The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (13 page)

“You want for gratitude, Captain,” said the duchess sadly.

“And do you find it proper that an
unwed
lady should reside under a bachelor's roof, ma'am? It's bad enough you must try to pass off this rascal as a prospective valet, but you haven't thought a flea's leap ahead if you—”

“He is quite right, Grandmama,” interrupted Consuela with an alarming display of small white teeth. “Other gentlemen, they may have housemaids, parlour-maids, cookmaids, kitchen-maids, scullery-maids, laundry-maids—and these females may be safe. But
this
one?” She snatched up two cloths and swung open the oven door. “I should not dare to close my eyes at night! So be it!”

“I'll have you know, madam,” said Vespa, angered, but with one eye on the divine joint nestling in the pan, “that I have
never
molested any of my father's maids, nor— Hey! Where are you going with that?”

“To throw it to the dog,” snarled Consuela, marching towards the scullery, pan in hands. “Open the door, Thornhill. At once!”

The prospective valet threw an enquiring glance at Vespa.

“Do no such thing!” snapped Vespa.

“Pay him no heed,” said Consuela. “He doesn't want you. He has ten thousand valets queuing up outside, praying he will hire them!”

“Put down that pan,” commanded Vespa. “It doesn't belong to you at all events.”

The duchess crossed to take the pan from Consuela's hands and restore it to the oven. “You will burn yourself, my love. Besides, the dog it cannot eat a joint that is bigger than its own self. Now, Captain, you will please to sit down, and we will make the discussing.”

“There is nothing to discuss, ma'am. You cannot stay here, and I will not take on a man of whom I know only that he is a trespasser with a silver tongue. I'll wager that Thornhill—
if
that is his name—is no more a valet than is Strickley!”

“You wrong me, sir,” said Thornhill, sighing heavily. “It is true that I am the victim of a capricious Fate, and my name sullied through no fault of my own.” He put a hand on his heart, cast a sad glance at the ceiling, and declared, “I have worn many hats, as they say, in this journey called Life. I will tell you my story, sir, so that you can judge. I was the youngest of the eleven children of a country vicar. I had my schooling at my mother's knee, but funds were scarce, and at the age of ten I was apprenticed to a London printer. Alas, the
harshness,
the
cruelties,
that were inflicted upon that lonely child!” Dabbing a handkerchief at his eyes, he continued brokenly, “So I ran away—”

“Very likely,” interposed Vespa. “But I would be more interested in seeing your references. If any.”

“You might at least have the decency to hear him out,” said Consuela, sitting down and picking up another pea pod.

“While the joint is cooking.” Her eyes full of mischief, the duchess added, “Do not let me forget to put the Yorkshire pudding in, little one.”

‘Yorkshire pudding…' Vespa pulled out a chair.

From the age of thirteen, when he'd allegedly run away from his cruel master, Thornhill, it would seem, had indeed ‘worn many hats'. He claimed to have worked as a link boy, stable-boy, gardener's boy, butcher's assistant, stevedore, millinery clerk and solicitor's clerk. Whilst in that last unlikely position he'd heard of an opening as footman, for which he had at once applied, since he longed for “the wholesome air of the country once again.” Having won the post, he'd remained in the household for twenty years, working his way up at length to the position of butler. He'd fancied himself settled for life, and had proposed to and been accepted by “a most unexceptionable young female.” This had displeased the mistress of the house, who had, Thornhill declared, modestly lowering his eyes, for some time made it clear that any advances from him would be “welcomed.” Only a week after his betrothal, his noble employer had succumbed to a sudden internal disorder. On the day following the funeral, the lady of the house had once again made “romantic overtures” to Thornhill, and upon his respectfully pointing out that he was shortly to be married and could not betray his bride-to-be, he had been summarily dismissed.

“Disgraceful,” said Vespa, trying not to laugh at the ‘valet's' tragic expression. “But after twenty years of faithful service you must certainly have been provided with references.”

Thornhill sighed. “I was promised the very best character, sir. But upon application for other situations, my prospective employers were advised that I had been dismissed for having made improper advances to my late master's wife. I was quite ruined.”

