Miss Farrow's Feathers

by Susan Gee Heino

  He was, of course, flattered beyond measure that she would do this for him, but it was completely unnecessary. He'd best set things straight before they got even more out of hand. If only Miss Farrow would quit incriminating herself long enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

  "I had seen the book once before while visiting the old earl. It, er, fascinated me," she was saying.

  Her father gaped in horror and Mr. Barrelson cleared his throat.

  "You do know this is a book hardly well-suited for a lady, don't you?" the magistrate asked.

  Now Miss Farrow blushed deeply. "Yes, I know what it is. They are rhymes of a very, er, evocative nature. I'm sorry, but I've read all of them."

  "Why on earth would you take such a thing?" the reverend asked.

  "Well..."

  Her glanced darted around the room, lighting on anything but Max.

  "After I met Mr. Shirley... I wanted to share it with him."

  "Good gracious, Meg," her father stammered. "You shared a book like that with the parrot trainer?"

  "I'm sorry, Papa. I should have had more restraint. Please don't be angry with him. It was never his idea."

  "I told you he was taking more than just his meals here," Nigel sneered. "The little trollop has been in league with him since the start."

  "That's enough, Nigel," Max demanded, drawing everyone's attention. "I'll not let anyone believe ill of Miss Farrow. Thank you, my dear, but there is no need to do this now."

  "But... they must know you did not steal it!" she protested. "Tell them you aren't a criminal, that it's all a mistake."

  He couldn't help but grin. What had he done to deserve this from her? Perhaps he did have much more to hope for than he'd been aware. Perhaps his revelation would not result in instant dismissal by her, after all.

  "She's telling a tale in an effort to save me," he explained to the room. "Mr. Barrelson, if you will be so kind as to look in the book, I can tell you how to ascertain the true and legitimate owner of it."

  "And how will you do that, sir?" Mr. Barrelson asked, reaching for Nigel and taking hold of the book. He had to tug twice to get it.

  "Open toward the back and you will find a letter tucked there. Yes, that's it. Go ahead and read it."

  The magistrate carefully unfolded the letter as Mr. Farrow peered over his shoulder. Nigel sent a questioning glare toward Mr. Perkins, who could do nothing but shrug. Meg watched in breathless curiosity. Concern was written into her delicate features and Max wished she'd glance at him so he could, at least, encourage her with a smile. Her grave concern for him was most heartening.

  Now the magistrate's face grew into a dark, questioning frown while Mr. Farrow's went pale and he stared at Max in astonishment.

  "How did you get this letter, sir?"

  "It was sent to me," Max stated.

  "When? When did you receive it?" the magistrate asked.

  "Approximately two weeks after the date it was written. I believe you will see that noted at the top."

  "But this was just days before the old earl met his end," Mr. Farrow said. "And... it is addressed to his grandson who has been dead two years at least."

  "So it is."

  "How then did you receive it?" the magistrate asked.

  But Max didn't need to answer. He'd been watching Nigel's face and knew the moment realization struck him. His cousin's eyes went huge and a curse slipped past his lips.

  "It can't be!" Nigel exhaled.

  "Oh, but it is. I'm surprised you don't recognize me, cousin," Max said to him. "And after I went to all that trouble with the towel earlier."

  "But you... they said..."

  "You thought you succeeded, didn't you?" Max questioned. "I'm sorry to inform you that the scoundrel you hired to do away with me aboard that ship failed. He was quite inept, as a matter of fact."

  Here Hugh interrupted with a low, menacing chuckle as he, apparently, relived the events of that terrible night. The man showed entirely too much glee in the recollection. Not that Max wasn't happy to have survived, but things had not ended well for the would-be assassin.

  "It was his body they found," Max went on. "I merely allowed them to mistake it for mine while I determined to seek out who had plotted my demise."

  "But... you can't be alive!" Nigel insisted.

  "I am! And it gave me no pleasure when I realized my own cousin had been behind the attack on my life. And then poor Grandfather... how could you, Nigel? He loved us."

