Gather Ye Rosebuds

by Joan Smith

  “There is really nothing to keep me in Tunbridge Wells now,” Weylin said. “I got the address of Jones’s man of business from Folyot, the estate agent at Lindfield. I mean to find out Jones’s address and call on him in London to rattle a few sabers. If he actually married my aunt, of course, there is little that can be done to recover her fortune, but if he was only her lover... well, her will left her entire estate to me.”

  “Then how did Jones get his hands on it?” I asked. “Mrs. Sangster said Mr. Jones had inherited the house.”

  “Yes, from Mrs. Langtree,” Weylin pointed out, with a tight smile. “She was not Mrs. Langtree, but Lady Margaret Macintosh. Any lawyer worth his salt could undo such a will with one hand behind his back. Much depends on what sort of fellow Jones is. If he is an out-and-out rotter—and really I do not see how he can be anything else—then I shall set the law after him. When a fellow in his twenties marries a lady nudging sixty, you may be sure it is not her beaux yeux he is after.”

  “He was passing as her nephew,” I said. “Is there such a relative in the family, even one with a different name?”

  “No. I thought of that, of course. There is no nephew except myself. There is her stepson, Macintosh’s son by his first wife, but he is a carrot top. No one ever accused him of being handsome, and besides, he has his estate in Scotland. He has not been dashing off to Lindfield four times a year for the past five years. Old Macintosh had no nephews. No, it is some scoundrel who preyed on Aunt Margaret’s susceptibility for romance. She was always a fool for a handsome young man. But enough of my problems,” Weylin said. “You have not had any luck in following Mr. McShane’s trail, I take it?”

  “No. No, we have not,” Mama said warily.

  Weylin said, “I spotted Steptoe as I drove into the yard. As he was leaving this hotel, I assumed he had called on you.”

  “He was here?” I asked, starting up from my chair.

  Mama clutched her heart. “It is odd he did not call on us,” she said. “I wager we shall hear from him e’er long.”

  Weylin drew out his watch and frowned at it. “Since he bothered to follow you here, why did he not call? I begin to wonder if Steptoe knows as much as you think. His sly behavior suggests he is only trying to discover what is afoot himself.”

  “He came to the wrong place then,” Mama said, “for we do not know what is going on.”

  Weylin kept his watch in the palm of his hand, glancing at it from time to time.

  “Are you in a hurry to get to London, Lord Weylin? Pray, do not let us detain you,” I said.

  “I was trying to decide whether to leave at once and make it before dark, or to remain overnight and leave first thing in the morning.” He returned the watch to his pocket and said, “I shall stick around until morning. Mr. Jones is not likely to disappear. He has no idea I am on to him. I could not get much of a look around my aunt’s love nest with Folyot at my elbow. I mean to return after dark and break in.”

  “What on earth for?” Mama demanded.

  “My aunt’s last illness came on suddenly. She had planned to return to the love nest. It stands to reason she must have left some personal items there. I shall root through the drawers to see if I can find anything to incriminate Jones.”

  “Surely he would have checked himself before putting the house up for sale,” I said.

  “He had no reason to fear I would tumble to his trick. Folyot said a local woman had tidied the place up, but she would not take on herself to throw out letters and such things. I shall make a thorough search tonight.”

  Mama cleared her throat and said, “That would be against the law, would it not, Lord Weylin?”

  “Yes, it would. I hope you are not planning to report me?”

  “No indeed.”

  We spoke of other things. Weylin kept returning to the riddle of how Barry came to have the copy of his aunt’s necklace. His fear was that she had conned him into believing it was the original, and sold it to him at a criminally high price. At one point he even said he would repay us, if this turned out to be the case.

