by Joan Smith
“Mrs. Grayshott will be opening an account here. Will you see she is taken care of?” was all he said. It was enough to set the clerk fawning on her in a manner that was every bit as jarring as his former neglect. His compliant voice was at her shoulder, pointing out a fine bit of imported lace, calling her attention to other wares. She was happy when Lady Jane arrived and told him they would take care of themselves. DeVigne then took his leave, and the two dames got down to rooting through the store in good earnest. They wanted first to obtain Bobbie’s materials, as the child was pestering them on this point.
Lady Jane, an inveterate bargain-hunter, complained about the price of everything, in no low tone, and indeed her complaints seemed well taken. For the honor of residing on the shelves of the Venetian Drapery Shoppe instead of Bolton’s, muslin was doubled in price. It was hastily decided between them that the more mundane purchases would wait for Bolton’s, and only the luxuries be purchased here. And what luxuries there were! Silk stockings, the finest of crepes and velvets for gowns, laces, ribbons and buttons of unimagined splendor, every one a jewel. With Bobbie’s materials selected, Delsie began the joyful chore of choosing her own. She had intended having three new gowns made up for her role as Mrs. Grayshott, but, with such a display of exotic goods before her, she could not limit herself to less than four—two afternoon outfits and two gowns for evening. The selection of accessories for the gowns too was pure pleasure. Mechlin lace, mother-of-pearl buttons, ribbons so narrow and dainty, a bottle of black bugle beads to decorate her finest gown. She began to wonder how they would transport all the purchases to the carriage, but discovered, before she exposed her ignorance, that they would be picked up by a footboy.
There was no mention of paying. The bill would be sent. Then they were across the road to Bolton’s. Here she had only Lady Jane to lend her consequence; she proved to be enough. On to the millinery shop for two delightful bonnets. How she regretted she was in mourning, but even a mourning bonnet, she discovered, could be flattering when one was willing to pay a small fortune for it. A black glazed straw with narrow black velvet ribbons lent her an unaccustomed dash, and a high poke bonnet too with a lifted brim would, as Jane practically pointed out, look well after she had put off her crepe.
It was half past one when they were through, and Delsie was beginning to think she would be very hungry indeed before she got back to the Cottage, but there was another delight in store for her. They repaired to the inn for luncheon, there to meet deVigne and Sir Harold. Delsie had partaken of an occasional repast there with her mama, on special occasions, but she had never before been shown to the best table, with half a dozen waiters nipping smartly about, filling glasses, and pressing a variety of dishes forward. It was a banquet. She was nearly as excited as Bobbie, who said happily that when she was grown up, she would eat all her meals at inns. “I love eating away from a house. Isn’t it fun, Mama?”
“Great fun,” Delsie agreed warmly, feeling as young and inexperienced as the child, and blushing when she saw deVigne regarding them with an amused smile.
She soon learned that in the view of the other adults, taking a meal at the inn was in the nature of a vile necessity. “I believe this is old mutton,” Lady Jane complained, shoving it aside. “Pass that pigeon along, Max. Let us see if it is edible.”
“This is a bad claret,” Sir Harold proclaimed, shaking his head sadly. “I would have done better to have an ale, like you, Max.”
After dinner, Sir Harold and deVigne left in the former’s carriage, and the ladies continued their shopping for household items. “There is no reason you should be sunk to making such purchases as beeswax and turpentine yourself, Delsie, but that Mrs. Bristcombe, you know—I doubt she has ever heard of them. We shall have this lot delivered. I don’t plan to carry a jug of turpentine in a carriage with me. I like to get into the everything store from time to time. I find my servants will go on buying the same things forever, and never bother to try the new products. Now just take a look at this! Dr. Cropper’s New Patching Cement, for mending broken china without leaving a trace. I threw out a very nice vase last week, only because the patching cement left yellow smears all over it, and when we tried to get them off, the vase fell apart in our hands. I’ll try a bottle of this.”
