Rough Gentleman

by Maggie Carpenter

  “Certainly not a criminal mastermind,” his undercover officer replied. “What kind of idiot would steal something like that and lose track of it?”

  “Whoever it was, I’m glad they were so careless,” Frank continued. “I don’t care how much I have to spend, I’m going to bid until that statue is mine!”

  “Shut up!” David snapped, jerking his head around and glaring at them.

  Raising his hand, Frank shouted out an opening bid of fifty thousand pounds, but his words were ringing in David’s head.

  I’m going to bid until that statue is mine.

  * * *

  Malcolm and Connie had been sipping champagne when one of Frank’s men knocked on the door and informed them the auction had begun.

  “Time for me to go,” Malcolm declared, setting his glass on the tray.

  “Please be careful,” Connie warned anxiously, taking his hand. “I wish you were staying here with me.”

  “I won’t be doing much, just standing at the bottom of the stairs. If Manning or your uncle thinks they can escape by running up to the second floor, I’ll simply block their path.” Then pausing, he added, “Connie, you don’t honestly think either of them could get the better of me, do you?”

  Breaking into a smile, she blatantly admired his tall, powerful physique.

  “Not for a moment. I almost hope one of them will try.”

  “So do I,” he said with a chuckle. “I must go, but that policeman will be right outside your door just as an extra precaution. Do you promise to stay under his watchful eye while I’m gone?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ll be back the minute everything is over.”

  “I think I’ll remove these dust covers. I might find something that was left here.”

  “You do that,” he said softly. “I love you, sweet angel.”

  “I love you too. Stay safe,” he murmured, and giving her a quick kiss, he left the room.

  Though she had every confidence the evening would be a success, she still didn’t know if her uncle was there. She not only wanted to see him and David Manning being dragged away, she wanted them to see her alive and triumphant.

  Telling herself to be patient, she glanced around her old room. It was impossible to see what was there and what wasn’t. Dust cloths covered everything except the bed. Moving to the bookcase that used to hold her knickknacks, photographs, and books, she carefully slid off the white sheet.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, her heart leaping in joy.

  She had assumed her possessions would have been packed up and disposed of, but nothing had been touched.

  An array of emotions flooding her heart, she picked up her very first porcelain figurine. Her father had given her a new one for each of her birthdays, starting when she was five years old.

  “You’re a big girl now,” he’d announced, “big enough to take care of this fragile statuette. You must handle it very carefully. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I can,” she’d promised, nodding earnestly. “You’ll see.”

  The memory washing over her, she ran her fingers over the delicate little girl and her dog, then cautiously put it back in its place.

  “If my things are here, could my parents’ belongings still be in their room?”

  Suddenly filled with a compelling need to find out, she closed her hands into frustrated fists. She had sworn to Malcolm she would stay under the guard’s watchful eye. Trying to push away her yearning desire to visit her parents’ suite, she began removing the remaining dust covers.

  Everything was exactly as she’d left it.

  Even her clothes sat in her drawers and hung in her wardrobe.

  The specter of exploring her parents’ bedroom loomed large.

  “But how can I?”

  As the muttered question left her lips, an idea floated into her head. Hurrying to the door, she opened it and smiled up at the young man. He was dressed for the evening and looked nothing like a policeman.

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?”

  “Constable Alfred Johnson.”

  “Hello, Alfred. I’m Constance.”

  “I know who you are,” he said with a smile. “Please forgive me, I’m not sure how to address you.”

  “Constance will be just fine, and I have a huge favor to ask.”

  “I’ll be happy to help any way I can, but I’m not allowed to leave my post.”

  “What if you were to leave your post to come with me?”

  He paused, then frowned.

  “You’re not allowed downstairs.”

  “Goodness, Alfred, I know that, I don’t wish to go downstairs!”

  Recognizing the look of relief cross his face, she seized the moment.

  “I simply want to walk to the end of the hall and visit my parents’ old bedroom for a moment. Look at this,” she continued, opening her door wide and waving her arm. “It’s just as I left it. I’m dying to know if their room is the same.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “Alfred, please?” she bleated, looking up with pleading in her wide green gaze. “All I want to do is peek under the dust cloth covering the bureau to see if our photographs are still there. That’s all. Then we can come right back. We won’t be gone for more than a minute, and I won’t leave your sight for a single second. I promised I would stay under your watchful eye, and I will.”

  She saw a flicker cross his eyes.

  “Why don’t we do this?” she said eagerly, knowing she almost had him convinced. “Their room is just at the end of the hall. It’s those double doors. Do you see them?”

  “I see them.”

  “There’s no way into that room except walking past you and through those doors. You don’t have to leave your post! You can stay right where you are and watch me.”

  “Except when you actually go in.”

  “If I’m not out in one minute you can come and get me, but I will be. What harm can it do? The auction will take forever. They’ll probably bid for a while, then take a break for everyone to have a bite to eat and drink, then it will start up again.”

  “I thought they continued until there was only one bidder left.”

