Mayhem in Bath

by Sandra Heath

  Bodkin’s eyes brightened joyously. “It was her, I know it was!”

  Polly was anxious to prevent any leaping to conclusion. “I still don’t think Sir Dominic has anything to do with it.” She remembered how mystified Dominic had been by her story of a cat called Bodkin. Surely if he knew about brownies and had one in his house, he would have hazarded a guess what sort of being she might really be seeking. Instead, he’d been very convincingly puzzled. She had to defend him again. “I really don’t think Sir Dominic has any idea that such things as brownies really exist.”

  Ragwort and Bodkin exchanged glances, not able to quite believe that the master of a great house like Bellevue Castle, which would warrant the attention of many brownies, would not know of such things.

  Polly detected their disbelief. “Look, I know you have doubts, and maybe they’re justified, but I know what I think.” She looked intently at Bodkin. “Anyway, if it was her, why didn’t she reply when I spoke?”

  Ragwort replied, “If someone has her belt, she can’t utter a word.”

  “All right, but if you’ve searched that house from top to bottom, why haven’t you been able to detect her? Why hasn’t she knocked something over, rattled something, shaken a curtain? Anything to let you know she was there.”

  “Because she has to keep well out of our way. That’s how it is when a brownie is held captive. Our hope was that we’d hear something and be able to catch hold of her—that way we’d know for certain,” Ragwort answered. “If we could only find her belt, all would be well.”

  “And the belt is as invisible to me as she is,” Polly murmured, closing her fingers over the little buckle.

  “Yes.”

  Polly handed the buckle back to Bodkin, and then got up. “I’m going to tackle Uncle Hordwell again,” she declared, and before they could say anything, she went downstairs to the library.

  Chapter 25

  When Polly had gone, Ragwort leaned back against the bed’s finely carved footboard. “She won’t learn anything new, except that he’s guilty,” he mused.

  Bodkin nodded, and hastily grabbed his tail as it began to twirl. Oh, how he loathed Hordwell Horditall and Lord Benjamin Beddem! And how suspicious he still was about Sir Dominic Fortune!

  Ragwort observed him and nodded approvingly. “That’s right, my friend, you keep yourself under control, for you’re a pest when you’re a boggart. Now look, I’ve been thinking about this ball tonight. Shall we go as well?”

  “To a grand ball?” Bodkin’s eyes brightened, and his tail stopped twirling.

  “Every brownie in Bath will be there. It will be great fun.”

  Bodkin’s excitement died. “It wouldn’t be right for me to have fun when poor Nutmeg may be—”

  “We can use the occasion to enlist help,” Ragwort interrupted. “If the whole brownie population of Bath is on the lookout, there’s more chance of finding something out. Well, isn’t there?”

  Bodkin hesitated. “Yes, I suppose there is.”

  “It’s settled then. We’re going.”

  Downstairs in the library meanwhile, Hordwell was again browsing through the morning newspaper. He looked up with a smile as Polly entered. “Ah, there you are, my dear. I trust you did not overspend in Milsom Street?”

  “If I did, it would have been from my own purse,” she replied.

  He caught the intonation, correctly gauged her mood as confrontational, and leaped to the wrong conclusion. “I trust you do not mean to argue again about the match with Lord Benjamin?” Wards were supposed to obey their guardian’s commands, yet he was defied at every turn!

  “There is nothing to argue about, for I will never be his wife.”

  Hordwell’s lips pressed together, but he said no more.

  Polly faced him. “Uncle, about Nutmeg...”

  “Oh, not that again!” He folded the newspaper crossly and slammed it down upon the table by his chair, almost knocking over the decanter of cognac.

  “Yes, that again. Do you swear upon everything you hold dear that you and Lord Benjamin had nothing to do with her disappearance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please look at me when you say that, Uncle.”

  He obliged, meeting her gaze full square. “Yes, I swear it. Now that’s enough, Polly, is that clear?”

  “Oh, yes, very clear,” she replied. His reaction told her beyond all shadow of doubt that he was lying. Disappointment swung unhappily through her, for although she knew him to be a rascally old miser, she really had hoped he was innocent of this.