  We parted the best of friends. We were all to regroup at the private parlor at seven-thirty for dinner, before Weylin left to break in to his late aunt’s love nest. When Mama and I were back in our room, we agreed we would begin scouring the countryside around Ashdown Forest for Barry’s cottage as soon as Weylin left for London in the morning. Meanwhile we had that dinner to look forward to. Weylin was in such a penitential mood that it promised to be an enjoyable repast.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Since the shroud had been such a success the evening before, I wore it again, with a different shawl to vary the look. Instead of my Grecian coiffure, I pulled my hair all to one side, fastened it with a clip, and let a cluster of curls hang flirtatiously down to my shoulder. The do had looked well in La Belle Assemblée, but when I examined myself in the mirror, I felt I should be simpering. There was something coy in that teasing curl on my shoulder. It looked feminine, however, and I wished to remind Weylin that I was a woman, as well as a lady. We were about to go down to the parlor when there was a discreet tap at the door.

  “Weylin is early,” I said, hastening toward the door.

  There stood Steptoe, with the slyest look you ever saw on his face. “May I have a word with you, madam?” he asked.

  “Why are you not at Hernefield, Steptoe?” I demanded.

  “I thought you might require my services here, madam.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “You are not looking for Mr. McShane’s residence in this neighborhood then, madam?” he asked, bold as brass.

  I opened the door and let the wretched creature come in. Mama had recognized his voice and came forward, staring like a moonling. She did not say a word. I could not let him know we were scared to death of what he might say. I said nonchalantly, while arranging my shawl, “What do you have to tell us, Steptoe? Pray hurry. Lord Weylin is expecting us for dinner.”

  “About my increase in salary, madam...”

  “About Mr. McShane’s residence, Steptoe—” I replied.

  “An increase of five pounds a quarter would suit me.”

  “No doubt, but you are not earning it by vacating your post without permission, are you?”

  “Five pounds, and I give you the name of the village,” he said, peering at me with his bold, snuff brown eyes.

  “For five pounds I will require not only the village, but the house.”

  “Five pounds for the village, and that is my final offer.”

  “Then you may go to the devil!”

  “His lordship might be interested to hear about your uncle’s criminal doings with young Jones,” he said, his smile stretching to a grin.

  There was another tap at the door. We all three—Steptoe, Mama, and myself—froze. “That will be Weylin!” I whispered.

  “The clothespress!” Steptoe said, and darted into it while Mama and I stood gaping.

  The tap came again. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to answer it. It was Weylin.

  He smiled and said, “Very charming, Miss Barron,” while his eyes traveled over my face, lingering in an approving way at the cluster of curls hanging at my shoulder.

  Mama came pelting forward and said, “Let us go below. I am famished.” She herded Weylin out the door on a stream of chatter. “I cannot imagine why, because I scarcely moved all day, and had that delicious tea. There is something about traveling that always makes one so hungry.”

  We got Weylin away without his seeing Steptoe, but I was extremely uneasy to think of that wretch alone in our room, pawing through our belongings. The dreadful word “criminal doings” reeled in my head. I could see no solution but to give him the extra five pounds per quarter. We would be his banker for the rest of our mortal days.

  As soon as the waiter arrived, I excused myself to dart upstairs. Steptoe would expect me to return, and be waiting.

  “Just order whatever you are having for me, Mama,” I sa
id, while the waiter poured wine and the others examined the menu. “I have forgotten my handkerchief. I shan’t be a moment.”

  Weylin said, “I have a handkerchief, Miss Barron, if—” He noticed my strained expression, and said no more. I think he assumed some feminine need, and was too gentlemanly to press the unwanted handkerchief on me.

  I left and hastened up to our room. The lamps were still burning. “You can come out, Steptoe. I am alone,” I called to the clothespress. There was no reply.

  The door was ajar. I went and opened it. He was gone. I quickly checked my jewelry box. Mama’s small diamond brooch and my pearl necklace were still there. I was about to leave when I espied a note stuck into my brush on the dresser. It said, “Mr. John Brown, Molyneux Park, 10:00 tonight.” Molyneux Park was a small private hotel catering to families and commercial travelers. John Brown presumably was Steptoe, and ten o’clock was the hour at which he would condescend to see us—but why did he use an alias?

