by Joan Smith
Mama had drawn out a handkerchief and was fanning herself, as befitted a Fragonard lady. “I shall stay here and catch my breath. Oh dear, whatever shall we do? You know I never had but a waxen head, Zoie. You must decide what is to be done.”
I gave her hand a reassuring pat and darted back up the two flights of stairs to the octagonal tower. Steptoe had been seized with the same idea as Mama and myself. He had opened all the drawers of both dresser and desk and rooted through them. They stood open and disarranged.
“There does not appear to be any further booty, madam,” he said, relishing that offensive “booty.”
“Keep looking. All his jackets and boots—everything will have to be searched. Let me know if you find anything.”
“Yes, madam.”
His snuff brown eyes were full of sated spite. He could hardly hold his lips steady as he began unfolding sox and smallclothes, shaking them out. When we were finished, I returned to Mama and told her no more booty had been discovered.
“Thank goodness. What shall we do with that?” she asked, pointing to the necklace as if it were a dead rat. She had placed it on the far end of the sofa table. “Lady Margaret is dead and gone. Perhaps if we just hid it away in the attic—”
“Mama! That is no solution. We must return it to Parham, and let them decide what is to be done with it.”
“Lady Weylin has enough diamonds. She will never miss it.”
“It may belong to Lady Margaret’s stepson—entailed, is what I mean. We cannot keep it. That is dishonest.”
“Oh my dear woe! The shame of it. Is there no way we could smuggle it into Parham without saying where it has been all this while? Through the mail, perhaps...”
“Trust diamonds to the mail? That is risky.”
“And someone might see us mailing it, too. We could call on Lady Weylin, and slide it down the back of a sofa, or into a vase. It would be found eventually, and they need not know Barry stole it.”
“We are never invited to Parham, Mama,” I reminded her.
One did not drop in uninvited on the Weylins. They held themselves very high. I had been there exactly three times in my twenty-five years, always with a crowd. Lord Weylin became friendly at election time, and held a large, raucous party. Unfortunately, there was no election in the offing.
“You don’t think Lady Weylin might like to share your lessons with Borsini?” Mama asked. “You could stop by and ask her. He is a count, after all; she is only a countess.”
I liked to think Borsini was a count, but in fact, I did not really believe it. It was only a pleasant fiction. The image of stately Lady Weylin climbing up two nights of stairs to my little studio was too ludicrous to contemplate without smiling. “No, that will not fadge.”
“What of that Book Society you are working up?” The Book Society was Mrs. Chawton’s project. She had read of some book-loving ladies banding together, each contributing a certain sum to buy a book, which they all read and discussed. “Is Lady Weylin bookish?” I asked.
“I see her at the circulating library from time to time. That suggests she is, and also that she is not fond of laying down her gold to buy the book herself. I think we must tackle it, Zoie. It is that or confessing that Barry was a thief. And at the worst possible time. The Season just closed last week; Lord Weylin is home for a visit. Perhaps Mrs. Chawton would like to go with you?”
I could not think the Weylins would appreciate a social call from the doctor’s wife, whose brother runs the taproom. The Chawtons barely pass for quality in Aldershot. Mama and I would hardly be welcome, but at least we were an old, genteel family.
“There is no weaseling out of it, Mama. You must come with me. You try to distract Lady Weylin for a moment, and I shall pop the necklace into a vase, or down the side of the sofa.”
“Let us do it tomorrow, Zoie. I shall need the evening to worry about it.”
“It will be best to make sure Barry has no more secrets hidden away before we go. If Steptoe unearths more booty, we must find some other way to return it.”
“I cannot believe it of Barry,” Mama said, idly sipping her tea. “I know it troubled him that he came home so poor, when half of his colleagues were nabobs, but it is not as though he actually needed the money. I mean to say he did not sell the necklace, but just hid it away. It is so very odd. Could he have been one of those kleptomaniacs like Mrs. Flanagan, who took the bolt of ribbon from the drapery shop?”