A great many fairly useless items of this sort were selected, before the ladies had their carriage called to return to the Cottage. Lady Jane entered, and over a cup of tea they proceeded to have their parcels brought in for a leisurely inspection, the most enjoyable part of any shopping spree, to compliment each other on their sagacity, and wonder whether the mother-of-pearl buttons bought at the Venetian Shoppe were not exact replicas of those seen at Bolton’s at a fraction of the cost.
“Yes, I think we have paid double for the pleasure of having our buttons sewed onto a cardboard, instead of left in the box. Next time we shall know better,” Delsie said,
It was pleasant to consider that such extravagant outings as this were now a part of one’s life.
Chapter Eight
While the ladies were still engaged at their happy, feminine chore, deVigne came in unannounced. “I didn’t bother to knock, fearing the butler would be tired from her shopping,” he said.
“What is this?” Jane asked. “Delsie is surely not acting as her own butler. What is amiss with Bristcombe?”
“Mrs. Grayshott’s house is not yet in order,” deVigne told her. “She has a severe servant problem. Do you happen to know what happened to Betsy Rose, Aunt? We can discover no servants in the house but the Bristcombes—and the governess, of course.”
“She left a year ago, Betsy Rose,” Jane answered promptly. “She got married to a local layabout. I made sure she had got herself a bad bargain, but have seen her since in the village looking fine as a star. A silken gown the hussy had on her back. Baggage.”
“She must have nabbed herself a smuggler. The silken gown sounds like it. They bring in a good deal of silk here, as well as brandy,” deVigne thought. “Andrew didn’t replace her?”
“Lord only knows!” She threw up her hands. “I was here very little more than yourself, Max. Only to visit Bobbie. I don’t believe she ever was replaced. And are the Bristcombes jogging along with no help at all, then? No wonder the place is gone to rack and ruin. Still, I don’t know what Bristcombe can be doing if he is not working inside the house, for it is clear as glass he hasn’t touched the lawn or flowers.”
“The apples were allowed to rot. They were not picked at all,” Delsie added.
“This business must be settled at once,” deVigne stated. “Can you recommend a couple of village girls for us, Jane? For maid’s work.”
Delsie felt the old familiar annoyance at being relegated to an onlooker in her own life. “You forget, deVigne, I am more fully acquainted with the village girls than anyone else here. I have in mind a couple of my old students who will do very well. We had a few girls at the Parish School in the winter, when they were not needed at home for farm work.”
“Sorry.” He bowed his head to indicate his error. “I seem always to seek your approval for the wrong things. You will hire two girls yourself, then, I assume?”
“Certainly I shall. Did you put the ad in the paper about Mr. Grayshott’s debts?”
“Yes, and also inquired discreetly about any burglary in the village. There was none.”
This last statement had to be explained to Lady Jane, who was thrown into a tizzy of delight at the unexpected finding of a bag of gold in one’s orchard. She declared that she would run home that instant and have a look under her own trees. Her parcels were taken to her carriage by Lord deVigne, turned footman for the occasion. “My place for dinner tonight, Delsie,” the dame called as she left. These reminders always raised a glow of happiness in the widow’s bosom. It was so novel and pleasant an experience to belong to a family, and such a jolly, happy family too.
When she was gone, deVigne said, “Might this not be a good opportunity to discover the key of Andrew’
s vault? It must be looked into for the settling of his estate.”
“Where should I begin to look? I haven’t a notion where he would have kept it.”
“Let’s start with his desk.’“
They went to the study and looked through drawers, which yielded a welter of papers, but no keys. “Here is something—the receipt for the Bristcombes’ wages for the last quarter of this year. He paid them two hundred and fifty pounds! You told me two hundred, deVigne.”
“Servants do get an increase from time to time,” he pointed out.
“Usually for improved service. They aren’t worth half that.”