“And your fiancée? Did she stand by you?”

“Had she done so, I would have prevailed. I know it. But—alas, she proved fickle, and married the first footman.” He drew a hand across his brow and his shoulders slumped. “I was … shattered, Captain. You will comprehend that such a series of disappointments can break the spirit of the best of men. In my grief I sold my few belongings and went on a walking tour, which deteriorated with my fortunes into what is known as ‘the padding lay'. I've been ‘padding' ever since, and will say that I met many kindly folk who valued my superior social standing and erudition, and formed the habit of turning to me for counsel in certain complex disputes. Not an unpleasant way of life, and one I might still pursue had I not chanced upon your grand old house, and found it so neglected that I decided to do what I might for it.”

At this point, he folded his hands, clerical fashion, his smile so saintly that Vespa was undone, and to the extreme indignation of Consuela, who had been greatly moved by the sad story, he burst out laughing.

*   *   *

‘I was trapped by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,' thought Vespa, as he lay in bed that night, with Corporal snoring in the padded basket Consuela had provided. ‘Truly, I am become a pawn in the schemes of those two devious ladies!'

He smiled faintly into the darkness. Trapped he might be, but he had enjoyed an elegant dinner, excellently served. The table had been spread with snowy damask and gleaming silverware, the flames of the candelabrum reflecting in spotless crystal. The roast beef had been succulent, the Yorkshire pudding just as he liked it, the peas tender, and a fruit compôte topped with custard had formed a perfect complement to the meal. In the immense drawing room, amid stately furniture now charmingly arranged and transformed by the application of beeswax, he had found copies of yesterday's
Times
and
The Morning Herald
on a table at his elbow, and Thornhill had drifted silently to place a glass of port nearby.

When he had come up to bed, Thornhill had been discretion itself, quietly making himself useful before being dismissed.

‘The impertinence of the fellow,' thought Vespa, chuckling to himself. He had believed very little of Thornhill's tale of woe. But the rascal's dramatic presentation had amused him, and the combined influences of a superb meal and the urgings of the duchess and her granddaughter had prevailed. He'd agreed to take Thornhill on trial, and if the fellow continued to perform his duties as he had done today, it might well develop into a permanent arrangement.

As for Lady Francesca and Miss Consuela—now that was another matter. The old lady had argued that with herself as chaperone and ostensible housekeeper, there could be no objection to her granddaughter remaining at Alabaster. “We now occupy what were evidently the servants' quarters,” she'd pointed out, “which are far removed from your own suite. I have every confidence in your keeping to the line of behaviour—”

“You are too good, ma'am,” he'd inserted ironically.

“—And, besides providing you with some very badly needed assistance,” she had swept on, “our staying here will allow Consuela to look about and satisfy herself that poor Preston's death was indeed a tragic accident.”

Consuela had inserted stubbornly, “Or prove that he was murdered, Grandmama!”

“So, if you will but be sensible, Captain Jack,” the duchess had persisted, “you'll own that our remaining here for a little while can harm none, but help us both.”

“And what of the gossip-mongers? Surely I need not remind you of how rumours flourish. What will your neighbours—and mine!—make of it?”

She had said with a shrug, “Merely that as an old friend of your mother, I am visiting you to give you the benefits of my advice on the restorative of your manor house.”

Vespa yawned drowsily. Beyond doubting she was a splendid cook. And ladies had such a way of bringing order from chaos; already the house seemed so much more welcoming, and livable.…

He awoke with a start. Corporal had left his basket and was scratching at the door.

“I took you out before we came to bed,” grumbled Vespa, flinging back the covers.

Corporal barked a gruff little bark and sat down, watching his Person expectantly.

The moon was bright, and Vespa pulled on his dressing-gown and slid his feet into his slippers without bothering to light a candle.

Corporal moved his front paws up and down and barked again.

“All right, all right. I'm coming, confound your whiskers.”

