Rough Gentleman

by Maggie Carpenter

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Just tell me what I must do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Kendrick,” Connie said gratefully, finally speaking. “I’m in your debt.”

  “No, Miss Clifford. It is I who must thank you for giving me the opportunity to make this up to you, and help you right this terrible wrong.”

  “You have nothing to make up for, Kendrick,” she said warmly, rising to her feet. “You were so kind leaving me food when I was in the shed, and taking me down to the servants’ quarters on those beastly nights.”

  “I wish I could have done more.”

  “You did all you were able, and I’ll never forget it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I know everything Malcolm is about to reveal, and I’d like to take a wander in the garden.”

  “Of course, Miss Clifford,” Kendrick said, rising to his feet as she stood up, “and may I say again, how truly marvelous it is to see you looking so well.”

  * * *

  Malcolm had secured the statue around Connie’s waist. Though it was heavy, she trusted his knots, but she could feel the rope cutting through the fabric of her dress and into her skin. It hurt, but she ignored the pain and continued toward the back of the house.

  In spite of the draped furniture and the missing paintings that once graced the walls, it still felt like home. As she entered the salon where she and her mother would enjoy high tea with their friends, a lump rose in the back of her throat.

  “I feel you in here, Mamma,” she murmured, standing in the middle of the room and closing her eyes. “I can even smell your favorite rose perfume.”

  But the weight of the statue pushed her on. Not yet ready to see the drawing room, she chose the long way around to the backyard by way of the conservatory. Moving outside, lazy clouds gave way to the sun. Bathed in its welcoming warmth, she made her way to the shed, opened the door and stepped inside.

  A glowing shaft of light filled with tiny dancing particles sat between her and the makeshift bed against the far wall. It was exactly as she’d left it.

  “How did I sleep in here?” she muttered. “I mustn’t think about it. I finally have my life back, and soon this will be over for good.”

  Moving forward and pushing away the miserable memories, she unbuttoned her cape and placed it on top of the pile of blankets. Sitting down, she began untying Malcolm’s complicated knots. As the rope fell away, she lowered the velvet pouch and held the solid gold Statue of Kharute in her hands.

  “You are a beautiful thing,” she murmured. “What stories you could tell.”

  The shed door suddenly opened.

  “You must die, and you must die now!”

  Panic-stricken, she jerked her head up.

  In terror and disbelief, she watched helplessly as the menacing figure moved toward her.

  Chapter Forty

  The form moved closer.

  The sinister man was Roger!

  But something was horribly wrong.

  His eyes bulged, and his face was contorted.

  “Roger! What on earth is the matter with you?”

  “You must die,” he repeated, “and you must die now.”

  The heavy statue her only weapon, gripping it tightly and using all her might, she swung it wildly toward him.

  Roger froze, his bloodshot eyes widening in what appeared to be terror.

  “I curse you into the depths of hell,” she wailed, somehow managing to wave the heavy artifact in the air. “I know what you and Monty did! Stay away from here or I’ll bash your head in. I will! I’ll bash your head in.”

  “No, no, no, no,” he gasped, frantically flapping his hands, then letting out a piercing shriek, he spun around and bolted out the door.

  Shocked by his frenzied departure, her heart racing and her arms trembling, she dropped the statue and sucked in the air.

  “Connie!” Malcolm exclaimed, dashing into the shed. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Thank God you’re here,” she quaked, leaning against him as he dropped next to her and wrapped her in his arms. “It was Roger. Didn’t you see him? He just ran out of here.”

  “Roger? No. The garden was empty. Did he hurt you? I heard a scream.”

  “That was him. He started yelling when he raced away, and n-no, he didn’t hurt m-me,” she stammered. “I was s-so scared.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Malcolm, he looked so strange. His eyes, they were wild and red, and his face was all blotchy. He said I had to die.”

  “What the devil is wrong with him? Catch your breath. I’ll put the statue under the floorboards, then we can go back inside and you can tell me all about it. The main thing is, he’s gone and you’re safe.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why was he acting so crazily, and what was he doing here?”

  “He must have been watching this house and decided to corner you while you were in the shed, though it could have been a coincidence. He could have come back to search again. Where’s the pouch for the statue?”

  “It’s here someplace. There it is, on the floor. It must have fallen off my lap when I swung the statue.”

  “You swung it?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. Roger was threatening to kill me. I managed to sort of wave it at him, but it was so heavy I almost dropped it.”

  “My brave girl.”

  “I’m not sure I was being brave. I was terrified, but more than anything I felt this rush of fury. I think that’s where I found the strength to lift the blasted thing. I couldn’t let him have it, and I wasn’t about to let him hurt me.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Just a bit shaken. At least my heart isn’t racing anymore,” she said with a heavy sigh, then pausing, she added, “The way he reacted—the look in eyes, his shriek and how he ran out—Malcolm, it was so bizarre.”

  “Try not to think about it. You just sit there and catch your breath while I take care of the statue.”

  Taking another long, deep breath, she watched him cover the relic with the pouch, pull the drawstring tight, then lift the floorboards and lower it safely into the secret spot.

