by Joan Smith
“No, he went to London,” I repeated, “to visit friends at the East India Company.”
“Well, it is very odd,” Lady Weylin said. “And that is why you have been landing in on us with regularity, Miss Barron?”
“That is the only reason I have called twice.” She made me sound like a poor relation seeking rack and manger.
“I cannot imagine why you made such a to-do of it. You should have told me the truth. I have no use for slyness. You need not fear legal proceedings, now that your uncle is dead and buried, eh, Algie? Margaret left her estate to you. It is for you to decide.” Lord Weylin nodded his agreement. “We shall keep the matter hush,” she continued. “The Barrons are a quite respectable family, after all. No point embarrassing your mama.”
“That is very kind of you, ma’am,” I said, feeling as if the weight of the world had fallen from my shoulders. “We should have just returned the necklace and explained, but we were ashamed for Mr. McShane.”
“Only natural,” she said. In her relief that I was not legging after her son, she became almost civil. And in my relief at not being prosecuted, I forgave her for that condescending “quite respectable.”
I finished up my sherry quickly and took my leave. Lord Weylin accompanied me to the door, chatting as we went.
“I am sorry we were so swift to condemn you, Miss Barron, but your actions were... strange, to say the least.”
“Your reaction appeared equally strange to me, milord. Let us forget the matter,” I said, heading for the door.
“Let bygones be bygones,” he said, with a goodwill but a lamentable lack of originality. He did not follow me toward the door. I had the feeling he wished to detain me, for he continued talking. “I was in London when Aunt Margaret had her necklace stolen. I thought, at the time, that I ought to have gone to Tunbridge, but my work in the House made it impossible. I daresay there is no point going at this late date.”
“I shouldn’t think so. It all happened quite five years ago. There would be no hope of finding the culprit now.”
A frown of concentration hardened the lines of his face, and his dark eyes gleamed with intelligence. “It happened in May, as I recall.”
“Yes, I first heard of it at the spring assembly.”
“You would not remember whether your uncle was in London at the time?”
The implication of his questions was becoming clear, and troublesome. “I am afraid not. I did not record his visits in my diary,” I snipped.
A smile peeped out. “You would have more interesting things to write there, no doubt.” He looked at my reticule. “You are leaving empty-handed, Miss Barron.”
“I did not come to beg or borrow—or steal!”
His lips twitched in amusement. “That ill-considered accusation was unforgivable. I am indeed sorry. I had very little idea of your character....”
“We have been neighbors for twenty-five years, milord. If I were a thief, you would have heard a rumor of it before now.”
“Possibly, but in all those twenty-five years, I had not heard you have a quick temper, and a somewhat reckless manner of solving life’s little problems. That was a shatterbrained thing to do, you know. I was within Ames-ace of sending off for the constable.”
“It is indeed strange how little we neighbors know of each other. I, for instance, had no notion who was responsible for all the damaged books in the library. I see now why they are called dogeared.”
He cocked his head to one side and just looked at me for a long moment. “A very quick temper,” he said. “How did you manage to institute a quarrel, when I was only reminding you that you forgot to help yourself to the books I offered you? And about those library books—Mama is too lazy to replace them, but she does invariably pay for the damage. Come, let us select your novels.”
“You are very kind, milord, but it is really not literature a century old we are reading. It is the more recent novels. I suggest you consign your old books to the grate. They make a dandy fire on a cold evening.”
“I know it well. We discard so many books here. It requires patience to pull the leaves out. But what you were really saying, in your own way, is that I was palming rubbish off on you—and you are right.”
I was just trying to think of some polite way of agreeing and saying good-bye when Lady Weylin’s fluting voice came from the Blue Saloon.
“Algie! I say, Algie! Bubbums wants to go out.”
The bored look that seized his features amused me. I wondered whether his mama and her Bubbums were not half the reason Weylin spent so little time at his home.