“You are mentally comparing to your own salary as a teacher,” he said, correctly.
“They got room and board as well.”
“Along with all the sheets and towels they could carry off.”
“You may laugh at me all you like. They are overpaid, and I will be rid of them.”
“That is your affair. Now, about the keys—his bedroom very likely. He seldom left it the last few months.”
“There is a table covered with medicine bottles and things just by his bed. It may be there.” She excused herself and went to the room. She returned with not only the key, but another bag of gold.
“I found the key at the very back of the little drawer, hidden in a bottle under some pills,” she explained.
“You’re a sharp observer. How did you come to find it?”
“I pushed aside the papers—designs for some sort of an engine he had in mind, they looked like—and there was this one bottle. When I lifted it, it seemed very heavy, and then I saw the key, and at the very back of the drawer, this bag. It is just as I said. The pixies have been coming here for years and leaving bags of gold.”
The bag was emptied and discovered to contain the same sum, one hundred guineas. One bag of gold deVigne could credit having become misplaced in the garden by accident. He had thought it was Andrew’s entire savings, which he had somehow dropped in the garden while drunk, but two identical bags holding the same sum was more than coincidence.
“What the devil can this mean?” he asked, frowning.
“There are bound to be others around the house. Let us try if this is the key to the vault.”
Without further ado it was tried, and it opened the vault, which was found to contain another ten of the canvas bags, each with what looked intriguingly like a hundred guineas, though they did not count them. “Where did they come from? I don’t understand!” the widow wailed, more chagrined than pleased to have this small fortune in her hands. No more did deVigne seem pleased.
“Could it be an income from some source, some investment?” she wondered. “He was used to be a partner in the shipyards, was he not?”
“He was the major owner. The Blewes Shipyard used to be the Grayshott Shipyard. He took Blewes in as junior partner when he married. When Andrew began drinking after Louise’s death, Blewes gradually took over, becoming first senior partner, then later buying Andrew out entirely. Andrew foolishly put his money into unsound investments that went broke. He was always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme, instead of contenting himself with a good dividend. He blew the last of his money in setting up a small manufactory in Merton to produce a contrivance of his own invention. Some mechanical contraption to turn a spit it was, for roasting meat, you know. Quite clever, really, but it didn’t catch on. He had no commercial enterprise going at the time of his death, however. I have been to see his solicitor. I can’t imagine where this money could have been coming from. It is an utter mystery to me.”
“I’ll be arrested. I know it as surely as I am sitting here,” she said resignedly. “You have married me to a thief! Oh, what shall I do with all this money?”
“I suggest you return it to the vault for the time being, and keep a close hand on the key. Here, take this bag you saddled me with too.” He handed back the bag he had taken for her.
“Yes, you are eager to clean your hands of the evidence, and palm it all off on me,” she charged, accepting the bag gingerly, as though it were dirty, and stuffing it into the vault with the others. “That is twelve hundred guineas we have found today, and we haven’t even begun to look about the house yet.”
“He wouldn’t have left it sitting around the place under plants or on window ledges. He wasn’t that senile.”
“Never mind trying to put a respectable face on it, calling it senility. He was an alcoholic, which is much worse. I shall have a good look around as soon as you have left.”
“Is that an oblique hint for me to leave, and without a glass of Andrew’s excellent brandy to prepare me for the cold winds of December?” deVigne inquired.
“I hope I am not so uncivil. Let us go into the saloon, where I endeavor to keep a few twigs smoldering to ward off the worst of the weather.”
DeVigne went to kick the few logs into flames, while the widow fetched the decanter and one glass. She had no taste for the strong beverage. When she returned, deVigne sat very much at his ease, fingering a bolt of black crepe she had bought that morning.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass. “May I make a suggestion? I cannot speak for others, but for myself, I like a very small glass of brandy, not a brimming vessel. I can’t drink the half of this, and it is a shame to waste it.” He carefully tossed half a glass into the fire, where it flared into leaping flames, blue and green.
