The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (156 page)

“Yes, a very old, very proud name, she told me. So, you can forget any droll comparisons, Lord Beecham, as to which would curl a listener’s toes more readily.”

“Teeny Bloodbane,” he said yet again, as if savoring the feel of the sounds on his tongue. “Tell me, Miss Mayberry, do you believe she will live in sin with Flock?”

“Oh, no, Teeny and Flock are both very religious. I overheard Flock telling my father that he fancied he was meant to be a Tristan to Teeny’s Isolde—an ill-fated love that would never result in marital fulfillment.”

“I think that both Flock and Nettle are far too old for Teeny. What is she, eighteen?”

“Yes. She told me that older men, like Flock, look at her differently, even speak to her differently from young men. She said she quite likes the older guzzards.”

“Guzzards? Good Lord, am I nearly a guzzard, Miss Mayberry?”

“I would say you have a good half dozen years before you reach the guzzard level, Lord Beecham.”

“My lord.”

“Yes, Nettle? What is it?”

“I pray that you will not desert me in my time of need.”

“Naturally not, Nettle. What need specifically do you see looming?”

“Flock is looming, my lord. He just told me he would pull my gullet out through my ear if I even so much as smile at Miss Teeny again.”

“Don’t worry, Nettle,” Helen said. “I will discipline Flock if he steps over the line.”

Lord Beecham gave her a look of great interest. “Just how will you do that, Miss Mayberry?”

“I am not in the habit of giving out free advice on my specialty, Lord Beecham. Now,” she said, turning away from him, “go about your business, Nettle, and don’t smile at Teeny. It is possible that Lord Prith, not Flock, might challenge you to a duel. He is very fond of Flock.

“Look beyond Teeny’s left shoulder, not at her face. Save yourself from my father, who could smash you if he simply decided to sit on you.”

“He won’t be a broken man for long,” Lord Beecham said as he cynically watched his valet wander away into the taproom of the Wet Sexton’s Inn in the middle of Henchly, a small town not far from Court Hammering. They were stopping, Lord Prith had shouted out his window to Helen, because he wished to taste the ale that the inn’s owner, Mr. Clappe, had made just three months ago, a new recipe that might please his lordship exceedingly.

“My father also likes ale,” Helen said, following her sire into the inn.

As the three entered the low-beamed taproom, Lord Beecham wasn’t surprised to find Flock already against the wall with his arms crossed over his scrawny chest, making certain that no one dared treat them with less than boot-licking respect.

“It is not a badly run inn,” Helen said as she sipped the new ale that Mr. Clappe, all good humor and fat belly, carefully and respectfully placed in her hands. “There’s a bit too much grease ground into the tabletops, but men seem to feel comfortable with a certain amount of filth. Mr. Clappe is attentive, but perhaps he is a bit too effusive with you, Father.”

“You mean as in he toadies, Nell?”

“Yes, Father. Mr. Clappe toadies.”

“He can toady all he likes,” Lord Prith said, wiping his hand across his mouth, “so long as he keeps this ale coming. Clappe! I want a cask of this excellent ale. Two casks. See to it.” He turned back to his daughter and Lord Beecham and beamed. “Best inn in England other than my dear daughter’s. Only thing, though, Nell, you don’t let men drink as much as they’d like to. You turn off the spigot just when they’re beginning to shuck off their worries.”

“Nonsense, Father. If I let them, the men would drink until they dropped dead on the floor.”

“You shouldn’t try to change men’s habits, Nell.”

“I’d rather haul them outside into the inn yard rather than watch them retch in my taproom. Also, I don’t want them to spend all their shillings on ale. Most of them have families, you know.”

“If they keep coming back, sir,” Lord Beecham said, “then whatever she is doing must surely work.”

“There is no other inn in Court Hammering that serves such excellent victuals,” Lord Prith said.

“Indeed,” Helen said. “I feed them well and don’t let their innards corrode with too much drink. I do a favor to all the wives in Court Hammering. Come to think of it, perhaps you could consider me something in the manner of the patroness saint of food and drink in Court Hammering.”