He said, “Duty calls. If you think of anything that might help explain the mystery of the necklace, I wish you will let me know, Miss Barron. And I shall—”
“Algie? Are you there?”
He ignored the summons. “And I shall let you know if I learn anything.”
“My uncle did not go to Tunbridge—”
“Algie!” The whine had escalated to a roar.
Lord Weylin called, “Seeton, will you put the demmed dog out! I am trying to talk to Miss Barron.” He turned a sheepish face back to me. “Sorry about that.”
“That is quite all right. Will you say good-bye to your mother for me?”
“Certainly, and I shall bark a farewell to Bubbums as well. Do you not plan to say good-bye to me, Miss Barron?”
“Algie!”
There was no longer any ignoring the summons. I escaped, before this domestic contretemps escalated into an argument. The visit had not gone at all as I had imagined, but at least the necklace was back where it belonged, and I had some ammunition to hold the hateful Steptoe in line until we found a replacement.
With Borsini’s lesson to look forward to that afternoon and my studio to prepare for future lessons, I could enjoy the lovely spring day. There was just one troublesome little detail to mar perfection. Had Uncle Barry gone to Tunbridge Wells that May day five years before, and had he stolen Lady Margaret’s necklace? It was pretty clear that Lord Weylin thought so, and he did not seem ready to let the matter rest.
Chapter Five
“Oh, Zoie, I wish you had not told them,” Mama scolded, when I returned and related the tale of my visit to Parham.
“It was that or let them believe I had gone to steal Lord Weylin’s vases. In any case, it is over, Mama, and now we may have the exquisite pleasure of turning Steptoe off.”
“You say they knew all along he was a thief? Fancy their not letting us know. He might have robbed us blind.”
“We have been paying him an exorbitant salary, but that is our own fault. He has not filched the silver so far as I know.”
“I wonder he ever condescended to come to a house with so little worth stealing,” Mama said. “Not that I mean we are poor, but after Parham, or even the Pakenham, he would have slim pickings. I daresay the rich families all know what he is, and are in league not to hire him.”
While we were discussing the matter, Brodagan came sailing into the saloon, black eyes scowling. “The luncheon meat is charred to cinders, meladies,” she announced with gleeful misery. There is little dearer to Brodagan’s Irish heart than a catastrophe. The singed corners of her apron testified to dire doings belowstairs.
“I was such a gossoon as to leave Mary in charge of the meat, and the worthless creature betrayed me,” she continued. No blame is ever to be left in Brodagan’s dish. Whatever she destroys, and she has a heavy hand, it is always the fault of someone else. Whether meat burns or pudding turns lumpy or gowns fall apart in the laundry, she can always shift the blame onto another. But really she is so devoted and such a worker that we are never savage with her.
She continued her litany of woe. “Didn’t I find her in the darkest corner of the dining room snuggling with Steptoe last night. I promised her ma I’d look after her. Either he goes or I go, for I’ll not have my girls tampered with by the likes of him.”
“Send Steptoe in, Brodagan,” I said.
“Send him in, is it,
and he in the tower rifling through Mr. McShane’s poor bits o’ rubbish, thinking to find tuppence in a dead man’s pockets. That’s a good many stairs for my poor limbs to climb.”
“He is in the tower room now?” I asked.
“That’s where he spent the morning, and no more clearing away done than if he’d stayed at the door, where he’d ought to have been. I wasn’t hired to be answering the door. It was that Mrs. Chawton who called, about the books.” She drew out a note and fought her way through it as if it were a patch of nettles. “She says Guy Man . . . somebody, or was it Scott? Anyhow, it’s sold out, and Vicar’s wife don’t care for the heathen, Lord Byre, or is it Berry? No matter, she said the fellow who wrote about little Harold. Mrs. Dobbigan and Mrs. Steele have already read every word of Maria Edgewool, and none of the other ladies like your idea of Proud and Prejudiced, by an onymous lady. I never trust an ominous lady. If she’s afraid to put her name to her scribbling, you may be sure the book is no better than it should be.”
