“Well done!” Mairelon breathed in her ear, and she jumped. “You were particularly quick with that last door.”
“Don’t do that,” she whispered back. “I was quick because it wasn’t locked.”
“Not locked?” Mairelon paused, and she could almost hear him thinking.
“Not locked,” Kim repeated firmly. “And this ain’t no time to chat. Find that thing you’re lookin’ for and let’s get out of here.”
“We’ll never find it in the dark,” Mairelon said. “A moment, please.” He muttered a word.
A ball of cold, silver light the size of Kim’s fist sprang into being just over Mairelon’s head, casting threatening, sharp-edged shadows all around. Kim blinked, biting back a protest, and looked quickly about her. The library was a long room with bookcase-lined walls; its center full of large chairs covered with needlework in bright colors that the silver light bleached to bearable pastels. A small table stood beside each chair on thin, fragile legs. Heavy curtains of a dark crimson shut out the light from the windows; unlike those in the sitting room, these came only to the bottom of the window. Below them, short bookcases alternated with glass boxes set on legs. Kim stared, then realized that these must be the “display cases” to which Henry Bramingham had referred.
Mairelon crossed to the windows and walked rapidly along them. He stopped a third of the way from the end and beckoned. “Here it is!” he whispered, and the strange silver light made an exultant mask of his face.
The Saltash Platter was a tray nearly two feet long, heavily ornamented around the edge with the same pattern of fruits and flowers and vines Kim had seen on the bowl in Mairelon’s wagon. At either end a rope of vines twisted away from the edge and then back again, forming a handle. The silver shone brilliantly in the cold light, even through the glass of the display case. Kim looked at the case more closely. The top was hinged in back, and there was an unobtrusive gold lock at the front edge.
Kim pulled out her wire and paused, remembering what had happened when she tried to poke through Mairelon’s chest. Of course, it wasn’t the lock that had been enchanted, but still . . . She frowned and tugged at the lid, testing the strength of the lock.
It opened easily, cutting short Mairelon’s impatient query. They looked at each other across the case, and Kim saw her own misgivings reflected in Mairelon’s uneasy expression. “Magic?” she whispered.
“Possibly,” Mairelon said softly. The sharp shadows magnified his frown. “If it is, touching the platter will set it off. Be quiet for a moment while I check.”
He reached down, hands hovering just above the open case. The air grew heavy, and Kim held her breath, waiting for an explosion.
A soft crash sounded from the next room, and Mairelon jerked his hands away from the display case. He and Kim froze, and in the silence heard a well-muffled thud from the hall.
“We better get out of here!” Kim said, and started down the long room toward the door.
“Not that way; there’s no time,” Mairelon said, grabbing her arm. He gestured, and the light that hovered over his head shrank to a pinpoint; then he went swiftly to the bookshelf along the nearest wall. “Boccaccio, Boccaccio,” he murmured. “Where—ah!”
Kim stared in astonishment as Mairelon reached out and tilted two books outward. She heard a small click, and then the sound of someone fumbling at the library door made her glance fearfully over her shoulder. The curtains were too short to hide behind. Perhaps if she curled up in a chair, she would be overlooked, but what about Mairelon? She turned back and almost forgot her fear in complete amazement.
“Inside, quickly!” Mairelon said. An entire section of the bookcase had swung outward, revealing a narrow, cupboard-like opening behind it. Kim pulled herself together and darted inside; Mairelon squeezed in after her, pulling the bookshelf to behind him. The silver light winked out.
Cracking a ken with a real magician certainly had advantages, Kim thought to herself as she wriggled into a more comfortable position. That book-achoo spell was one she’d have to be sure to learn. She felt Mairelon fumble at the wall and thought he was trying to latch the bookshelf in place. Then he breathed a nearly soundless sigh, and with a soft scraping a small panel slid aside, giving them a thin slot above a row of books through which to view the room they had just quitted with such haste.
