The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (5 page)

The great staircase creaked and some of the rails were broken, neither of which he'd noticed last night. The downstairs floors were stone-flagged and chill, but there was as much to charm as to appall. He went into the kitchen and let the dog out, thinking optimistically that when he set the place in order he could close off the rooms that were past hope and there would still be far more space than he would ever need.

His decision to breakfast on the food remaining in the farmwife's box was thwarted when he discovered that the box was empty. His first irate conclusion that the mongrel was responsible had to be abandoned. The pantry door had been closed all night. His anger mounted when he saw that the bowl of eggs was also empty. “That
damnable
Strickley!” he snarled, and having set out a bowl of water for the dog, limped over to the stables. Secrets greeted him affectionately. The knee was still slightly swollen, but she was not favouring it. He saddled up, watched with interest by the dog.

Riding across the bridge, he glanced back at his inheritance and felt a glow of pride. Alabaster Royal was very old, decaying and decrepit in part, but on this bright morning he thought it as proud and as regal as its name implied, and he could not see how anyone could judge it less than a splendid old place. A coat or two of paint and some cleaning would work wonders. For instance, there was a marked contrast between most of the murky windows and a few at the far south end of the first floor that had been washed, and sparkled in the sunlight. Probably, he thought, scowling, the quarters of the soon-to-be ex-caretaker who had made off with his breakfast!

*   *   *

“Well, sir,” said the Reverend Mr. Castle, folding his hands upon his ample stomach and beaming at Vespa. “Welcome to Gallery-on-Tang. You must own you could search the length and breadth of this green and pleasant land and find no prettier village.”

The priest had been doing some early weeding in the cemetery of St. Paul's Parish Church when this ill-looking, yet oddly ferocious young man had come riding up on a superb black mare and asked where he might buy some breakfast. One glance at the clean-cut but scarred face had given him the stranger's identity.

Vespa agreed tersely that the village was delightful and extended an equally terse invitation that the clergyman join him, if he could spare the time. Overlooking the none too cordial tone, Mr. Castle accepted gleefully, saying that he would remove his dirt first and directing the newcomer to the Gallery Arms, “a very clean hostelry”, farther along the street.

Despite his black humour, Vespa couldn't fail to admire the village. Bathed in the morning sunlight, Gallery-on-Tang was a charming picture of rural England, its winding lane fringed by whitewashed, thatched cottages, a few small shops and the inn. There had been only two people on the street when he'd started along it, but by the time he reached the inn the front doors of almost every cottage held interested spectators, and Secrets was followed by several small boys, a boisterous spaniel who frolicked around the stray dog that had followed Vespa to the village, and a small girl clutching a teddy-bear.

The Gallery Arms was a fairy-tale half-timbered inn set back from its cobbled yard. Hollyhocks nodded beside the door, latticed windows gleamed, and the wagon-wheel thatched roof was home to several romantically twisted chimneys. The very sight of it caused Vespa's mood to mellow, and he smiled at the children who hung back, watching shyly. The smile brought them crowding around, augmented by a small girl who hobbled up with the aid of a crutch and halted some distance from the others.

The eager questions of two boys about eight years old faded to silence as they watched his awkward dismount, his cane and his limp.

An ostler ran to lead Secrets away, and a tall, gaunt, stoop-shouldered man with flaming red hair appeared in the door of the inn and nodded to Vespa, a grin on his freckled face.

One of the boys said audibly, “Crumbs!
He
can't play cricket!”

His friend hissed, “Quiet, you silly dunce! Me Pa says he's just out of hospital!”

The little girl, who'd been watching Vespa wide-eyed while nibbling on the teddy-bear's ear lisped, “Doth you fight Mithter Napoleon, thir?”

Vespa said, “Well, I did. But they're keeping me at home for a while.”

At once they pressed closer and three more boys from miniature to tall and gangly galloped to join the crowd. Their questions came thick and fast. Had he ever seen Napoleon? Was he really one of Lord Wellington's famous ‘Family' what Aids the Camp? How many French heads had he chopped off with his sabre? Was Lord Wellington as fierce as folks said?

