The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (3 page)

“
What?
You cannot be
serious!
No, no, you must not! It is a dreadful,
dreadful
house!”

“How so? It has walls, and a roof. And it stands in beautiful grounds, so I hear. If it is somewhat run-down, why, walls and ceilings can be repaired.”

“I do not speak of such mundane things as
bricks
and
mortar!
” Lady Faith sat up straight, her face pale and her manner so agitated that he took her outstretched hands and held them firmly. “It is
evil!
” she declared, her eyes wide and frightened. “Even as a child I hated going down there in the summer-time. And your dear Grandmama Wansdyke loathed it also. I was never more pleased than when she told my father she would sooner stay in London's heat! There are
spirits,
John! Drifting about—
everywhere!
And that dreadful cat! Ugh!” She shivered. “It was always so … cold! And I saw…” Her voice trailed into silence.

He said teasingly, “You're surely not saying you believe in ghosts and goblins and such nonsense?”

“I am saying I
saw
something in that horrid old place! Something terrifying. To this day I often wake in a panic, just to recall it. Ah. You choose to laugh at me! So why do I trouble to warn you?”

“No, really. I only—”

“Never mind. I am accustomed to being slighted and ignored. It is my lot in life. You are a typical male and will go your own way, no matter what I say, or how my poor nerves are overset. Well, go then, and be done! Abandon me in this l-lonely house w-with no one to care about me!”

Dismayed, he said, “But Mama, even when I am here, you seldom have time to see me. You have Cousin Eve to keep you company, and all your charities and bazaars and card-parties, and your friends. I'd not thought you were lonely. Perhaps you should move to the town house, where there is so much for you to—”

“There is no call to pretend you care about poor me,” she declared, dabbing at her eyes again. “
Go
to your country monstrosity! It is all of a piece. You are every bit as s-selfish as Sherborne was, and so I tell you! When I look back, I wonder why I wasted my youth … c-caring for the pair of you, for all the affection I was given in return. If ever there were ser-serpents' teeth…”

Among his friends Captain Jack Vespa had the reputation of managing to surmount any obstacle with cheerful persistence, seldom allowing his temper, which could flare unexpectedly, to get the best of him. He persisted now, soothing his mother's lamentations and attempting to win her to a happier frame of mind. But in the end, perhaps because by then his head was aching fiercely, he promised to stay by her side for at least another week.

Sir Kendrick was “called away” that very evening. Solomon and Barrister, of course, escorted him.

*   *   *

Ten days later, Jack rode through the gates of the Richmond house and breathed a sigh of relief. It had not been easy, but he was free at last.

The word of his return had spread like wildfire, and friends and neighbours had flocked to welcome him home. Lady Faith had been in her element. She had presided over luncheons, teas and dinner parties with the air of an inwardly heart-broken mother struggling gallantly to present a brave face to the world. Her martyrdom, and the sympathetic glances that came his way as she recounted ever more dramatic tales of his narrow escape from death, had tried his patience to the limit. His attempts to leave had been blocked with what he had to admit were superb tactics. He was grateful to those who had come to see him, but that the constant society functions might prove exhausting to a semi-invalid had never seemed to occur to his mother.

The promised week had stretched to nine days, and yesterday afternoon he'd told her he must depart. She had dismissed this with a merry laugh and a list of upcoming events and invited guests whom he “simply could
not
” disappoint. He'd done his best to please, but he was beginning to feel worse than when he'd left the hospital, and he was not such a fool as to endanger his health only to provide his mother with an excuse for a continuing round of parties. Accompanying her up the stairs after a particularly tiresome evening, he had told her politely but with determination that he would drive out for Alabaster Royal first thing in the morning. This had precipitated a flood of tears and reproaches, but the fact that Lady Faith had not once enquired as to his own well-being had helped him to withstand her demands, and he had left instructions that his curricle was to be at the door early in the morning, with Secrets, his black mare, tied on behind.