“Thank you, Brodagan. I shall deal with Mrs. Chawton. I am sorry you had the inconvenience of looking after the door.”
“Your apron, Brodagan! You have singed it,” Mama said.
Brodagan stared placidly at her charred apron. “There’s two night’s work and two shillings of me pittance of money gone up in flames, for I’ll not disgrace you by being seen in this ruin again, meladies. It’ll make dandy rags,” she said, and sailed out. Of course, she would cut off the burned edge and have Mary rehem it, but one did not introduce reality into one of her Celtic tragedies.
“I shall go up and bring Steptoe down for you to dismiss him, Mama,” I said.
Her pretty face pinched in displeasure. “Why don’t you speak to him yourself, dear? You handle him better than I.”
Mama dislikes trouble nearly as much as Brodagan relishes it. I fall in the middle, and am the go-between for such jobs as this. I did not look forward to confronting Steptoe, but I did not dread it either. I found him in the tower room, as Brodagan had said. He was separating my uncle’s belongings into two boxes, one for the better items, one for the worn garments.
He looked up boldly. “I’ll keep this lot for myself,” he said, pointing to the box of good clothes. “My tailor can do something with these jackets.”
“My tailor”—as though he were a fine gent! It was the little goad I needed to lend sharpness to my words. “I have just returned from Parham, Steptoe. I told her ladyship where the diamonds were found. No legal action will be taken.”
He looked sulky, but not so chastened as he ought. “I am afraid we cannot see our way clear to increasing your salary. Naturally you will not want to remain with us at your present wage. You may consider yourself free to look for another position. It will be best if you not use us as a reference. Let us say two weeks, to give us both time to make other arrangements.”
His snuff brown eyes narrowed. “I might be able to get along on my present wage for the meanwhile,” he said.
“You force me to remove the gloves, Steptoe. Your services are no longer required.”
His reply was not apologetic, but aggressive. “I never took nothing from you! You can’t say I did.”
“I did not accuse you of stealing the spoons.”
“If it’s that little Chinese jug from Parham you’re referring to, I never took it. It got broken, and if one like it turned up at the antique store, it’s nothing to do with me.”
It was foolish of him to actually tell me why he had been released from Parham. Nothing was more likely to vex Lord Weylin than tampering with his porcelains. “Two weeks, Steptoe,” I said, and turned to leave, happy to put the unpleasant incident behind me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, miss,” he said, with a nasty smile in his voice. I turned and looked a question at him. “I’ve a mate at Tunbridge Wells,” he said.
“What of it?”
“I go there on my holidays and days off. Interesting, what you see at Tunbridge.”
“If you have something to say, Steptoe, say it.”
“I’m not one to go rashly hurling accusations, like some. But I know what I saw at Tunbridge, and I know who I saw—the weekend Lady Margaret’s necklace was stolen.”
I felt my body stiffen at his words. “Are you referring to my uncle?”
His lips drew into a cagey grin. “Will you still be wanting me to leave, miss?”
“There will be no salary increase,” I said, and left on that ambiguous speech.
Naturally I darted straight down to the saloon to tell Mama what had happened.
Mama paled visibly. “He’ll tell the world Barry was there when the necklace was stolen! Do you think it is true, Zoie?”
“Barry had the necklace. Lord Weylin asked whether I was certain Uncle did not go to Tunbridge. We don’t really know where he went. We have only his word for it.”
“My own brother, a common thief!”
What bothered me more was what Lord Weylin would say if Steptoe told him. It was intolerable to be in the clutches of a creature like Steptoe. I had been looking forward to Borsini’s visit, but this new development robbed it of all pleasure.
I discussed the matter with Mama over lunch, and we decided we must go over all Barry’s papers to see if we could find any evidence of his having been at either London or Tunbridge Wells. He might have receipts from hotels, or his bankbook might turn up interesting sums. The deposits should be no more than his pension from John Company. If larger deposits appeared, we would know the worst. We also hoped to discover what he had done with his ill-got gains, for when he died, his total estate of thirty-nine pounds went to Mama.