  "No, he loved you! You were the heir. Once your father died, everything should have passed onto my father. He should have been next then I could have inherited. But no, because of you I was left out of everything."

  Mr. Barrelson stepped in before things got out of hand. "So this is true; the parrot trainer is the rightful Earl of Glenwick?"

  "And my grandfather sent me that book just before he died, with that letter indicating he feared for his life," Max said. "Now, do you think you could possibly untie our hands? The binding isn't nearly as comfortable as one might expect."

  The magistrate sheepishly pulled out a small knife to quickly unfasten Max's hands. Hugh cleared his throat when it appeared the man might have been going to forget him. It felt good to be loosened, especially because the way Nigel was glaring at him made him feel he might, at some point, have the need of defending himself again. Hands would be rather useful at that point.

  "But why did you not tell us this?" Mr. Farrow asked.

  "I still had no proof to indict my cousin for his acts," Max explained. "As long as he was still preoccupied with hunting the supposed Glenwick Treasure my grandfather used to tell us stories about, I thought he might make some mistakes and I could find the way to bring him to justice. It appears I was right."

  "You have no proof of any of these accusations!" Nigel insisted. "I'm not even sure you are who you say you are. What proof do you have of that?"

  "I'm well acquainted with the old earl's hand, and this letter is certainly genuine," Mr. Farrow said.

  "And I can produce any number of reliable people who will attest to my identity," Max added. "It's no use, Nigel. I saw you making threats against Miss Farrow and I have this letter in our grandfather's own hand, doubting your trustworthiness."

  "The old man didn't like me," Nigel said. "That hardly indicates I did away with him. I wasn't even here; I've been mourning my dead wife."

  "And I'm sure there'll be an investigation into the circumstances of her death, as well," Max noted.

  "I'll send word to the magistrate in that area," Mr. Barrelson said then turned a cold eye on Nigel. "Obviously in light of all this, my lord—er, Mr. Webberly—I'll be taking you into custody. Mr. Perkins as well, considering he was present during the time of your grandfather's death."

  "I had nothing to do with it! It was all his idea!" Mr. Perkins cried.

  "Shut up, you idiot," Nigel growled. "They have no proof of anything."

  At that moment, there was more pounding at the door. Mr. Farrow wrinkled his brow and looked toward Nigel, oddly enough.

  "Are you expecting anyone else?" he asked.

  "I'm not talking to anyone about anything," Nigel hissed and crossed his arms over his chest.

  "It's a messenger for Mr. Shirley," Mrs. Cooper called from the doorway when she had gone to answer it.

  Max glanced at Hugh. Perhaps fate was working on their side tonight, after all. He nodded toward Mr. Farrow.

  "We've been expecting word from my man in London. Send him in, if you don't mind."

  The room became yet more full as the housekeeper ushered in a tall man Max recognized from his solicitor's office. He stepped forward to greet him. The man removed his hat and bowed politely.

  "Good evening, my lord. Forgive the interruption, but I was told you wanted to be notified immediately when the information you've been seeking was finally located."

  "I do. Has it been?"

  "Indeed, sir. My employer received word from Bow Street just this morning. He confirmed the
validity, and I set off immediately to bring word."

  "Excellent, Mr. Henning," Max said, then turned to face Nigel.

  "I regret to inform you, cousin, that my solicitor in London has everything needed to remand you over to the courts. You'll have your fair trial, but I'm certain you will not care for the outcome of it."

  "So is it safe to announce your return and your rightful claim on the title?" Mr. Henning asked. "My employer has been most distressed at keeping such a thing under his hat, as they say."

  "You may inform him I no longer require his silence on the matter. Everything is in order and now that we have what we need to hold Nigel so he won't run off, there's no further need for subterfuge."

  "Glad to hear it, my lord. Such a relief for all of us."

  Nigel did not seem relieved. He stomped his foot and complained. "But I'm the earl! He was dead. The title is mine!"

  More than once Max had held questions regarding his cousin's sanity, and now he was questioning again. The man certainly did sound a bit off.