“What I wonder is how he ever got next or nigh the necklace. He was never at Parham, was he?”
“Why no, he was not,” Mama said, brightening. “He was in London when Weylin had his last election do. And really, you know, I seem to remember Lady Margaret lost it at Tunbridge Wells. She used to go there often for the chalybeate waters.”
“Uncle Barry never went to Tunbridge Wells, as far as I can remember.”
“No, why would he? He was healthy as a horse—until he died, I mean. He was used to run up to London as often as he could find an excuse. He liked to visit at East India House, and chat to the lads, but Tunbridge Wells—never.”
“So how did he get the necklace?” I asked.
Mama bent her mind to this problem and soon came up with an answer. “This goes from bad to worse, Zoie. He must have been part of a gang! One of them did the robbing, and others peddled the goods.”
“If that were the case, he should have been rich. You know he hadn’t a sou to his name when he died. One would have thought he would have squirreled away a couple of hundred pounds at least. He had no expensive habits.”
“And I only took a nominal sum from him for board,” Mama added. “Why, from his pension alone he ought to have saved up a few hundred. I made sure his savings would at least bury him, but I had to pay for the coffin along with everything else. He must have been a secret gambler,” she decided, as she could think of nothing else to explain the mystery.
“Perhaps he had a woman in London,” I suggested. There had been a certain Surinda Joshi in Calcutta. Barry never mentioned her in his letters, but Mama’s family used to write about her. They feared he would marry this dusky beauty.
“Now, that is entirely possible. He was always a mouthful among the parish for his flirting ways. He could have been sending money to Surinda.”
“It is odd he had not sold the necklace, if that was his plan. The thing was stolen five years ago, and he still had it when he died.”
I never thought I would come to hate the sight of diamonds, but that glittering little heap on the table was enough to make my blood run cold.
Steptoe came in and said, in his uppity way, “There does not appear to be any more stolen jewels among Mr. McShane’s belongings, madam. Shall I send the necklace back to Parham?”
“You must not think of it, Steptoe!” Mama exclaimed.
In our confusion, we had forgotten we had Steptoe to contend with. It seemed best to take the bull by the horns. I said, “We plan to return it secretly, Steptoe. We would appreciate it if you did not speak to the servants, nor indeed to anyone, of the necklace.”
Steptoe remained silent a moment, scanning this for opportunities of exploiting us. He was a perfectly self-centered man. He presented a good appearance and lent a certain cachet when he answered the door, looking down on all our callers, but really he was not at all pleasant.
“Very well, madam. Ah, and while I have your attention, might I inquire whether you have given any thought to the matter of increasing my wage?” he asked, while peering at us from under his lashes.
Steptoe is always after an increase in his wage. He has had three while Brodagan has had one. This latest demand was nothing less than extortion, but it was not the time to chastise him.
“How much increase will you need, Steptoe?” Mama asked fearfully.
“Five pounds per quarter would be convenient, madam.”
“You only asked for three last week!” I objected.
“Yes, madam, but now I find five would be more convenient.” His eye
s slid to the diamonds, then turned to Mama with a speaking look. “Thank you, madam.” He bowed and left.
“That one will be no stranger in hell,” Mama said.
“This is intolerable! We shall not give him another sou.”
“The alternative is to tell Lady Weylin—and Lord Weylin—the truth, Zoie,” she pointed out.
“I daresay we can eke out another five pounds per quarter, but if he demands one more penny, Mama, we must turn him off. Let him tell what stories he likes; no one will listen. People know we are honest.”
“They do not know Barry was honest. There were a few rumors in town about that unfortunate bookkeeping error in India. How very disagreeable it will be, having to call at Parham tomorrow,” Mama said, gazing forlornly into her teacup. “My blood shakes to think of it, for I haven’t the heart of a mouse.”
“We must go in the morning. Borsini will be coming in the afternoon.”
“Gracious, as if having a thief in the family were not bad enough! I hope Weylin is not there when we call. His mama is enough to frighten the dragoons, but if I have to face him with stolen diamonds in my pocket I know I shall crop right out into a confession and land in the roundhouse.”
