The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (29 page)

The youth brightened. “What sorta thing you want, Cap'n? He knows who you be, and he'll help, if you want. He likes sojers. He's going to be a sojer. Someday. He tried to be. Once. But they said—” The words trailed off and sadness came into the young face.

Vespa said, “Miss Jones and the duchess are friends of mine. I think you're right about bad men coming here. I had a guard watching the house, but—”

“That were George Cobham. He got knocked down. Dicky-Boy, he seen it.”

“Did you, by Jove! Do you know who the men were?”

“No. They got masks over their faces. But Dicky-Boy seen it and were going to tell Tom. He's the blacksmith, y'know. But the duchess come back and the bad men run off. Anyways, Tom wouldn't've b'lieved Dicky-Boy. He's tried to tell them, afore this, but they don't b'lieve when he tells 'em things he sees. If Dicky-Boy was to tell you what he seen—you wouldn't b'lieve neither. But he did see 'em. And, one o' these days…”

Vespa waited patiently while rainwater trickled down his neck and the wind grew colder. The boy's expression became vacant, and he seemed to withdraw into some shadowy land of his own. At length Vespa said, “I need someone to watch the Jones house. Just until the guard can come back. I expect you know lots of places where you could keep dry but still see if anyone bad chanced to lurk about. I'd like to hire you as a temporary guard. I would pay for your time, of course.”

“You
would?
You'd pay him wi'
money?
To be a guard? That's—that's something like a sojer, ain't it, sir Captain?”

“It is, indeed. Here.” Vespa pressed a coin into the grimy hand. “This is for tonight.”

“Cor!” gasped the boy. “A—a
shilling?
A
whole shilling?
For Dicky-Boy?”

“Yes. But you must obey my orders. If you see anything suspicious, you are to rouse the house. Here, I'll give you my card. Show them this, and tell them I hired you. Is that agreeable?”

“A-agree'ble! Cor!” A jerky salute was offered. “Dicky-Boy's got a sittyation! Just like Ernie what's 'prenticed to Butcher Durham!”

Vespa pulled the rug from the curricle and tossed it to the boy. “Try to keep dry. Good-night to you.”

He started to climb into the curricle, then had to pause as pain jolted through his leg spitefully. Probably, he thought, because he'd been driving most of the day.

A strong arm clamped around him. He was half lifted and deposited on the seat of the curricle. He was, he knew, no lightweight, even in his present state of health, and he stared in astonishment at the youth who stepped back from the curricle and saluted again while declaring, “Dicky-Boy strong!”

Vespa thanked him, waved his whip, and drove on. “Dicky-Boy
very
strong!” he muttered.

*   *   *

“Strong?” howled Manderville, rushing past Vespa with his handkerchief clasped over his nose. “That's not
strong!
Putrid is what it is! Leave the door wide, Jack, and let some fresh air in, for mercy's sake!”

Vespa's bewilderment lasted only until the waft of interior air assailed his nostrils. He at once complied with Manderville's request. Corporal rushed to welcome him home, but even as he bent to stroke the dog it raced outside, tail between its legs. “What the deuce
is
that?” demanded Vespa, his nose wrinkling.

“It's Toby.” Manderville tottered to the open door and leant there, gulping in deep breaths of the clean, rain-swept air. “He's been poking about your cellars all evening. I went down to see what he was about, and the air down there damn near asphyxiated me.”

“Gad! I believe you. Is Toby all right?”

“Right as rain—well, not quite, but the stink don't bother him, he says. He's puttering about down there, happy as a flea on a fox. I told him to open the outside cellar door before he suffocates, and I closed the upper door—for our protection! What are you looking for on the drivepath? Is someone else coming? If so we'd best build up the fire and waft some smoke about to clear the air.”

Vespa closed the front door and allowed Thornhill to relieve him of cloak, hat, gloves and whip. “Nobody's coming, to my knowledge,” he answered. “But as I turned onto the drivepath just now, a fellow ran out in front of the horses. I suppose between the wind and the rain he didn't hear me coming. I damn near ran the blockhead down.”

He excused himself and went upstairs, where Thornhill scolded him for getting drenched, and his muddy boots and wet coat were exchanged for slippers and a quilted dressing-gown. The valet was less gregarious than usual, but said he had not seen any stranger wandering about the grounds.

