Fool's Gold (A Lord Ambrose Mystery)

by Jane Jakeman

  “No, indeed!” I exclaimed, striking the table with my hand. “If she is fearful of the events in that house, let her leave! She can go to her mother’s house in Bristol if she will not come to Malfine. I am not responsible for her!”

  And yet…I knew she would not leave the Jesmonds. I knew it with my inmost heart, as I knew hers. For this thing we share, she and I, that we have a perversity, like cats cornered by a pack of hounds, that makes us turn and fight when we should run away. Wherever there is a prudent course in one direction, there will you find us embarking upon another! No, my Elisabeth would remain at Jesmond Place, where some silly woman possessed of a pretty face and an old husband sobbed her heart out over a fool of a young doctor who had somehow contrived to up-end a bottle of prussic acid into his own maw!

  I still cannot account for immediately laying down the book, stalking round to the stables, saddling up Zaraband and leading my fine Arab beauty out from her stall, while John Locke slumbered undisturbed upon the library table.

  Zaraband’s deep bay coat was gleaming like satin in the light spring sun. She was fresh, even frisky, dancing across the cobbles, and her elegant head strained for the gallop. But we had to defer that at present: there was someone near at hand whom I desired to consult.

  We therefore took a path, pleasantly overgrown, that led through the grounds of Malfine. It was a brighter day than expected; from time to time birds flew up from the hedgerows with a sudden fluttering, and dog-roses twisted in and out of the tendrils of greenery. I know these pale pink simple flowers to be dog-roses, having been instructed in the matter of roses by the lady of Lute House. I myself prefer lusher blooms, but I grant that on a fine day in early summer these wild English things are well enough.

  It was this lady, Mrs. Florence Sandys, who opened the door to me herself as I tethered Zaraband nearby, outside the fretted woodwork of the porch.

  “Ah, Lord Ambrose! I am afraid you have just missed my husband.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, madam. There is a scientific matter on which I had hoped to consult him.”

  “Won’t you come in and take a dish of tea?”

  As I entered the parlor of the house, a room somewhat over-cluttered with ornaments for my taste, Mrs. Sandys added, “Adams, the groom from Westmorland Park, just came to fetch him. You know our neighbor, Lilian Lawrence, the former Miss Westmorland, is expecting an interesting event…”

  “Ah, madam, I never listen to gossip.” I dodged a piecrust table adorned with a long-eared porcelain rabbit nibbling a bed of bright green china lettuce. She looked suspiciously at me but I did not flicker a muscle.

  “Very commendable of you, Lord Ambrose, and of course I myself never tittle-tattle. I merely take an interest in my neighbors’ well-being.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Sandys, and most admirable it is, too.”

  The lady relaxed, and rang for tea as we settled ourselves in her parlor chairs. My damned long legs were forced to fold up like jack-knives.

  Florence Sandys, the wife of our local medico, was wearing a light snuff-colored gown with a muslin collar, pretty, but not fashionable. This, in a way, is a relief to me, not to have fashionable neighbors, and the Sandys can be valued for better things than the cut of their coats. Sandys had tended my wounds on my return from Greece, when I was dragged back to Malfine half-dead, with saber slashes on my face and body, a gruesome sight that had aroused much local excitement. And barely had I healed up when I got drawn into a couple more confounded scrapes—one on behalf of that very Mrs. Lawrence whose first accouchement the good sawbones was even now attending.

  The maid entered with Mrs. Sandys’ best Worcester china on a tray. The room was cool and agreeable, and if Mrs. S. was not fashionable, she was possessed of good sense, thought I, watching her pouring out smoky golden liquid.

  The Sandys moved here from Edinburgh, where he had trained. There, as I understand, Murdoch Sandys had a flourishing practice and of course many colleagues within call, but as his wife sometimes exclaimed, they were subjected to much dirt and noise, such squalor and wretchedness within the city. So when Murdoch’s Aunt Isobel bequeathed Lute House to them, they seized the opportunity to lead the rural life, and transported themselves, bag and baggage, to Somersetshire. “And, Lord Ambrose, although Murdoch may have no colleagues to call upon for consultation in difficult cases, he has no rivals either!” This was what Mrs. Sandys had said to me, when she was one day explaining the reasons for their move.