“How lovely!” Delsie exclaimed, smiling at the show. “Now I know something useful to do with that dreadful drink.”
“Wastrel! If you discover a hogshead of the stuff you don’t want, I’ll take it off your hands.” He turned back to the materials on the sofa beside him. “Pity you must be confined to black for a year. You would look well in brighter colors,” he mentioned, examining her face, as though selecting his preferred shade.
She felt a sudden warmth at the personal tone the conversation was taking. “I am used to black,” she answered dampingly.
“I have never seen you in anything but dark colors.”
“I didn’t begin wearing black till after my mother’s death. I was obliged to dress somberly when I worked at St. Mary’s. Now, of course, I am a widow, and when they put me in Bridewell for possessing stolen money, I daresay I shall have to wear black there too.”
“I shall use my influence to have you transported if you prefer it, ma’am,” he offered kindly.
“I knew I might depend on you to do the right thing by me, so caring as you have been for my every comfort! Pray make it America, and not Australia. I think I would prefer even wild Indians to the sultry climate that prevails in the latter.”
“You may be sure I shall do all in my power to ease your shipment to America. Plead for the widow, like the Good Book says. I’ll see if I can’t get you isolated from the murderers and the less desirable of the criminal element. But seriously, where could he regularly steal such a sum? One would think even the most simple-minded of victims would tumble to it after a couple of times, and take some precautions to prevent ten or twelve repetitions.”
“What was the one bag doing in the orchard, that is what I cannot fathom.”
“Right in the orchard was it, or at the edge?”
“In the middle, under one of those little runted trees. Why are those two smaller than the others? Do you know?”
“I believe Sir Harold told me, after I returned from a season in London one year, that two trees had died, and Andrew replaced them. It is not unusual to lose a tree. I have a couple of smaller ones in my own orchard, but they never produce gold, only apples.”
“If that ingenious husband of mine has invented a means of turning apples to gold, it is a pity the secret died with him. Bobbie calls them the pixie trees, and says they are more valuable than all the others put together. Is it usual for a smaller tree to have a better yield?”
“No, it is some nonsense they’ve been filling her head with. I wouldn’t encourage her to believe that ignorant sort of superstition.”
&n
bsp; Again the widow bristled. “I have not been filling her head with superstition, milord. It is Mrs. Bristcombe. I am trying to discourage the idea of pixies.”
“Sorry again, cousin. Why is it I invariably raise your hackles?—and I am fairly walking on eggs, too. You are very sensitive, I think?”
“Perhaps it is rather that you are insensitive,” she replied, and felt she had gained a point, though it was a somewhat arbitrary charge.
“Let us hope that under your tutelage I shall become more finely attuned to your sensibilities, ma’am. Jane is kind enough to tell me I am a biddable fellow, and we are all, we bachelors, more amenable to being led by a pretty young lady than anyone else.”
Delsie’s eyes widened at this leading statement, but before she could give voice to any objection, he spoke on calmly. “No, don’t try to quell me with one of your schoolteacher’s scowls. I have been out of the schoolroom a good many years. And never had such a delightful tutor when I was in it either,” he finished with a little suggestion of a smile. Then he immediately arose. “I have a distinct sensation I should take my leave, before the teacher brings out her ruler to slap my knuckles.”
As he entered the hallway, Bristcombe lounged in through the front door, wearing shabby clothing and with his face not shaved.
“Ah, the mysterious vanishing butler!” deVigne said ironically, raking the man from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the incipient beard, the muddied boots. “Mrs. Grayshott has been wondering where you keep yourself these days, Bristcombe. When a lady pays a good sum for a servant’s time, she expects him to perform his duties. You do not appear to serve as a butler in this establishment. At least one hopes it was not your intention to show me the door in that getup. From the jungle at the front door it is clear you have not turned gardener. May one inquire how you do manage to fill your days?”