Interrupted in her litany of Dai’s peccadillos, Mary blinked. “Oh, school? No, Dai has no inclination toward the academic life. He is my apprentice in gem-cutting.”
“Then that’s who you are.” Reuel Williams had come in from his walk, sat down almost unnoticed at the far end of the table, and drunk his tea without a word to anybody. His sudden utterance drew everybody’s attention, Williams didn’t appear to mind.
“I’ve been trying to place you ever since last night, Miss Rhys. It’s been a long time, of course. You’ve—er—done something different to your hair.”
Whatever she’d done was a sad mistake, Janet thought. Mary could not fairly be called dirty or unkempt, but she could surely have used a shampoo and set. Better still, a wig and a face-lift. At the moment, however, she was preening herself like the Queen of the May.
“Mr. Williams! Yes, indeed it has been a time. You were a young man then, just starting as a writer of television scripts, were you not?”
“That’s right, it was my first documentary. Unusual careers for women. You were the gem-cutter.”
“And she still is.” It was not to be supposed that Bob wouldn’t horn in with his two cents’ worth. “My sister is internationally renowned as a lapidary, both for her knowledge and for her skill.”
Lady Rhys had a fairly sizable collection of diamonds herself, which she wore with éclat on every possible occasion out of respect for Sir Emlyn’s position she was naturally interested.
“Mary, I knew you were a lapidary; I had no ides you’d become so famous. Do you mean you actually travel all over the world splitting diamonds?”
Mary waved, an airy gesture of dismissal. “No indeed, the world comes to me. And I have no interest in diamonds. My special field of expertise is among the colored stones.”
“Give her a ruby or a sapphire and there’s nobody to beat her,” cried Bob, dripping more honey in his enthusiasm.
“Really, brother dear, you might have mentioned emeralds and opals. Opals—those of gem quality, that is—are particular favorites of mine. You cannot imagine the exhilaration of cutting into a great, blazing chunk of Australian opal. Pliny placed the opal right after the emerald in importance, as do I myself. ‘For in them you shall see the living fire of the ruby, the glorious purple of the amethyst, the green sea of the emerald, all glittering together in an incredible mixture of light.’ Isn’t that lovely?”
“But you do have a particular feeling for the living fire of the ruby,” Bob insisted.
“How could I not? It stirs my very vitals. The emotion that grips me when I gaze into the green sea of the emerald is of a more transcendent quality. I can’t wait to see the crosier taken down tonight for its annual polishing. You will let me examine the emerald, Uncle Caradoc? I’ve brought my loupe.”
“Yes, Mary, since it gives you pleasure. And we shall all be happy to hear once again your pronouncement on the quality of the stone. But no, I still do not wish the emerald to be cut. Now may I offer you one of Betty’s cakes?”
Chapter 8
EVERYBODY WAS IN THE dining hall, though only for drinks and the opening of the grille. Huw and Elen, with Owain, Mavis, and their brood, would be going back to the farmhouse for dinner; Lisa and Tib whither Tom and Dafydd listed.
Megan was upstairs keeping an eye on Dorothy. Betty was in the kitchen, being visited by one and another of the family as the spirit moved them. Alice, another of Betty’s nieces who obliged on special occasions, had blossomed out in the glory of a black silk dress, lace collar, ruffled white organdy apron starched stiff as a boot, and a fetching white maid’s cap with a frill around it. She was busy supervising a lavish buffet of appetizers, keeping an eye on Danny the Boots, who was bartending at one end in his Sunday blacks, and occasionally venturing into the press with a trayful of tidbits to tempt the shy, the feeble, and the overpolite.
Everybody was dressed to the nines, as Sir Caradoc like to see them. Janet had on another of Annabelle’s creations, cut from the same pattern as the first, though nobody but an expert would have noticed. This was a brocade the color of heavy cream, with an Empire waistline defined by a band of brocaded silk ribbon in sap green and gold. Its sleeves were long, tight, and intended to be plain; but Annabelle, inspired by a picture in a book of fairy tales that had been around the old farm since nobody could remember when, had added fat little armseye puffs and outlined them with more of the ribbon. Except for the small diamonds in her ears and the ring on her hand, the touch of green was Janet’s only decoration; but it was enough. Even Bob the Blob bestirred himself to pass her a compliment of sorts.