  “There. All ready for Frank,” he declared, putting the slats of wood back in place.

  “Do you think Roger will come back?”

  “I doubt it. From the sound of that scream you must have scared him to death, and he’ll assume the treasure has been hidden somewhere else by now, but...” he murmured, his voice trailing off.

  “But what?”

  “Mountbatten might get suspicious when Roger tells him he saw you with it.”

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, as he helped her to her feet. “Samuel Mountbatten is suspicious by nature.”

  “Mind you, it could also help to confirm what I’ve written in the letter. He’ll come regardless,” Malcolm said, praying he was right. “He has no choice. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Yes, please.”

  She leaned against him as they made their way to the door, but as they stepped outside they found Kendrick hurrying across the garden toward them.

  “I came as soon as I could,” the butler said breathlessly. “I thought I heard someone yelling.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Malcolm assured him. “Connie had an unexpected visitor. Roger Witherspoon, one of the men I told you about.”

  “The scoundrel! Are you all right, Miss Clifford?”

  “Yes, thank you, Kendrick.”

  “Does this change anything?” Kendrick asked. “Will we still be going forward with your plans?”

  “We must,” Malcolm replied solemnly. “As I explained, this is probably our only hope of catching everyone involved, and the invitations will have been delivered by now. They’re desperate to get their hands on the Statue of Kharute. They’ll show up.”

  “Then I will be here as promised,” Kendrick said firmly. “Now I must get back, but I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Malcolm, shouldn’t you fetch Frank?
” Connie asked as Kendrick strode away. “He’ll be back by now.”

  “After what just happened I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Come with me. We can tell him we found the statue together.”

  “Did you find my bedroom? Were you able to put the broken pieces on the floor?”

  “You described where it was perfectly. They’re ready and waiting to be found. Is there something else?” he asked, as she looked back at the shed.

  “Maybe we should stack those boxes sitting on the workbench on the floor. If Roger does come back, he’ll probably search through them before even thinking of the floorboards.”

  “Clever Connie! That’s an excellent suggestion, and it won’t take long, though it will be me that does the lifting, not we.”

  * * *

  The night before, the doctor had given Roger a sedative to help him sleep, but in spite of the potion, Roger had fallen victim to terrible nightmares. Monstrous rats had chased him down dark alleys, then the ghost of Connie’s father had loomed over him.

  “You and Monty are cursed, Roger Witherspoon,” the ghost had proclaimed. “Cursed by me and by the Statue of Kharute. You are being punished for your evil deeds, and soon Monty will suffer a terrible fate, just as you are suffering now, and will continue to suffer until you take your last breath.”

  Waking up drenched in sweat, his addled brain had told him there was only way to free himself and his beloved Monty from the terrible curse. Return to the Clifford home, find the statue, and destroy it, though how he wasn’t sure.

  Not wanting to take the time to wait for his valet, he’d hastily thrown on some clothes, then hurried to the back wall of the Cliffords’ stately house. As he climbed to the top, he’d been shocked to see Constance walking across the garden and entering the shed.

  She was alive!

  Well-dressed.

  As though nothing had happened.

  But that was impossible.

  Monty’s spies were everywhere.

  How could she have slipped through the net?

  A great fear had seized him.

  Constance had seen Monty kill her parents.

  She would tell the police.

  She would tell the world!

  “You must die!” Roger muttered. “You must die and you must die now.”

  Clambering all the way over, he’d dropped into the garden, marched to the shed, and burst through the door. She was sitting on the floor as if waiting to meet her fate. Then out of nowhere, surrounded by hundreds of miniature soldiers, he spied the Statue of Kharute flying through the air, charging toward him.

  “I curse you into the depths of hell,” it screeched. “I know what you and Monty did! Stay away from here or I’ll bash your head in. I will! I’ll bash your head in.”

  Screaming and utterly petrified, he’d run from the shed, scrambled over the fence, and bolted down the path.

  * * *

  While Roger had been suffering through his delusion, Lady Charlotte Hatley had been staring at his disheveled, empty bed. Sounding the alarm, she quickly learned her son had been seen leaving the house looking unkempt and talking to himself.

  “Why did no one stop him?” she railed as her husband joined her. “We must find him right away. He’s not well.”

  “I’ll send the footmen to look for him immediately,” the duke promised, “and I’ll take to the streets in the carriage. He can’t have gone far.”

  “He’ll be with Monty! I’d stake my life on it,” she exclaimed frantically. “That’s where he’s gone. He’s always over there.”

  “It’s their mutual love of the historical society,” the duke remarked with a frown. “I thought it a good interest, but now I’m not so sure. He seems to become more obsessed with it every day.”

  “Would you please just go over there, and if he is with Monty, bring him home. Our son is sick. He needs to be cared for.”

  Hurrying downstairs and summoning the carriage, George Witherspoon was as worried as his wife. The doctor had confirmed the wound on Roger’s hand did resemble a rat bite. If it was, the vermin could have infected Roger with any number of diseases, but when pressed about how he’d been bitten, Roger had changed his story.

