Coda: The Third Albert Mystery (The Albert Mysteries Book 3)

by David Crossman

  Earlier in their career together, Huffy had insisted on taking Albert on a tour of London and, in considering the likelihood of such a conflagration, he was reminded of a plaque on a monument he had read at the time indicating that London had experienced a Great Fire, in 1666.

  They’d need another plaque.

  He dropped the butt and ground it out with the heel of his shiny black shoe, as always. Better safe.

  “The chauffeur’s gonna be waitin’ to take us to that castle.”

  Albert had forgotten he was going to go Norfolk. He’d been ready to wheel Jeremy Ash back to the Cadogan and had imagined going to the Drawing Room and staring at the fire for a while and waiting while Quiggly had the Girl with Spanish Eyebrows bring him an American beer. Cold.

  Mention of the alternate arrangements shattered that brief, blissful dream.

  Albert knew that at some time in his personal past, he had done something terrible and the Universe, which had been watching at the time, was determined to make him miserable as a consequence, so it had people always interfering in his life and hauling him off to Places he Didn’t Want to Go. But it never occurred to him to say no.

  “Oxburgh Hall,” he said. He wondered what number Earl would be hosting him. If they were up to twelve ‘several hundred years ago,’ as Sir had said, there would probably have been thousands by now.

  Had all of them had their pictures made? he wondered. He imagined thousands of men in their pajamas staring at him from huge golden frames graffitying the walls of the halls at Oxburgh.

  Would they all be looking the wrong way?

  He took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed Jeremy Ash toward the parking lot. “I wonder what that man wanted.”

  “What man?”

  “Paul Mc-Freakin’-Cartney.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “He lost a friend a while ago. Maybe he’s looking for a new one.”

  That’s one of the reasons it was important to have Jeremy Ash nearby, he thought of things off the top of his head that wouldn’t have occurred to Albert in millenia. “He wants me to be his friend?”

  “Why not?”

  Though he saw it coming, and he tried to block it out, he could hear what his mother would say if he’d lost a friend. She had some very crisp opinions about people who lost things. He remembered the time he came home with just one mitten.

  How do you lose a whole friend?

  It made Albert glad he didn’t have any, present company excepted. At that very moment, for the first time, he realized how important the boy had become to him. He certainly didn’t want to lose him. He didn’t even want to think about it. He gripped the handles a little more firmly and looked both ways before crossing the street.

  Neither Jeremy nor Albert had any first-hand acquaintance with castles though, of the two, the one who had been subjected to hours of television probably had the fuller picture. Palaces and Castles were familiar backdrops in the programs he would watch through a crack in the door. Into those vast expanses of mahogany, marble, and shimmering surfaces shis searching soul would expand to the very fringes of his imagination.

  The sheer immensity of Oxburgh Hall, however, presented vistas even Jeremy’s imagination had never plumbed.

  Albert, though, was architecturally neutral. The edges of his awareness took in the fact that there was a moat and walls and floors and very likely a ceiling that were presumably held in place by brown, the predominant color. Beyond that, his surroundings passed unnoticed; rendering unrequited the vision, the love, the determination to impress, the boundless expenditure in pounds sterling and sheer man-hours lavished upon them by generation upon generation of Bedingfelds, the family that had called the castle home since it came into being in 1482 .

  Albert was no more uncomfortable in Oxburgh Hall than he was everywhere else, apart from his apartment orDunkin’ Donuts—where most surfaces were speckled with powdered sugar, a practical contribution to the decor he could appreciate on the moistened end of his finger, and the air was redolent with the heady nectar of good coffee and cigarette smoke in concert.

  His appreciation for his surroundings diminished by this perpetual cloud of unknowing, the limousine took him across the moat, through the massive gates, into the inner courtyard, and deposited him and Jeremy Ash at the entrance, where they were greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Deirdre Ponsenby–Blythe–Hamilton, the housekeeper, a mouthful she delivered, to Albert’s amazement, without misplacing the dentures that were a bit too large for her lips.

  He thought she must have a very strong jawbone.