The dog was out of sight when he reached the foot of the stairs, but a muffled bark sounded from the main hall, and then from farther along the corridor. Puzzled, Vespa made his way to the door that led to the basement steps. Corporal waited there, jumping up and down as if he were on springs, and uttering little yips of impatience.

“I suppose you're after a rat,” muttered Vespa, swinging the door wide.

A waft of noxious air made him gasp and draw back. It was very dark inside, but Corporal shot down the wooden steps and out of sight. “Foolish creature,” said Vespa, his nose wrinkling at that pervasive odour. “If you want to go hunting in that stinking cellar, you're on your own. I don't intend to—”

His words were cut off as a sobbing scream was followed by frenzied barking. The unearthly sounds, the foetid aroma, the cold air, caused the hair to lift on the back of Vespa's neck. He wasn't suffering one of his murderous headaches this time.… Could it be that he was wrong? That ghosts
did
exist and the old place really
was
haunted? The barking became a worrying sound, and a man's voice was raised in an outburst of enraged profanity. Corporal wouldn't attempt to bite a spirit. Someone down there was abusing a woman!

On the thought, Vespa plunged down the steps and turned to the right, following a distant and faint gleam of light. Corporal barked madly. The woman's voice rose in a barely intelligible plea for help.

“Coming!” shouted Vespa.

An alarmed exclamation and the light was extinguished.

Unable to see anyone, Vespa groped his way towards the voices and added, “Let her go, you scoundrel!”

A man bellowed, “Damn and blast it all! Get away, you curst mongrel!”

Corporal gave a yelp, and another voice called urgently, “Never mind about the woman. Come on!”

Once again caught without a weapon, Vespa rushed forward, shouting, “Stop, or I fire!”

A furious curse. Something was coming at him from impenetrable blackness. A violent impact and he was down and struggling with a powerful individual who smelled strongly of lavender water.

He struck out blindly and his fist rammed against something, eliciting a pained howl, followed by a scared sounding, “Lend a hand here! I can't hold him!”

A boot rammed into Vespa's shoulder. He swore, grabbed for the leg, and heaved. There came a shocked yell, the sound of a fall, then a scrambling retreat, and a flood of moonlight brightened an outer doorway.

Vespa got to his feet. “I think they've gone,” he panted. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

A muffled sob. “Why should I not … be all right? I am accustomed to being—being strangled!”

“Consuela?” He peered through the gloom. “I thought so!”

Her figure loomed against the lighter rectangle of the door. “Oh, if we could just … just find their lantern.”

“Never mind the lantern. I see you now. Come. The steps are this way.”

A moment, then her hand met his. It was very cold and shook convulsively, and suddenly she was clinging to him and weeping.

“Hush,” he said soothingly, one arm about her, the other reaching out to the stair rail. “Tread carefully. You're safe now.”

“How can I b-be safe,” she cried between sobs. “They—they tried to m-murder me! Just as—as my darling Papa was murdered in this—this horrible house!”

7

In the drawing room Vespa lit candles, then tugged hard on the bell-pull that Thornhill had “temporarily repaired” and promised would be heard in “the servants' quarters”. The resultant earsplitting tolling made him gasp and would, he thought, likely be heard in Gallery-on-Tang. A corner of his mind wondered what size bell his new man had found to create such an uproar. He poured a glass of sherry for Consuela, who sat huddled on the sofa. Her hand shook so that she could scarcely hold the glass and two pathetically tear-wet eyes looked up at him from a face that was deathly pale where it was not dirty.

Torn between compassion and vexation, he said as the clamour faded, “Poor child. You are properly terrified.”

She took a great gulp, then burst into a frenzied coughing. “I am
not
terrified,” she gasped. “What it is—I am
enraged!
I would like to kill that filthy beast who tried to strangle me! Only look at my—my poor throat!”

She pulled aside the collar of her torn gown, revealing livid welts on her neck.

Inwardly appalled, Vespa asked sternly, “How came you to be with them?”

“
With
them?” A tinge of colour came into her cheeks. “You've a nasty way with words, Captain John Wansdyke Vespa!”