  Hordwell snatched up the newspaper and made a great fuss about reopening it. “I trust all is well with your ball gown for tonight?” he said then, banishing the subject of brownies in no uncertain manner.

  “Yes,” she replied shortly, then turned to leave the room.

  “See that you look well for Lord Benjamin,” he called after her.

  She slammed the door and hurried back upstairs, but was immediately forced to stop because Lord Benjamin barred her way.

  “Why the hurry, Polly?” he murmured, his eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.

  “Miss Peach, sir,” she corrected coldly.

  “What a stickler you are for the rules, and yet you deign to accept my hospitality. To my mind that is the act of a coquette.”

  She gasped. “It certainly is not, sirrah! How dare you say such a thing!”

  “You play ice with me, but your actions speak very differently. If that is not the sign of a coquette, I know not what,” he murmured, coming down the steps toward her.

  She backed away, but then held her ground again. “And what of your actions, sir? You keep forcing your attentions upon me when you know they are not welcome!”

  “I know no such thing.”

  “You cannot possibly imagine I would wish to marry a man who stoops so low as to hold a brownie captive,” she said then, watching his face closely.

  He paused, his eyes suddenly wary. “Brownie? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do.” she breathed, loathing him more by the second. “Where is she? Where’s Nutmeg?”

  She noticed the scar on his left hand as it began to slide toward his coat pocket and then halted. “I fear you must be unwell, my dear. Everyone knows that brownies are figments of the imagination,” he said softly, descending another few steps and reaching out toward her.

  “What of the page by Nostradamus?”

  He halted. “How do you know—?” He broke off, and his gaze became coldly veiled.

  She knew then that he was indeed the Englishman who was purchasing the page in question, and was about to say as much when little footsteps suddenly pattered down the stairs behind him. He turned and saw no one, but he certainly felt the fierce shove of four small hands. With a cry of alarm he teetered on the brink of falling downstairs, but managed to stretch a pudgy hand to the banister. His eyes swung accusingly to Polly. “You pushed me!” he cried.

  She drew back. “Don’t be foolish, sir, I’m in front of you!”

  “Well, someone pushed me.”

  She met his gaze. “Someone invisible, it seems,” she said softly. “Nutmeg isn’t the only brownie in creation, Lord Benjamin, they’re everywhere, even in this house.”

  As his haunted gaze scanned uneasily around, she seized her opportunity to hasten on up the stairs. The two unseen brownies were close at her heels, and once in the safety of her bedroom again, with the door firmly bolted, Bodkin reappeared to her, but Ragwort remained invisible.

  “I hope you’ve now seen sense about going to the ball, Miss Polly?” he said as they resumed their comfortable places on the bed.

  “No.” She had to go, because of Dominic.

  “Miss Polly—”

  She interrupted with a change of subject. “Thank you both for saving me from Lord Benjamin.”

  “We enjoyed it,” Ragwort replied frankly. “I’d have made sure he went to the bottom, but Bodkin held me back.”


  “Yes,” declared Bodkin firmly, “because if he’d fallen that far, Miss Polly would have been accused. One of us has to think, Ragwort.”

  “And usually it’s me,” retorted Ragwort indignantly.

  Polly held up her hands. “Please don’t quarrel, for we have important things to discuss.”

  They subsided, and Ragwort looked at her. “Your uncle’s guilty, isn’t he, Miss Polly?”

  She sighed sadly. “I fear so. Oh, he still denies everything, but I can tell he’s fibbing. He and Lord Benjamin made a captive of Nutmeg, and I think she’s in Sir Dominic’s house.”

  Bodkin’s tail began to twirl again, and he kept it under control by sitting on it. Ragwort approved the renewed restraint. “A wise move, my friend, for you don’t want to be a boggart again just yet. Halloween is nigh, remember?”

  Polly remembered the pumpkin. “What are you going to do that night?” she asked Bodkin, and when he declined to reply, she became suspicious. “I shudder to think how far you may go for revenge, Bodkin, but please promise you won’t harm my uncle. I know he’s done some wicked things, and that he can be a most stingy, bad-tempered, disagreeable old man, but he’s still my uncle, and in spite of his sins I do love him.”