“Dangle from a gibbet is more like it.”
“Do not say such things, Zoie!” She daubed at her eyes. “One dislikes to speak ill of the dead, but I do think this was not very nice of Barry, and after I was kind enough to give him a home, too. He did it black on us, Zoie, and that’s the truth.” Mama slips into the old Irish expressions when she is upset.
“It is pretty clear that Uncle Barry was pulling the wool over our eyes for years. I have no reluctance to speak ill of him. I always thought he was sly. It would not surprise me if he had his fingers in the till in India.”
“Now, that is not true. They caught the fellow who did it. Barry left the company with a clean record and a full pension.”
“Perhaps, but do you not remember how he used to keep a very sharp eye on the post? He’d be waiting for the delivery, and snatch up his letters, slipping them inside his jacket before anyone got a look at them. They were orders from his gang, I expect.”
“I always thought they were from Surinda. There was a strong musky scent in the hall after he took the letters away. He certainly had something to hide. And with all his treachery, he did not even end up rich,” Mama said, “but left me to pay for his coffin.”
Chapter Three
Once Steptoe learned our secret, the only person in the house with any vestige of control over him was Brodagan. He was becoming bossy even with her, which brought her to the saloon to complain. We took her into our confidence regarding the necklace and asked for her forbearance at this time. She was marble-constant, as usual. Brodagan would not complain if we murdered the archbishop.
“You may be sure as soon as the matter is straightened out, he will be dismissed,” Mama promised.
“My sorrow!” she declared, black eyes gleaming fiercely. “A viper in our own bosom. Him in his grand black suit, looking like his nose would bleed if you said boo to him. He’s no better than a thief hisself, squeezing money out of a widow. He wants the good wine brought up to his cubbyhole, if you please. I’d sooner part with my eyes than let him have Mr. Barron’s good claret.”
“Since Mr. Barron no longer has need of it...” Mama said.
“That old rack-pot is to have ambrosia then, while the rest of us belowstairs make do with small beer?” Brodagan asked, with a gimlet glance that would cut forged steel.
“I think Brodagan would like a bottle of the claret, Mama,” I said, as Mama was not quick to take her meaning.
“You do not have to ask, my dear Brodagan,” Mama said, and won a smile from the Turk. “Naturally you must do as you wish.”
Having won her point, Brodagan said piously, “I never touch a drop, melady!” She continued, “That scarecrow has had the spite in his nose for us ever since he came here, only because we lack a handle to our names. ‘His lordship did it this way,’ says he, and ‘Her ladyship did it that way,’ as if he was quoting the Bible. Why did he leave Parham and go to the Pakenhams? That is what I would like to know. And within a year or two, he hopped along to us. Sure it was a dark day when you hired the likes of that grasshopper, melady.”
“So it was, Brodagan,” Mama agreed, “but he looked well, you know, and had worked at Parham.”
“If you call sitting on your haunches swilling wine work,” Brodagan said. “I, with my bad tooth roaring like a lion in my mouth, still have the laundry to get folded, and the bread to knead, and my own apron which I pay for myself to iron before this head sees the pillow.”
“Could Mary not—”
“Mary O’Rourke is as much help as a bucket with a hole in it, even if she is my own niece,” she said, and left. Brodagan always got the last word.
* * * *
Over breakfast the next morning, Mama and I discussed our attack on Parham. As I was to broach the Book Society plan to Lady Weylin, I would be doing most of the talking. When I suggested that Mama slip the diamonds into some convenient hiding place, however, she turned as white as milk and said she really did not think she could. She was bound to drop them, and Lady Weylin would think she had stolen them. She did undertake to distract Lady Weylin for a few moments with some talk of roses, however, while I did the deed.
At ten-thirty we set out for Parham in the carriage. Our meadow abuts theirs. It would be only a quarter of an hour’s walk across the park, but as we required the dignity of a carriage to call on a countess, we went by the road, a distance of two miles.