  So here at Lute House behold them now, and Florence Sandys has roses blooming in her garden till late into the year, though Zaraband has a penchant for them and is liable to munch away on her finest damask blossoms. In fact, as I looked through the window on that very occasion I could see a particularly fine Empress Josephine bloom dangling from my horse’s long velvet muzzle. Ah well, another apologetic bunch of grapes would have to be dispatched to my hostess from the Malfine vine!

  As I raised my pink, green and gold cup to my lips, there was a crunching of gravel outside the window and Murdoch strode in.

  “Ah, Lord Ambrose, welcome! What brings you here?”

  Mrs. Sandys rang for another cup, and her husband greeted her anxious inquiries about Lilian Lawrence with, “No need for anxiety. A false alarm, my dear. I think we must wait a little longer. Ah, excellent tea. Is there anything to eat?”

  Over slices of seed-cake, I acquainted Sandys with the events which Elisabeth had outlined in her letter.

  “How very strange!” Sandys sank back in his chair, pulling the cravat from his neck. “The young man dead of corrosive poison and the bottle neatly re-corked and replaced on the night-table! Well, I confess the operation of prussic acid is not a specialty of mine—I have scarcely encountered a death from it in my career, though it is quite easily obtainable. But what you describe seems most unlikely, and very intriguing to a medical man. I shall consult my textbooks. Do you intend to go to Jesmond Place?”

  No, of course I did not. I thought there was a glimmer of regret in Sandys’ eye, though Mrs. Sandys was plainly relieved. I suppose she did not want her husband chasing off into that somewhat peculiar household.

  I had no intention of going after Miss Elisabeth Anstruther.

  I therefore cannot account for what came over me when I returned to Malfine.

  CHAPTER 4

  Our way lay west and we took the coast road. Zaraband was in fine fettle—there is nothing so lovely as an Arab in full stride, racing like the west wind itself, yet with the smoothness of a fast-sailing ship gliding over a glassy sea. I gave the horse her head, and reckoned that we should reach Jesmond Place by late afternoon.

  By now, I had to admit my anxieties and my thoughts served only to entangle them with a damned forest of feeling and desires. I imagined Elisabeth’s pale face, her tawny-yellow eyes, the slim movements of her body; I thought of poison, of traps, of death. Why had I not begged her to stay at Malfine?

  I knew why and cursed myself for it: the devilish contrariness of my nature and my pride. For these I had risked my dearest creature, the closest thing to my own soul that I could encounter on the face of this earth. Instead of persisting, instead of begging that she stay, rather than plead with her to be my wife and remain at my side, I had let her depart to risks and dangers from which perhaps I could not protect her. In these thoughts, of course, I had forgotten her own determination.

  There was an inn on the road which I noted as being probably the nearest habitation to Jesmond Place. The Green Lion had an unusual sign hanging outside, on the corner where a side-road turned off into the village of Combwich. Crudely painted, it showed a prancing beast daubed with a touch of worn pea-green paint. Beyond the inn I could see the main street, probably the only street, of Combwich leading narrowly down, as slumberous as any sight I ever saw. The mud-flats of a tidal creek gleamed silvery-brown on the horizon beyond.

  Still on horseback, I called to the landlord, who had emerged in curiosity at the clatter of hooves outside. Behi
nd him, a woman had appeared in the doorway and stood in the shadow.

  In English inns, ale or cider is always my preferred drink: better good beer than bad wine, and she brought me out a mug and a flagon. In the sunshine, I saw a handsome, well-built woman, her curly hair still black and glossy. Taking a long pull from the mug, I slid down from Zaraband’s back and fell into conversation.

  “Excellent cider!”

  “Thank you, sir; we have our own apple orchard for it.”

  “How are the deer thriving this autumn?”

  “Aye, fine. Reckon us’ll have a good winter. Furze blossom be out late—deer’ll be fat come spring.”

  “Yes, very true.” In this exchange I was hopelessly at sea, since for all I know, furze blooms be out till the cows come home, whenever that may be, but some rural pleasantries must be endured.

