The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (28 page)

“Such as, Mr. Mayor?”

“Well, he rolled one out on me as I never heard of. Ob-toos, he says. Ob-toos. You know that one, Mrs. Mayor?”

“Of course I does! Really, George Fletcher! A body would think you never got your schooling at your Ma's knee—as I know you done! Ob-tuse means to put on flesh. Which is a word
you'd
do well to heed!”

*   *   *

It was a rainy early dusk when Vespa turned the curricle into the drive of the Jones cottage. Peeping at him from under the umbrella that Lady Francesca had insisted be placed in the vehicle, Consuela said, “You're soaked. I hope you may not take a cold.”

“Don't believe in 'em, ma'am. Does your Grandmama always burn candles in every room of the house?”

“Goodness, no!” Her head jerked around. Light glowed from each window. The front door was flung open, and Manning came onto the steps holding a shawl over her head, wailing, and waving urgently.

Vespa ducked to avoid the whipping umbrella. “Something's wrong!” exclaimed Consuela, preparing to climb from the still-moving vehicle.

“You won't help by breaking your neck!” he said wrathfully. “Wait up!”

He guided the team to the covered
porte-cochère
at the side of the house and flung the reins to an elderly man who hurried to them. He was too late to assist Consuela, who scrambled from the curricle with a flash of petticoats and ran to her obviously distraught maid.

Vespa turned to the groom. “I'm Captain Vespa. I take it you're Lady Francesca's coachman?”

“Aye, sir,” the man answered, out of breath. “Name of Watts.”

“You've had trouble here, I think?”

“We've had thieves, sir. At least, there's been intruders, though what they took I couldn't say.”

“What about the servants? Is anyone harmed?”

“It's Cook's day off, so she wasn't here. The duchess is all right, sir. She were invited to take tea at the Gouderville estate, but when we got there, Lady Gouderville was gone to Winchester, and the duchess not expected. Mistook in the date was Lady Francesca, I fancy.”

“And when you came back, the house had been ransacked, is that it?”

“That's it, sir. And a cove lying on the drive with a broke head. He says Hezekiah Strickley paid him to keep a eye on my ladies, but he don't know what hit him, nor he didn't see nobody. Lady Francesca sent him to Apothecary Kestler, along of Bert, our gardener. Bert was to fetch the Constable here. I thought you was him, sir. Will you be staying?”

Vespa said he would stay at least until the constable arrived, and having assured himself that the coachman would take proper care of his greys, he went to the house.

Lady Francesca was in the tastefully appointed blue and gold drawing room, sipping a glass of sherry and being fussed over by her granddaughter and wailed over by her maid. She greeted Vespa politely, but she was pale and her hands trembled. Manning, it developed, had accompanied her to the Gouderville estate, and had not been in the house during the robbery. Her melancholy lamentations were not helping the old lady, as Vespa told her. He patted the maid on the shoulder and sent her off to the kitchen to make some tea. “You, Miss Jones,” he said, “may come back after you've changed into some dry clothes.”

This resulted in an argument, with Consuela indignantly refusing to leave her dear grandmama's side, Lady Francesca agreeing with Vespa, and Vespa pointing out that with such a “tower of strength” as Manning to lean on, her ladyship did not need Consuela to be laid low by a feverish cold. His threat to carry the obstinate girl to her room finally won the day, and she went hurrying up the stairs muttering about “overbearing males”.

“Now, ma'am,” he said, sitting on a footstool in front of the duchess' chair, “are you feeling well enough to tell me what has been taken?”

“I feel better now that you are come,” she said, giving him a grateful smile. “I can only be thankful that Consuela was from the house gone! You ask what is taken? The silver candlesticks from the dining room, we know, and a fine jade bowl. Other things, I expect, that we do not yet discover.”

“What about jewellery?”

“Manning says no. I have not make the thorough search, but I think they do not go upstairs. Perhaps we come back and they have to run away?”

“Perhaps. What about Mr. Jones' paintings?”

She looked at him sharply. “
Si.
Most of them are overturned and scattered about. Some, I feel sure, have been stole. This, Consuela will know.”