Laughing, Vespa held up his hand for quiet. “I'm hungry and I want my breakfast, so I won't answer all your questions now. But—yes, I was one of his lordship's aides-de-camp, which means that I did whatever he asked of me, such as carrying despatches from him to the various commanders. He can be fierce when he needs to be, but he's a very great man, and Britain's lucky to have him.”

Amid whoops of excitement, he held up his hand again and nodded to the crippled child at the edge of the crowd. “Did you want to ask me something, mistress?”

Her thin little face flushed, and she shrank back and shook her head.

One of the boys said impatiently, “Oh, she don't never say naught, sir. Did you ever play cricket?”

“I did. And I can still umpire, but we'll talk about that later.” He gave them the sketch of a salute. “Troops—dismissed!”

Squeals, whoops, sharp answering salutes—except for the teddy-bear, whose salute was given clumsily and with the left paw—and they dispersed, all talking at once, passing the crippled child who hobbled painfully after them. Vespa was watching her sympathetically when the clergyman came up. “You'll have to forgive the rascals, sir. We've all been waiting for you, you see, and rumours have been flying.”

They walked across the yard and the red-haired man who'd awaited them said, “Welcome, sir. It ain't every day the lord of the manor comes home!”

“Thank you.” Amused, Vespa said, “Lord of the manor? Glory! I have no title and my poor old house is closer to being a ruin than a manor.”

“Well, you're here now,” said the priest, “and that's the important thing. We'd so hoped Mr. Sherborne would come last year, but—” He slanted a look at Vespa and added quickly, “We were very sorry to hear of his death, Captain.”

Vespa responded appropriately. He could almost hear Sherry's laughing voice after his one visit to the estate: “Of all the grisly old ruins! Grandmama Wansdyke may leave it where she chooses, so long as it's not left to me!”

The priest was introducing him to the red-headed Mr. Ditchfield, proprietor of the Gallery Arms. Vespa pushed away the familiar ache of loss. “You've a fine old place here, Mr. Ditchfield,” he said as they shook hands. “Dare I hope you have a fine cook?”

“My missus, sir. I'll let you be the judge.”

He led them to a wainscoted dining room with wood settles, beamed ceilings and an enormous fireplace, and seated them at a table before open latticed windows that overlooked the back garden. Flowers were blooming in neatly kept beds, and an apple orchard edged a lawn, the branches laden with ripening fruit. Vespa admired the flowers, and before going off to place their order, Ditchfield imparted proudly that his dahlias had won firsts at the Coombe Hall Flower Show “three years running!”

The cook was indeed fine. After an excellent breakfast of eggs, sausages, warm home-made bread and strong coffee, Vespa felt quite in charity with the world.

Mr. Castle, who'd ordered only a pot of tea and a crumpet, filled his pipe and asked gently, “Feeling better, sir?”

Vespa grinned. “Was I very crusty?”

“No, no. Only when you first rode in you looked a touch—irritated, I thought. Perhaps Alabaster was a disappointment?”

“The disappointment is my so-called caretaker.” He stood and the host hurried over. Vespa told him his wife was a splendid cook and assured him that he would be a regular customer. He paid his shot, and they left the host beaming as he hurried to relay the captain's compliments to his spouse.

Accompanying the rotund little cleric across the yard, Vespa said, “I can see why you're so proud of the village. I like the way the cottages are spaced around three sides of the pond and the green. I'd not realized the river is called the Tang.”

“It is not, Captain Vespa. It is Moor Stream, merely. Lacking the prestige, as you might say, of a full-fledged river, although I believe it is a tributary of the Avon and can be a major threat when at flood stage. By and large, we are a quiet corner of the Good Lord's universe, and have no wish”—Mr. Castle's round brown eyes slanted obliquely at his companion—“
absolutely
no wish to become—er—notorious.”

“Ah, you're thinking of the ruffians I told you about who ran my chaise into a ditch. I've no intention of reporting the matter to the newspapers, if that's what you mean, but I'll certainly lodge a complaint with your Constable.”

They had left the inn yard and were walking across the village green. Vespa bowed courteously to a lady taking her dog for a stroll, and she at once stopped and stood staring in that oddly disbelieving way, much as the staff had done at the Gallery Arms. “I collect you get few strangers here,” he murmured.

“You are scarcely a stranger, sir, and you're known to favour Sir Rupert Wansdyke.”