  “I promise not to lay a finger on him.” Bodkin was all innocence as he replied, but visions of the monstrous jack-o’-lantern hovered in his mind’s eye. With such a weapon, he wouldn’t need to touch his victims, just terrorize them!

  Chapter 26

  As the hour of the ball drew near, a thick mist rose from the Avon. The air was very cold, smoke hung low over Bath, and the light from carriage lamps and linkboys’ torches was muted as society arrived at the Assembly Rooms. But there was nothing muted about the military band that played with gusto outside the main entrance, ready to play the national anthem as soon as the Duke and Duchess of York’s cavalcade was in the offing. Not that the royal party’s approach would be unhindered, for the press of people and vehicles that had gathered in this one small comer of Bath had to be seen to be believed. In Polly’s opinion, a snail would get there quicker!

  She sat in Lord Benjamin’s carriage, keeping as far into the corner of the seat as she could, because his lordship had plumped himself right next to her, his thigh almost touching hers. Her uncle seemed blissfully unaware of the situation; indeed if she was not mistaken he was doing his utmost to ignore it! She fiddled with her fan and reticule and tried to think of something more pleasant than Lord Benjamin Beddem. Did she look her best? She could just see her reflection in the window glass. The amethyst necklace certainly looked fine around her forehead, and for once she’d achieved a very creditable coiffure. Her lavender silk gown was as it always had been, and she was glad now that she hadn’t over-adorned it with bows on the sleeves. In spite of her cloak, she was beginning to feel cold. The short journey to the rooms should only have taken a minute or so; instead they’d been caught up in this horrid jam for over half an hour. Lord Benjamin pressed against her thigh, and she shuddered with more than just the cold.

  Foot by foot the carriage edged closer to the rooms, but then there came shouts for the way to be cleared, and everything came to a complete standstill. The band began to play “God Save the King,” and Polly looked out as the royal carriage threaded its way past, preceded by pages with flambeaux. A detachment of light dragoons brought up the rear, and the townspeople who thronged the pavements began to cheer at the top of their lungs.

  Hordwell scowled and huddled further into the shawls and rugs in which he was enveloped. “Now I suppose it will take us lesser folk even longer to get to the door,” he grumbled, his slavish reverence for royalty taking second place for once.

  Lord Benjamin grunted agreement, but his hand slid secretly toward Polly’s leg. She realized what he was up to and struck his knuckles with her closed fan. As he snatched his hand away with a smothered oath, she hissed at him too low for her uncle to hear. “Remember the staircase, sir. We may not be the only three in this carriage.”

  Lord Benjamin glanced nervously at the seemingly unoccupied seat next to Hordwell. He wasn’t to know, as Polly did, that Bodkin and Ragwort were tucked in the luggage boot at the rear of the vehicle.

  The cheers at the entrance redoubled as the royal party alighted, but it seemed an age before all the other carriages began to move again. At last Polly could see the Assembly Rooms ahead. They were contained in a very austere building that gave little hint of the splendors within. Lanterns shone along the walls, and fan-shaped arrangements of Union Jacks and regimental standards had been placed on either side of the entrance, their golden fringes and braid glinting in the flickering light of torches carried by the footmen who greeted each new arrival. Flowers and moss had been scattered over the steps that led to the vestibule, and the light inside was dazzling.

  As the carriage from 1 Royal Crescent arrived, two of the footmen hurried to open its doors, lower the rungs, then present supportive elbows for those inside to alight. Smoke from their torches swept into the vehicle, as did the raw cold of the night and the racket of the band, which was now playing a rousing march. Polly was assisted down first, and as she paused to shake out her skirts, she glanced into the vestibule. The royal party had progressed farther into the building, and above the band she could just hear as the ballroom orchestra began to play the national anthem. She turned as her uncle alighted next. He was very awkward because of his gouty foot, and he grumbled a great deal as the footmen did their best to ease him down gently. Polly quickly positioned herself next to him and linked her arm lightly at one of his elbows in order to prevent Lord Benjamin offering to escort her.