“It is this gown you will be going to wear tomorrow? You will be needing a hennin.”
“I wouldn’t know where to find a hennin. Anyway, this wasn’t exactly meant to be a masquerade costume.”
That sounded awfully squelchy; Janet softened her words. “I hadn’t realized people were going to wear fancy dress tomorrow. Will you be going as a Druid?”
“Oh no, that would not be at all the thing to do. I shall be wearing my usual.”
Whatever that might be. Janet didn’t care, her mother-in-law had it all arranged that the ladies of Sir Emlyn’s entourage should appear in their Liberty lawn frocks with floppy straw garden-party hats that Gwen had picked up somewhere on tour and bedecked with silk flowers: daffodil yellow for herself, violet and mauve for her mother, shades of blue for Janet. Dorothy would have a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds around her white bonnet, and a pale pink dress with more rosebuds embroidered on the front. Just how long she’d stay pink remained to be seen; Janet had a blue dress ready and waiting, just in case. The weather was going to be beautiful, Lady Rhys had that all arranged too. If it wasn’t, they’d just pretend it was and Madoc could help with the umbrellas.
Danny the Boots had deserted the bar, Huw was pinch-hitting, being careful not to load the drinks. He wasn’t about to let anybody get tight and cast a cloud over the ceremony that meant so much to his father. And perhaps more to himself than Huw was willing to let on, Janet thought.
Now Danny was coming in with a tall wooden stepladder, making a big thing of placing it exactly under the tall, narrow iron door let into the stone wall. The assembled company were making way for Sir Caradoc to pass among them, carrying the little golden sickle and a big iron key. Dafydd walked a few respectful steps behind him, and Madoc behind Dafydd. At the ladder, they paused while the key was ceremoniously passed along to Madoc. He climbed up, squirted a drop of oil into the lock, and inserted the key.
The grille opened easily enough. Madoc spent a moment deciding where to hang the newest acquisition, another brief time affixing a small brass hanger to the velvet-covered backing, then went halfway back down the ladder to take the fourth golden sickle from Sir Caradoc’s upraised hand.
What sets gold apart as the king of metals is that it never tarnishes. Reuel Williams cast a covetous eye upward and made a tactless remark.
“I wonder how much those would be worth melted down.”
“Not much.”
That was, of all people, Dai Rhys. His Uncle Bob turned on him. “And who are you, young jackanapes, to be uttering rash pronouncements in the presence of your elders and betters?”
For a wonder, Dai stuck to his guns. “Well, look at them. They’re almost the color of Aunt Iseult’s hair.”
Iseult didn’t care for the “Aunt.” “And is that bad?”
“It simply means the gold’s full of copper. British gold tends to be, and the ancient Celts didn’t know how to refine it. Anyway, pure gold wouldn’t have done the Druids any good, it’s too soft to cut anything. The most valuable thing about those sickles is their age. And the workmanship. It’s—right. You’d have to be bonkers to melt them down.”
“Thank you, Dai,” said Sir Caradoc. “You are quite right, the gold is the least of their value. And now, Madoc, the crosier.”
Madoc reached in again, lifted out the great silver crosier, and handed it down to his brother. Dafydd
, with a fine operatic flourish and a low bow, grasped the tarnished shaft in both hands and presented it to Sir Caradoc.
Janet was standing near enough to notice in detail what an impressive piece of work the crosier was. She estimated that it must be about four-and-a-half feet long, probably as tall as the abbot for whom it had been crafted although short in proportion to the old man who now held it aloft for all to see. The shaft was carved in the intricate Celtic style. The top was curved over and filled in with slender spokes to hold a huge, roughly hexagonal chunk of rather dull-looking green stone.
“That’s the famous emerald?” Iseult was fingering her own spectacular necklace, looking disappointed. “It isn’t very pretty.”
“Not to you, perhaps.”
Mary’s superior smirk was enough to turn a person’s stomach, though Janet supposed one shouldn’t fault a person for knowing her own job. She had her bulbous little magnifier out, clearly she was champing at the bit to get in a spot of expertise on the stone.