  I slipped the note into my reticule, wondering about that ominously vague “criminal doings.” Bearing in mind our conversation with Bradford of the Kashmir Jewelry Shop, I could make an educated guess. I had an inkling what had happened to Barry’s five thousand pounds, which so mysteriously disappeared as soon as he joined us at Hernefield. He had bought himself a cottage at some village near Tunbridge Wells, from which he conducted his criminal activities. Thank goodness he did not use Hernefield as his base of operation.

  The only light in this dark tunnel was that such a thieving scoundrel must have his cottage stuffed full of money. Ill-got gains, to be sure, but the cottage at least belonged to him. Mama could sell it. We must try to learn the names of his victims, and return money equivalent to the value of what he had stolen. The future looked unpleasant, and over it all hung the menacing presence of Steptoe, who would bleed us dry.

  I prepared a polite face and returned to the private parlor. Mama looked at me with blatant alarm. To allay her fears of imminent disaster, I said with a smile, “Now I can enjoy dinner. What did you order for me, Mama?”

  “Roast pork with prune sauce.”

  “Lovely.”

  Weylin said, “We were just discussing Steptoe.”

  I looked to see if Mama had revealed any secrets. She said hastily, “We were wondering if he meant to be in touch with us, since Lord Weylin saw him near our hotel.”

  “I expect we shall hear from him later this evening,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Very likely,” Mama said, nodding her comprehension.

  The meal progressed satisfactorily after that. Weylin joked about the broad criminal streak that ran in his family, with himself no better than he should be, what with breaking into a house that very night.

  “Does that make us accessories?” I asked.

  “Not unless you choose to come with me,” he said, with an inviting look.

  I would have liked to go along, but of course, the meeting with Steptoe took precedence.

  He continued his indirect persuasions. “The house belongs to me, by rights. And even if I were caught, the fact that it was bought by my aunt would give some justification.”

  “You need not worry on that score,” Mama said. She had obviously not figured out that he wanted me to accompany him. “The law would never deal harshly with a lord.”

  Weylin continued his inviting looks, but when I ignored them, he did not come right out and ask me. He promised to call and let us know what he discovered, if he was back by eleven. If he arrived later, he would meet us for breakfast in the morning. We did not linger after dinner. Weylin was eager to be off on his evening’s romp. As soon as Mama and I were in our room, I handed her Steptoe’s note.

  She read it with a tsk. “This wretched fellow will beggar us, Zoie. I don’t know what Weylin will think when he learns the whole. I half wish we had told him. He was so forthcoming about his aunt’s peccadilloes, he will think us sly.”

  “Let us learn the whole truth from Steptoe before we confess. If Weylin recovers his aunt’s fortune, he will be in a good mood. I own I do not like conning him.”

  “He is much nicer than I thought. Quite human, really.”

  “Yes, but not so nice as to continue friends with the relatives of thieves.”

  We passed the time until our meeting in talking and looking at the journals. At a quarter to ten we called for the carriage and left for the Molyneux Park Hotel. It was a small, respectable place facing the Commons. We inquired for Mr. Brown and were directed to his room.

  Steptoe answered the door promptly. “Punctual!” he said, drawing out his watch. He held the door and we entered.

  His condescending manner was enough to make me fly off the handle before I had even set foot in the room. It was a large, comfortable room that he could certainly not afford on his butler’s salary. A bottle of wine sat on the bedside table, with a cheroot in a dish beside it.

  “We have no time to waste, Steptoe,” I said. “If you know anything, tell us.”

  “Five pounds,” he said.

  Mama gave an angry tsk and said, “Very well.”

  Steptoe stuck his fingers in his vest, waited until he had our total attention, then announced, “Lindfield.”

  Mama and I exchanged a surprised look. “Lindfield!” we both exclaimed together. Mama said, “But that is where—”

  “Never mind, Mama,” I said quickly, before she could say more. “It is clear Steptoe knows nothing about this matter.”

  “I saw Barry McShane in Lindfield on two occasions,” Steptoe said, coloring up in annoyance.

