by Joan Smith
"Aren't you going to open the safe?” I asked, astonished.
"It would take too long. We know he has the place locked up. I'm willing to conclude the diamond is in here."
"After all this, you're not going to bother finishing the job?” I asked.
"I'm satisfied."
"Well I am not!"
"Help yourself,” he said, handing me the knife, and directing a challenging smile at me.
I quickly handed it back and wiped my hands. “We can't be sure it's in there,” I pointed out, hoping to talk him into finishing the job, as we had come so far.
"Sure it is. Are you—ah—coming back down with me, or do you plan to remain behind and talk to Sir Jacoby?” he enquired, with a look at the painting.
"How do you know his name?"
"With a face like that, he has to be a Jacoby,” was his laconic reply. He took the candle and went to the stairs. I hurried after him. He relocked the tower door, then crossed Beaudel's room and locked the door to the hallway. “What next?” he asked, looking up and down the hallway once more. “The night is young. Care for a glass of wine?"
"You didn't bring wine with you!” I exclaimed, ready to believe it.
"I didn't think to. Charles must have some we could borrow."
"Oh no, you'd better go,” I said nervously. There was not much doubt in my mind the bold man would saunter down the main staircase and take up a seat in the saloon, if given the least encouragement.
"I'll see you to your door, like a gentleman,” he offered, taking hold of my elbow to walk down the hall.
"I should lock the balcony door when you leave."
"How did I come not to think of that, I wonder? It's either your big, bright eyes, or the lace confection lying on Stella's bed that has distracted me,” he said, as we walked to the doorway.
Once there, he leaned comfortably against the wall and blew out my candle. There was some illumination from the lamp further along the hall.
"It's not at all late. Care to come out for a drive?” he invited.
"I think you're insane."
"What are you afraid of?"
"Getting caught when I come back in."
"Good. I thought there for a minute it was the beard that was frightening you. I could shave it off if..."
"No. Really you are too ridiculous. Oh, before you go..."
"I'm not planning to leave for quite a while yet."
"Did your man get back from Tunbridge Wells?"
"Yes, he did. He discovered ... Is there nowhere we could sit down to talk? I don't mind leaning myself, but it is a hard way to treat a lady. Let's just step out and sit on the top step of the balcony, shall we? Or we could go to your room, if you prefer."
"We'll go out,” I said, opening the door rather quickly, and pretending not to see his wicked smile. “What did he discover?"
"Let me put my handkerchief here, so you won't dirty your gown,” he offered, unfolding a handkerchief and placing it carefully and slowly on the step.
"You are the most exasperating man! Will you tell me what you have learned?” I said, plumping down on the spread handkerchief.
"I have learned you are an ungrateful wretch. That is my last clean handkerchief. I did not have sufficient packed for the length of my visit."
"You don't need a handkerchief. You aren't suffering from a cold."
"I am not enjoying any noticeable warmth either, from your direction. The temperature is hotter belowstairs, I wager. Very well then, Miss van Deusen."
"I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"What is your given name?"
"Mieke. I know it's ridiculous. My friends call me Mickey."
"That is even more ridiculous. It sounds like an Irish bruiser. Don't you have any more euphonious name I might call you?"
"Anna. Anna Mieke is my name."
"That is possible to utter without shuddering. Very well then, Anna, I shall tell you what was discovered. I do wish we had some wine. Even tea would be better than nothing."
"There is a jug of cold water on my nightstand. It will be poured over your head very soon, Major Morrison, if you don't get on with it."
"My friends call me Bertie."
I folded my arms against the chilly winds and waited. “You are feeling cold,” was his next concern. “You must allow me to lend you my jacket."
"Oh, please get on with it!” I said, rather loud.
"I'm removing it as fast as I can."
"That's not what I mean."
But it felt comfortable when he placed it around my shoulders. I knew he must now be cold himself, and hoped the discomfort might hasten his story.
