The Golden Leopard (33 page)

“Precisely. For all we know, the nizam’s rival beat Shivaji to Madras, got his hands on the leopard, and waited for the right moment to launch his coup. He might be sitting on the throne of Alanabad as we speak.”

“That would be Malik Rao? The cult leader?”

Duran frowned. “I told you about him?”

“Having trouble keeping track of your stories again?” she inquired kindly. “Don’t worry. You may always consult me. I remember every word you ever said.”

“Lucky me,” he said with a grin meant to disarm her.

It didn’t work. “Isn’t it strange, though? The same night you appeared at Christie’s, I was trying to escape you when Lord Philpot blocked my way, nattering about his urgent need for an Etruscan necklace to give his wife. Then you enticed me. Don’t scowl. You
did
entice me to join you on this search for a stolen idol, but along the way, we encountered a woman with an Etruscan necklace who just happened to know of Lady Philpot’s illness. At which point I insisted on rushing to deliver the necklace, and that led to the discovery of Bickford’s true identity and the first real clue you have to the whereabouts of your leopard. It is . . . Oh, I don’t know. Shivaji would have a word for it.”

“So do I. The scientific term is
coincidence.
”

“If you say so.” Did he really believe that, or merely want to believe it? For that matter, she could ask the same question of herself, except that she might not like the answer.

The carriage slowed, made a turn, and picked up speed again. Not much speed—it had been moving cautiously for the past half hour—but enough to make her snap open the window shade and peer outside.

The road, such as it was, had narrowed until it was barely wide enough to accommodate the coach. Shoulder-high hedgerows scratched against the side panels. Beyond the hedgerows, the rolling hills were studded with sheep and an occasional congregation of placid cows. But even as she watched, the terrain grew progressively more rocky and barren. Distorted trees clawed at the sky. It was as if they’d entered a country designed by a sorcerer, a land of uncertain magic and unhappy dreams.

Then they rounded a curve, and she saw, atop a hill higher than all the others around it, the jagged outline of a castle wall.

A chill nosed along her spine.

As the coach clattered across
the plank drawbridge, a pair of unfamiliar outriders drew alongside. Like the two who had traveled with them from the first, the newcomers wore crisp tunics and trousers, had knives at their belts, and carried rifles and sabers in scabbards attached to their saddles. There were eight guards now, counting Shivaji, Arjuna, and the men on the driver’s bench. Jessica let go her last thread of hope that Shivaji was no more than a swindler masquerading as a valet. Common criminals, she was sure, did not travel with their own private armies.

Once inside the courtyard, she could see what had not been visible from the road. Nearly two-thirds of the castle wall had been reduced to piles of rubble, the best stones quarried by the locals to construct their own houses and barns. Most of the outbuildings were little more than roofless shells. But the tall limestone castle keep, its oriel windows reflecting the late-afternoon sun, had been lovingly restored.

While Duran was handing her from the carriage, they were approached by a barrel-shaped man with a rifle cradled in his thick arms. He was missing one ear.

“The castle ain’t open to visitors,” he snarled. “Take them foreigners and get out.”

“I am Lord Duran,” came the smooth response, “and this is my wife, Lady Jessica, daughter of the Earl of Sothingdon. You are not, I take it, Mr. Holcombe.”

“He don’t see nobody.”

“He will see us. We have brought to him a letter from his neighbor, Lord Philpot, along with a gift, and Lady Jessica, a noted antiquarian who has long admired his talents, wishes to propose a profitable business arrangement. Your employer would not be pleased to learn you sent her away.”

At
profitable
the man’s eyes lit up. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll arsk him.”

There was another man with a rifle watching from the shadows of a doorway, but otherwise, the bailey appeared to be deserted. Beyond the walls, rooks cawed from the treetops and a few sheep grazed on the browning grass.

Jessica glanced over at Shivaji, silent and impassive on his disciplined chestnut, his hands folded on the pommel. He must be evaluating the likelihood his leopard was denned in that keep. Duran, beneath a veneer of lazy boredom, practically vibrated with impatience. In that mood, she mistrusted him entirely.

Five minutes passed before the surly man returned and led them into the keep. Her first impression was of chaos. The entrance hall resembled an attic, with vases and statues and knickknacks littering every possible surface. All of them needed a good dusting. Her practiced eye spotted a decent Chinese vase next to a fake Japanese screen, a nice Lodovico plate propped against an ugly brass firedog. Holcombe seemed unable to distinguish between quality and junk, and had apparently lost interest in the pieces he had accumulated over the years. If a golden leopard was lurking in this jungle of odds and ends, she would be hard put to find it.

Holcombe himself, a gaunt man with sparse curly hair and a bad cough, received them in a library overflowing with ill-preserved books. The room smelled of damp leather, ink and moldy paper. His skin, Jessica saw as Duran presented her, had an unhealthy yellow-gray tinge.

Arjuna had accompanied them, carrying a large wooden box. Holcombe eyed him suspiciously.

“. . . and Lord Philpot has sent you this letter and his regards,” Duran was saying, “along with a selection of wines from his excellent cellar.”

Arjuna deposited the gift on a cluttered table and quietly departed.

