The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two

by Michele Jaffe

  Lady Eleanor picked up the thread of her sister’s comment. “Surely you know we would never share a roof with such people. Therefore it must be clear that you need not send your men prying into the house.”

  “It would be most disruptive,” Lady Priscilla pointed out.

  “And most impolite,” Lady Eleanor sharpened the argument.

  “ ‘A deed done in haste is a waste,’ as our brother, Hugo, always said,” Lady Priscilla added.

  “No, sister.” Lady Eleanor frowned slightly. “ ‘Food with no taste is a waste.’ That is wha—”

  A raised eyebrow from Lady Priscilla stopped her sister in mid-sentence. Not to waste it, Lady Priscilla then turned the raised eyebrow on Basil. “We would view a search as an insult to ourselves.”

  Basil had only just recovered his composure. “I assure you, I mean no insult to Your Ladyships, but I must execute this warrant. I do so by order of Her Majesty.”

  “Lizzie sent you?” Lady Eleanor asked with incredulity. “Lizzie knows you are here?”

  Basil seemed to shrink four sizes when confronted by two women who referred to the Queen of England as “Lizzie.” “I am Her Majesty’s representative in this parish, yes,” he explained haltingly.

  “So she did not send you. I knew it. Lizzie would never let us be insulted like this. Nephew,” Lady Priscilla commanded, “bring me quill and paper. I will write to her immediately.”

  Crispin, who was greatly enjoying himself, was about to oblige The Aunt when he heard Thurston clearing his throat at his elbow.

  “You sent for me, my lord?” Thurston asked, clearing his throat two more times.

  “Yes.” Crispin acknowledged the signal Thurston had just given him, then bowed to address The Aunts. “I apologize for the upset this may cause Your Ladyships, but after careful consideration, I have decided, in the interests of duty and neighborliness, to allow Basil to execute his warrant.”

  “But, nephew. This is an outrage,” Lady Eleanor began.

  “I know it will be an inconvenience to you,” Crispin went on, “but it really does seem the best course of action. I would not like there to be any doubt about the sort of thing that goes on under the illustrious roof of Sandal Hall. If I am to find a virtuous wife, my name, my house, must be unblemished.”

  This was logic that The Aunts could not refute. Fearing lest their nephew change his mind and begin dancing a jig naked in the street, they lost no time retreating from the group, calling anew for ink and paper, and retiring to their sitting room to begin drawing up a list of likely betrothal prospects.

  Basil stayed silent through the flurry of The Aunts’ departure, then turned to Crispin and said, with real gratitude, “Thank you, my lord.”

  “It is my duty as an Englishman to serve Justice and her sister, Truth,” Crispin replied loftily. “Now I suppose you will want to start in the servants’ chambers. It is the most likely place for a criminal to hide, wouldn’t you say? By the way, I forgot to ask. I was hoping you would allow my steward and me to accompany your troops and ensure that no damage is done to my property.”

  The gratitude was gone from Basil’s face. “That is most irregular, my lord.”

  “Very well. But if you do not consent, I shall hold you responsible for any item which is broken or missing. Many of them belonged to my dear father, Hugo, and I would really feel that if I allowed a single dent, a single scratch, I would be committing a form of patricide. And patricide is a wretched crime. Don’t you agree?” Crispin paused to look inquiringly at his companion.

  Basil muttered something that might have been “you bloody bastard,” but Crispin took to be “Yes, quite.”

  “I am speaking metaphorically, of course,” Crispin continued, “just to make a point about how I value my possessions. Are you prepared to ante your father’s, or rather, your fortune against the carelessness of your searchers?”

  Basil’s answer was pronounced in a far less pleasant tone than Crispin’s. “Do as you like, Lord Sandal,” he said through lips so tightly pressed together that they looked like two lines. “But if you interfere in any way with the execution of this warrant, I shall have you removed by the sheriff. Is that clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the short man on his right and spoke. “Come, Sheriff. Bring your agents. We will begin our search in His Lordship’s chambers.”