  Bodkin and Ragwort had climbed out of the luggage boot, and saw numerous happy groups of brownies converging excitedly on the entrance. They were all laughing and giggling as they prepared to enjoy the night ahead, and many of them waved at Ragwort before disappearing into the building. Ragwort grinned at Bodkin. “You see? Everyone’s here! Come on.”

  “I must speak to Miss Polly first,” Bodkin replied, hastening over to tug at her skirt. “We’re going straight inside. Miss Polly,” he whispered so that Hordwell would not hear.

  “Just behave,” she whispered back, recalling only too well what had happened at the review.

  “I will,” Bodkin promised, then he and Ragwort threaded their way inside.

  At last Polly and her uncle, followed by Lord Benjamin, were able to enter the warmth and brilliance of the vestibule, where a chandelier tinkled gently in the draft from the constantly opening doors. Flags and flowers were everywhere, and the babble of conversation was quite deafening. More footmen waited to divest new arrivals of their cloaks and other outdoor items, and although the heat in the vestibule was quite considerable, Polly trembled as she stood in just her gown and silver lace shawl.

  Everyone was edging slowly toward the octagon in the heart of the building, from whence opened the three main rooms, the tea and supper room to the right, the card room straight ahead, and the ballroom itself to the left. The crush and heat were quite oppressive, and already several ladies had been carried in a faint to the various chairs and sofas against the walls. Displeased elderly chaperones, whose territory the octagon usually was, were obliged to stand wherever they could, and footmen with trays of iced drinks found it virtually impossible to cross from the tea room to the ballroom opposite. The occasion was an intolerable press—and therefore assured of being a resounding success.

  Polly glanced around for Dominic, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Nor could she see any brownies, although she knew them to be present. But because she was more accustomed and sensitive to them, she did occasionally hear their voices and feel them brush gently past. Indeed a lot people heard and felt them, but in a jam like this, such incidents were put down to the close proximity of other people, certainly not to brownies!

  Now that she was here, Polly was so nervous and apprehensive about what Dominic might say or do when they eventually came face-to-face, that she almost felt sick.
She resorted frequently to her fan and tweaked her shawl so many times that she began to fear she would pull threads in it. At last the octagon was reached, but to her dismay her uncle and Lord Benjamin made for the card room. “But, Uncle, aren’t we going to the ballroom?” she asked.

  Hordwell waved her away. “Go there if you choose, for I know you look forward to its frivolities. At present Lord Benjamin and I prefer the green baize.”

  She seized the chance of escape before he changed his mind, and entered the ballroom to stand beside the red velvet sofas that were arranged in three tiers around the edge of the hundred-foot-long, blue-and-gold room. From here she could see everything.

  The ballroom walls were very plain at the bottom, punctuated only by chimney pieces, where fires roared, and doors that led into a single-story passage that enclosed the outside of the building. However, the top half of the walls, too high for anyone to look in or out, was lined with fine windows that were flanked by Corinthian columns. The ceiling was deeply coved, and from it hung five magnificent chandeliers. There was an orchestra apse set high in the wall behind her, but the musicians were actually on a special dais at the far end of the room. The royal party had by now settled in a fine box that was so overhung with leaves that it resembled a bower. In his uniform, the Duke of York stood out against such a background, but his wife was lost in the foliage, for she wore clinging green silk and matching green plumes that undulated like water whenever she moved.

  Uniforms were all around, of course, together with the formal black velvet that was otherwise de rigueur for gentlemen at such occasions. For the ladies, plumes were very much in evidence, many of them ridiculously tall, but there were also tiaras, hair slides, jeweled combs, and artificial flowers. Circlets were few in number, and no one else appeared to have had the happy notion of wearing a necklace around her forehead. Fans fluttered in the intense heat, ringlets bobbed against naked shoulders, and rich gowns of rainbow colors swung to the steps of the polonaise that was in progress. Incongruously, Polly found herself wondering if there were brownies dancing as well. What a comical sight it would be, all those little brown-furred creatures moving among the high and mighty of Bath society!