“Well, well, then,” said Holcombe, smiling at the box. “And what am I expected to do in return for this largesse?”

Duran slanted her a look that said she was to take up the baton.

“Why, nothing at all, sir.” Her voice, from nerves, had pitched itself too high. Duran looked pained. “Your reputation among collectors of art and antiquities is sterling, and since I entered the profession, I have heard nothing but praise for you and astonishment that your achievements have gone unrecognized by the Royal Society of Antiquarians. Naturally, the incongruity caused me to want to make your acquaintance.”

Holcombe’s expression of pleasure was quickly replaced by a scowl. “I was told you had a business proposition to offer. You needn’t bother. I don’t do business with females.”

“I am sorry to hear it, sir. But if you have no need of the money, then I hope you will accept my compliments on your fascinating collection. I have seen only the fringes of it as we were escorted here, but there were a number of pieces that would fetch a good price at auction, and others that private collectors would wish to purchase directly.”

“And you, of course, would slice off a hefty commission.”

“In general the seller allots me ten percent. But for the opportunity to represent the collection of a legendary antiquarian, I would happily reduce that figure.”

Holcombe began to cough and seemed unable to control it. He pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, and when he took it away, the linen was flecked with blood.

Jessica felt suddenly guilty. This man was seriously ill, and she had set herself to exploit him.

A moment later Duran was at her side, one arm wrapped around her, his fingers digging into her waist. He must have sensed that she was wavering. She thought, sometimes, that he knew her better than she knew herself.

“Under ordinary circumstances, Lady Jessica would have written for an appointment,” he said. “But we chanced to be passing by and decided to ask if you would permit me to examine what you have acquired from the subcontinent, particularly India. My own expertise is from that part of the world, but since I rarely travel with my wife, this might be the only opportunity for you to have, free of charge or obligation, an evaluation of that portion of your collection.”

“
Hmpf
. Well, nothing much here.” Holcombe appeared reluctant to turn down anything free. “No profit to be had importing from India. Everyone and his brother has gone out there hoping to make himself a nabob, only to cart home a passel of trinkets. You can buy everything there is to be had at any village market. But I’ve no objection to you having a look.”

Another spate of coughing. Holcombe lurched toward the door. “My niece will show you around. Wait here. You can send word if you find anything of value.”

“He’s not got long,” Duran said when the door had closed. “If he hadn’t insulted you, I’d ask Shivaji to see what he could do for that cough.”

“Don’t let concern for me stop you. I’ve spent the past six years letting insults wash down my back.”

He pressed a kiss on her temple, a silent reassurance that meant more than words. No one in her life had ever known so intuitively what it was she needed. How would she bear it when he was gone?

The door opened, and they turned to see a frail man in a Bath chair being wheeled in by a strikingly beautiful young woman. Her ice-blue eyes were direct and intelligent, and her hair, held back with ebony clasps, was the color of a full moon on a clear night. When she spoke, her whispery voice floated to them like smoke.

“I am Miranda Holcombe, and this is my father, Edgar Holcombe, Roger Holcombe’s younger brother. He is a scholar and a teacher, but a seizure two years ago deprived him of speech and all but a little motion. Nonetheless, his mind is unimpaired, and he sees and hears as well as we do. You are most welcome here.”

Duran bowed to the man in the wheeled chair. “I am honored to meet you, sir, as is my wife, Lady Jessica. We are hoping your daughter will be so kind as to show us the portion of your brother’s collection that originated in India. He has asked us to evaluate it.”

Speaking first to the father, Jessica saw with reluctant admiration, was precisely the way to win the daughter’s approval. She saw Miranda’s gaze drop to the limp right hand resting on a bony knee. A finger stirred, lifted, made an up-and-down motion, and lowered again.

“I shall be pleased to do so,” she acknowledged in the husky voice they had to strain to hear. “Allow me to settle my father in the solar and retrieve the keys.”

Jessica noticed, as Miranda left, that she was wearing—in summer—mittens.

“I can’t imagine that a solid gold statue would have gone unnoticed by someone,” she said to Duran, “even in all this jumble. But Miranda may know where else Paign might have sent it.”

“Perhaps. But don’t let on what we’re looking for, or why we came
here
in particular.”

“Thank you for advising me. I had planned to be indiscreet.”

He looked chastened, but not very. Like a runner at the starting line, he was keen for the race to begin.

Jessica was examining a tattered First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays when Miranda returned twenty minutes later. She was wearing a dust smock and carrying two others. “You’ll want to put these on. If there are India artifacts of any value here, they will have been sent by my cousin, addressed to himself in care of my uncle. By Uncle’s account, he opened the first two or three, found the contents unimpressive, and later arrivals were sent directly to the dungeon.”

After lighting a candle, she led them to the lower reaches of the keep by a circuitous route that included a concealed door and a short zigzag along a hidden passageway. “No one is permitted to come here,” she said when they stopped in what must have once been the guard room. Torches were stored in an umbrella stand. She ignited one for each of them and they proceeded past several heavy barred doors to the end of the stone-walled passage, where she applied the key, as large as her hand, to the lock. “Uncle believes the entire world is plotting to steal from him. When you are finished, it will be necessary to smuggle you from the house.”