The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (26 page)

Crawling off Broderick's legs, Vespa said breathlessly, “We'll eat”—he removed a feather from one eyebrow—“at the Gallery Arms. Please tell Strickley to have the coach ready by seven.”

“If you mean to stand the huff for a good dinner,” panted Manderville, kneeling to reclaim his shoe from Corporal, “I suppose I shall have to relent and be your ADC tomorrow. Let go, you savage brute!”

“It's all right, Corporal,” said Vespa, picking up the agitated dog and stroking him. “He wasn't really murdering Toby. And you are very good, Paige, but I won't need an aide-de-camp tomorrow. I have important work to do that will keep me far from both Josiah Hawes and Gallery-on-Tang.”

Manderville hauled Broderick to a sitting position. “What he means, Toby old man, is that he don't want company.”

“Hee—hooo,” wheezed Broderick, with rare brevity.

Vespa smiled and said nothing.

As usual, he was the first to leave his bedchamber next morning, and he walked to the stairs noting with pleasure that the day was bright and sunny. He was less pleased to note that Thornhill had left a pile of dirty laundry on the stairs. ‘A fine thing if Paige or Toby should trip over it and break their necks,' he thought, and kicked it aside.

His boot encountered something less yielding than unoccupied garments.

A shrill scream rang out.

Horrified, he recoiled, gasping, “Oh—Egad!”

The pile of dirty laundry gathered itself into the form of a stout young woman, clad in a vast apron and a very large and droopy mob-cap that had fallen over her eyes.

“Ow!” she wailed, rubbing the afflicted area blindly.

“Oh, Jupiter! I am so sorry! I am so
sorry
!” he moaned, pulling back the mob-cap gently. “I thought—” (‘That you were a pile of dirty laundry?') “I mean, I didn't know—” A pair of brown eyes regarded him soulfully from a broad, rosy-cheeked countenance. “Do let me help you up,” he urged, attempting to lift her. With a combined effort they managed to restore the young woman to a sitting position, but since she seemed disinclined to stand, Vespa sat on the stair beside her, holding her hand and asking if she was very much hurt.

She was not unattractive, and had at one time been quite pretty, he thought, but her face showed the marks of a hard life, and the lack of several front teeth resulted in a hissing slur turning some sibilants to z's when she spoke.

“Why'd ye kick me, zur?” she enquired in a broad country accent. “Oi'd've moved over if ye'd asked Oi.”

“I'm sure you would,” he said, patting her hand anxiously. “I do apologize. I'd no idea. That is—I—er, tripped. Will you tell me please, who you are and—and what on earth you are doing here?”

“Why, Oi do be Peg, a'course,” she said, as if this fact was known to the entire population of the British Isles. “Oi works here. Fer Cap'n Vezpa. He be a gert genelman. And Oi be a”—she took a deep breath and looked at him starry-eyed—“a parlour-maid!”

Startled, he thought that she was a very different article from his last ‘parlour-maid'. He could well imagine Papa's reaction to ‘Peg' and had difficulty restraining a grin, knowing it would injure the poor woman, who clearly regarded her new position as a great achievement. Equally clearly, she had not always been a parlour-maid, and could probably tell a tale to rival Thornhill's lurid life history.

“I see.” He released her hand and smiled at her. “Did Mr. Thornhill hire you?”

In response to the smile, her eyes lit up and her plump face became one large beam so that, teeth or no teeth, he thought her a likable creature. “Aye, zur,” she hissed. “He told me as the master wants the manor brung up to ztyle, and he be right fusssy 'bout proper cleaning. Zo Oi started on the stairs, being as they're what he zees when he gets outta bed, ain't they? Oi knowed there was guests in the house, but Oi didn't 'zpect any Lon'on gents to get up 'fore noonday.”

“We're not all such laggards,” he said. “You're not afraid to work in this house, Peg?”

“Oooh, yes, zur! Oi be proper scared. But—” Vespa blinked as she thrust a hand into her bodice and groped about. With some difficulty she drew forth a faded red ribbon on which hung several small and odd objects. “Zee here,” she said, leaning against him and holding up a small ring carven from bone. “D'ye zee this?”

“Yes. A—er, child's ring?”

“No, zur!
Lookee
now! Zee the znake wi' its tail in its mouth!”

“Ah. Yes. A charm, is it?”

