The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (20 page)

“Yes, but Jones used pencil, and—”

“Not just pencil, dear boy. One of Monsieur Conte's graphite pencils, I suspect. Only see the firm lines of the jaw and the throat on this side, as opposed to—”

Running out of patience, Vespa groaned, “Toby, will you please stop educating me?”

“Oh, egad! Popping off again, am I? Boring you to tears? Sorry, dear boy. Say on.”

Vespa reached across to cuff his shoulder. “Wretch. You're not a bore, and I'm being a surly clod, I know.”

“But I'm droning on about trifles when you wanted to ask my opinion of something. I
will
do it, no matter how hard I try. Used to drive poor Manderville to drink, he said. And off I go again! I shall be dumb, mine host. The sketch, was it? Do you wonder if it has any value? Well, in my opinion—” He stopped as Vespa gave a shout of laughter; then with a rueful grin he reiterated, “Dumb!” and put a hand over his lips.

Chuckling, Vespa said, “Only while I offer my probably foolish theory, if you please. Then I shall beg you to become vocal again.”

Still holding his mouth, Broderick nodded.

“You're obviously impressed by this sketch,” said Vespa. “But according to Miss Consuela, her father very likely completed it in no more than a few minutes. I find that incredible, but the lady insists Mr. Jones did it all the time. She said he had only to get a glimpse of somebody and he could put their likeness on paper, even if there'd been a significant lapse of time between the sighting, as you might say, and the sketch.”

Broderick lowered his hand and looked slightly puzzled. “Well, it's a gift, dear boy. A remarkable one, I grant you. But some people can draw or paint, others can write music, or manipulate gigantic sums on 'Change, or—Whoops! That's not your question?”

“My question is, if anyone with the slightest knowledge of this lady chanced to see the sketch, they would surely recognize her—no?”

“Aha. You mean, did old Jones fripper about with features—did he make dull people look interesting and ugly folk beautiful, or—Whoops, again!”

Vespa sighed in exasperation. “I
mean,
suppose Jones chanced to see someone, perhaps where he or she had no business being?”

“Like—an international secret agent, an émigré spy for Bonaparte, for example? In this country illegally?”

“Something of the sort. And suppose he were to make a sketch of such a person and they learned of its existence.…”

“They'd move heaven and earth to come at it! I say, Jack! Old Nosey knew what he was about when he made you a Staff Officer! You've a head on your shoulders! But, surely, they weren't looking for this particular sketch? This is a lady, dear boy. And do you fancy your other newly made enemies—Gentry, and Cramer, and old Alperson—to be spies also? Gets a trifle boggy, don't it?”

“All right, perhaps they're not spies. But
someone's
after something in this house. Suppose that same someone is involved in hanky-panky and doesn't want it to be known he's in the neighborhood, but suspects Preston Jones had made a sketch of him? He could be fairly certain that Consuela saw it. From what I can tell, she worked with her father and it was their custom to discuss the subjects of his sketches and paintings.”

His eyes very round, Broderick muttered, “Then she would have to be—silenced.”

“As her sire was silenced. And this house searched until the sketch was found and destroyed. Gentry was thwarted when he tried to search Alabaster because Strickley was usually hanging about. Then I came here, so they decided simply to take the furniture from a room they knew Preston Jones had used, but I interrupted them after they'd only filched one desk.”

“Unless they brought the desk downstairs to make it look as if they were returning it, while Gentry nipped up there and ransacked away.”

“That's possible.”

“You searched the desk, of course?”

“Practically took it apart. Couldn't find a thing, but Consuela found that sketch in the room the desk was taken from. What do you say, Toby? Am I being ridiculous?”

“No, by George! I think it makes a deal of sense. Only—if they're after Preston Jones' sketches, wouldn't they search
his
home rather than yours?”

“I asked Consuela if they'd ever had burglars. Her answer was an emphatic no, but then she admitted that they never lock the doors, so it's very possible the Jones house has already been searched. You may be sure I told Lady Francesca to see their doors are locked from now on!”

“Very good. What do you mean to do now? Will the lady be safe at her own house?”