Someone was moving slowly among the chairs, carrying a small dark-lantern that was three-quarters shuttered. The lantern beam swung toward them, and Kim wondered whether the bearer had heard Mairelon lower the panel. She heard a snort, and the contemptuous whisper “Mice!” and then the dark blob went on toward the display cases. The figure raised the dark-lantern and bent forward to peer through the glass, and for a moment his face was visible. Kim stiffened and stifled a gasp; it was Jack Stower again.
Mairelon put a warning hand on her shoulder. Angrily she shook it off. She wasn’t such a flat as to make a noise that might reveal their presence, no matter how startled she was. Frowning, she watched Stower work his way slowly up the row of display cases toward the one that held the Saltash Platter.
Without warning, the library door swung wide. A pool of flickering amber light spilled through it, and an irritated masculine voice said, “Stuggs? Is that you? Confound it, where is the man?”
Jack Stower whirled, clutching his lantern, just as Jasper Marston, wearing a black and crimson brocade dressing gown and carrying a branch of candlesticks, strolled through the door. “Stuggs?” Marston said again, and then he saw Jack.
The two men stood staring at each other for a long moment; then a slow, deep voice from the hallway broke the stunned silence. “Right ’ere, gov’nor.” An enormous figure loomed into view behind Marston. Stower cursed. He whirled and jerked the curtains from the nearest window aside, then yanked at the latch. The window did not budge.
Marston, shaking himself free of his paralysis at last, started forward (none too rapidly, Kim noted with scorn), brandishing the candlesticks like a weapon. “He’s trying to steal the platter!” he cried. “Stop him, Stuggs!”
The figure in the hallway ran forward. He was unusually fast on his feet for a big man, but he had too much distance to cover and there were too many obstacles in the way. Stower, after one terrified look backward, hurled his dark-lantern through the stubborn window, snatched up the fallen curtains to keep from being slashed by the fragments of glass and broken window slats, and scrambled out, tipping over the nearest display case in his hurry.
Stuggs lunged after the fleeing Stower and grabbed his feet as the rest of him disappeared out the window. Kim heard a muffled howl of rage and fear, and Stower kicked backward. Stuggs lost his balance and crashed into another display case, his fingers still locked around one of Jack’s boots, while the last of Jack Stower vanished.
Jasper picked his way across the broken glass to the window and squinted out it. Kim could hear distant noises; it sounded as if the commotion had roused the household, and somewhere a dog had begun to bark. Jasper did not seem aware of it. He turned and frowned at Stuggs. “He’s gone! Why couldn’t you hold him?”
“ ’Is bootlace broke,” Stuggs said mildly. “I got to ’and it to you, gov’nor, you ’ad it right about that there bowl being valuable. But you ought to ’ave told me there was other coves after it besides us.”
“This is the platter, not the bowl, you idiot,” Jasper Marston said. “But I suppose I should thank you for reminding me what we came for.” He left the window and went straight to the display case containing the platter. He set the candlesticks down on the nearest table and beckoned to Stuggs. “Come here and open the lock, hurry, before someone else gets here.”
As Kim had done, Stuggs tested the lid and made the same discovery. “It ain’t locked.”
“Not locked? That fellow we chased off must have opened it! We arrived just in time. Give it to me.”
“No!” a familiar voice said in dramatic tones from the smashed window. Kim’s eyes widened. What was the head of the
druid group doing at Bramingham Place?
“What—” Marston turned his head and froze in mid-sentence.
Framed in the shattered glass and dangling splinters of the window were a man’s head and shoulders. The man’s eyes gleamed from the openings of a black mask, and a dark high-crowned hat covered his hair. His form was hidden beneath a driving cloak with several short capes, but the tone and timbre of his voice were unmistakable. “You are too late to further defile the Sacred Dish! Bring it to me, at once!”
Kim bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. She should have guessed that Jonathan Aberford would be after the platter, the same as everyone else. This was becoming altogether too much like a Drury Lane comedy. Mairelon seemed to think so, too; she could feel him shaking in silent amusement. She hoped they would both be able to control themselves. It wouldn’t be funny at all if they were caught.
“Now, look here—” Marston began.
Jonathan raised a hand, and Kim saw the glint of candlelight on metal. Her amusement died instantly. “Bring it to me!” Jonathan commanded.
