The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (22 page)

“What other ladies?”

“Come now, Captain. We are not completely cut off from the world down here. Rumours get about. Your name has been linked with—several ladies.”

“And I suppose you kept a list!”

“There weren't so many that I would not recollect. Let me see, now.… There was Euphemia Buchanan, and Lisette Van Lindsay.… Sarah Leith, and Marietta Warrington … to name just a few. Oh—and a
very
dashing young widow, whose name escapes me.”

Half laughing, half vexed, he exclaimed, “If you aren't the outside of enough, Miss Jones! Of course I know those ladies. Fortunately for lonely bachelors, London is full of such charming creatures. But as for my name having been
linked
with any one of them— Well, one, perhaps, but in a perfectly honourable way.” He shut out Marietta's smile, and added, “But Sally Leith was scarce out of the schoolroom when I knew her. And if the very dashing widow you refer to is Mrs. Esmeralda Stokely, she was betrothed—or as good as—to my brother! Furthermore, Miss Jones—”

“Consuela,” called the duchess, returning, “I no sooner turn my back than you are teasing poor Captain Vespa. She is naughty, dear boy. Do not regard it. Now, we must leave, Consuela, for we are to take luncheon with Lady Gouderville and you know she becomes so fussed if we are late. I fear we shall miss your cricketing, dear Captain. Look how Watts springs his horses! My stars, but we will reach the Goudervilles in time for tea at that rate!”

Vespa chuckled as four very fat horses pulled a large carriage at a leisurely pace along the lane.

Lady Francesca flourished her parasol and startled the remnants of the congregation by screeching, “Wake up, Watts! You're half-way back to yesterday!”

The elderly coachman whipped up his horses, and they ambled to halt outside the church gate.

Vespa assisted the duchess into the coach and turned to Consuela. As he reached for her hand, he heard a faint crack like a tree branch snapping. The reticule hanging from Consuela's wrist jerked crazily. The horses reared with screaming neighs of terror and the coach plunged forward. The open door flew at them, and Vespa whipped the girl aside in the nick of time.

Consuela screamed, “Grandmama!” but the coachman already had his team under control and the footman ran to soothe the scared horses.

Broderick and several other agitated people hurried up, passing Vespa, who snatched the reins from a stable-boy's hand and was mounted and sending his commandeered mount across the green at the gallop before the boy could protest, “That's Mr. Kestler's horse!”

Straight for the quarry hill, he rode. He had heard snipers too often among the Spanish hills not to recognize a rifle shot. He was too enraged to pay heed to the fact that his flying leap into the saddle had wrenched his injured leg. He was aware only that someone had come damnably close to murdering Consuela. If it was humanly possible, he meant to catch the miserable bastard. He had a fair estimation of the site from which the shot had been fired, and crouched low over the pommel as he sent the frightened mare thundering up the hill to a little spinney where trees and shrubs clustered. To ride in amongst them without a weapon would be unwise, and he had certainly not brought a weapon to Church. Too angry to consider the risk, he sent the mare plunging into the spinney. Scant minutes had passed since the shot was fired; two, at most. If the coward was anywhere near—

There came a clattering of pebbles; a wild scrambling from higher up the hill. Reining the mare around, Vespa spurred her to another effort, and they charged from the trees. The marksman had taken time to reload. Vespa saw a flash; sunlight on a rifle. He flung himself sideways, and the bullet whipped through his hair with a buzz like an angry hornet. Not giving his adversary time to reload again, he galloped the mare up the hill. At the brink, he could look down into the quarry. A closed chaise waited on the road. A man in dark clothing, his hat pulled low and a rifle in one hand, was sprinting towards it at reckless speed. The descent was too steep and too littered with rocks for a horse to follow. Running like a scared rabbit, the man reached the chaise. The door was flung wide, he sprang inside, and the team was away.

“Damn!” said Vespa. He stayed to soothe his borrowed mare and apologize for her rough handling before turning her down the hill and into the teeth of the storm that awaited him.