"Very well then, business before pleasure,” he began, as he sat beside me on the hard metal steps. “Her maiden name was Stella Dumbrille. Now that is the sort of name you ought to have, Anna, I refer only to her given name, of course. It means star. Look, there is a bright, twinkling one. The north star, probably. I never did learn to tell them apart."
"What was she, before she was Mrs. Beaudel?” I got in, when he stopped for a breath.
"A milliner, from Maidstone. Alliterative, but little enough else to recommend either the occupation or the place. There wasn't time to discover her origins, but I doubt it matters. Whatever she was up to in her teens, she has doubtless outgrown. When she met Charles, she was posing as a lady of leisure at the resort at Tunbridge Wells. How does a milliner from Maidstone suddenly become a lady of leisure at the Wells, you are going to ask me. Don't despair, I am going to tell you very soon."
"Aren't you cold?” I asked, hoping to jog him along at a faster clip.
"A little,” he admitted, but his solution was to move closer to me and slide his arm under his jacket, which was hung around my body. I removed it.
"Do go on. With the story, I mean,” I invited.
"The story is the less interesting of the two diversions that are going on here, Anna,” he informed me.
"That makes it very dull indeed, but do continue."
"I shall. At some point in her millinery career, she came under Wiggins's protection—actually lived in a set of rooms paid for by him. He was one of the mightier footmen working for Lord Kersey at the time. I wonder if that would be the Kersey for whom kerseymere is named? Probably not."
"We may never know that interesting point. Nor how Stella became a lady of leisure at Tunbridge Wells, at the rate we are going."
"I certainly intend to look into it. The origins of kerseymere, I mean. As to the other, I believe she fled Maidstone when he was arrested."
"At last we are getting somewhere."
"That is a matter of opinion. Wiggins was arrested for the attempted kidnapping of Kersey's son. He asked for ten thousand ransom."
"Why isn't he in jail, or hung, if they caught him?"
"They didn't exactly catch him. He was arrested on suspicion of complicity in the kidnapping. A thoroughly botched job. The boy got away, and could not positively identify Wiggins, but it seems he was off duty at the time it was done. French leave, with no intention of returning I expect. He was locked up pending the hearing, which is when Stella sat it out at Tunbridge Wells, and latched on to Beaudel. Our lenient legal system insists on guilt beyond a doubt before a man is convicted, so Wiggins squeaked off free, and followed dear Stella to Glanbury Park."
"Imagine Beaudel being fool enough to marry her. He cannot have known a thing about her."
"One assumes not. Nor about Wiggins either. I know I would not have my wife's lover in my employ."
"You do remember you have a wife, whose son died so inopportunely while you were in the Peninsula, winning the Battle of Burgos."
"Ah yes, back to Burgos. Both Wellington and I came a cropper there, did we not? Of course I have no wife. Evasions are unfortunately necessary from time to time in life."
"I have not found it to be so."
"Have you not, Miss van-Stacey? What a charmed life you lead, to be sure."
"Till now, I mean."
"It is now we are speaking of. I never found it necessary to be married before either—except once in Paris, when a certain Mademoiselle ... But you wouldn't be interested in that."
"No, I wouldn't."
"Good. It is a close-run affair I prefer to forget."
"Why don't you then? It looks as though Stella Dumbrille married old Charles thinking to get hold of the jewelry."
"And sent off to Wiggins to come along and give her a hand, and any other part of his body he wasn't using. Don't jump so, Anna. It was only his arms, and possibly lips, I was referring to. What a salacious little mind you have. There might be hope for you yet."
"You do think Charles is innocent then?"
"I think he is a fool. I think he spent more money than he had to bribe her with assorted luxuries, and used Lucien's money to foot the bill, probably with some weak intention of repaying it from his own estate, at some future date. But Stella is after more than bonnets and gowns. It is the Jaipur she has in mind."
"She's always urging Charles to sell the jewels. Money would be easier to spend than a large diamond. I mean, she'd have to sell it, and it could be traced back to her."