  "I was never dead, so you were never earl," he explained patiently. "The instant I learned of our grandfather's passing I went to London and corrected any misconceptions regarding my supposed demise. Your claim has been invalid from the start."

  "But what about the treasure? I should inherit some of that, at least!"

  "If there is any treasure I'm sure you're entitled to your share. Except for the fact that it's forfeit due to the little detail of you being a murderer."

  He thought he caught Meg hiding a smile but he couldn't be sure. She was quite determined to avoid his gaze. He wished to God the room would suddenly empty and he could go to her and beg her to say she might forgive his duplicity. Not being able to read her expression in the midst of all this was hell for him.

  "Well I'll never tell you what I know about the treasure," Nigel said. "Grandfather left me some clues, too, you know. He told me the treasure is real and that Bartholomew is the key."

  "And you figured out the book was a part of that," Max said. "Yes, I believe we've all come to that conclusion."

  "The book?" Mr. Farrow questioned. "You mean, those old rumors of a Glenwick pirate treasure are true? And this horrid book tells where it is?"

  "No, the book tells how to amuse yourself during a long sea voyage. The key phrases Bartholomew has been taught tell which passages from the book can be used as clues to find the treasure."

  "I already knew that," Nigel snapped.

  Mr. Farrow narrowed his eyes and glanced at his daughter. "And you knew about this, Meg?"

  Now she avoided eye contact with her father as well as with Max. "Not all of it, Papa. Mr. Shirley and I recognized that Bartholomew's phrases came from certain rhymes in the book, but I had no idea it was related to any treasure."

  "So you have been reading tawdry rhymes with the parrot trainer. Did you also know he was the legitimate earl?"

  Now she did look at Max and he could see the anger and hurt in her eyes.

  "He never actually mentioned that little bit to me."

  "But he showed you his book," her father persisted.

  "I thought he was using it to train the bird. I didn't realize he was merely hunting a treasure."

  Her words twisted like a knife in his gut. Could she really think that's all it had been for him? That his time spent with her had been all about locating some silly treasure? He'd have to set her straight on that as quickly as possible.

  "Well he can just keep on hunting that treasure," Nigel said. "There's not one area of the manor that hasn't been searched. Not a single spot."

  Bartholomew—who'd been perched on his favorite cornice—seemed to think this was as good a time as any to chime in, repeating one of his favorite phrases a few times.

  "Dear Dot marks the spot. Dear Dot marks the spot."

  Suddenly it was clear. All the parts to the puzzle made sense. Bartholomew really was giving the location of the treasure. Max felt like a fool not to recognize it right away.

  "Pity you've had so much contempt for Bartholomew all along," he told Nigel, tossing Bartholomew a biscuit and trying not to appear too proud of himself. "You'd have noticed something important."

  "And what on earth would that be?"

  "One of his favorite things seems to have gone missing."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I noticed it was not on the wall in Grandfather's office. I wonder where it could be?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Dot, Nigel. I'm talking about Dot. Surely you recall her from our youth."

  It took a moment for the light to dawn, but eventually Max read understanding over his vacant face.

  "You mean that hideous old thing?"

  "Did you have it removed?"

  "Of course not. I haven't been wasting my time on decorating."

  "Obviously. But if she's not there, where did she go?"

  "How the hell do I know? Maybe our grandfather had a glimmer of good taste and had the thing burned."

  "I doubt it. I'm fairly certain that's where the treasure is."

  "That dreadful thing is the treasure?"

  "Dot marks the spot," Max said, gaining a cock-eyed stare from Bartholomew. "But where is she?"

  "She?" Mr. Farrow asked. "I thought you were looking for an object."

  "An object who is a she. Bartholomew's favorite perch," Max explained.

  Now suddenly Meg caught her breath and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh! You mean the ghastly old figurehead!"

  "You're familiar with it?"

  "You think that will lead to the treasure?"

  "Only if we can find it," Max said. "Unfortunately, she's not in her usual place of honor on my grandfather's wall."