Lady Faith was nothing if not determined. When he came down to breakfast, he was informed that the curricle would not be available due to the fact that my lady had driven out in it to visit some friends in Purley, but that she would return shortly. In view of the distance involved, this was unlikely, and since her ladyship had never in living memory been known to leave her suite before noon, or to be driven in a sporting coach, there could be no doubt but that this was a deliberate attempt to further delay his departure.

Irked, he'd ordered out his phaeton, only to be told it was at the wheelwrights. His rare temper had flared and he had instructed his man to fill a valise with immediate necessities and send his curricle and two trunks to Alabaster Royal the following day. The valise had been strapped to the saddle, he had said his farewells to his dismayed and protesting valet, the butler and the housekeeper, and with the aid of an equally dismayed groom had mounted Secrets and ridden out.

Now, he looked about him, his spirits lightening. The day was bright, with a warm breeze blowing and the old Thames threading like a diamond-studded ribbon through the low, rolling hills. It was England at her best, and as he skirted the town and entered open country he was warmed by the beauty of his native land.

Like all Wellington's aides-de-camp, he was a splendid horseman, but he was shocked to find that he now tired quickly. He was obliged to rest at a wayside inn near Farnborough, and not until late afternoon did he reach the outskirts of Andover. He acknowledged to himself that he'd been too sanguine about his state of health, and gave up, taking a room for the night at a pleasant hedge tavern where he ordered dinner sent to his room and fell asleep twice while eating a plain meal of fish soup, roast chicken accompanied by overcooked vegetables, and a gooseberry tart. He grinned drowsily, knowing that Sir Kendrick would have been appalled by such a menu, but compared to the roots and berries that had often been the only food available in Spain, he'd found it satisfactory.

In the morning he awoke to leaden skies and a chill wind. His injured leg was making it clear that a day in the saddle had been unwise, and getting down the narrow stairs became a painful and difficult task. He was short of breath by the time he reached the ground floor, and much embarrassed to look up and find that two men were watching him narrowly. They were big fellows, fashionably if not elegantly dressed. The taller of the pair smiled sympathetically. Vespa nodded and hurried into the coffee room, knowing that his limp was pronounced, and dreading that he would be the object of all eyes. Fortunately, only one other table was occupied, the elderly lady and gentleman seated there being too involved in low-voiced but fierce bickering to pay him any heed.

By the time he finished breakfast, he had come to the reluctant conclusion that he must either rest here for another day or hire a coach. He consulted the host, a cheerful little man who had already drawn his own conclusions about this guest. “Home from Spain, are you, sir?” he asked with a kindness that forbade mortification. “Ar, I reckoned as much. I'll send my youngest over to the Green Duck. It's a nice house no more'n five miles west of here, and they've got a post-chaise for the hiring that's likely gathering dust. Not what you're accustomed to, I don't doubt, but it'll get you where you're going, and easier than riding in this weather.”

It developed that the host had a young cousin who had served with the Fourth Division at the Battle of Salamanca, and while Vespa waited, the two men spent a congenial hour discussing the war in general, and Lord Wellington in particular. A sullen-faced youth arrived at last, with an ill-matched team harnessed to an equipage which had indeed seen better days. The host was embarrassed and said he hadn't remembered its being quite this shabby, and that perhaps the captain would be better advised to drive into Andover and secure a more suitable vehicle. Jack was eager to reach Alabaster Royal before the sun went down, however, and in no time Secrets was tied on behind and the antiquated chaise rattled out of the yard.

The miles slipped away, and far from springing his team the postilion had all he could do to keep them to a steady trot. By mid-afternoon the weather closed in and the view from the windows was obscured by misting rain. Despite the poorly sprung coach and lumpy cushions, Vespa felt relaxed and drowsy and eventually slipped into a doze.

