by Joan Smith
At last Rachel spoke. “If he’s so badly dipped that he has to sell something, he can’t be high enough in the stirrups to rebuild that shambles. I wonder what he’s really up to.”
“It’s only a temporary shortage of funds. I have the feeling he acted precipitately in going to Roundtree and that he regrets it already. Give him the book you bought in Folkestone, Rachel, and let us see if we can’t kindle his interest in restoring, instead of selling,” I urged.
She gave an annoyed tsk. “I told you that book was all damp and spotted. In any case, it says very little about Thornbury.”
“Well, perhaps there is something in the library to do the trick,” I offered hopefully. I wondered what was keeping Aiglon so long abovestairs. When Willard shuffled in a little later to speak to Rachel, he told us his lordship had some letters to write.
“He’s probably writing to inquire whether he did actually kill that Kirkwell person he shot in the duel or only maimed him for life,” Rachel commented.
I was coming to resent Rachel’s attitude toward her cousin. It was more likely he was writing to London urging the forwarding of arms for the militia, as he had more or less agreed to do. But that’s the way it was with Rachel. When she took someone in dislike, she saw no good in him.
“If he means to poke and pry through the library tonight, I had best make sure it’s clean,” she said, and went off in that direction, leaving me alone.
It was nearly time for dinner when Aiglon finally came belowstairs and Rachel had returned to the saloon.
“Ah, Aiglon, there you are!” she exclaimed brightly. “Did Constance tell you the dreadful news? I’m afraid you’ve been found out, my lad. The Runners were in Folkestone this afternoon. Naturally I tried to spread the word I hadn’t seen hide or hair of you, but after your visit to Captain Cokewell this morning, it was no use. Rather unwise of you to have sallied forth, was it not?”
Aiglon subjected his cousin to a long, thoughtful gaze that held much derision. “You must be mistaken,” he answered mildly. “I had a note from a friend left at General Delivery in Folkestone this morning informing me that Kirkwell is alive and well. They must be after some other villain. Or villainess,” he added in a meaningful way, still regarding her steadily.
Rachel’s reaction was not at all what I expected. She didn’t bridle up in righteous indignation, or laugh, or do anything but return his steady gaze. Some undercurrent flowed between them, some message relayed by Aiglon and assessed by his cousin. My liveliest conjecture brought forth nothing but the larcenous nature of Rachel’s housekeeping, and I didn’t think this could possibly be a matter for the Bow Street Runners.
“That is good news that you didn’t kill Kirkwell, Aiglon,” I said, very much relieved to hear it.
I heard Willard’s shuffle approaching, heralding the announcement of dinner. Already fumes of poached cod filled the house, killing my appetite. The entire fish, including the head and dress of scales, had been poached and placed on the table. The eye had turned milky and stared at us accusingly as we took our seats.
“Give Lord Aiglon the head,” Rachel said to the footman.
It was done, and accepted without a murmur, though I noticed Aiglon immediately reached for the sauceboat and covered the whole thing in the cream sauce that unfortunately accompanied any fish at Thornbury. He picked reluctantly around its edges, occasionally lifting to his tips a forkful of sauce, eked out with mashed potatoes. The sauce was of a consistency that didn’t object to a fork. About nine-tenths of the fish was soon removed from the table and replaced by mutton, which was slightly more appetizing.
“I expect you’ll be going into town this evening?” Rachel asked Aiglon as we ate.
“No, Constance and I plan to do a little research in the library,” he answered.
“That’s odd. Miss Pethel has never showed the least interest in the library in the five years she’s been here,” Rachel answered, mainly for the purpose of showing him he should be calling me Miss Pethel.
“I hope to diversify her interests in more than one direction. How are the fingers, Connie?” he asked, inventing a completely new name for me. I felt ill at ease, having become a pawn between the feuding cousins.
“Not broken after all,” I assured him, while Rachel lifted her brows and gave me her displeased look.
“I hear you have a book for me, Cousin” was Aiglon’s next line of talk.