  "No, she certainly is not," Meg agreed.

  "You know where she is?"

  He was almost afraid of the answer. But Meg didn't cringe at her reply. Instead she gave him a beaming smile.

  "She's here, in this very house!"

  Chapter 19

  Meg was happier than she ought to have been. It was petty, but she had information to offer Max, information he needed and wanted. He may have only been using her for this all along, yet she was practically giddy to be able to supply it.

  Pitiful, really. She should have some pride—she should refuse to help him at all, the way he had lied to them and used her for his greedy little treasure hunt. But what did she do? She smiled at him like a simpleton and gave him exactly what he was looking for.

  "Upstairs, in your room," she said.

  He frowned. "What? I never saw it up there."

  "Good heavens, no. Let us hope no one ever saw that thing in this house," Papa said.

  "Come, I'll show you," Meg added when it seemed Max wasn't quite certain he could believe them.

  She threaded her way through the people cluttering the room. Nigel sneered and let his eyes roam over her as she passed by, but she made sure he knew she was ignoring him. He'd be out of her hair soon enough and not likely to bother anyone else. She'd not so much as waste her distain on him now.

  Max stepped aside to let her pass and she was careful not to get too close. She knew from experience her knees and her heartbeat could not be trusted in close proximity to the man. It would be best right now if she keep all parts of her carefully under control. She would need every bit of resolve to get by when he apologized for using her in his scheme and then left to go take up his place as an earl.

  What a fool he must think her! Treating him like a lowly parrot trainer when all along he was the Earl of Glenwick. At least he had the decency not to laugh in her face over it, so far. She doubted the meddlesome gossips of Richington would be so charitable toward her once they heard the whole of this story.

  She led the noisy group up into the room that Mr. Shirley—er, the earl—had been using during his stay. Once inside, she pointed toward the far corner.

  "There it is."

  He looked confused. "But that's just Bartholomew's perch."
r />   She went to it to show him. Her face burned involuntarily, feeling the many sets of eyes on her as she stooped to untie one of the strings they had used to bind the padding and rags all around it.

  "The old earl made us promise Bartholomew would never be parted from it," Papa explained, coming to her side to help with the unwrapping. "But of course, we just couldn't have this... thing... sitting out for public view."

  At that point the first strip of rags covering the figurehead's face fell away, revealing one darkly lined eye, a heavily rouged cheek, and the hint of unnaturally red hair. Bartholomew squawked loudly and leaped off of Mr. Shirley's shoulder. Drat,she meant the earl's shoulder. He landed with clicking toes onto the figurehead, dancing and squawking with delight at the sight of her.

  More rags came off and Meg had to glance up for a moment. Her former house guest was watching, and chuckling. Not at her, though. His eyes were set on the figurehead. He grinned like a child as more and more of the offensive thing became visible.

  "That's the old girl I remember," he said. "Let me help out."

  He stepped over to them and aided in the unceremonious stripping. Meg found herself feeling a bit missish as their hands happened to come together just at the front of the figurehead. She hadn't meant to touch him, to make contact this way. The fact that she did so just as they uncovered the extremely buxom expanse of skin at the figurehead's bosom... quite mortifying, indeed.

  "Don't let my adeptness at this make you think I'm the sort of man who goes around doing this to just everyone," he said softly.

  The rest of the crowd grumbled and mumbled amongst themselves so Meg could reasonably hope his words had reached no ears but her own. She didn't quite succeed at hiding her smile. She hoped she was slightly more successful with the butterflies bursting to life inside her and the raging thrum of heartbeat in her chest. No lady should be so thrilled as she felt at helping a man undress a wooden wanton.

  "So where is the treasure?" Papa asked as the last of the padding fell away and the figurehead was fully revealed.

  Meg had to agree. The very last word she might choose to describe this item was "treasure" and she couldn't see how on earth any sort of treasure might be hidden anywhere in it or on it. So far all they had done was pull the covering off a thing that most definitely ought to have remained covered.