Sir Caradoc was handling the crosier much the same way he’d cuddled Dorothy, carrying it over to a side table that had been set ready with soft padding, cleaning rags, and a bottle of silver polish.
“I know some antiquarians would say not to, but it is my fancy that the old monks would have kept the crosier bright for their revered abbot. Besides,” he confessed, “I like to see it shine. Were the grille not so awkward to get at, I’d be polishing all the time, and the old monks would come back to haunt me for wearing away their chasing.”
Everybody glanced sideways at Janet, she made haste to cover the awkwardness. “Where do you suppose the emerald came from, Uncle Caradoc?”
Greatly relieved, the old man picked up his discourse. “That is indeed the question. The Rhys manuscript states that it came from the temple of Solomon; I think that is a beautiful legend. The abbot’s emerald could indeed have come from somewhere around the Mediterranean Sea, however. Mary has told me that the ancient source of emerald was Upper Egypt. Am I not right, Mary?”
“Oh yes, you are no doubt alluding to the so-called Cleopatra’s Mines, which had in fact been worked for at least sixteen hundred years before the last, and most promiscuous of the Cleopatras was born. It is my belief that the abbot’s emerald must have been brought to Wales by one of the earliest missionaries, in the latter half of the fifth century.”
“During the period known as the Age of the Saints,” Bob the Blob amplified.
He was all set to go on, but Mary had the floor and meant to keep it. “As to why an emerald, I suspect it may have been simply that emerald, as precious gems go, is relatively soft and easy to work.”
“A likelier explanation,” Bob was grabbing the floor, after all, “is that emeralds were deemed to have medicinal virtues, as well as the power to drive away evil spirits, and a third virtue which would naturally be of paramount importance in a monastery; namely, the power to promote chastity.”
“Do you suppose it really worked?”
That was Tom, speaking not quite sotto voce enough to Dafydd, who had retired to the buffet and got himself another drink. Janet didn’t hear her brother-in-law’s reply, which was perhaps just as well.
Mary was making a protracted business of dusting off the stone with a sable brush that Sir Caradoc evidently kept for that one express purpose. As she worked, she talked, discoursing on specific gravity and dispersive powers, and other things that nobody else wanted to hear about.
The scene here in the dining hall reminded Janet a little bit of a viewing at Ben Potts’s funeral parlor back in Pitcherville. People would step reverently up to the table, stand for a moment gazing down at the now-gleaming crosier, then drift off to join some chattering group around the buffet: She herself stayed because she didn’t think it would be polite not to, and because she sensed that Sir Caradoc liked having her there. He’d picked up one of the polishing cloths but wasn’t trying to hurry Mary along as she checked over every millimeter of the gem with her loupe and a small but powerful penlight. He seemed happy enough just being so close to his beloved object, even if it did mean bearing the full brunt of Mary’s monologue.
“Naturally the emerald would show to far greater advantage if I were granted the cutting and polishing of it,” Mary was saying, “though I should hardly leave it in one piece like this if it were to be sold. Nobody’s ordering any new crown jewels these days, that I know of” she tittered at her own mild witticism “and such a gem would be far too cumbersome for anyone to wear as jewelry.”
That was a dig at Iseult, but the cinema actress only shook her redgold head and murmured, “Try me.” Sensing that she was failing to hold her audience, Mary tried another ploy.
“Dai, come here. I want you to examine the emerald.”
“Why should I?” The nephew wasn’t liking Mary’s peremptory tone, as who would. “You’ve already spoken the final word.”
Nevertheless, he set down the drink that had perhaps given him the Dutch courage to bark back but not enough to disobey, and came forward to take the loupe Mary was holding out. Janet was interested; she’d never seen anybody literally black with rage before, though perhaps Dai’s color was a trick of the fading daylight outside and the candlelight within. Anyway, he bent over the stone. Mary turned her little flashlight this way and that, lecturing all the while on what he ought to be seeing. The youngster—he couldn’t be more than nineteen or so—replied only when she insisted, and then in sullen grunts.