  “I scraped myself on the edge of a jagged fence,” he’d claimed, then refused to talk about the incident any further.

  The doctor had ordered bedrest and left a tonic, but Roger’s condition had worsened. Now he had disappeared, and his mother was on the verge of hysteria. George couldn’t blame her. He was having a difficult time remaining in control himself.

  Climbing into his carriage, his first stop was Lord Mountbatten’s majestic home, but the butler assured him Roger wasn’t there, and hadn’t visited for a couple of days. Returning to his fine coach, George ordered the driver to move slowly through the neighborhood.

  “Where are you?” George muttered, his brow furrowed with deep concern as he stared out at the footpaths. “What the blazes is going on?”

  The carriage suddenly stopped.

  George assumed there was a problem on the road, but the footman who had been sitting with the driver was suddenly at the door anxiously pulling it open.

  “Your Lordship, we’ve found him.”

  “Where! Show me!” George demanded, his heart leaping as he hurriedly climbed out.

  “There, Your Lordship,” the footman declared, pointing to a disheveled figure sitting on the ground apparently asleep. “I recognized the coat, Your Lordship. It’s his favorite.”

  Holding back a cry—a union of joy and dismay—George raced to his son, but as he and the footman helped him to his feet, Roger kept shaking his head and muttering gibberish. Hustling him inside the carriage, to George’s relief he abruptly sat up, stopped babbling, and blinked his eyes.

  “Roger? It’s me, your father.”

  “I know who you are,” Roger exclaimed, scowling across at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “With me? There’s nothing the matter with me!” George retorted. “What’s the matter with you? Look at the state of your clothes. You left the house without a word to anyone, and you’re sick. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  “It won’t help,” Roger mumbled, his expression instantly changing to one of dread. “Nothing will help. I’ve been cursed by Kharute.”

  “Damn and blast, boy. What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as a curse, and who’s Kharute?”

  “A golden god with thousands of tiny soldiers.”

  “Mad,” George muttered, a deep sadness flowing through him. “My son has gone mad.”

  But George knew the man who might be able to give him some answers. Roger’s nearest and dearest friend, the Earl of Landenbury, Samuel Mountbatten.

  * * *

  Whenever Josephine was in town, she commandeered the second story of the Mountbatten mansion. It became her territory, and with the exception of David Manning, no one was allowed to visit her without an invitation.

  The elegant salon was where she held court. Though she was American, she had made a name for herself in the fashion industry in Paris before she’d married the earl. The women of the social elite considered her the epitome of style and elegance, and it didn’t hurt that she was fabulously rich.

  The moment word spread that she’d arrived in the city, invitations arrived one after the other. She and David had paid little attention to the hand-delivered, plain white envelope with their names scrawled across the front. It sat in the silver tray on the table at the top of the stairs, along with half-a-dozen other envelopes.

  She and her lover had settled down to enjoy a late afternoon cup of coffee and finger sandwiches, when a loud banging on the salon door almost caused her to drop her cup. Without waiting for a response, Samuel marched in.

  Josephine bristled.

  “Samuel! How dare you barge in here! What do you want?”

  “Where’s David?”

  “I’m here,” her lover replied, rising from the wing-backed chair that had hidde
n him. “This had better be good.”

  “Read it for yourself,” Samuel replied tersely, striding across the luxuriant room and handing him the envelope.

  Opening the flap, David pulled out the card.

  “Well, what does it say?” Josephine demanded.

  “Damn,” David muttered, taking in the short message. “You’re not going to believe this. Samuel has been invited to an auction tomorrow night... for the Statue of Kharute!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  When Malcolm and Connie had walked into Detective Frank Colby’s office at Scotland Yard, he’d listened in shocked silence as they’d excitedly told him how they’d found the long-missing Statue of Kharute in the garden shed. Hurrying back to the house, he and Malcolm had shifted the boxes, then dropping to his knees, Frank had moved the wooden slats, and lifted out the weighty drawstring bag.

  “I take it you opened this and looked inside,” he said, staring up at Connie.

  “I did, yes.”

  Taking a deep breath, Frank slid down the velvet fabric, then stared, transfixed, at the golden, priceless treasure.

  “My good heavens,” he mumbled. “What a thing.”

  “In spite of all the trouble I can’t help but admire it,” Connie said softly, crouching next to him. “It’s amazing that I slept in here, and all the while it was under the floorboards.”

  “Now we don’t have to find something else to put under the cloth tomorrow night,” Malcolm remarked. “We can use the real thing. We can even do a dramatic unveiling.”

  “Just as well,” Connie said.

  “Why is that?” Frank asked, his eyes still focused on the statue, quietly adding, “I’m feeling warm from holding this.”

  “I’m afraid I dropped the sculpture we were going to use earlier today. It’s in a hundred pieces now.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I thought I’d keep it in my old room upstairs, but I tripped on one of those dust covers and it went flying. I haven’t cleaned up the mess yet. I couldn’t find a broom, or a dustpan, or anything. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know where to put all the pieces.”