“Did you know my grandfather, Mr. Castle?”

“Very slightly, sir. His lady didn't care for—er—country living, as you will know, and they spent most of the year in London. I called upon him in Wansdyke House when he was considering awarding me this living. He was nearing seventy then, but a fine-looking gentleman still, and— Oh, here is your dog, sir.”

Vespa glanced behind him. The persistent stray sat some ten feet away, watching him. He groaned. “He's not mine, but he seems to have decided I'll do for an owner. I'm ignoring him, hoping to convince him of his error.”

“Oh? I thought I heard you tell the host to give him some—”

Vespa interrupted hurriedly, “He's a confounded pest! I thought if the ostler fed him, the little brute might decide he'd enjoy life at the inn.”

“I see.” Mr. Castle's lips twitched. “Why don't you just chase him away?”

“He's too stupid to know that's what I've been doing.”

Two small boys rushed past, then stopped and gazed at Vespa solemnly.

“Come here and pay your respects, lads,” called the priest.

Instead, they clung to each other, giggling hilariously, then galloped off.

“Dreadful behaviour,” lamented Mr. Castle. “And so angelic when they sing in the choir on Sundays! I apologize for them, sir.”

They walked on towards the glittering expanse of the village pond. Amused, Vespa exclaimed, “Aha! So you have some vestige of the notorious in your quiet corner, after all!”

They had arrived at the low bridge over the river; a graceful structure, its stone walls extending a little distance on each side of the approach path. Situated at the foot of the bridge were the village stocks, presently occupied by a cadaverous individual whose greying dark brown hair escaped untidily from under a tattered hat. A pair of long gaitered legs stuck out before him, and his back was propped against the bridge wall. He raised a glum countenance and enquired, “Is you come to give me some Christian charity, Mr. Castle? Only right you should, your calling being what it is, and me locked up fer doing nothing more'n defending of me good name.”

The priest said sternly, “By throwing Billy Watson out of the tap and breaking his nose?”

“Nose first, sir. Throwed out, after. And don't be telling of me to repent, 'cause I don't. Called me a liar, he done. I got me rights.” He turned a pair of embittered dark eyes on Vespa. “Ain't that so, sir? Everyone got rights—even a poor working cove like me got rights.”

“Rights to do—what? Poach, perhaps?”

“Cor! If that ain't just like you rich lot! I ain't never done no such thing! And anyone what says I'm a common poacher is looking fer a bang in the eye.” He glared at Vespa and added in a snarl, “Puffed-up London dandies, special!”

The idea of being designated a London dandy brought a glint of laughter into Vespa's eyes. Mr. Castle was much shocked, however, and protested, “What insolence! Guard your tongue, man! This gentleman may be able to help you.”

“Why?” jeered the prisoner, unimpressed.

“An excellent question,” murmured Vespa.

The priest said apologetically, “Perhaps I spoke out of turn, sir. But he is your employee, after all.”

“Oh, yus I ain't,” snorted the prisoner.

“But of course you are,” argued Mr. Castle. “This is Hezekiah Strickley, Captain Vespa. Your caretaker.”

3

“The devil you say!” exclaimed Vespa. “Oh, your pardon, Mr. Castle, but this irresponsible hedgebird—”

“I ain't done nothing! I ain't done
nothing!
” screamed the prisoner, cringing back against the wall and throwing both arms over his face. “Don't you let him bash me with that great ugly stick, Mr. Clergyman! Don't you never!”

Flushed with wrath, Vespa said, “I ought to strangle you! Going off and leaving my front doors wide; an open invitation to any thieves or mischief-making vandals!”

“Throw down a red carpet and they wouldn't come in,” babbled Strickley. “Sir,” he added with an ingratiating leer.

“To say nothing of bringing your woman into my house in the middle of the night—”

“Ow!
What
a wicked thing to—”

“Be still, blast you! And to add to all else, making off with my breakfast! I've a good mind to—”

“Lies!” howled the prisoner, raising his hands in appeal to the sunny heavens. “Only to think as a eddicated flash cove like this would speak such raspers! And don't it say in the Good Book as them what lies belong in deepest Hell? Tell this sinful young nob, Mr. Castle, sir! Tell him!”