  “I’m Albert,” said Albert, holding out his hand—at which she stared for a moment as if he’d just produced a white rabbit from his sleeve. She cast a quick, nervous-seeming glance at an assortment of uniformed people, all but three of whom were women, who had appeared on either side of the short flight of wide stairs leading to the front door and, giving his fingers a limp little shake, conducted them into the house.

  The sturdiest of the men flanking the stairs carried Jeremy Ash—complete with wheelchair—up the steps. Another man, who seemed as old and gray as the castle itself, watched attentively, as if there were nothing in the world he’d rather do than be of help in the situation, but was prevented due to the fact his bones had, for some time, been in the early stages of decomposition, no doubt anticipating the day—not long now—when they would be blissfully horizontal in perpetuity.

  “I regret to inform you that Lord and Lady Bedingfeld have been called to the continent,” said the Housekeeper as they ascended the steps. She inclined herself slightly in his direction. “He’s in banking,” she said. Apparently it was something she didn’t want widely known.

  Albert had been at Oxburgh Hall less than a minute and already he knew a secret.

  Mrs. Bridges, back in Massackhusetts, was a banker, too, but she didn’t seem especially embarrassed by it. Albert was reminded of Mrs. Bridge’s bras which—admittedly only on the evidence of a single accidental sighting—seemed to be identified by the names of weekdays embroidered on one of the sections that held the lady portions in place. He’d read the word ‘Tuesday’ on the one she was wearing the day she leaned over the counter to tell him he had too much money in the bank. On the same counter, nearby, a calendar verified that it was, in fact, Tuesday.

  He’d meant to see if they made boxers with days on them, and thought that would be useful. It was always unpleasant to have to smell underwear when he picked it off the floor to see if it was wearable. Days of the week, clearly printed in English, would help.

  This is what Albert was thinking while the Housekeeper was explaining something. He was confident that Jeremy Ash was listening, and would tell him about it later if any of it was important.

  “They’ll be in Switzerland for, well, there’s no telling really. You know how it is with all this international finance.”

  Albert had no clue how it was with international finance, but he knew it was all about money and, in his world, that meant Mrs. Bridges would handle it. Maybe he should tell the denture-lady about Mrs. Bridges, and she could tell the Bedingfelds so they wouldn’t have to go to Switzerland.

  “Well, we can go back to the Cadogan,” he offered. He didn’t like the idea of taking up residence in someone’s house when they weren’t there. Of course, it wasn’t as bad as if they had been. There, as Mrs. Gibson frequently reminded him, was always a silver lining.

  “Oh, my goodness, no! I didn’t for a moment mean to suggest . . . no. Please, the Hall is at your disposal entirely.”

  Albert looked around. It was a big hall. He wondered what they expected him to do with it, but before he could raise the point, Jeremy Ash piped up. “We get the whole place?”

  The woman smiled, revealing previously concealed vistas of unnaturally white enamel. “Well, all but the east wing, of course. That’s the Bedingfeld’s private residence. Otherwise, yes, it’s all yours.”

  Albert didn’t want it. He preferred small spaces where everyt
hing was in easy reach; cigarettes, beer, the piano, a refreshing box of powdered Quik. Nothing in the hall was within easy reach, which is probably why the Bedingfelds needed all those people – to help them find things.

  “You know,” said Jeremy Ash, who had been looking at the Himalayan sweep of the semi-circular staircase, “if some of those guys in the monkey suits could put a coupl’ve mattresses right there,” he indicated the broad expanse of marble-tiled space at the foot of the stairs, “that bannister would make a wicked slide!”

  A pained expression swept briefly across the Housekeeper’s face, as if her dentures had shifted suddenly. “I hardly think the Bedingfelds would countenance . . .”

  “Is there a piano anywhere?” Albert asked, because he wanted to know.

  As if they had never existed, the Housekeeper abandoned the Bedingfelds and what they would or would not countenance. “Two, actually. A Steinway grand in the conservat’ry—through there,” she unfurled a graceful hand toward the darkened recesses to her left, Albert’s right. “Last door but one on the north side.”

  Albert was going to need a compass.

  “The other, a spinet, is in your room. That is, the King’s Chamber. It was brought in especially for your visit, and has been professionally tuned, of course.”