  “Most are like that, and this one might be too, but if there are only one or two items they sometimes have an intermission. Please, Alfred? The amount of time we’ve been standing here talking I could have gone and come back.”

  “Are you wearing a watch?”

  “Yes,” she replied, knowing exactly what he was about to say.

  “One minute. You must be out in one minute.”

  “That’s plenty of time,” she beamed. “Thank you ever so much.”

  “Go on then, before I change my mind,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  Thinking he was quite an attractive young man, she hurried down the hall. Turning and looking back at him as she reached the room, she checked her timepiece, then waved. He waved back. With a happy heart, she pushed open the double doors and walked inside.

  Her heart skipped.

  Lamps were burning.

  The dust cloths were gone.

  Utterly bewildered, her eyes moved around the room.

  “What...? No... this... can’t...”

  Breathing in a horrified, confused gasp, as everything went black, she fell to the floor.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  In the drawing room the auction continued, but David Manning was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Kendrick had stepped away, and another man was conducting the sale, but none of the bidders held numbered cards to identify themselves.

  He had attended hundreds of auctions in America, across Europe and in London. He knew how the game was played, but apparently the other men in the room did not, and were throwing out their offers with ridiculous speed. Not wanting the price to rise even further, David had remained silent, waiting until the auction fever passed and some of the bidders dropped out.

  His unease wasn’t helped by the odious man sitting ne
xt to him. Matthew Clifford had begun burping with alarming regularity, and the storm outside raged its fury. The constant thunder and pounding rain made it difficult for voices to be heard. The auctioneer had to ask the bidders to repeat their calls, but that hadn’t stopped the men continuing with their fast-paced offers.

  But David’s most pressing worry was the man who had said, I’m going to bid until that statue is mine. Except for the annoying Matthew, the stranger was the only other person playing it smart and holding back his bids. David turned his head to glance at him just as the man wiped his hand over his face.

  David frowned.

  The man’s timepiece around his wrist was plain and inexpensive.

  Darting his eyes to the man’s shoes, the crease in David’s brow grew deeper. They were polished, but worn. Certainly not the footwear of a wealthy man.

  David’s instincts screamed at him to leave.

  He couldn’t!

  He wouldn’t!

  Not without the prize!

  “David, I say, old man, I’m not feeling well at all,” Matthew whimpered, interrupting his worried thoughts.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” David snapped.

  “Anyone else?” the auctioneer called. “No? Then I will take this into a second round. Gentlemen, if you do not intend to bid further, please take your leave, if you are choosing to stay, help yourselves to the champagne and refreshments.”

  * * *

  Frank had signaled to the officer pretending to be the auctioneer to pause the action. David Manning and Matthew Clifford had yet to make a bid, and Frank wanted the men who had called out the fake offers to leave. With just himself, David Manning, Matthew Clifford, and Edward Simington left, the two crooks would be forced to participate or lose the priceless treasure.

  But Frank’s attention was abruptly snatched away. Rising slowly to his feet, Matthew had his hand on his stomach and his face was crinkled in pain.

  He suddenly, violently vomited.

  As Frank and his men rushed to his aid, Kendrick hurried away in search of towels. Flailing his arms and making strange squeaking sounds, Matthew vomited a second time. Then a third.

  As David Manning jumped backwards, he realized fate had handed him an extraordinary opportunity. Everyone in the room was focused on Matthew now on his knees. Slinking to the round table, David grabbed the statue, tucked it under his jacket, and skulked backwards to the French doors.

  They were locked.

  Keeping his wits about him, he made a speedy move to a door off to his right. Shooting a quick look back at the crowd to make sure he hadn’t been noticed, he saw Matthew on the floor, his body writhing as he suffered through a savage seizure. Thanking him under his breath, David ducked through the door into the adjacent room, only to find himself cloaked in darkness.

  A flash of lightning momentarily exposed the cloth-covered furniture. Though it offered a vague idea where to walk, making his way through the maze wasn’t easy, and the statue was ridiculously heavy. Finally reaching the far wall, he found a door and cracked it open. To his great relief he discovered it led directly into the foyer. He’d been in the formal reception room.

  Spying only a single guard, David placed the weighty statue on the floor, lifted his trouser leg, and ripped the gun from his leg. If he had to shoot his way out, so be it, but his arm ached from carrying his heavy treasure. With gritty determination, he picked up the ancient treasure in his left hand, raised the gun, slowly opened the door, and crept forward.

  “Peabody! Where’s Mr. Mead?”

  The panicked cry from the top of the stairs made him quickly step back.

  “He ran into the drawing room,” the lone guard yelled back. “Why?”

  “It’s urgent. Find him and bring him up here.”

  The man bolted away.

  Amazed at his impeccable timing, David scooted across the foyer and out the front door.

  The rain was torrential, the wind lashed the trees, and he had no coat. Within seconds he was drenched. Stuffing his gun into the waist of his trousers, he hugged the statue against his torso with both arms and pushed through the storm. Barely able to see across the street, he decided that’s where he needed to be. Any minute someone would notice the statue was gone and they’d come running, but in the dark, rainy night he would be virtually invisible on the other side of the road.