"I know what you mean. But then grabbing fifty or so thousand pounds and running also holds a hint of wrongdoing. I expect it is poor old Wiggins who will light out with the cash, and she'll join him after the talk dies down. What fools we men are for a pretty woman."
"I wonder why Beaudel went to London. He received some letter, which got him upset."
"With Algernon soon to come home and demand an accounting, and with five thousand pounds to be explained away, he may be trying to raise the wind. If so, it is an auspicious time to make my reasonably generous offer for the Jaipur. He might think he can get away with shaving five thousand from the price, if it's high enough."
"You'll have to make sure Stella doesn't manage to steal the money. Otherwise, you are playing right into her hands."
"That did occur to me, Anna. I am not quite so besotted with the moonlight that I overlooked that difficulty."
"What will you do? How will you arrange it?"
"In some fiendishly clever manner."
"I expect you'll need my help."
"Thank you for the offer."
"Glad to be of service. Now that your man is back from Tunbridge Wells, will you set him to discover where Mr. Kirby is?"
"I too am happy to be of service. Why is it, do you suppose, my services are so much more onerous than your own?"
"It won't put you out much to send a man to London."
"It will put me out several pounds. It will also put me out of the services of my valet. No clean handkerchiefs in the foreseeable future. Do you sew at all?"
"Not if I can help it, but this one is hardly used,” I said, arising to hand him the rag I sat on.
He shook it out, disbursing a fine powder of dust from the step. “Not more than a cup of soot in it. It will be good for another week. Is it good-night then, my dear?"
"Au revoir, Major Morrison."
"We were going to forget that unfortunate Parisian episode."
"I wasn't reminding you of it, only of our meeting tomorrow. Au revoir means till we meet again."
"I can hardly wait."
"You will be in the meadow? I want to keep informed of what is happening."
"Do the swallows forget to return to Dover in the spring?” he asked, smiling lazily.
"No, we have the dirtiest rocks in England to prove they are there."
"May I have my coat, please? The air is getting chillier. I can't think what accounts for it. I have exerted every effort to be civil."
I handed it to him.
"Would you mind holding it for me? It fits so closely it requires two of us to get it on. Weston is to blame. The result is impressive though, is it not?” he asked, easing his arms into it and smoothing it over his chest, where it did indeed look impressive.
"Speechless, I see,” he ran on, when I made no reply. “I had not thought it quite that impressive. Modesty was ever my failing. What's yours? Other than that sad tendency to muteness, and a little lack of levity."
"I believe it must be blindness, Major. I see nothing impressive in a jacket that does not quite fit properly across the shoulders."
He laughed good-humoredly. “I misjudged you, to accuse you of a lack of humor. I wonder if my reading of your character in other respects has been equally deficient. Shall we test it?"
"In what manner?"
"Like this,” he said, swooping me into his arms.
It felt very strange, having a wiry brush of beard and moustache tickling my face. Other than that, it was rather cozy, being encircled in his warm arms, there in the cool night air. I did not push him away, or feel much frightened, nor did I encourage him to continue by returning any pressure of his lips. After a moment, he released me.
"What is the verdict? Was your reading of me deficient, like so many other things you do?"
"Inconclusive. I hold the beard to blame."
"By all means let us blame the beard, and not the wearer. Good-night."
I opened the door and went in, locking it behind me. His white face with black chin was still there at the glass door top staring at me. Any reading of his expression was difficult with half his face covered. Perhaps he was not smiling at all, as I thought. He blew me a kiss, cocked his curled beaver over his eye, gave a salute, and left.