Vespa thanked him and went down to the drawing room. Manderville was standing by the hearth, lighting a cheroot. Vespa poured them both a glass of brandy, lowered himself into a fireside chair and leant back, stretching out his legs gratefully. “A fine fellow I am to desert my guests. My apologies, Paige. I'd thought to get home in time to join you for dinner. Did you go into the village?”

Manderville sank onto the sofa and waved a dismissing hand. “No. I decided to cook one of my specialities. Unfortunately, your new maid—where
ever
did Thornhill find the wench?—assisted me! Do you know, Jack, that Peg is the only maid I ever saw who could drop a gravy boat while picking up a fork. I thought poor Thornhill would faint!”

Vespa laughed. “Did she show you her talismans?”

“No. Gad, I can scarce wait! However, in spite of her incredible assistance, we enjoyed a good dinner. Never mind about that, and I'll be polite and not demand to know where you've been all day. Were you able to identify your wandering blockhead just now?”

“I caught a glimpse of him. He all but banged his nose on one of the carriage lamps.” Vespa added thoughtfully, “The only identification I could make was that he is, I think, from the Middle East.”

“
Is
he now! Connected with the lady in Preston Jones' sketch, perhaps?”

“If that's the case, then we must assume that this house is being watched.”

“Jupiter! And I thought I came here to share your quiet life!”

“Should've known better, dear boy.” Broderick wandered towards them with an amiable smile on his dirty face. “Jack's life is never quiet. He was in the thick of things in Spain, and before that, from what I've heard, he and his brother were always up to some merry gig or—”

“Go away!” demanded Manderville, jumping up and wafting smoke at the latecomer. “Be dashed if you haven't brought that confounded stench with you! And besides, you're downright filthy! What's that stuff all over your hair?”

Broderick wiped a handkerchief across his head. “Oh,” he said, examining the sullied linen. “It's only ash. What a fuss you make, Paige. If you weren't such a dandified creature—”

“Dandified! I've sniffed six-week-old cracked eggs that smelled better than whatever you were concocting downstairs!”

“Wasn't concocting.” Broderick poured himself a glass of Cognac, and sat on the other side of the hearth. “I accidentally tripped over a vat of acid.”

“What the deuce were you doing with acid?” demanded Vespa, scanning him narrowly. “Did you burn yourself?”

Broderick smiled and waved the glass at him. “It's a very ancient art form,” he said.

“Oh, Gad!” moaned Manderville, closing his eyes. “He's going to tell us all about it—as if we'd asked!”

“Well, but you did,” Broderick pointed out excusingly. “At least, Jack asked me. Didn't you, dear boy?”

“I did? Er, what did I ask you?”

Broderick explained kindly, “Why, about cloisonné, of course.”

14

“Don't ask him,” pleaded Manderville. “You don't know what he's talking about; no more do I. What's more, we don't want to know. And if he starts explaining, we'll be up all night listening to him prattle about something we'd have been just as well off not knowing.”

“It wouldn't hurt you, Paige Manderville, to make an effort to improve your mind,” said Broderick severely.

“I suppose a fuller knowledge of cloisonné—whatever that may be—is going to secure me a high position in the Diplomatic Corps, or at East India House, or some such place?” Manderville straightened his cuff fastidiously, and said with derision, “Oh,
very
likely!”

“That kind of attitude will get you—” began Broderick.

“Hold up,” said Vespa. “Your pardon, Toby, but—let's leave Paige's ignorance for a minute. Are you saying you've been working on cloisonné in the cellar?”

Manderville muttered indignantly, “In this case, ignorance is
surely
bliss!”

Ignoring him, Broderick answered, “Not me, old boy. But someone has. It's far from a lost art, you know, although it dates back to the Mycenaean period and the thirteenth century
B.C.
And there are claims that there have been finds in the Caucasus which—”

“All right, all right,” said Manderville with saintly resignation. “Omit the history lesson and I'll surrender. It's some type of jewellery, of course.”

“Your depth of knowledge amazes,” exclaimed Broderick. “Abysmally incomplete as it is.”

Vespa said with a grin, “I don't know much about it, either. Save that it's a form of enamelling. But isn't it quite a complicated process, Toby? What makes you think someone—logically, Mr. Preston Jones—was working on that kind of stuff in my cellar?”

“Because I found an agate mortar, a wooden mallet and a small furnace down there, among other things—”

“—Such as a bucket of acid into which you stuck your silly foot,” interposed Manderville, yawning.

