”

“Well-known, but not on our list?”

“He dropped from sight a few years ago, and his reputation was none too good in any case. Besides, I’ve never heard him to have collected imports from India. But Lord Philpot insisted on providing a map to the castle that Mr. Holcombe is restoring, and I am going to present it to you as if we plan to use it. Otherwise he will think me ungrateful.”

“If not Indian antiquities, what did Mr. Holcombe procure?” There was no trace of interest in Shivaji’s voice, and while he accepted the map, he did not look at it.

“Oh, just about everything, at one time or another. I’ve never met him, you understand, but his quest to become a member of the Royal Antiquarian Society is something of a legend. He began with the excavation of a Roman villa, but sold more of what he found than he preserved. Then the craze for Egyptiana came in, and he was accused of importing empty sarcophagi and stuffing them with fake mummies. He dabbled in Chinese art when it was the fashion and, claiming to know the location of Confucius’s skull, petitioned the Society to finance an expedition to retrieve it. They declined.”