“No, no, it’s a musty old thing, and of no particular interest,” Rachel replied.
“Since it pried loose a few shillings from your reticule, I am most curious to see it,” he responded bluntly.
But Rachel turned the conversation to Aiglon’s mother and to other relatives who were known to me only by name. When dessert was served, Rachel accepted a plate of bread pudding, but Aiglon, despite having only nibbled at his dinner, was too full to indulge, and so was I. We ladies soon left him to his port and retired to the saloon.
“Since despite my request you saw fit to tell Aiglon about that book I bought, I’d best go and get it,” Rachel said. She walked out the door, leaving me alone to ponder the unsettling currents that had formed since Aiglon’s arrival. Most of all I disliked being in Rachel’s black book. We had been friends for five years, and Aiglon would only be here a short while. I felt I owed her my allegiance, and determined that when she came down with the book I would try to mend the rent in our friendship. I waited for ten minutes, wondering what was taking her so long. For that matter, why had she gone to fetch the book herself instead of sending Willard? She just wanted to get away from me, that’s all. And she hadn’t told me not to tell Aiglon about the book. After waiting a few minutes more, I decided to wait for her in the library. I could begin looking for documents pertinent to the restoration of the chapel.
As I entered the library I was surprised to see that the lamps were already lit, for at Thornbury a lamp isn’t generally lit till it is used. I was even more surprised to see Rachel crouching near a bottom shelf, half hidden behind the table. She must have come down by the back stairs to avoid being seen by me.
“Oh, there you are!” I exclaimed. “Rachel, I don’t know why you’ve taken it into your head to think I’m on Aiglon’s side. The way you spoke at dinner made me feel quite uncomfortable.”
“The way I spoke at dinner, Constance, was for your own good. Before Aiglon came I tipped you the clue that he is a womanizer. I am more determined than ever that he must leave, and the sooner the better.”
“But you can’t make him go now. He didn’t kill Kirkwell, so there’s no way to make him leave his own house.”
She slammed a book on the table. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Here’s the demmed book that you’re so determined he should have. I want it made perfectly clear, Constance, that the library door is to be left open the entire time you are in here. Willard will be slouching about in the hail. If you need help, call him.”
“Why should I need help?”
“Why do you think?” she asked, piercing me with one of her sharp stares. “Don’t make the immature mistake of thinking he means to marry you. I can assure you it is the last thing in his mind.”
“And I can assure you it is the last thing in mine!” I replied, equally sharply.
She whisked out the door, and I turned to pick up the book. That’s when I noticed it wasn’t the book she had bought in Folkestone at all. It was of the same size and color, but I remembered perfectly well the title of that other book. An Anecdotal History of Folkestone and Environs, it was called. This one was entitled Ancient Tales of the Southeastern Counties. When I opened the cover, I saw it had been marked with the Thornbury stamp, which marked most of the books in the library. I had interrupted her at her work and she hadn’t had time to notice the stamp.
I reviewed in my mind the details surrounding the purchase and subsequent history of the Folkestone book, and moment by moment became more intrigued. Mickey Dougherty had brought the book to her attention. He had behaved v
ery peculiarly, too, when he saw her coming out of the used-book store. She had told him she had bought a Bible, and he had said something ambiguous about the “riches” to be found in the Good Book. Was there some clue to “riches” in the Folkestone book? Was this why Rachel so carefully guarded it from Aiglon?
Soon an even worse notion occurred to me. Was this why she didn’t want Aiglon to sell Thornbury—and why she was trying to drive down the price so she could buy it herself? This seemed too farfetched to be real, and most unreal of all was that Mickey Dougherty should have let Rachel know of the existence of the book. Why hadn’t he bought it himself and found whatever riches were to be found?