  There it was again. “‘Of course’,” Albert echoed, meaning none of what the Housekeeper inferred.

  “I’m sure you will find it most satisfactory,” said the woman. She gestured slightly at one of the uncomfortably-dressed men in black and white who were standing at attention near the door by which they had entered. “This is Balfour, our esteemed butler,” she declared as the man descended upon them. “Who has requested the privilege of being allowed to serve as gentleman’s gentleman during your stay.”

  Oddly enough, Albert knew about gentleman’s gentleman. His mother had been a fan of a writer whose name he couldn’t recall who wrote about a man whose name he couldn’t remember who had a gentleman’s gentleman whose name he couldn’t recollect, but he gathered, from some things he overheard his mother telling his sister about the two of them, that he was like a butler whose job was to make toast, and pour drinks, and to keep his master out of trouble.

  Like Jeremy Ash, but with legs and a suit with creases so sharp they could slice cheese.

  Albert imagined this craggy individual with his expressionless face standing over his bed at night, watching him, staring; waiting blankly until the need for toast or tea should arise. A shiver chased the thought up his spine.

  He turned to his companion. “You can have him.”

  Jeremy had other plans. “Nuh-uh,” he said, jerking a thumb at three parlor maids in a row. “Plum’s better than prune.”

  Albert had noticed, over time, how the mind of Jeremy Ash had seemed to have taken a Tewsburyian turn relative to the female sex. He was reminded of a similar obsession among classmates at various schools he’d attended. He’d never really understood until Melissa Bjork came into his life. He doubted his feelings had been quite the same, but he understood.

  The Housekeeper made a noise into the back of her hand that, despite its brevity and lack of any discernible vowels or consonants, was both an eloquent commentary on Jeremy’s suggestion, and an unarguable termination of that particular hope. Albert wondered if there was some combination of notes on a piano—one he’d never found or heard—that could convey so much complexity with such stark economy.

  “Hello,” he said, feeling he should say something.

  “A great pleasure, sir,” said Balfour. “Allow me to say, it is an honor to serve you. An honor indeed.”

  Was he waiting for permission? “Okay,” said Albert.

  If the butler was in the least nonplussed, he didn’t show it. That won him points in Jeremy’s book. “This is Henry Widmerpool, Mr. Ash,” said Balfour, referring to the man who had materialized behind Jeremy’s wheelchair. “He will attend the young gentleman, if that is acceptable. He’s a sturdy young fellow from one of the farms on the estate who assists us here at the house from now and again. He’ll have no trouble carrying you up and down the stairs,” he continued, addressing himself to Jeremy. “If you permit.”

  Jeremy scanned Widmerpool quickly and had no doubt as to the young man’s ability to carry him up the stairs, or to throw him twenty yards in any direction, for that matter. “Sure,” he said, holding out his hand. Widmerpool gave a quick look of appeal at Balfour who nodded almost imperceptibly. Permission being granted, the country lad pumped Jeremy’s hand heartily, nearly lifting him clear of his chair one on or two of the upwards tugs.

  “I think Master Ash is sufficiently shaken,” said Balfour, with a light touch on Widmerpool’s shoulder. “Widmerpool is mute, Master Ash, but he hears perfectly and comprehends well. Please, this way, gentlemen.”

  In less than five minutes on the premises, Albert had come into possession of four things he didn’t want: the hall, a gentleman’s gentleman, the secret about Mr. Bedingfeld being in banking, and a mute.

  He turned to take his leave of the Housekeeper, but she was no longer among those present. Balfour, Widmerpool/

  Jeremy, and a young woman who was, at the moment, nameless and had folded Jeremy’s wheelchair as quickly and skillfully as if she did it every day of her life, were ascending the stairs. With another backward glance at the now-empty hall, Albert fell in behind them.

  The stairs were long and Albert counted the steps unconsciously. Thirty-four. At each of these the hips of the young woman in front of him swung in a particular way—despite the awkwardness of her burden—that reminded Albert of a metronome. Tick, tock, tick, tock. He’d never thought of a metronome as having male or female characteristics. This one was definitely female. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Thirty-four steps. Albert was so transfixed by the metronome that he was, at some level, disappointed to reach the second floor landing, just as a tune was beginning to develop to the rhythm.