  “You think to find a criminal in my apartment? I suppose we can only judge others as we would be judged.” Crispin said this jauntily as he followed Basil into the library and was pleased to see the vein on the man’s neck begin to bulge again. With any luck, he would have Basil in apoplectic fits before the day was out.

  Thinking about that was far more pleasant than thinking about what would happen if by some awful mischance Basil’s minions managed to uncover Sophie’s hiding place. In addition to the twelve men surrounding every entrance to and exit from the house, Basil had ten with him to conduct the search. Under other circumstances, Crispin would have been fascinated to watch them poking through the charred remains of his bedroom, removing all the books on the shelves of his library to try for secret compartments, and unscrewing the legs of his chairs to ensure there were no hidden levers there, but his mind kept returning to Sophie, to what she had said next to the Thames.

  Fifteen times in thirty minutes he was about to pull Thurston aside and demand to know where Sophie was hidden, and fifteen times he stopped himself. He could not, however, keep himself from asking if she had enough candles so it would not be dark wherever it was, and all eight times he got the same affirmative response. Crispin was about to inquire for the ninth, just to be sure, when one of the men, a fat one with beady eyes whom Crispin had already decided looked too intelligent, began flapping his hands.

  “I think I found something here,” he called to his companions. “Come on the quick, and bring the ax.”

  “Bring the ax,” Grip the raven echoed as Crispin interposed himself before their rushing forms.

  “Gentlemen, would you like some wine?” he asked, ever the suave host. “Why not pause for a moment and refresh yourselves before taking an ax to my walls?”

  “Lord Sandal,” Basil came and stood in front of Crispin. “If you interrupt my men’s work again, I will have you escorted out.”

  “Interrupt?” Crispin looked incredulous. “I was merely trying to aid them, revive their flagging spirits. They look a bit haggard already. And there are still forty-two rooms to search.”

  “Forty-two, forty-two, bring the ax,” the raven called.

  This double reminder found fertile soil with the sheriff. “Forty-two more after this one? I believe he is right, sir. A little wine would be good for the men.”

  Crispin smiled at him. “Thurston, go and bring several decanters of that choice vintage we brought from France.”

  “Does His Lordship mean the wine from the cellar of the King of France?” Thurston inquired.

  “King of France,” Grip repeated, hopping up and down. “King of France, forty-two, pull the daisy.”

  “Of course. Nothing is too good for our neighbor and his friends.”

  Basil blocked the threshold, stopping Thurston’s departure. “Sheriff, I urge you to reconsider,” he said vehemently. “It has not even gone half six in the morning. Besides, the wine may be drugged. It could be poisoned. And I am certain that we will not be forced to inspect the whole house. We shall find the girl shortly. If we were not close, why would he offer such a diversion?”

  The sheriff hesitated, and Crispin stepped in. “I offered only because I was going to have some wine myself.”

  “Aw, sir, I am feeling a bit parched o’ the throat,” a stocky member of the search party told the sheriff. “An’ I always like a bit o’ something before I work.”

  “Have some wine, pull the daisy,” Grip rasped in support.

&nb
sp; But this encouragement was gratuitous, for Crispin could read his victory on the sheriff’s face. “Thurston, the Burgundy,” he repeated, and this time Thurston’s departure went unhindered.

  To Crispin’s disappointment, however, his interruption did not lure the searchers from their work. Before his eyes, they carefully unhooked the clasps around one of the panels below his book-shelves and used the ax to pry the panel off. Crispin was wishing that Thurston were back with the wine already as the panel pulled away to reveal an opening. He was not even swallowing, let alone breathing, when the beady-eyed man took a lit candle and inserted both it and his head into the opening.

  He exclaimed something that sounded to Crispin like, “I’m an asses mother,” and pulled his head out of the opening. His face was white and his eyes, though still beady, were opened so far they looked almost normal.

  “What is it?” Basil was there, beside him. “Did you find her?”