Mr. Kestler was the local apothecary. A dour individual at best, he was incoherent with rage. Constable Blackham was astonished, and nobody, it developed, had heard a shot. With many an uneasy glance at Vespa, who was known to have come home from the war with head wounds, several people declared that one of Lady Francesca's lazy hacks had been stung by a bee; nothing more sinister than Nature's handiwork. Mrs. Davis had even heard the bee buzz. The duchess had been shaken, and since the captain had evidently, ah, mistaken the matter and gone riding off on a wild goose chase, Lieutenant Broderick had escorted the ladies back to the Jones cottage. Trying to keep his temper, Vespa managed to calm the indignant apothecary and was restraining himself from strangling Constable Blackham when Broderick came into the little gaol building.

He threw a quick look at his friend's face, and noting the thin tight line of the mouth and the flash in the hazel eyes, cut through the constable's argument to ask, “You all right, Captain?”

“Evidently not,” snapped Vespa. “The bulk of the population appears to believe that I'm short of a sheet! Don't say you didn't hear the shot, Toby?”

“I did. But just barely, and I can understand why no one else did. They were all too busy jabbering. Because you've ears like a hawk, Jack, you can't suppose others to be so endowed.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” said the constable, keeping a wary eye on Vespa. “You didn't say naught when we all opined 'twere a bee. Nor you didn't go chasing off—like the Captain done.”

“Of course he didn't, you idiot,” raged Vespa. “He had sense enough not to frighten the duchess any further, poor lady.”

To be addressed as an idiot soothed the good constable's nerves. It was the way of the Quality. Lord Alperson seldom called him anything else. And looby though he may be, this poor young gentleman was Quality, no denying. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “the Captain seen the sniper? If he could identify him, the Law would take action, never doubt that.”

“Oh, I saw him, all right,” said Vespa. “He fired his first shot from that spinney over there. I'd wager a hundred pounds he was using a Baker. When I reached the spinney, he was atop the hill and fired again. I suppose nobody heard that either?”

“Well now, don't go into the boughs again, sir,” soothed the constable. “Just tell me if you recognized the villain.”

“I didn't. He saw to that. He was wearing dark clothing, a hat well pulled down over his eyes, and a black chaise was waiting for him on the other side of the hill on my quarry road.”

The constable shook his head, wondered bodingly what England was coming to when a madman would fire a rifle into a churchyard, and declared he would “take a couple of men and get up there and search that spinney, this very minute!”

“And ten minutes too late,” said Vespa disgustedly, when he and Broderick were seated at the window table in the Gallery Arms. “I wish to heaven everyone wouldn't assume I'm wits to let only because … Do I generally behave in an alarming fashion, Toby?”

“Only when you sing, dear boy.”

“What d'you mean by that? I love to sing.”

“I know. Shouldn't. Dreadful. Sorry, but there you are.”

“Of all the— My Grandmama delighted to hear me sing in Church! She said the Lord loved to hear a cheerful noise.”

“Must've been tone-deaf, poor lady.”

Vespa laughed. “It's possible. But never mind my vocal shortcomings. Did you happen to see Gentry or the unappetizing Cramer lurking about after Church?”

“Come to think on it, I didn't.”

“Neither did I. So far as I could judge, the pair of 'em vanished directly the service ended.”

“And would have had ample time to reach your spinney, eh?”

“Just so. Much chance I have of proving it!” He frowned. “If Consuela hadn't chanced to move … I tried to warn her but she's obstinate and irrepressible.”

“And high-couraged.”

“Too much so for her own good. I pray she won't come to regret it.”

“Shall you go ahead with the cricket match?”

“D'you think the children still trust me despite my melodramatic charge after a ‘bee'?”

They evidently did, for all the hopeful players, most of the village population, several dogs, and one large and adventurous goose were soon gathered on the green. Longing to play, Vespa elected to be an umpire, with the proprietor of the Gallery Arms, Mr. Ditchfield, serving as second umpire. Broderick, a skilled batsman, offered an awed young audience a lengthy description of the points of law to be observed in the game. “Although,” he said in a murmured aside to Vespa, “I doubt we'll see anything resembling the rules of the Marylebone Cricket Club today.”

“They'll get a start, at least, provided we can dredge up two elevens.”