“Aye. But it be powerful. A
tell-izzmun,
it be.” She pursed her lips and opened her eyes very wide. “And here, Oi got another of 'em.” She held what appeared to be the tooth of some large animal. “Tiger,” she whispered dramatically. “And—zee here. This un's
very
magic, so 'tis!” The magic object was a small pebble with a hole in the middle and two rounded protrusions on one side. “It be a bat as was turned to stone,” said Peg, confidingly. “Zee its ears, there?”

“I—do. So you feel safe under the protection of your talismans, do you? How did you acquire them?”

“Oh, Oi didn't do nothing like that, zur! Oi
buyed
'em, proper and decent, from Mother Wardloe. She be's a witch as lives in Lord Alperzon's wood, only he don't know it.” She dug Vespa in the ribs and giggled hilariously. “Mother Wardloe she zays as Oi'll be pertected. And there you are, zur. Oi be zafe as zafe! Oi got the tiger, the znake, and the bat! Bean't many ghozties as would go up 'gainst that lot, be there?”

“Oh, very few, I'd think.” He watched, fascinated, as she thrust the collection back in place. “But they don't look to be very comfortable. Doesn't that great tooth scratch your—er—you?”

“Better a scratch than to meet the Alabaster Cat, zur!”

“I'm sure you're right.” He stood, and helped her to her feet. “Well, I must be on my way. I'm glad you're to work here, Peg. Though I'm sorry for the way we became acquainted.”

She chuckled. “Don't ye never think on it, zur.” She dug her elbow in his ribs again and added with a roguish wink, “It were worth it t'zee yer smile. 'Zides, Peg's had worse nor that, Oi can tell'ee, Left'nant.”

“I should have introduced myself,” he said apologetically. “I'm Captain Vespa.”

“
You
iz?” Her eyes round with alarm she said, “But you be too young t'be a Captain, zure-ly? And, oh lawks! Here Oi been talking to the master like—Oh,
zur!
”

In her agitation, she stepped on her dustpan and it went cart-wheeling down the stairs, scattering dust. Snatching for the pan, she tripped on the brush and squealed. Vespa made a grab for her, but she half ran, half fell, in a helter-skelter attempt to catch her balance that ended with her plumping down at the foot of the stairs amid her billowing apron, legs stuck out before her, wheezing with laughter, the mob-cap over her eyes once more.

Hurrying to her assistance, Vespa again restored the mob-cap. “Good heavens! Are you all right?”

She said merrily. “That be Peg! If Oi bean't tripping, Oi do be dropping! Don't ye worrit, Captain. Me old Pa uzeter zay as Oi allus come down on me feet, or where there bean't no brains to break! Good thing Oi buyed them there tell-izzmuns, ain't it, zur?”

Vespa agreed, and having helped her to her feet, went in search of breakfast thinking that with Peg in the house they all might be seeking out Mother Wardloe for talismans.

Thornhill waited on him, and announced that he had taken on a parlour-maid, although she was sadly lacking in experience.

“At being a parlour-maid,” appended Vespa drily. “Oh, yes, I've met Peg. I wonder you didn't hear all the uproar.”

Thornhill poured coffee and sighed. “She appears to be rather clumsy, I'll own, sir. But at least she's willing to work.”

“And to work here, eh?”

“Just so, sir. But I am well aware that she is far from being an acceptable servant and in most great houses would be driven away if she dared approach the back door. If it would offend you, or your guests, to have such a—a person in the manor, I will turn her off.”

“Oh, don't do that. I think it would break the poor woman's heart. Let's give her a chance, at least. She seems to have a sunny disposition, though I doubt her life has been very bright. With luck, she'll learn fast.”

Vespa would very much have liked to witness the reactions of Broderick and Manderville to his new parlour-maid, but already more time had ticked away than he'd planned; having slipped a small pistol into the pocket of his cloak and settled a high-crowned hat on his head, he hurried outside.

It was warm and sunny when he drove the curricle down the drivepath, but an hour later a brisk breeze had come up, and he turned the team off the road and stopped so as to pull the thick rug over Consuela's knees. “My apologies, ma'am. I think I'd have done better to bring my phaeton.”

“I don't mind the wind,” she said, retying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Shall we have time to visit the cathedral, do you think?”