It was not until I got into bed and reviewed our talk that one rather important fact occurred to me. If he were to actually buy the Jaipur, he must be a very wealthy man. He had mentioned a fiendishly clever plan, but it would have to be very clever indeed to make the banks honor such a large check, if he hadn't the money.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Beaudel came back the next day shortly after lunch. Wiggins returned to being a punctilious butler; Mrs. Beaudel to being a dissatisfied young wife; and I to being a governess. Beaudel spent the afternoon in his office. Just as I picked up my pelisse to go to the meadow with Lucien, Mrs. Beaudel stuck her head into my room. “Could I borrow you for a moment, Miss Stacey?” she asked. She looked excited. Her eyes were sparkling, and her color high.
"Certainly,” I replied.
"Come along to my room,” she ordered. I followed her down the hallway, curious.
"I am just finishing up a note to be delivered, and as you and Lucien are going out, you can deliver it for me.” She sat at her desk to seal up her letter, while my heart sank in dismay. I looked around the chamber while she was busy. It was tidy. I noticed nothing amiss until I happened to look at an upholstered chair in the corner. She had a silken scarf laid out on it, with a small pile of clean linens on top, and a toothbrush. Were it not for the toothbrush, I would hardly have glanced at it. It was not enough clothing to suggest a trip—no gowns, no shoes, no trunk or bag for that matter. Unless she meant to roll those few linens up in a scarf like an itinerant worker, she was not preparing for flight.
"Where did you want us to take the note?” I asked, hoping it was to a close neighbor.
"Into the village."
"I was going to take Lucien to the meadow, for his daily ride,” I ventured.
"If you are like Miss Little, you would prefer to do your walking in the village to anywhere else. Take the carriage if you prefer, and have your walk after you get there."
I didn't say anything, but she saw the dismay in my face. “I'll give you a little pourboire, to make it worth your while,” she added. “Just drop this note off at the milliner's shop for me. The new one at the edge of town, Mrs. Cantor—not the old-fashioned shop across from the inn. I swear they have nothing but round bonnets. You don't have to wait for a reply. Just hand it to the housekeeper. I want the feathers on my new bonnet changed to white.” She lifted the sealed note from the desk, rooted a shilling from a porcelain tray holding loose change, and handed them both to me. “You won't forget."
"No, I won't. Thank you,” I said, accepting both, as I was not ingenious enough to think o
f a reason for refusing.
Back in my room, my next thought was to get a message to Major Morrison, but there was no one in the house I knew well enough to ask. I would have to stand him up. My second thought was to try to discover what was in the note. Such was my distrust of Madam that even a note to her milliner fell under suspicion.
The single sheet was sealed with a plain wafer, but by compressing the folded end, it was possible to peer in and see part of the message. There was no mention of bonnets or feathers in the bit I could see, nor was the message long enough that this might have been included in another passage. The few words visible from the sides were “hire the place,” “name of Mr. Wel...” and “Wiggins will.” The remainder of the message could not be seen, but her signature at the bottom was “Stella"—not Mrs. Beaudel, as one would expect in a note to ones milliner.
Lucien came to the door, impatient to be off. He was not troubled to have the outing changed. He was bubbling with different news.
"Major Morrison is coming this afternoon. I hope we are back in time to see him,” he told me. “Uncle Charles said he is coming to see the rose Jaipur. If he likes it, he will buy it from me. I will be a wealthy young man,” he added, obviously quoting his uncle.
I was stunned with the speed of Morrison's offer. “What time is he coming?” I asked, wondering if he had planned to stand me up in the meadow, and I worrying about doing the same to him.
"At four o'clock. We can be back, if we hurry."
There was no dallying after hearing this. I threw my bonnet on my head and hastened to the stairs. I was not the only one in a hurry. Mrs. Beaudel had the carriage harnessed and waiting for us. Mrs. Cantor's millinery shop was not so much a shop as a cottage with a discreet hand-painted cardboard sign in the window. There was no excess of traffic. In fact, there was none at all except ourselves.
A young female servant in a mobcap answered the door. Her mistress was two steps behind her. She was a big-boned dame in her forties, with black hair that ill-suited her pale face. She wore a decent dark gown, but managed to look like a trollop despite it.
"What do you want?” she asked me, in a very common accent.