“Safer than prowling the grounds of Alabaster Royal at night, certainly. But I've a mind to get Strickley to hire some reliable ex-soldier to act as guard out there.”

“Good idea.” Taking up the sketch again, Broderick said thoughtfully, “I wonder if the lady is in the slightest connected with all this. I'd not care to cross swords with her.”

“What? Never say you recognize her?”

“No. But you have only to look at her. Actually, I've a pretty fair memory for faces. Take your man, for instance. I've seen
him
before, somewhere.”

Vespa sighed. “So had my father—to my embarrassment.” He stifled a yawn. “I must tell you the story of Thornhill's alleged background.”

“Not tonight,” said Broderick. “If you're not tired, I am! You can tell me about your pseudo-valet at breakfast.”

“You'll have to suffer my cooking for that, Toby. I am, alas,
sans
chef. Unless we breakfast at the Gallery Arms.”

Broderick said solemnly, “Sunday, old boy.”

“Jupiter, so it is! I'm bound to put in an appearance in the family pew, and I promised to participate in a cricket practice later. You don't have to come, though.”

Broderick was offended. His family had invariably attended Church on Sunday, he declared, whether in Town or the country. He would most certainly accompany Vespa. Always provided, he added with a grin, that he survived breakfast.

10

It was his wedding day, and as he stood at the altar in all the glory of his Regimentals, Marietta came up the aisle to him, her loveliness enhanced by white silk and net, her adoration for him shining in her beautiful eyes. It was, he thought, a trifle odd that she would carry a cat instead of a bouquet; she could surely have managed to at least also hold a Bible … But a man did not criticize his beloved on his wedding day. And it was, of course, an extremely large cat. A handsome creature, with distinctive markings of white, orange and black, and enormous yellow eyes that stared at him unblinkingly.

Marietta reached his side and stood there, smiling and dear and adorable. The church, which was crowded, was very quiet. Everyone, he supposed, was waiting for Sir Lionel Warrington to arrive and give his daughter away. The priest, his head bowed low and long hair concealing his face, demanded, “Who giveth this woman…?” It was a troubling question, because it seemed that there was no one to answer. But then the cat yowled piercingly, “I do …
not!
”

Suddenly, the aisle was filled with army officers, marching forward, their familiar and once friendly faces grim and condemning. At their head, Lord Wellington, astride Copenhagen, snarled, “Imposter! You are not the rightful heir!” His sabre whipped up.
“Charge!”

They were all coming at him then, sabres flashing, boots thundering on the floor of the church. Seizing Marietta's hand, he turned to run, but the priest sprang in front of him. It was Lord Alperson, his face contorted with triumph. “She's not for you!” he shouted. “You are accursed, John Vespa! Accursed!”

“That's a lie!” he cried. “Don't listen to him, my love!”

But Marietta recoiled from him in horror, burst into tears, and fled, the cat bounding after her.

Drenched in perspiration, his heart pounding, Vespa sprang up. Corporal was huddled shiveringly against him, and the sounds of a woman's sobs were augmented by a crash outside his door. Her weeping, he was very sure, had brought about his nightmare. “Confound the watering-pot,” he snarled, and made a dash for the door. The corridor was very dark and familiarly freezing. It seemed to him that he caught a whisper as of a woman's skirts, from the stairs. “Hey! A word with you, ma'am,” he shouted, and leapt in pursuit, only to fall headlong over something on the floor that had no business being there. Swearing, he hauled himself up, then gave a gasp as a moan sounded from the obstruction. He bent closer. “Good heavens! Toby?”

“Help!” croaked Broderick, floundering about feebly. “Didn't—didn't m-mean it!
Help!
”

Lamplight was bobbing towards them. Thornhill called, “Are you all right, Captain?”

“Yes. But Lieutenant Broderick seems to have fallen. Lend a hand here, please.”

When they had settled Broderick into a chair in his parlour, it became very obvious that he needed more than a hand; but after a few gulps of brandy, a trace of colour came back into his pallid cheeks and his shuddering was less convulsive.

“What happened?” asked Vespa.

“D-didn't real-realize,” said Broderick through chattering teeth. “Oh, God! Oh help! I didn't m-mean it! Should never've g-got out of b-bed!”