Once two huge casks of Mr. Clappe’s ale were firmly secured atop Lord Prith’s carriage, they were off for the final seven miles to Court Hammering.

“Actually, we live at Shugborough Hall, just east of Court Hammering.”

“I have never heard that name before.”

“My great-grandfather built Shugborough Hall back in the early part of the last century. It is really quite beautiful, particularly with the sun bright behind it. You see, it is all creamy brick quarried over at Pelton Abbott. It just softens more and more as time passes. What with all the wildly growing ivy climbing over the walls, it is probably the most charming manor house in the area.

“The grounds are quite spectacular, since my father enjoys flowers and gardens and thick hedges everywhere. The various lawns stretch from the hall a good fifty yards in every direction, lush green.”

“How many gardeners does your father employ?”

“At last count, I believe it was thirteen. There is a head gardener, of course, and four under-gardeners. There are three men who do nothing else but scythe the lawns. Oh, yes, there are even two peacocks strolling around the grounds. Father calls them, originally, Peacock and Peahen, or, when they’re making too much racket, he just yells out, ‘Pea and Pea, shut your beaks!’ ”

Lord Beecham’s first view of Shugborough Hall fulfilled what she had said. Not only was it a graceful manor house, it was also set atop a gently rolling hill that sloped down on all sides, the incredible green lawn ending only at the edge of a fast-flowing stream that ran east to west. Massive old willow trees framed the stream, with oak and lime trees dotted over the rest of the lawn. The home wood beyond was a thick collection of maple trees. The carriage drive was narrow, an afterthought, Lord Beecham suspected—that, or no owner had ever wanted a graveled drive to cut into the beautiful flowing green lawn. The ivy on the cream brick walls was kept neatly trimmed. No danger of it overwhelming the house.

“It is very nice,” he said to Lord Prith when they were both standing in front of the manor.

“Thank you, my boy. A snug little property, if I do say so myself. Been happy here. So was my Matilda, God bless her beautiful soul.” He gave a lusty sigh, then yelled, “Hinkel! Get your scrawny buttocks out here to help with the luggage.”

“Our long-suffering footman,” Helen said close to Lord Beecham’s ear. “The thing is, he is very skinny, especially from behind.”

“Sort of like a windowpane?” He turned to smile at her. It still made him start that he didn’t have to look down at the sound of a woman’s voice. No, she was right there, her mouth on a level with his, not more than five inches away.

“Exactly.”

He did not realize he had been staring at her, but she did, and leaned even a bit closer. “Shall I tell you about what I fantasize you to be doing while I am pulling off your right boot?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes glazed.

She gave a merry laugh and went into Shugborough Hall.

 

One hour later, after a light luncheon of sliced chicken topped with apricot chutney, crunchy fresh bread with the sweetest butter Lord Beecham had ever tasted, and orange and pear slices sprinkled with roasted almonds, enjoyed with Lord Prith’s favorite drink, champagne, a treat that Lord Beecham declined, he found himself sitting at Miss Helen Mayberry’s charming gilt-and-white Louis XV desk in a sunny back chamber that didn’t enjoy the presence of many gentlemen, she had told him. It was her estate room, where she conducted all her business. It was also her library, where she read and thought and dreamed about the lamp and what it
really
did.

She carefully placed the iron cask on the desk in front of him. “It’s very old. But solid. After all these hundreds upon hundreds of years, it is still strong.”

“I wish there was some way we could tell just how old it really is,” he said. Slowly, with infinite care, he pulled the fraying leather strap off its hook and lifted it, then gently raised the domed lid. He breathed in deeply. It was an ancient smell, he thought, ancient and something else. Not only did it smell very old, the hundreds of years leaving a vaguely yeasty scent with perhaps just a hint of the smell of olives, but also it didn’t seem quite to belong here in this modern world where everything was explained by science and there were no more mysteries, no more magic, no more strange phenomena that boggled a man’s brain.

Olives, he thought. Yes, there was the faint but distinct smell of olives. And something else as well. It nearly overwhelmed him, this feeling that the cask was, in and of itself, important—very important. He felt it deep inside himself. It was also frightening because it did not feel to him as if it was of this world.