They had found nineteen boys for their teams and were almost ready to admit three older youths to make up the elevens when their problem was solved by the arrival of two farm waggons in which four likely youngsters, ranging in age from five to nine, begged for acceptance. This created a new dilemma that Vespa solved by telling a rather frail lad that they needed someone with a quick brain to be score-keeper. The tearful seven-year-old, sure he would be dropped, was jubilant and the game began.

As games go, it was a disaster, but it was the kind of disaster that is thoroughly enjoyed by all. The spectators, expecting (and getting) a very amateurish children's game, were indulgent and good-humoured and soon entered into the spirit of the occasion, choosing up sides and cheering on the efforts of the youthful players whether ‘their own' team or not, in the best traditions of sportsmanship. With occasional gleams of promise, the play was for the most part clumsy and erratic. Despite Broderick's earnest instructions and Vespa's demonstrations, overly eager batsmen made wild swipes at balls that came nowhere near them. One small boy swung at a low ball with such mighty determination that he spun around three times, his bat sending wicket and bails flying and the wicket-keeper leaping for his life.

In a later over, it being by that time mid-afternoon and very warm, the batsman's hands had become so sweaty that when he plunged forward to meet the ball, the bat flew out of his grasp; Vespa, who chanced to be nearest, had to make a desperate dive to catch it before it hurtled into the squealing and scattering crowd.

Soon afterwards, a very well hit ball enabled the batsmen to complete a run. The fielders galloped madly in pursuit of the ball; so did an energetic spaniel. Amid the excited cheers of the spectators a second run could have been completed had not the batsmen collided head-on in the centre of the pitch. Simultaneously, the spaniel captured and made off with the ball, hotly pursued by all the fielders and the dogs. Spaniel and ball vanished into the distance. Indignant and outmanoeuvred, both teams gathered around the umpires, all shouting at once. The onlookers, Vespa and Broderick were convulsed, and the cricketers, at first resentful, were won to laughter when Vespa reminded them it was a game—to be enjoyed, which everyone had certainly done this afternoon. Wiping tears from his eyes, Broderick declared both batsmen out, thereby ending the game.

Vespa was well pleased, but he was paying a price for his athletics. His leg throbbed so viciously that he was obliged to move away and lean heavily on his cane. Watching the happy boys and trying not to reveal his discomfort, he was reminded of the Richmond team and the hard-fought games he and Sherry had revelled in during their school holidays.

A hand gripped his. The little crippled girl looked up at him. “Don't you never be sad,” she said.

He lied smilingly, “I'm not sad, Mistress Molly.”

“You say that, but your eyes says different. You're not like me. You'll get better and you'll play better'n everyone, wait and see.”

Touched, he said, “We'll get better together, shall we?”

“I wish—” She sighed. “No. It's no use dreaming. I isn't going to get better. Never.”

“It's always worth dreaming, Miss Molly. Doctors are finding out new things every day.”

“That's what Pa says. But we can't 'ford doctors, and anyways, I knows. And I don't mind so much. I be used to it now. Just … if they'd let me be friends.” Suddenly, her big eyes were tearful. “If they just wouldn't make—make fun of me. You know?”

He touched her bright hair, and knowing how cruel children could be, said gently, “I know. Will you have this old crock for a friend, my dear?”

Her hand tightened on his. She said eagerly, “Oh, yes.” The brightness died from her face again. In a troubled way she muttered, “But I best not tell Pa. He says you're rich folk. He wouldn't like it.”

“I'll come and see him, would that be all right?”

Before she could answer, a mellow voice said laughingly, “Another conquest, Jack? 'Faith, but you're a regular magnet to the ladies!”

Mrs. Esmeralda Stokely, a vision in cream and green, was holding out a daintily mittened hand. One of London's most beautiful young widows, she had adored Sherry, who, in his erratic fashion, had returned her affection. Their eventual marriage had been taken for granted. Bright and witty, the widow had not wanted for admirers after his death, but there could be no doubt that she had mourned him deeply, and she had sent a very kind letter to Jack in Spain that had meant a great deal to him.

Pleased to see an old friend, he bowed over her hand and demanded to know what she was doing in this rural backwater.