  “Was he wearing a clerical collar?” Mama asked.

  Steptoe took it for sarcasm and said, “Certainly not! I tell you he was there. Once I followed him from Tunbridge, and once I went back when he said he was going to London, to check up on him. He went into a Tudor cottage on the High Street at ten o’clock at night, and did not come back out, though I waited for over two hours. It will be extra for the information on the house,” he said, when he realized what he had said. “Our bargain was five pounds a quarter for the name of the village.”

  I gave Mama a damping look, for she seemed on the verge of speech, and I did not wish her to reveal the significance of that Tudor house. “Have you not heard, Steptoe?” I asked, smiling. “Verbal contracts are not worth the air they are breathed on. Come along, Mama, we are wasting our time here. We shall expect you to be back at your post at Hernefield by noon tomorrow, or you will not receive any salary at all.”

  “We had a bargain,” he said angrily.

  “The bargain was that you would tell us what we wished to know. My uncle did not live in that cottage. We happen to be acquainted with the owner. You may have seen him visiting our friends. That is hardly worth twenty pounds a year for the rest of your life, is it?”

  I rather wished I had said nothing, but Steptoe’s blush suggested he thought he had made a fool of himself. “What was the secret, then? He always let on he was going to London.” He thought a moment, then said, “He had a ladybird!”

  “What of it?” I asked airily. “He was a bachelor, after all. The world will hardly condemn him for that. Let us go, Mama. Remember, Steptoe—noon tomorrow, or you may consider yourself dismissed.”

  We scooted out the door before he could put two and two together—that Uncle had the copy of Lady Margaret’s necklace, and the lady he was visiting was Lady Margaret. Apparently Steptoe had not spotted her.

  Mama and I had a long discussion of all this after we returned to our hotel. “I can see Barry visiting Lady Margaret,” Mama said, “but staying two hours? That sounds like a friendly visit.”

  “At ten o’clock in the evening, it sounds like a very friendly visit,” I agreed.

  “Zoie, you are not suggesting that they were... paramours? You are forgetting Mr. Jones.”

  “Perhaps she had a paramour for each day of the week,” I said, and collapsed in mirth on the bed. “I wonder if Weylin will discover this secret when he breaks into the love
nest.”

  “I shall die of shame!”

  “And so will he.”

  Mama soon found new causes for worry. “It still does not explain what he did with that missing five thousand pounds.”

  “Perhaps he gave it to his light-o’-love—Lady Margaret.”

  “The waste of it! And where did he get all that jewelry he was selling, and what was he doing with the paste necklace?”

  “Perhaps the jewels all belonged to Lady Margaret, and he was selling them for her. Old Macintosh was well to grass.”

  “I daresay that could be the answer. And Barry put on that clerical garb to fool Mr. Bradford.”

  “At least it has got Steptoe off our backs. How I enjoyed lighting into him.”

  “I cannot get over the slyness of the pair of them. You would think Barry and Lady Margaret were strangers, to see them pass on the street with a nod, and all the while they were paramours. It is odd she would choose Barry when she has a colt’s tooth in her head. I am thinking of Mr. Jones.”

  It was indeed odd, but I felt the mystery had been solved. Even my uncle’s possession of the paste necklace was now comprehensible, if not entirely clear. If he sold her jewelry for her, it could have come into his possession in some harmless way. I was in a good mood when the servant brought a note to our room at ten past eleven.

  “From Lord Weylin, madam,” the servant said. “He said if your lights were out, not to disturb you. As I heard voices—”

  “That is fine.” I glanced at the note, requesting us to go to the parlor if we were still dressed. “You may tell Lord Weylin we shall be down presently.”

  The servant left, and I said to Mama, “Weylin is back, Mama. He wants to see us. This should be interesting.”

  “You go, Zoie, and tell me what he has to say. I am ashamed to face him.”

  “I cannot imagine why. It is his aunt who had the string of lovers. Barry is relatively innocent.”