“My poor fellow.” Vespa patted his shoulder. “You must have had a bad dream. You're all right now.”

Broderick clutched at his hand and gulped, “Don't—don't l-leave me!”

“We won't leave you. I'm here, and Thornhill's here. What was it that you didn't mean?”

Thornhill threw a blanket over Broderick's knees and murmured, “I think he must have seen the lady, sir.”

Vespa looked at him sharply.

“Didn't s-see her in time,” moaned Broderick. “Thought—thought she'd gone past so—so I went into the corridor, just—just to peep, and— Oh, Lord! I w-walked right—right
through
her!”

“Carrying research a little far, weren't you?” said Vespa with a grin. “I'm sure you apologized.”

Broderick gave him a reproachful look. “Well, I d-did, of course, but … Oh, Jupiter! She was polite, but—”

“The lady
spoke
to you?”

“She—she said it w-was all right, but to p-please be more careful in—in future! Egad! I
knew
I should n-never have come here!”

Vespa said blandly, “But only think, now you'll be able to write a learned paper on the subject. Or do you mean to leave us? No, seriously, old fellow, I wouldn't blame you.”

“I'll have to—think about it,” said Broderick faintly.

When Thornhill appeared with hot chocolate next morning, he answered his employer's question by saying that Lieutenant Broderick was already awake and appeared to be in good spirits. With a fugitive twinkle he murmured, “It's the sunlight, sir. Lifts the—ah, spirits, if you'll excuse the expression.” Vespa gave him a level look, and he went on quickly, “I shall do my best with breakfast. Will nine o'clock in the smaller parlour suit?”

It suited, although the eggs were overcooked and the ham burned. Broderick appeared his usual cheerful self, and Vespa tactfully refrained from mentioning the night's activities. The two young men decided to make their own toast, which turned out to be a riotous pursuit, Corporal joining the hilarity when they both lost slices from the toasting forks and had to “fish”, as Broderick put it, among the flames of the breakfast parlour fire. The charred toast, they decided, went “very nicely” with the rest of the meal, and Broderick denied emphatically that he meant to abandon his friend at Alabaster Royal. “Despite the midnight visitation.”

The ice having been broken, they discussed that visitation during the drive to Gallery-on-Tang. Vespa had left orders for Strickley to have his curricle at the door by ten o'clock. The dashing open carriage had been polished till it shone, and the greys were fresh and eager to go. Corporal wanted to go, too, but had to be told firmly that dogs did not attend church services. The day was bright, the deep blue of the sky accentuated by occasional billowing white clouds, and an invigorating breeze carried the smells of late summer: warm earth and growing things.

In response to Vespa's question, Broderick said blithely that he hadn't really expected to be disturbed by the apparitions rumoured to haunt the manor. “But, do you know, Jack, now that I look back on it, I think it was just the shock of my first such experience. Actually, it was fascinating. I hope, though, that I'm not destined to meet your famous Alabaster Cat!”

Vespa waved his whip in salute to Farmer Nimms and his wife as he passed their slow-moving dog-cart. “So you know about that legend, do you?” he said.

“Not much. Just that the cat rather hangs over the heads of the Wansdykes—a sort of Cat of Damocles. Would it distress you to tell me of it?”

“It might distress my powers of recollection. My Grandmama was very impressed by the tale, but to be honest, Sherry and I thought her ghost stories hilarious, and I've never had much patience with such beliefs.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Let me see, now … As I recall, the legend started with some thirteenth-century Wansdykes, who were then poor tenant-farmers. Their daughter was a beauty, and she caught the eye of the Duke who ruled the area at that time. She was shy, and wanted no part of him. He wasn't interested in what she wanted, and he attacked the farm. Her father and brothers were killed during the fighting. The only thing she had left was her pet cat, and when she begged for its life—well, you can guess what the ignoble Duke's terms were.”

“Good Lord! What a bounder!” exclaimed Broderick.

“Yes. If those were the ‘good old days' I think I'd want no part of 'em. At all events, the poor girl evidently planned to avenge her loved ones, but she was clever enough to bide her time. One night when her captor was more drunk than usual, she locked their bedroom door and set fire to the room.”