“Put that down, you young chub,” Stuggs said. “Pistols ain’t a thing to go waving around like that.”
“Bring me the dish!” Jonathan cried. “I won’t have any more delay!” He waved his pistol again. “Bring—”
Abruptly the masked face vanished from the window. There was a crash and the almost simultaneous sound of a pistol shot. Stuggs cursed and ran to the window. A moment later he pulled his head back inside and shook it in wonder. “Silly chub was standing on a bucket, an’ it tipped over,” he said. “The pistol must ’ave gone off when ’e fell.”
“Never mind!” Jasper said. “Help me hide this before someone else comes in.”
“What’s going on?” a voice boomed from the doorway. “Hi, Marston! Looks like you’ve had a bit of a turnup.”
“I don’t care what he’s been having, Mr. Bramingham, I won’t have him making such dreadful noises in my house,” said a shrill female voice from farther along the hallway. “He’s wakened all the guests and the servants, and I won’t have it. Even if he is your brother, Amelia, dear.”
“Too late,” Stuggs said in a resigned tone as the occupants of Bramingham Place, in various states of déshabillé, began pouring into the library.
13
The first person through the door was an older, heavier version of Henry Bramingham; Kim assumed he was the owner of the estate. Behind him came several other men in dressing gowns and a partially dressed footman carrying more candles. They were followed in turn by the ladies of the house, caps askew and clutching their dressing gowns about them, determined to miss nothing of whatever scandalous goings-on had been discovered.
Jasper dropped the platter onto the seat of a nearby sofa where it would be temporarily hidden by the back. “Housebreakers, that’s what happened, Bramingham,” he said, waving at the broken window and the chaos of shattered glass and broken furniture below. “I, ah, came down for a book and interrupted them—”
“Housebreakers!” A plump, grey-haired woman wrapped in layers of ruffles stiffened indignantly. “At my house party! I won’t have it, Mr. Bramingham!”
“Of course not, my dear,” the heavy man said, patting her arm. “Good job, Marston; I see you’ve caught one.” He eyed Stuggs’s bulk with evident misgiving. “He looks a desperate rogue. Just hold him off a minute more, til Henry gets here with the shotgun.”
“What? No, no, Bramingham, that’s not a burglar,” Jasper said, clearly taken aback. “That’s my man, Stuggs.”
“Jasper!” Lady Granleigh pushed her way to the front of the crowd and came toward him across the room, hands outstretched. “Dear boy, were you injured?” Her expression was at variance with her concerned tone, and as she came nearer, Kim saw her soundlessly mouth the words “Did you get it?”
“Yes,” said Jasper. “I mean no, not at all. Ah, Amelia . . .” He gestured toward the sofa.
Amelia glanced down. She looked at Jasper and rolled her eyes heavenward. “The very thought of your ordeal makes me feel faint,” she declared, and sat down on top of the tray, spreading out her robe so that it was completely hidden.
“Clever woman,” Mairelon murmured. “Pity she’s not on our side.”
“Shh!” Kim hissed. “You want to get us caught?”
“Amelia, dear!” Mrs. Bramingham said, hurrying over.
“Faint? Lady Granleigh never faints!” a bluff voice said, and a distinguished-looking man pushed his way through the crowd of servants and visitors. He was fully dressed, which perhaps accounted for his tardiness, and there was mud on his boots. “I’m afraid they got away, Bramingham,” he said. “That boy of yours is still chasing them, but I don’t see that he has much chance of catching up with them in the dark.”
Mrs. Bramingham gave a faint, lady like shriek. “Henry! My son is out there with those villains? I won’t have it! Bring him back at once, Mr. Bramingham.”
“Of course, my dear,” Mr. Bramingham said, making not the slightest move to do so. “Did you see them yourself, Lord Granleigh?”
“Somebody was running off through the woods,” Lord Granleigh replied. “I doubt that anyone got a good look at him, though. Now, what’s this about Lady Granleigh fainting? You’re not ill, are you, my dear?”
“I shall be quite all right in a moment,” Lady Granleigh said, leaning back against the cushions. She looked nervous, and Kim wondered whether her husband knew that she and her brother were trying to steal Henry’s tray.