  “Has your worship come far?” said the landlord.

  “From near Minehead.”

  I did not want to mention the exact place. Better at this stage to keep my identity quiet than to mention Malfine, which someone might well connect with Miss Anstruther at Jesmond Place, since her residence there would have been well-known to most of the county. If I wished to make some discreet inquiries, then I desired them to remain discreet, and to have no blabbermouths busily dispatching rumors about some sinister rider snooping around after Clara Jesmond’s companion.

  “You’ve come to see someone in Cummage?”

  Cummage? Ah, the local pronunciation. But why should the landlord step back as he asked the question, as if the possibility disturbed him? As far as I knew, Combwich was a harmless village, as stuffed with stick-in-the-muds as any in rural England, none of whom was likely to welcome an exotic visitor such as myself.

  “No. Why d’ye ask?”

  “Oh, we don’t get many visitors…the road leads only to the creek, and you, sir, begging your pardon, you have a look about you…”

  I knew what he would say: “You have a foreign look about you, you with your dark face and eyes and that wicked long scar down your cheek. You do not look like a respectable red-faced squire who might have some ordinary business here,” but his wife spoke hurriedly, as if to turn the conversation politely.

  “You’ll have had a good gallop, sir. If you’re wanting a bite, there’s cold beef and chutney within, and some bread cobs. There’ll be a fresh catch of fish coming in down at the creek on the next tide.”

  “D’ye have a stable?”

  “Aye, round t’back,” said the woman.

  “Then the cold beef will do nicely.”

  “That’s a damned fine horse,” said her husband, as I led Zaraband across the yard.

  “She is indeed.”

  The stables were clean enough, and the provender acceptable to Zaraband.

  Once back inside, I was served with a great blue dish upon which lay slices of pink beef with glossy brown pickle heaped at the side, and a plate of the small white rolls known as cobs, together with a rough pat of country butter. The landlord put down a flagon of cider on the table.

  “I’ll just have to go down to the cellar and see to the barrels, sir, if you’ll excuse me, but my wife will attend you.”

  He called into the back of the inn: “Naomi! Come and see if the gentleman wants anything! I’ve got to go down below.”

  She hurried in, perhaps a trifle lonely here in this small outpost; at any rate, I detected a willingness to converse, which was all to the good. There were lace cuffs on her sleeves, I observed as she stretched out an arm to serve me; her dress was rather more modish than one would expect and her feet were shod in elegant shoes of thin green leather.

  “Good beef,” I said politely. “Excellent rare meat! Is it local?”

  “Aye, sir, leastways from a few mile away. ’Course, ’tis mostly fish or venison in these parts, when ’tis in season; we canna’ graze cattle on the moors.”

  “Did I not hear that there was a herd kept at Jesmond Place?”

  “Nay, sir, I don’t think that be right—leastways, not for many a year. Maybe Sir Antony’s father kept them, but I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well, no matter, but now I come to think of it, is there not some odd story about Jesmond Place?”

  The woman turned swiftly and gazed over her shoulder. Her husband was still downstairs in the cellar; I could hear the rumble of barrels being shifted around in the depths below.

  “Jesmond Place, sir, is not somewhere I like to go. Though her ladyship is very kind, I do not care for the house, I may say.”

  “Oh? Then there is some truth in the rumors I have heard?”

  The rumors being entirely of my own invention, I could only trust that the landlady would not ask me to give an immediate account of them, but, like so many gossips, she assumed that I was already familiar with the subjects of her conversation. She came closer and sat down on the bench opposite me, settling herself comfortably to begin the tale, which came out in the slow and pleasing local burr.

  “Truth? Well, sir, I see it with my own eyes, not a week since, as it were passing along this road! A dirty black cart and piled high with stuff, and the fellow who was driving it, he didn’t look like no decent sort to me. Tattered old cloak and his boots all down at heel. He stopped here to water the horses. Said he had goods to be delivered to Jesmond Place—he was to give ’em to Sir Antony particular, and to nobody else. I can tell ’ee something, sir, too—it come all the way from Bristol, that cart! My man axed the fellow if he wanted aught, and he said no thank ’ee—he was damned if he didn’t have to take the road right back to Bristol as soon as the stuff was unloaded!”