He glanced at the sky and a line of small clouds along the horizon. “Perhaps. We'll see how the day goes.” Easing back into the traffic he asked, “I suppose you've visited Salisbury often? Did Mr. Jones ever paint the cathedral? I didn't see it among the canvasses you showed us.”

“He painted three views. I sent them to the gallery. They're beautiful, but I didn't keep any for myself because I knew Papa always preferred Winchester.”

“Did he! So do I.”

“For any particular reason? In my view, Salisbury is by far the more magnificent. It has the tallest spire in England, you know. Look—already you can see it! And the oldest clock in England is there, besides a copy of the Magna—” She frowned at him resentfully. “Now why must you smirk? Did I mis-use your superior language?”

“You mistook a smile for a smirk. And I smiled because you reminded me a little of Toby Broderick.”

“What a horrid thing to say! My voice is not in the least—”

“Not your voice, Miss Fiero. Gad, but you're hot at hand! Just that your interest in the cathedral would have properly set Toby off. He's a fount of knowledge on almost any given subject. I'm very sure he could tell you things about the cathedral that you—or almost anyone—never heard before.”

“Is that so? He doesn't appear to be a great brain. Is he a dreadful bore?”

“Oh, no. Actually, he's often most interesting. He's rather shy around the ladies, but he's a jolly good man, and was a splendid soldier. It's just that one has to strangle him now and then to bring him down to earth.”

She laughed. “Poor Lieutenant Broderick, to go in such peril! I hope you will curb your violent tendencies; he's too attractive to be done to death. Indeed, Ariadne Gentry thinks he's
very
nice-looking. Why do you prefer Winchester?”

So Miss Gentry had a
tendre
for Broderick. Vespa wondered if Sir Larson was aware that they were riding out together, and how he would like Toby as a prospective brother-in-law. The girl couldn't wish for a finer husband, but if Gentry was really in the basket he'd likely insist upon a rich suitor, and send Toby—

“I expect you will answer me when you wake up—yes?” said Consuela drily.

“Oh, I beg pardon! You asked me about Winchester, I think. It's not that I don't agree with you; Salisbury Cathedral is indeed magnificent. It's just so—well, so
very
magnificent that it's a bit overpowering. Winchester's—I don't quite know how to put it—warmer, somehow. Simpler, and more welcoming. But that's just my own foolish notion. I doubt many people would agree.”

Watching him gravely, she said, “Papa would have agreed.”

They were coming into heavier traffic, and Vespa guided his team with sure hands among coaches and farm waggons, impatient horsemen, dragoons resplendent in their scarlet and gold braid. The traffic thickened and he had his work cut out to avoid destroying reckless pedestrians, darting apprentices and footmen and the barrows of vendors and peddlers. They passed under an ancient arch and a muffin man hurried by with a steaming tray on his head that left behind the tantalizing aroma of hot bread and spices.

Consuela indicated a quieter cobbled thoroughfare where gables almost met over the narrow street. Here, fashionably clad ladies and their attendants rustled in and out of expensive-looking millinery establishments; gentlemen consulted their tailors; and at the far end of the street a sign outside a stately black and white half-timbered house proclaimed in flowing script:
La Galleria.

They stopped in front. A porter came running to hand Consuela down and drive the coach to a private stable, and a slender white-haired gentleman hurried to welcome “the so delightful Signorina Jones” and ushered them inside. Consuela presented Captain John Vespa to Signor Cesare da Lentino, a studiedly distinguished individual who might be anywhere from fifty to seventy years of age.

La Galleria boasted a spacious showroom in which large and small works in oil or water-colour were displayed on stands or hung around the walls. There were also sketches and sculptures, some bronzes, and a few tapestries. Lacking the trained eye of the connoisseur, Vespa found most of the work interesting, but to his mind the paintings bearing the signature ‘Preston Jones' were far and away the most impressive. In heavily accented English Signor Cesare admired the captain's taste. However, the canvasses of the Alabaster quarry had been sold, as had, he hoped, the works depicting the great cathedral.

Consuela gave a squeak of excitement. “
All
of them? Oh, how wonderful!”

Signor Cesare smiled at her exuberance, and regretted that the quarry paintings had not brought the prices he'd been able to get for those of the cathedral, but the former were confirmed sales, whereas the cathedral canvasses were out ‘on approval'.