At this point Constable Blackham arrived with the wiry middle-aged little man who was Bert, Lady Francesca's gardener. The guard Strickley had hired was not seriously injured, said Blackham, but the apothecary was keeping him overnight, in case he'd suffered a concussion. He took out his notebook, asked to have a word with Captain Vespa before he left, and proceeded to take down Lady Francesca's statement.

Vespa waited in the hall and met Consuela when she hurried down the stairs. She wanted to go to her grandmother, but he persuaded her first to accompany him to the back of the house, saying that Constable Blackham would want to know if anything of great value had been stolen.

“Our most valuable possessions are the Ottavio rubies,” she told him worriedly. “Grandmama has always said they would rescue us if we ever became poverty-stricken.”

“But they weren't taken.”

“No. How did you know?”

He drew her back as she reached for the latch to the door of her father's studio, and said grimly, “I don't think your thieves were looking for rubies.” He flung the door open. There was no one in the big room, but the sight of the ruthlessly scattered paintings drew a cry from Consuela and she shrank, both hands flying to her mouth, her eyes huge with shock.

He put an arm about her shoulders and she leant against him, half sobbing, “Oh … Jack!”

“Poor little soul. I'm so sorry.”

She turned to look up at him searchingly. “You knew they were after my dear father's paintings. But—
why?
And if they are even more valuable than I believed, why not take them all?”

“Probably because it would require several coaches or a waggon that would attract attention. Or perhaps they simply didn't have time. Let's try and find out which ones they selected.”

They began to pick up the artworks and stack them in groups. Some of the frames were damaged, and two of the canvasses were ripped, apparently having been stepped on. Consuela began to make furious little growling noises, and the sight of such careless and wanton destruction made Vespa fume. He was pleased, however, to find that his favourite, the picture of the manor on that spring day of long ago, was intact.

When the canvasses were sorted into their various stacks, Consuela looked through them carefully. “Oh, but they've taken so many of those you especially liked!” she moaned.

He joined her. The somewhat sinister moonlit scene of Alabaster was here, as were the twilight view and the depiction of the great house mantled with snow, but the summer scenes and the three paintings of the area near the quarry were gone.

Frowning thoughtfully, he said, “Let's see what else they stole.”

A painting of St. Paul's Church, and one of the Gallery Arms at sunset that Vespa had thought particularly fine were missing, but Consuela announced with a sigh of relief that those of the village and of various individual cottages and villagers were all safe. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Are you sure? Where's the May Day picnic on the green? I didn't see that one.”

They checked again, and then they searched through the other stacks, but without success. The May Day picture was added to the list of stolen works.

It was full dark by the time Constable Blackham had concluded his investigation, and the duchess insisted that both men stay and dine. Remembering that it was her cook's day off, Vespa declined, but Consuela leant to fill his wine-glass and murmured that her grandmother was feeling better and would be happy to supervise dinner, so he was pleased to accept the invitation.

When both ladies had retired to the kitchen, the constable said quietly, “Now, Captain Vespa, I'd be glad if ye'd tell me what you knows of this here matter.”

Vespa said slowly, “I don't really
know
any more than you do.”

“But ye
suspects,
don't ye, sir? Else why would you have ordered Hezekiah Strickley to set a guard on this house? You and Miss Consuela went straight away to Mr. Preston Jones' workroom. Nor you wasn't surprised to hear that none of Lady Francesca's jewels was stole. And I'll own as that gave me one to be going on with!”

Vespa smiled. “You don't miss much, do you? All right. I've come to think that Miss Consuela's quite right in believing that her father was murdered.”

“Hum.” This was not what the constable had wanted to hear. He pursed his lips and looked dubious. “No offence, sir, but I wouldn't be paying too much heed to her fancifying. A very nice young lady, even if a touch hasty—er, spirited at times. But there bean't no reason for such a wicked deed. I looked into the matter proper at the time the poor gentleman passed to his reward. I spoke to everyone what had knowed him. There was no debts owing—money usually being at the root of such dreadful happenings. There was no lady whose husband or father could've felt—er—badly done by, if you know what I means, sir. Why, if Mr. Jones had a single enemy in the world, I never heard of it.”