  * * *

  As Matthew’s seizures suddenly stopped, and he gasped his last breath, Peabody burst into the room.

  “Mr. Mead? Come quick.”

  “What’s wrong?” Malcolm demanded, spinning around and striding toward him.

  “I don’t know, but it’s something upstairs. It must be—”

  But Malcolm was already racing out the door. Alarmed and ready to follow, Frank quickly straightened up, but to his horror he saw the empty tabletop.

  “It’s gone!” he shouted. “The statue—it’s gone!”

  Standing behind him, Edward yelled the obvious.

  “David Manning! He isn’t here! He must have taken it.”

  “Everyone, split up,” Frank ordered. “Search the backyard and the path behind the wall. I’m taking the street.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Edward exclaimed.

  “No, go upstairs. Malcolm might need you.”

  Sprinting down the hall and through the foyer, Frank ran out the front door, only to hit torrential rain. Squinting as he hurried forward, he spied a figure standing at the curb.

  “Manning! Stop! Police!”

  Jerking his head around, David recognized Mr. I’m going to bid until that statue is mine. He was a cop!

  “You’ll never catch me!” he shouted back.

  Determined to get away, he darted into the street.

  A blanket of sheet lightning cloaked the sky.

  From the corner of his eye, Frank saw a carriage barreling toward the escaping thief.

  “Stop! Manning! Stop!”

  But all David heard was the clattering of hooves.

  He looked up—too late.

  Two huge, galloping black horses were almost upon him, and with a foot on each of their backs stood the grim reaper, his cape flapping in the wind, his scythe flying through the air.

  Standing in his seat trying to regain control, the driver’s oilskin coat waved in the gale. His long whip, jostled loose from its holder, danced in the howling wind. His panicked horses had been ignoring his efforts to stop them, but they abruptly slowed and began jigging along the road.

  Finally bringing them to a stop, he took a long, deep breath, and to his great relief the rain began letting up. Wanting to settle his nerves and calm his precious animals, he climbed from his seat, but reaching the ground he heard someone calling. Turning around, he saw a man running toward him, and several others studying a strangely shaped object lying in the middle of the road.

  * * *

  When the storm hit, Malcolm’s driver, Henry Jones, had moved the carriage closer to the Clifford house. Hunched over in his seat, his oilskin coat sat across his head and the reins rested on his lap. The two horses were accustomed to stormy weather, so when Henry heard the thunder and saw the flash of bright light, he paid little attention.

  But his human ears had missed something.

  A short distance behind the coach, the bolt had struck a tree, cracking a heavy branch.

  The horses had pricked their ears.

  The branch creaked.

  The horses snorted and moved their feet.

  Suddenly giving way under its own weight, the heavy limb had plunged to the ground with an almighty crash. Before Henry could gather up the reins, the horses had been galloping hell bent for leather down the street.

  * * *

  Roger Witherspoon sat bolt upright, sweat pouring down his body. A clap of thunder had snatched him from sleep, but he was grateful. The nightmare had been the worst yet. The Statue of Kharute had sprouted wings, and had been hovering over his bed ready to pound his head to a pulp.

&n
bsp; Wiping his face with shaking hands, Roger turned up his lamp, but as he leaned back, he discovered the dream had been real! Bigger than life, the statue floated at the foot of the bed and was moving toward him!

  Letting out a shriek, Roger stared helplessly at the bedroom door. It had been kept locked after he’d left his room and attacked one of the statue’s demons. His mother had sworn the evil creature had been a footman, but Roger knew the fiends could take any form they wished.

  He turned his eyes back to imminent horror. Surrounded by a glowing red light, the statue was drawing closer.

  In a frenzied panic, Roger jumped from the bed and dashed to the window. Panting and sobbing, he managed to push it open and climb onto the decorative balcony.

  His escape was just a foot away.

  An ivy-covered trestle he’d scaled frequently as a boy.

  With the rain cascading around him, he reached across, closed both hands around the thin wood and thick green leaves, then scrabbled his legs over the wrought-iron railing.

  But the statue flew through the window, its mighty golden wings producing a merciless gust of wind. With a wild wail he tried to hold on, but his fingers slid on the wet, slippery plant.

  Roger Witherspoon plummeted to the street below.

  * * *

  When Connie had stepped into her parents’ bedroom, the ghostly figures of her mother and father glided toward her. Gasping in shock, her heart leaping in her chest, she froze—then fainted.

  Coming out of the darkness, she could feel a soft mattress against her back, and she could hear Malcolm’s voice.

  “Open your eyes, Connie. It’s me, Malcolm. Please, my love, open your eyes.”

  “M-Malcolm?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Open your eyes.”

  “I’m too scared. I must be going mad. I saw... the impossible.”

  “Yes, you did, except it’s not impossible, and you’re not going mad.”

  “Am I really talking to you, or am I dreaming?”

  “You’re really talking to me. Please, Connie, open your eyes,” he murmured, then lowering his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “I could fetch a stick, then you’ll definitely know you’re not dreaming.”