I wrote to Borsini, putting off his visit, and spent the afternoon in the attic with Mama, rooting through boxes of old letters and receipts. There was nothing to indicate any untoward doings. The recent bankbooks held only a record of the quarterly pension deposits. Uncle took nearly the whole sum out as soon as it went in. He kept a running balance in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. Whatever he spent the rest on, he must have paid cash.
Taking into account the small sum Mama took from him for room and board, though, he seemed to have spent a great deal of money. He did not indulge himself in a fancy wardrobe. He had a couple of decent blue jackets, one good evening suit, and one old-fashioned black suit that he never wore. It was quite ancient. He did not set up a carriage, or even a hack. On the few occasions when he rode, he borrowed my mount. He was not the sort to spend his nights in the taverns, or eat meals out. Mama thought it was the rumors of his Indian misadventure with the account books that kept him to himself. He felt it keenly.
Mama had perched on the edge of a trunk. She called, “Look at this, Zoie. This is curious.” I went to see what had caught her interest. It was a bankbook dating back to the time of Barry’s arrival at Hernefield. “He came home with five thousand pounds! It was withdrawn from the bank the week after he got here. What did he do with it?”
I stared at the crabbed entries, counting the zeroes to make sure it was five thousand, and not five hundred, or fifty thousand. Nothing seemed impossible, but it was indeed five thousand. We puzzled over it awhile, until a dreadful apprehension began to form.
“Was he paying someone off, being held to ransom?” Mama suggested.
“Steptoe!” I exclaimed.
“Steptoe was still with the Pakenhams then. He only came to us three years ago. We cannot blame Steptoe, much as I should like to.”
“What is the date?” I said, running my eye along the left-hand column. “May the fifteenth, 1811. About the time Lady Margaret’s necklace was stolen. Mama, Uncle Barry bought the necklace! And here we were in a great rush to give it back to the Weylins.”
She clapped her two hands on her cheeks. “Oh dear, and they will never believe us. I can hardly believe it myself. Five thousand pounds thrown away on that ugly old thing.”
“And to think I humbled myself to them, apologizing and listening to Lady Weylin accuse me of chasing after h
er son.”
“Why did Lady Margaret say it was stolen?” Mama asked. “The thing was not entailed. Her husband gave it to her as a wedding gift, so if she wanted to sell it, she could. Barry must have bought it in all innocence from whoever stole it.”
“Why would he do that? It is not as though he got it at a bargain price. The necklace would hardly be worth five thousand, and to buy it from some hedge bird on a street corner—it makes no sense. If he wanted a diamond necklace for some reason, he would have bought it from a reputable jeweler.”
After considerable discussion, we had gotten no further toward solving the mystery.
“Steptoe knows something about this,” I said, and rose to march downstairs and confront him.
He was still in the tower room, which struck me as highly suspicious. As there was nothing there worth stealing, however, I only told him his duties were belowstairs, before speaking of the more important matter. I chose my words carefully. It was not my intention to tell him anything, only pick his brains to discover what he knew.
I jumped in without preamble. “I want to know the meaning of your cryptic reference to Tunbridge Wells, Steptoe,” I said.
He looked at me with the face of perfect innocence, but with that sly light beaming in his eyes. “Tunbridge Wells, madam? A fine and healthy spot. I often go there to take the waters. I believe I mentioned it to you earlier.”
“You implied seeing my uncle there. What was he doing?”
“I did not say I had seen Mr. McShane, madam. You must have misheard me.”
“Then you did not see him?”
“Oh, I did not say that either, miss.” The subtle shift from “madam” to the demeaning “miss” did not pass unnoticed. “It might come back to me anon.”
There was obviously no point quizzing him further. He knew something, but he was holding on to it for future mischief.