“If I had, you'd have heard me howl,” said Broderick. “I bumped it and some of the acid spilled onto a stack of rubbish. That's what made the stench, so that I realized what it was. The acid is clear, you know.”

Intrigued, Vespa asked, “D'you suppose Preston Jones was fashioning jewellery down there? Perhaps as a surprise for his daughter or the duchess?”

“That's entirely possible. He might not have wanted them to be near the acid or the various chemicals. But it's also possible that he was crafting larger pieces for eventual sale. Like dishes, or jars, for example. They'd be costly items, that's certain. Has Miss Consuela never mentioned that her Papa worked in enamels?”

Vespa shook his head. “And there were none at the Salisbury gallery.”

“Why do you say they'd be costly?” asked Manderville, becoming interested.

“Because of the acid,” said Broderick. “Cloisonné really requires a fine metal base. If copper was selected to be the base, one would employ citric acid; and if a person was working on silver—he'd use sulphuric.”

Vespa probed, “And the acid you found was sulphuric?”

“No, dear boy. Hydrochloric acid.”

“Which is used only upon vessels of purest gold,
naturellement,
” drawled Manderville mockingly.

“Just so,” said Broderick.

Manderville jerked upright. “You're not serious!”

“You're the flippancy expert, dear old Paige. Not I.”

The last trace of Manderville's langour vanished. Springing to his feet, he cried, “If your cellar is stocked to the gills with pure gold objects waiting to be enamelled, Jack, we'd best find them!” He started to the door, then swung back, saying excitedly, “You do realize that this explains everything? When those louts nigh strangled Miss Consuela, they hadn't come here to murder the poor girl, they were hunting your hoard of gold! Come on, you fellows! Stir your stumps! A hunting we will go…!” He all but ran out, singing lustily.

The two remaining exchanged an amused glance.

Vespa said, “I give him thirty seconds.”

“If that,” qualified Broderick. “Incidentally, I didn't see any golden jars or bowls or such-like pleasantries down there. Sorry.”

His words half awoke something at the back of Vespa's mind, but then Manderville reappeared, coughing, and wiping tearful eyes. “You couldn't have planned a finer deterrent for thieves, Toby,” he wheezed. “We'll have to postpone our treasure hunt until tomorrow. That cellar air's too dashed foul!”

The evening was comparatively young and Vespa suggested a game of loo. His guests enjoyed the game (and the brandy) so much that they were soon playing very poorly, dropping their cards, which resulted in much hilarity, and by the time Thornhill helped usher them up the stairs at half past midnight, they were singing at the tops of their lungs.

Vespa climbed into bed convinced he'd sleep until morning. He was awakened at half past three o'clock, however, by the now familiar sounds of blowing leaves, but when he also heard a shrill barking he realized that the wind and rain had intensified and that Corporal, who had earlier refused to come back into the house, had now changed his mind. It wouldn't hurt Thornhill, he thought irritably, to go down and let the dog in. He reached for the bell-pull, only to remember the cacophanous tones of the bell. It would be a poor host who selfishly woke his guests in the wee hours of the morning.

Grumbling, he threw on his dressing-gown and staggered downstairs. Corporal was grateful to be reprieved, which he showed by decorating his master's night-rail with muddy paw-prints, and then shaking himself, showering Vespa with cold water.

“You're a full-fledged pest,” Vespa advised, towelling the little animal vigorously.

Corporal confirmed this opinion by shivering so violently that he was allowed to curl up on the foot of the bed, where he fell noisily asleep almost at once.

His human was not so fortunate. Wide awake, Vespa lay staring into the darkness, his thoughts drifting from the Salisbury gallery and Signor da Lentino to the thefts at the Jones cottage and poor Consuela's distress; his hiring of Dicky-Boy; and Toby's interesting discovery in the cellar. Two details of the crowded day had triggered an almost realized awareness in his muddled head. One had been a remark made by Dicky-Boy, and the other something that Toby had said. Or was it Paige? He turned over and closed his eyes, wooing sleep, and becoming ever more resentful of Corporal's snores. As the first pale light of dawn outlined his window, he was shocked to realize that he'd been so busily occupied he hadn't thought of his beloved Marietta, nor of Sherry, all day long. Memories crowded into his mind only briefly before he fell asleep.