“What about Lord Alperson?”

The constable looked startled. “Why, they wasn't friends, I'll own that. But to think as his lordship would take Mr. Jones' life because his daughter had cried friends with Miss Robina Alperson, why, that's more'n a little far-fetched, sir. And more'n I'd dare do to make such a accusation 'gainst a peer o' the realm! Not without witnesses and some solid proof. And what's it got to do with Mr. Jones' paintings, Captain? And why, I asks ye, with some pretty near priceless jewels in the house, did them silly thieves steal a jade bowl, a few paintings and a silver candlestick holder? Now
them's
the questions I'd like answered, Captain.”

Vespa also would have liked to have the answers to those questions, but it was obvious that none of the theories he might advance would be well received. He therefore murmured a few vague remarks about fanatical art collectors who might covet Preston Jones' works but have no knowledge of the famous rubies. The constable thought this far more likely, and occupied himself with his notebook until the ladies returned.

With her usual expertise, the duchess managed to conjure up an excellent meal in a very short time. The log fire blazed up the chimney and it was warm and cozy inside, but the wind was blowing up, the rain was falling steadily, and the moon seldom broke through the clouds. It was no night for someone unfamiliar with the area to be on the roads, and soon after dinner Vespa apologized for leaving so early, but said his farewells.

Consuela accompanied him to the door. She looked calm and unafraid, but scanning her uneasily he asked if Coachman Watts was quartered in the house.

She chuckled. “Watts and his wife live in the little cottage by the coach house. And if you're going to suggest that he move in here tonight, you must not have noticed that he is somewhat advanced in years. A very kind and faithful man, but I shall feel safer with my little pistol to hand, I promise you. Besides, would it not be a case of shutting the barn door after the horse has fled?”

He argued that the thieves might rely on just such reasoning, and made her promise to bolt all the doors and windows before retiring. His team was soon poled up and the carriage lamps lit, and he drove out, guiding the horses cautiously along the narrow, rutted drivepath.

The rain was not heavy, but at times was driven by the wind in chilling sheets. He pulled the collar of his cloak higher and turned his head aside as another gust came at him. And in that instant he saw the white oval of a face peering at him from the hedgerow beside the gate.

He had pulled up the team and was out of the curricle in seconds. The face had disappeared, but he heard a trampling among the undergrowth. Wrenching his pistol from the holster, he roared, “Stop, or I fire!” A squeal answered him, and the sounds of that frantic retreat were stilled.

Vespa saw a crouching shape, and he charged it at a limping run, rage searing through him. “You slippery varmint!” he shouted, pistol levelled as he gripped the collar of the huddled figure. “Meant to go back and finish your dirty work, did you? Well, you'll go back all right!” He hauled the whimpering man back to the curricle and spun him around.

Seen in the light of the lamps his captive was sturdy, but little more than a boy, who cowered before him, drenched, wet hair plastered about his face, and eyes fixed on the gleaming pistol barrel while he gabbled terrified and disjointed pleas that he never done nuthink. “He only come,” he whimpered, “'cause he knowed bad men was hanging about, and Miss Jones be a kind lady what gives him cakes sometimes.”

Vespa relaxed his grip. “What's your name? Do you live nearby?”

“He be Dicky-Boy, sir. That's what they calls him. He lives in the village. His Ma died, so Mr. Tom lets him sleep in the smithy. Mr. Tom's kind. He lets Dicky-Boy swing the hammer sometimes.” Forgetting his fears, he tilted his head and said boastfully, “Dicky-Boy's strong. There's them as thinks he's not clever.” He chuckled to himself. “They might be s'prised one o' these days. Dicky-Boy knows more'n what they knows.” The eyes that seemed too small for their sockets took on a cunning look. He half whispered, “There's them as'd be proper
scared
if they knowed what he knows.”

Vespa thought, ‘But for the grace of God, there go I,' and he said gently, “I expect they would. In fact, you might be just the fellow I'm looking for.”