  The beady-eyed man moved his head first right, then left, and Crispin wanted to kiss him. The man gulped, reached his hand in, and brought it out. “I found this.” The light of the candle sent prisms of color around the room as it was caught in the facets of the ruby bracelet the man was holding up. “And that’s not all.” He reached in again and pulled out a gold cord with eight thumbnail-sized emeralds dangling from it, a choker set with two dozen diamonds, and a pair of matching earrings.

  Basil shot a look of sheer malice at Crispin, who had thrown himself into a chair and was chortling audibly next to the raven, who was dancing a jig and repeating, “Get the ax, forty-two, pull the daisy,” over and over again.

  “Do you think to toy with us, Lord Sandal?” Basil’s bulging eyes flashed. “Do you think we are playing at something here?”

  “No, my friend.” Crispin felt cordial. “Nothing of the kind. It is merely that I have been looking all over for the family jewels and could not think where I had left them. They must have slipped back behind a book.”

  Crispin had never before seen the objects being displayed, was certain that they did not number among the famed Foscari family jewels, nor had he known of the secret compartment under his bookshelves. He was laughing for each of those reasons, as well as the expression on Basil’s face, but they were not what made his laugh so resonant. Although all of that was amusing, what was more than amusing was the relief that swept over him when he saw that while they had uncovered a treasure trove, his tesoro was still safely hidden.

  He played the unconcerned, jovial host. “I cannot thank you enough for recovering my precious objects. This really does call for some wine.”

  Thurston appeared then and began pouring and distributing beakers of the King of France’s finest vintage to the searchers, even giving a small sip to the raven. Basil would not let them bring the cups to their lips until Crispin and his bird had each taken a swallow, but soon the sound of containers being greedily emptied could be heard. Crispin gestured to Thurston to refill the glasses, but Basil intervened, earning him little gratitude from Crispin and even less from his men.

  Crispin’s wine caper had bought him a moment’s respite, but in the end the search continued unimpeded. He tried again to intoxicate the men when it was discovered that his armoire had a false floor, but a sign from Thurston told him he need not waste any more of his remaining barrel of France’s finest, and nothing but an old shoe buckle was found.

  They had just finished probing the last of the crevices of Crispin’s half-ruined apartment—including, at Basil’s order, a thorough dismantling of the burnt-out hulk of Crispin’s bed—and were making ready to extend the search to the other forty-odd chambers of Sandal Hall, when one of the searchers whistled out. He was in the privy off the library, studiously studying something on the floor.

  Crispin rushed over to him, breathing down his neck, straining to see, but there was nothing there. Or so he thought until he looked at the man’s hand.

  One ruby red hair shimmered between the man’s stubby fingers. One glorious, precious hair, a jewel in an unsuitable setting. Crispin’s first impulse was to eat it, thus disposing of the evidence, but Thurston’s voice intervened.

  “This is an embarrassment, Your Lordship,” the steward said, hanging his head. “I should be checking on the staff more closely. Clearly that redheaded chambermaid lost it when she was cleaning the privy. I am very sorry, my lord.”

  “You say this belongs to one of the staff?” The sheriff was asking Thurston, but he looked at Crispin.

  “Yes.” Crispin coughed. “That is quite right.”

  “I would very much like to see this maid.” Basil used the same tone he might have used if a child had told him there were three pink unicorns in his garden. He smiled his oily smile. “Please have her sent up. Unless she is mysteriously unavailable.”

  “Certainly.” Crispin nodded heartily. “Thurston, bring the girl who cleaned the privy. The one with the red hair. And do not dawdle.”

  Crispin had no idea if he had any servants with red hair, could scarcely remember if he had any servants at all, so tightly was his mind gripped with anxiety. He knew that according to the Queen’s law, if they did not find any evidence of Sophie’s presence, they could merely search his house, but then would have to leave. If they found out that the hair belonged to Sophie, however, if they found any evidence at all of her presence at Sandal Hall, they could occupy his house for days, weeks even, dismantle it brick by brick, to find her. Sophie’s only hope, his only hope, was to convince them that it was not her hair, that it belonged to someone else.