As I stood holding the book Rachel had thumped onto the table, other recent and mysterious details occurred to me. Details like Rachel’s gathering stones in the rain in my waterproof coat and pattens. She must have been scrabbling about in the mud to have gotten the coat hem soiled. It wasn’t so long a coat that the hem dragged, especially with the pattens raising the wearer an inch from the ground with their metal bars. In my mind’s eye, I saw those little metal bars, about two inches long and four inches apart, one placed at the toe and one at the heel of each patten. That was the pattern I had seen imbedded in the earth at the ruined chapel! That’s where Rachel had gone that night—the very night of the day she had bought the Folkestone book and whisked it into her drawer when I went to her room. I was on thorns to see that book and to discover what secret it held. Was it still in her dresser drawer? Certainly it must be somewhere in her room.
I remembered, too, that Mickey Dougherty had paid us a surprising call that evening just after Aiglon’s arrival. Rachel had been dismayed to see him. They had held a brief “business” conference in the study, after which they had both emerged, smiling. Some agreement had been struck between them then. Mickey was to get a part of the spoils, probably for his help in doing whatever had to be done to recover the treasure. The next question to think about was what the nature of the treasure or riches could possibly be. But before I had time to consider this problem, Aiglon appeared in the doorway.
He carried a decanter of wine and two glasses, and behind him his own footman bore a platter of fruit, cheese, biscuits, and bonbons.
“Dinner is served, ma’am,” said the footman with a bow, and walked in to deposit the treats on the table. Though we had just left the dining room, they were entirely welcome.
“Shiftwell was kind enough to pick up these things for me in town today,” Aiglon explained. “My hopes for the kitchen were not high after his report on dinner last night, and I took the precaution of getting in emergency supplies. I shall try to banish the memory of that cod’s rebukeful gaze.”
Shiftwell nodded in acknowledgment of his part in the affair and departed, leaving the door open behind him.
Aiglon poured two glasses of wine and handed me one. “There is a disreputable French writer called the Marquis de Sade, whom I trust is unknown to you. I fear Rachel has been dipping into his works. She remembers my aversion to cod heads. I had some violent nightmares due to that particular portion of that particular fish when I was a child. Imagine her remembering it after all these years and serving it to me. She really is the limit. To us,” he said, lifting his glass and touching it to mine.
We drank a little, then began looking through the shelves for books that might tell us about the chapel. Rachel had told Aiglon that I never went near the library, but in fact it was one of my favorite places at Thornbury. Reading was one pastime that didn’t require company, so we both did a fair bit of it. I knew the documents on the building and history of the place were on the lower shelves opposite the doorway and went there to begin the search.
The documents were fading quarto manuscripts, handwritten and illustrated. They included architectural drawings and written history. The handwriting was spidery, and I had never read much of it, but I had seen the drawings any number of times. The chapel had its own folder. I rooted through the little pile, looking for it. I couldn’t believe my eyes but it wasn’t there. Of course it had been eight months or a year since I had last seen it, but this portion of the shelves was seldom disturbed. I knew in a flash that Rachel had taken it. It hadn’t been in her hands when I interrupted her work this evening, but some time in the past two days, since buying that book, she had come here and taken the folder about the chapel from its rightful place. I wasn’t prepared to reveal her scheme to Aiglon until I had spoken to her, but I knew it was fruitless to search further.
Aiglon was leafing through the documents with some interest, reading a snatch aloud from time to time between biscuits and cheese and wine, for he was making quite a meal while we worked.
“I can’t seem to find the folder on the chapel,” I said, arising from my kneeling position.
“That’s odd. Everything else is so minutely covered. It must be here somewhere. Let me have a look.” He replaced me at the lower shelves, and it was my turn to enjoy the treats. The bonbons were delicious, though they made the wine taste sour. After fifteen minutes, Aiglon decided he was not going to find what I had told him wasn’t there to begin with and contented himself with looking through other books.
But the history of the time of Edward the Confessor, dealing with the ancient Cinque Ports, was of little interest to either of us. We admired the architect’s sketch of Thornbury, and Aiglon pointed out rather more often than was necessary how much better it looked with its gardens in shape. He asserted he could read any hand ever written, but in the end the spider scrawl of his ancestors defeated him, so little actual reading was done.