To enter the wrought-iron gates, guarded by a pair of snarling griffins, was already enough to shatter one’s confidence. The closer we drew to the house, the larger and more impressive it grew. Parham was built in the days when homes were fortresses. A tall tower rises high on either end of the facade, with a crenellated roofline holding them together. Although the house has been updated over the centuries, the front still has a forbidding aspect.
“I feel we ought to have brought cannons,” Mama said.
We were not met with guns, but by a butler whose manner made Steptoe look like a friendly pup. Never have I seen eyebrows rise so high, nor heard such arrogance in a servant’s tone.
“You wish to speak to her ladyship?” he exclaimed, as if we had said we wished to shoot her.
“If she is not too busy,” Mama said apologetically.
I refused to be browbeaten by a servant. “It will only take a moment,” I said, and lightly elbowed him aside to walk in. Mama darted in after me.
We were familiar with the grandiosity of the entrance from our few other visits at election time. There was a deal of marble, of exotic carved paneling, of paintings and busted Grecian statuary. Of more interest, there was a doorway leading to the Blue Saloon, where her ladyship sat, thumbing idly through a magazine, with a pug dog at her feet. The butler shunted us into an inferior small parlor used for tradesmen, and said he would inquire whether her ladyship was at home.
“Try the Blue Saloon,” I suggested.
For ten minutes Mama and I waited. We discussed hiding the diamonds in that parlor, but decided against it.
“They might suspect us,” she whispered. “It will be best to leave it in a room Lady Margaret used.”
“If she refuses to see us, I shall stuff them down the side of this settee before I rise.”
Eventually the butler came and said, “Her ladyship can spare you a moment now.”
We rose and followed him into the Blue Saloon. It was a regular furniture display room, holding every grand thing you can think of. Persian carpets, brocade window hangings, a plethora of carved mahogany, and a positive glut of bibelots.
Lady Weylin reclined at her ease on a striped satin settee. She looked up from petting her ugly little tan pug and said querulously, “It is the Barrons, is it not?” We had been neighbors forever. We admitted to being ourselves and advanced into the holy of holies.
It has often been remarked that people resemble their pets, and it was certainly true in this case. Lady Weylin had a broad, short face with widely spaced eyes, a pug nose, and a wrinkled forehead. She had fallen into a sluggish tan complexion and an excess of flesh from lack of exercise. Her toilette, a fashionable gown of wheat-colored lutestring with a lace shawl, was unexceptionable.
She lifted the pug from her lap onto the sofa beside her and waved a hand toward two hard-backed chairs. These offered no likely hiding place, but we sat down.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, very much the grande dame.
Mama was completely capsized by her manner. I braced myself to be ingratiating and said, “We are setting up a Book Society, Lady Weylin, and wondered if you would be interested.”
“Who is ‘we’? You and your mama?”
“Myself, and some ladies from Aldershot,” I replied.
“Ah, Aldershot,” she said, as if it were a leper colony. “And what, pray, is a Book Society?”
I swallowed the urge to ask whether she was not familiar with a book and explained Mrs. Chawton’s plan—the dues to buy books, the reading by each member, and eventual discussion.
When I had finished, she cocked her head to one side and said, “Rubbish! You will only put the circulating library out of business. If you and your friends, Miss Barron, have time and money to squander, you might better devote them to charitable works. Reading novels is harmful to girls. It puts ideas in their heads.”
“Surely that is the proper place for them, ma’am.” I felt a sharp kick at my ankle from Mama.
“Not in ladies’ heads. If you had been employing your time more usefully, you would not still be single at your age. You would have better things to do than reading books.”
Having met with not only an outright refusal but an insult as well, I was left with nothing to say, and directed a look to Mama. It was difficult to leap straightway into discussing roses, which was the only thing Mama felt capable of discussing. To pave the way, I said, “What charitable works did you have in mind, ma’am?”
“Helping the poor, of course. That is what charity is—helping the less fortunate.”