  As the minutes mounted into almost half an hour, Crispin grew more anxious and Basil more smug. The searchers had ample time to complete their reinspection of Crispin’s privy closet, without finding another telltale red hair, as well as finish with Crispin’s apartment entirely, and had set about removing all forty paintings of famous Sandal ancestors from the walls of the long gallery, before Thurston reappeared accompanied by a tall, dark-eyed woman. Crispin recognized her at once as one of the women he had helped free from prison three days earlier. What Crispin had not noticed then, had been too preoccupied to pay attention to, was that she had long reddish brown hair.

  “Here is the maid.” Thurston led the woman forward. “She is called Helena.”

  Basil took one look at her and blanched. “But—” he began and cut himself off.

  “Is something wrong, Basil?” Crispin was all solicitousness. “You look peaked.”

  Basil was not meeting his eyes because he was staring at Helena, who was staring back at him impassively.

  “Do you two know each other?” Crispin asked upon observing this.

  “No.” Basil’s answer was positive. “But I see that she does indeed have red hair. It must be hers that was found in the privy. Men, continue your search.”

  “Don’t you want to compare the hairs, sir?” the sheriff asked.

  “That will not be necessary. Back to work, all of you.” Basil waved his arms around. “Sound the walls to make sure there are no hidden compartments. Leave nothing untried. I know she is here. I can feel her.”

  Crispin, who had learned years earlier not to be astonished by anything his steward did, was astonished. When the men had returned to work and Helena had disappeared through one of the serving doors, he led Thurston to a corner and demanded, “How did you do that?”

  Thurston cleared his throat. “I happened to know that Miss Helena had the misfortune to come upon Lord Grosgrain the younger in the arbor that connects Hen House and Grosgrain Place yesterday.”

  “He did not harm her in any way, did he?” Crispin asked, his face becoming dark.

  “No, my lord. But he was naked. And reading odes to beauty, sir. Of his own composition.”

  “Basil? Naked? Reciting poetry?”

  “Yes, sir. To a cat, sir. Wearing the sapphire tiara you gave his stepmother two a
nd a half years ago.” Thurston sounded as if he were apologizing for having to mention such things. “As you can imagine, Basil was not overcome with delight to have been so discovered. And I merely surmised that presented with a choice between having his unfortunate behavior revealed to the sheriff and yourself or dismissing the evidence of the hair, he would select the latter.”

  Crispin, who was trying simultaneously to picture a cat in a tiara while avoiding picturing Basil naked, took a moment to respond. “Absolutely marvelous,” he said finally. “That was utterly, simply, incredibly marvelous. Comple—”

  Crispin would have continued his torrent of laudatory adverbs if a whoop from the other end of the long gallery had not stopped him. It had been emitted by the stout searcher, the one who would never get another opportunity to quaff the King of France’s wine if Crispin had anything to say about it.

  “I think we have it this time!” The stout searcher called out to his colleagues. “I found a secret door!”

  Crispin wheeled to look at Thurston, to take solace in his always calm, always reassuring presence, but instead of being by his side, his steward was rushing toward the yelling man, with Unseemly Haste and a frown crinkling his brow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a false alarm.

  The door in the long gallery turned out to lead to a forgotten storehouse, filled with the toys and games that had been confiscated from Crispin and his brother, Ian, by The Aunts when they misbehaved. He saw their set of bones, and tennis rackets, a shovelboard stick, and, best of all, the checkers that Crispin had received from his grandfather Benton Walsingham for his tenth birthday.

  Crispin had still had energy, at that point, to run his hands over the games and smile at the memories they evoked, smile at the prospect of teaching his niece, Tullia, to play with them when she was old enough, smile at the unnecessary perturbation the discovery of a heretofore unknown room had caused the imperturbable Thurston. He had still had time and room in his mind to think such idle thoughts, because he had not yet begun to worry about Sophie, worry first about her running out of candles if the search went on much longer, then about her starving, then about her being found.