We had been in the library for over an hour, and propriety decreed that we should return to the saloon to bear Rachel company. I was as reluctant as Aiglon to leave.
“We’ll just finish off this last glass of wine before we go,” he suggested. I tried to remember whether I’d had two or three glasses. The reason I was interested, of course, was to monitor Aiglon’s intake. But really he wasn’t in the least bosky. He drank slowly and displayed no signs of overindulgence.
I let him pour the better part of the remains into my glass all the same. “Will you rebuild the chapel if you can find the plans?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
“And does that mean that possibly you won’t be selling Thornbury?” I asked hopefully.
“I wouldn’t rebuild if I only meant to sell,” he agreed.
I gave him a smile of relief and encouraged this plan, mentioning the importance of maintaining some traces of England’s history, the good the building would do to the workers of the area, and other such platitudes as occurred to me.
“Don’t mistake me for a philanthropist, Constance,” he warned, his eyes flashing mischievously. “I’m only considering it to have something for us to do together. I find sitting on a rock pile less than amusing, and you apparently don’t enjoy wrestling with my grays. You may find, when the Mermaid arrives, that you’re a sailor manqué, and the rebuilding won’t be necessary after all.”
At this, he drained his glass, and we went forth to the saloon. Rachel wasn’t alone, after all. Mickey Dougherty had arrived during our absence and he and Rachel now sat on the sofa, their heads together in deep scheming. Their intriguing attitude confirmed my worst suspicions. Mickey pulled himself to the other side of the sofa when we entered and rose to shake Aiglon’s hand.
“Congratulations, Lord Aiglon. I hear your man survived, and you’re a decent citizen once again. I was very worried about you,” he said.
“Kind of you,” Aiglon answered blandly.
“Truth to tell, it wasn’t just congratulations on your deliverance that brought me. It was the guns for my militia troop I was worried about. You did post off a letter to London, I trust?”
“I certainly did.”
“And you’ll be letting us know as soon as you get word they’re on their way?”
“Of course,” Aiglon replied.
“It was you Mickey came to see,” Rachel explained to Aiglon befo
re anybody asked her. This might account for Mickey’s visit, but it didn’t account for the conspiratorial conversation we had interrupted.
After a very brief visit, Mickey rose to leave, and Rachel announced that she was feeling megrimish and would also retire. I rose to follow her upstairs, hoping to discover the whole truth about Mickey’s visit.
“If I’m being abandoned, I’ll return to the library and have a go at that spiderish writing,” Aiglon decided. “I’ll have a look at the book you gave me as well, Rachel. Perhaps you could save me some time and direct me to the chapter dealing with Thornbury?”
“I’m sure I saw a mention of it somewhere,” she answered vaguely.
“Probably in the section dealing with Folkestone and Dover,” Aiglon said. He made a bow to us and left.
I followed Rachel to her room. “About that book, Rachel, it isn’t the one you bought and Aiglon will soon realize it,” I warned. “It’s stamped with the Thornbury library mark.” I regarded her closely to read by her expression what she was thinking, for I well enough knew that she wouldn’t say anything revealing till pushed to the wall.
“You’re directing your suspicions toward the wrong person, Constance,” she answered, her eyes flashing in triumph. “Have a look at this,” she said, going to her dresser and pulling a letter from the top drawer. “Perhaps this will convince you what sort of man it is you’ve been playing up to.”
I took the piece of paper and looked at it. I felt a trembling inside even before I’d read a word. It was Rachel’s glittering face that frightened me. She looked gloating and victorious, and for her, victory meant getting Aiglon to leave Thornbury.
The letter was brief and catastrophic. It was from the office of the chief of Admiralty Intelligence and said:
My dear Aiglon: This is to notify you that your position with the Government is terminated as of this date. As discussed, we feel it would be better if you retire quietly from London till this unfortunate incident is cleared up. I do not hold you responsible for the capture by the French of the arms intended for the southeast coast, but it is irrefutable that you arranged the shipment and their sate delivery was in your hands.