He was awoken by an outburst of shouts and curses. Starting up in confusion he thought for an instant that he was back in Spain, but then a large coach loomed up dangerously close to his own. The post-boy screamed with fear and fury. Vespa reached for the window, but he was too late. He had a fleeting glimpse of small, dark eyes in a coarse-featured face that grinned at him from the other coach. A violent shock was followed by screams, a sense of falling, and the swift fading of sight and sound. His last thought was that the man in the big coach was one of the two who had stared at him this morning when he came down to breakfast.…

2

He was cold and uncomfortable. His leg was even more painful than usual and his head throbbed so spitefully that he didn't want to wake up. In addition to all the rest, it was most unfair that he should have this heavy weight on his chest. Reluctantly, Vespa opened his eyes.

He was lounging about in somebody's garden, evidently, and it must be getting foggy because it was hard to distinguish who bent over him. He blinked. A remote voice spoke unintelligibly. He began to sort out his unknown companion's features. It was an odd face. Small, and heavily bearded, and with a long nose that looked almost like— He gave a gasp and opened his eyes wider. A small bedraggled dog was sitting on his chest and peering at him hopefully.

“What the deuce!” he exclaimed, and sat up abruptly, which was a major error.

The voice, which he now recognized as belonging to the dog, growled distantly. Gradually, the world stopped spinning and he was able to breathe normally again. His surroundings drifted back into focus. The dog had retreated to a safe distance from which to watch him. Instead of the garden hammock he had at first assumed, his couch was a weedy ditch. When he saw the overturned post-chaise that lay nearby, he remembered. He crawled to the wreck and used the wheel to drag himself to his feet.

The narrow road was deserted. A chill wind moaned across a sweep of equally deserted moorland fringed by distant hills that loomed like grey-blue humps on the horizon. His gaze shortened and held on a dead horse. His heart seemed to stop, then gave a leap of relief as he saw that the poor creature was one of the postilion's mismatched team. The other horse was gone. If the occupants of the big coach had stopped they would surely have made an effort to revive him, or at least had the decency to convey him to a doctor or an apothecary. It seemed likely therefore that the conscienceless clods had not stopped and that the post-boy had ridden away on the surviving hack in search of help.

“Blasted rogues!” Vespa peered about anxiously in search of Secrets. There was no sign of his beautiful black mare, but when he whistled, she trotted from a nearby hollow and came straight to him. She was favouring her right front leg. He ran a practised hand down it and found the knee slightly swollen.

“Nothing too serious, old lady,” he told her, and she snorted into the hollow of his neck and lipped at his ear, only to whicker and prance away as the dog rushed up, barking shrilly.

“That'll be enough from you,” said Vespa. “Be off! Go home, sir!”

The dog was apparently disinclined to go anywhere. It sat down again, and resumed the role of an interested bystander.

Vespa took stock of the situation. He could wait for the post-boy to return, or ride on alone. There was the risk, of course, that the boy, who had been none too alert, might have presumed him to have expired and would see no need to hurry back, in which case he could have a long wait for rescue.

The papers from Mr. Jermyn, Grandmama Wansdyke's solicitor, were still in his pocket, and he took out the rough map and scanned it. The last time he'd looked out of the chaise window before falling asleep, he'd seen in the distance the great spire of Salisbury Cathedral. How much farther they'd gone before the crash he didn't know, but the last leg of the journey seemed to be pretty straightforward, and he judged that if he stayed on this apology for a road he should eventually reach crossroads and a signpost that would point his way to Gallery-on-Tang. The solicitor had said that the Alabaster Royal preserves had at one time encompassed the village, the quarry providing the major source of local employment. The manor itself stood atop a low hill about a mile east of the quarry, and could be seen from the road.

He was pleased to find his valise half hidden by some shrubs in the ditch and apparently relatively undamaged. He was reluctant to ride Secrets, but his own gait was worse than hers, and his aches and pains were increasing rather than lessening. He apologized to the mare and promised they would take it slowly.

In Spain, Wellington's aides-de-camp had been renowned for the speed and agility with which they mounted up. Today, even utilizing a nearby boulder as a mounting block, it was all Vespa could do to haul himself into the saddle. The little dog watched with interest. Vespa told the animal what his brother officers would have thought of that performance, and added some lurid comments on the insensate bird-brains who had thought it great fun to run his coach off the road and kill a perfectly good horse.