It was a relief to those watching when Mary snatched back her loupe, tucked it into a gray flannel mitten, and shut it inside the black leather handbag whence it had come. Everybody was pretty sick of the emerald by now, except Iseult.
“What about those emeralds you won’t get to cut out of the stone, Mary? How much would they have been worth all together?”
“The mind boggles. Millions. But one hardly likes to think of sacred relics in terms of cash.”
“How high-minded of you, Mary.” Iseult made it plain that she found Mary’s attitude quaint, amusing, and implausible. “So one could simply prise out this great lump of rock, take it to a gem-cutter, wind up with a handful of gorgeous green emeralds, and nobody would know where they came from.”
“It would not be that easy, Iseult. Gemstones have their individualities, an experienced lapidary can detect differences between one and another. I myself would certainly recognize any gem cut from this one, of whatever size and in whatever form.”
“Oh yes,” said Bob, who had continued to linger near his sister, “Mary would indeed be hard to fool. Is that not so, Dai lad?”
Dai only glared and turned his back. Bob pretended not to notice.
“And now, Sister Mary, what is your official pronouncement?”
“I pronounce Sir Caradoc’s emerald as magnificent tonight as it has been throughout the ages, and I wish him continued joy of his stewardship.”
“Thank you, Mary, for your good wishes and for your valued opinion. Jenny, my dear, I would ask you to help an old man with his polishing were it not for fear of spoiling your beautiful frock.”
“Oh, don’t worry about my dress. I’d love to help.”
Madoc, policeman that he was, hadn’t strayed far from the crosier since he’d got it down from the niche. As the well-trained son of a sometimes imperious mother, he’d put a neatly folded handkerchief in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket he’d inherited from his elder brother. Janet tweaked it away and tucked one corner into the neck of her gown.
“All fixed, Uncle Caradoc. You smear and I’ll wipe.”
They worked together happily, the old man applying the polish in reverent dabs, the young woman plying a soft cloth, bringing up the gentle sheen that only truly antique silver can achieve. It was ticklish, painstaking work wiping every trace of polish from the incised carving. Not that anybody would be apt to notice the odd smidge with the crosier up there above eye level behind its iron grille, but Janet was bound to do the job right for Sir Caradoc’s sake.
Watching somebody else polish silver, even such silver as this, was at best only the mildest of diversions. By the time Sir Caradoc pronounced the crosier burnished to his satisfaction and asked Madoc to restore the magnificent relic to its place of safety, most of the party had drifted away to their respective dinner engagements. Elen had kindly asked Dai to join Owain’s flock at the farm, Janet noticed with relief.
Alice had cleared away the buffet and picked up the empty glasses. Those staying for dinner were starting to cast hopeful glances at the now laid and waiting table. Danny the Boots carried away the ladder, Iowerth appeared through the swinging door.
“Dinner is ready to be served, my lady.”
There was no formal procession tonight, Lady Rhys got the party seated in jigtime. Janet wound up next to Reuel Williams. Not having the faintest notion what to say, she began by putting her foot in her mouth.
“We thought maybe you and Iseult would be going out tonight with Tom’s lot.”
The writer only shrugged and went on drinking his soup, so she did likewise. Then she reflected that hers hadn’t been a particularly tactful opening, and tried again.
“Are you gathering material for another play, or is this visit just for fun?”
“I never do anything just for fun.” Reuel sounded quite indignant at the notion. “Of course I’m garthering material. Writers are always working, though I don’t suppose you believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you. What sort of work are you planning? You look as though you might write spy stories.”
“Spy stories?” She’d startled him. “Whatever put that idea into your head?”
“I suppose it’s just that one tends to think of spies as being suave and inscrutable.”
That was a lie pure and simple. When Janet Wadman Rhys thought of spies, she thought of old Maw Fewter back in Pitcherville, with one ear to the ground and the other glued to the telephone for any scrap of gossip, however trivial, that she could spread around. Janet didn’t suppose Reuel Williams would have cared much for being compared to Maw Fewter, but he was taking her polite fabrication well enough. She could see him turning suave and inscrutable before her very eyes. Then Mary leaned across the table and raised her voice to the pitch of an overexcited peacock’s.
The Wrong Rite Page 8