  It evaporated at the sound of Balfour’s voice as the little parade came to a stop before a large wooden door. “The King’s bedchamber,” he said, opening the door. “I trust you’ll find it to your liking.” Albert was about to ask if the King would mind when Balfour, as if reading his thoughts, added, “It’s so-called because King Henry the Seventh and his queen, Elizabeth of York, visited the Hall on at least two occasions, in 1487 and 1503.”

  “A long time ago,” said Albert, stepping tentatively over the threshold and taking in the room. It, too, had walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Also a bed and some other pieces of furniture, as well as a spinet piano, as the Housekeeper had said, and a little box with a handle about which there was something familiar.

  His suitcase.

  “A very long time, sir,” said Balfour.

  The maid had unfolded the wheelchair and popped all the mechanisms into place. Widmerpool lowered Jeremy Ash into it as gently as if he were made of glass.

  “Who needs legs?” said the invalid. “I could get used to this.You never carry me anywhere.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of asking Cook to provide a plate of cold comestibles,” said Balfour, pointing to a silver tray, laden with food, that resided on a small table by the fire.

  “Comestibles,” said Albert. “Food?”

  “Just so, sir,” said Balfour with a slight inclination of the head. “As you say, food. I hope you will find something there that commends itself to you.”

  “Do I get one, too?” said Jeremy Ash, who suddenly realized how hungry he was.

  “Of course, sir. In your room, just across the hall.”

  “Let me guess, the Queen’s room?”

  “In honor of her majesty’s visit, yes, but in no way pejorative of subsequent residents.”

  “You hear that, A? I’mQueen for a Day.” Albert was wandering toward the sandwiches. “He’s not listening. Let’s go see what the Queen’s up to.” Jeremy expertly spun the wheels of his chair and the shrinking retinue followed him across the hall and deposited him by the fire, where
he immediately tucked into a plate of watercress, tuna mayonnaise, and cheese sandwiches. Balfour, Widmerpool, and the girl watched him for a moment. He looked at the plate, which held enough small pastries and sandwiches to feed a Saxon raiding party, then at the staff. “Help yourself,” he said, thrusting the plate toward them. “No way I’m gonna get through ‘em.”

  Widmerpool eyed the plate hungrily, as did the girl.

  “Oh, I’m afraid we must decline the offer,” said Balfour. “The mistress would frown upon . . .”

  “That’s the one in Switzerland?”

  “Yes, sir, but . . . ”

  “Then who’s gonna tell ‘er? Dig in.”

  “But, Ms. Ponsenby-Blythe-Hamilton.”

  “Another missing person. You gonna tell her, Widmerpool?”

  Widmerpool shook his head vigorously.

  “You, miss . . . miss . . .”

  “Blake,” said the girl, with an attractive curtsey. “Brigit Blake.”

  “You gonna tell, Brigit?”

  Brigit, too, shook her head.

  “There you go, Mr. Gentleman.”

  “Balfour,” Balfour corrected.

  “Balfour,” said Jeremy Ash, raise his eye brows and talking through his nose. “Get this straight right away, me and the Maestro are Americans. We’re not your Dukes and Dukettes.”

  “Duchesses,” said Balfour into the back of his gloved hand.

  “Whatever. We’re just company is all. You feel you gotta bow and scrape when we’re around the lady with too many names, that’s fine, but here,” he said, gesturing around his room, “let’s just be friends. Now, take a load off and dig in.”

  Balfour’s butlarian dignity, far too stiffened by long experience to permit his knees to bend in the presence of a guest, yielded sufficiently to allow him to take a little sandwich. Widmerpool and Brigit, however, adopted democracy with a will and arranged themselves around the little table, she on the floor and he on the arm of Jeremy’s chair.

  “So, a place like this must be pretty old,” said Jeremy with his mouth full of something that tasted like vegetables. He stopped chewing and swallowed. It was either that or spit it out, and that didn’t seem polite. He was more discriminating with his next selection which he supposed to be, from the smell, something fishy. Better. Not peanut butter, but better.