“I can carry you up to your room,” Lord Granleigh offered, plainly concerned.
“No, no, I shall do much better here,” Lady Granleigh assured him. “Perhaps if you sent Marianne to me . . .”
“Mademoiselle Marianne is in the saloon, having the hysterics.”
Heads turned toward a lovely young woman standing in the doorway. A lace cap lay like a snowflake on her auburn hair, and the pale green wrap that covered her nightdress set off her slender figure better than a ball gown. Kim felt Mairelon stiffen. “Renée?” he breathed in tones of horrified disbelief.
“Me, I do not see that having the hysterics is of any use whatever, and I have a great wish to know whether we are to be murdered in our beds, so I have left her with her maid,” the auburn vision went on. “I think that her maid is very nearly as silly as she is, so they will go on well together. What has happened?”
A confused babble of voices greeted this question. Lady Granleigh objected that her dear Marianne was not in the least silly; Mrs. Bramingham offered some complaint about her son; Jasper launched into a highly colored and very jumbled account of the way in which he had run the ruffians off; Mr. Bramingham made a series of vague and contradictory statements that seemed intended to be reassuring. The auburn-haired woman listened with an appearance of polite interest, though it was impossible to understand more than one word in six. Finally Mr. Bramingham put a stop to it.
“Enough!” he roared. “Miss D’Auber, I must apologize; it has been a very trying night.”
So the auburn-haired woman was the infamous Renée D’Auber, whom Mairelon had gone to visit the night before they left London! Kim could not keep from glancing in the magician’s direction, but it was too dark in the cupboard to make out his expression. Frowning a little, she returned to her contemplation of the scene in the library.
“It seems to me that of a certainty someone has been trying something tonight,” Mademoiselle D’Auber said into the silence that followed Mr. Bramingham’s bellow. “But I do not yet know what.”
Mr. Bramingham attempted a gallant bow, the effect of which was somewhat spoiled by the belt of his dressing gown, which chose that moment to come undone and flap around his knees. “Nothing that need cause you concern, Miss D’Auber.”
“Father!” Henry Bramingham burst into the room with a nod and a quick “Beg pardon” as he passed Renée D’Auber. His eyes were bright with excitement, and in one hand he held a dirt-covered pistol. Bits of earth and g
rass dropped from the pistol to the carpet as he waved it triumphantly before the eyes of the assembly. “We didn’t catch him, but we found this on the South Walk.”
“Henry!” shrieked his mother. “What do you mean by bringing that filthy object into the library?”
“I told you he had a gun!” Jasper said.
“Coo!” whispered one of the housemaids, who was standing wide-eyed in a corner, drinking in the uproar.
“Henry, you’re upsetting the ladies,” Mr. Bramingham said.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t think.” Henry looked down at the pistol as if he would have liked to hide it under his coat.
Mademoiselle D’Auber’s eyebrows rose. “I see that Mademoiselle Marianne is perhaps not so foolish as I thought, unless your South Walk grows pistols, which is a thing unlikely. But do you say that this person has escaped?”
“Nothing to worry about, Miss D’Auber,” Mr. Bramingham said. “If you’ll just let us handle this—”
“But I do not see that you are handling it,” Renée D’Auber pointed out. “And perhaps this villain has a second pistol and will come back to kill us all in our beds! I do not at all like this idea, me, and I will not spend another night in this house.”
“Oh, no, Mademoiselle D’Auber, you mustn’t leave!” Mrs. Bramingham turned in distress from her unwelcomed ministrations to Lady Granleigh. “Why, you’ve only just arrived!”
“I shall leave in the morning,” Renée announced, and swept out of the room.
“There! See what you’ve done!” Mrs. Bramingham said crossly to Henry after a moment’s silence.
“What I’ve done!” The look Henry gave his mother was full of righteous indignation. “I didn’t break into the library and smash up the display cases. I didn’t go dropping pistols in the South Walk. I suppose you’d rather I hadn’t chased off the fellow who did!”
A Matter of Magic Page 12