What did he mean by that? That this cask had somehow floated down from another world? One of the millions of stars he looked at in the heavens? It had come from one of them? Oh, certainly not. Just breathing in the smell of this ancient cask with its scent of olives and yeast was making him more fanciful than Helen’s little jest about pulling off his boots had done.

“I wish,” he said, “that we could find a person who has been around something magical, something exquisitely different from everything we know. He could perhaps explain, just breathing in the air of this cask, just touching it, how old it is and where it came from.”

“Yes, and what it is doing here. Hidden in a wall in the back of an old cave in a cliff beside the sea.”

“Do you smell the olives?”

She nodded, “When I carried the cask out of the cave and gently set it on a rock, I looked at it for the longest time before I could bring myself to open it. I don’t know if I expected some sort of genie to float out. When I did open it, the smell of olives nearly overwhelmed me it was so strong. It has grown weaker over time, allowing the other smells to come out.”

“The smell of age.”

“Yes. I felt too as though I were in the presence of something ancient and powerful, yet very strange, very different from me. The smell or the feeling of this thing hasn’t changed. Don’t you think that odd?”

He slowly nodded. He had no words. Slowly, with infinite care, Helen gently lifted out the scroll of leather. “You can see how very fragile it is.”

She unrolled it while he held down one side. It covered a third of the desk. There were four paperweights, each set carefully upon a corner, to hold it down. “Did you measure it?”

She nodded. “It’s twelve inches by nine and a half inches.”

He lightly touched his fingertips to the old leather as a blind man would. “There was probably something tying it closed?”

“Yes, but it disintegrated long ago. It must have been tied for a very long time, because when I found it, the scroll was still tightly rolled.”

Only then did he allow himself to look down upon the old leather. It was the color of dried blood. The writing was black. The person had pressed the inked tip hard into the leather. It wouldn’t have mattered if the leather had turned completely black over the years. The deep grooves and shapes were still perfectly clear.

Reading what was written, however, was a different matter.

“Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“Yes, right here.”

The silence grew long and thick. Helen walked away from him to the French doors of the small estate room, which gave onto a private walled garden.

She looked back at him, leaning over her desk, staring down intently at the leather scroll. He was frowning.

“What is it, Lord Beecham?”

“I believe,” he said at last, turning to look at her, “that it is time you called me by my given name. It’s Spenser.”

“All right. You may call me Helen.”

“Helen is a good name. This scroll—it is not Latin or old French or anything like that.”

“What is it?”

“It is something along the line of ancient Persian.” He straightened. “Does your father have any texts about languages?”

“Yes, but Persian? I doubt it.”

Lord Prith had nothing at all ever written east of Germany.

“It’s time we went to see Vicar Gilliam,” Helen said. “It will take us about an hour to ride there.”

Lord Beecham looked back at the leather scroll atop the desk. “I’m thinking that we should oil the leather, make it more pliable and more resistant to cracking and splitting, particularly when you and I touch it.” He paused a moment, then said, “You know, Helen, the chances are that this says nothing at all about the lamp. In fact I would say the odds are very much against it.”

She was shaking her head even as she said, “No, I don’t believe that. I believe that King Edward hid the lamp near Aldeburgh and that is where the cask was buried. The lamp is nearby, I know it is. What is the purpose of the leather scroll if not to explain the lamp? That must be it, don’t you see?”

“Then why would the scroll be written in ancient Persian and not in French, if it is indeed some sort of explanation about the lamp?”

“Robert Burnell, the king’s secretary, was vastly learned. He must have done it. He must have wanted the lamp to be difficult to find.”

Lord Beecham didn’t think that was the case, but he said nothing.

They used the almond oil that Helen poured into her bath. “I thought the scent was somewhat familiar,” he said over his shoulder as he gently rubbed his thumb in the oil and lightly touched it to the leather. He lifted his thumb to his nose. “It smells like you.”

“Keep rubbing, Spenser.”

“Just look at that,” he said after a moment. “It’s working.”