  There were sounds of footsteps approaching, and Naomi rose and was bustling off into the next room as her husband emerged from the cellar, her voice growing faint as she moved away. But I had heard something interesting, nevertheless. Though what to make of it?

  Huge tracts of tussocky grassland loomed ahead as I mounted Zaraband; gray furze and the muted purple-greens of heathers gave the land a lifeless aspect—or so thought I. My taste is for the white and salty landscapes of Greece, burning under skies of azure and peacock-blue, but with custom one may acquire a sort of tolerance for these timid English watercolor landscapes, it is true. On a fine day, with a herd of the famous red deer roaming across it, the gentle bluish and lilac haze of the West Country does afford some pleasure to the eye, as does the view toward the distant slate-blue hills of Wales across the Bristol Channel. Here and there, red cliffs of sandstone loomed out of the earth to break the greens and fawns of the palette. I could almost come to enjoy these views, if I submitted myself too long to this contemplative rural burial.

  And I have to admit that Jesmond Place, as we neared it in the setting sun, presented a pretty enough picture of the ancient English mansion, if your preference is inclined to the ramshackle, as mine is not. It was a house of gray timbering, surrounded by centuries-old oaks that lined a long driveway leading up to the lichen-clad entrance.

  But by now I was not interested in admiring the view. I could think only of Elisabeth, who was somewhere inside that gloomy old house, where the corpse of a young man lay in a bedroom. The story I had heard at the inn had only served to increase my anxieties. What was the strange cartload of stuff that had rolled past the Green Lion? How did it fit into the preoccupations of the household which Elisabeth’s letters had described?

  Zaraband galloped at a cracking pace up the drive of Jesmond Place. I flung myself down from the saddle and strode up the steps to the porch, striking rather than merely knocking on the oak timbers of the ancient door at almost the same instant as I thrust it open and burst into the entrance hall.

  This was long and dimly lit, narrow, yet with a lofty timbering above that reached up into darkness overhead, and as I stood for a moment to get my bearings a woman ran into the hallway.

  “Oh God, we are to be robbed!” she screamed at the sight of me, clutching her necklace.

  I put the poor creature’s mind at ease. “No
, madam, or at least, only of your companion. I beg your pardon for not waiting at the door for an answer. I did not wish to cause you so much alarm, I assure you. I am Ambrose Malfine, and I desire to see Miss Anstruther.”

  Here I could contain my impatience no longer, and I could not forbear to add, “Immediately, ma’am, if you please.”

  The woman was gasping with fright, but now she calmed herself, touching her blonde hair with her hand to ensure that the strands had not descended. She wore a gown that I thought was of a rose color, low-cut, perhaps more suited to a festive occasion, but she did not somehow look the kind of woman who would have mourning in her wardrobe. In spite of the fear, there was a sensuality about her.

  And anyway, why should she wear black for the death of a young man whom she scarcely knew?

  “Lord Ambrose! Oh, of course, we have heard of you… The whole county knows you…Dear me, you take us quite by surprise, sir! I am Clara Jesmond—my husband is in his study and is never disturbed by visitors, so I must ask you to excuse him. But I can offer you some refreshments…”

  As Elisabeth had said, there was a country warmth, a rural grace note, in her voice, which added somehow to her promise of hospitality, yet did not take away the fearfulness which lay in her tones, and which had not entirely abated since she had discovered that I was not some marauder breaking in upon Jesmond Place to snatch her jewels and perhaps cut her throat. There was something curious about this lady, as if she carried some secret thoughts within her, all the time that she was running on with mundane politeness. It was almost—how can I put it?—almost like a parody of a hostess. As if the speaker’s mind were elsewhere and the words a speech that had been learned by rote.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I must see Miss Anstruther without delay.”

  Now I was obliged to admit to myself that I had a feverish anxiety about Elisabeth, which had only mounted as Lady Jesmond spoke, so strangely did this household impress me: a cartload of strange goods delivered here, a nervous hostess. And that terrible death of a young man which had occurred within these old walls, with their softly-decaying timbers, their rot of centuries.