Strange Capers Page 14

  “He wouldn’t. He’d steal it himself,” Rachel answered. “Ah, I think I have it figured out now, Constance. Madame Bieler is the contact Aiglon used when he stole the first lot of guns. It was she who arranged to get the word to the Isle of Wight. He paid her, and he knew she must have the money somewhere around her place, so he came down here to get it. Yes, that must be it. Whatever happened to honor among thieves?”

  “But if Aiglon knew it, why did he go to her shop this morning?”

  “Ninnyhammer, he went to find out if she suspected him,” she told me.

  This was as good an explanation as we could come up with. Retchling had had the money in the cellar. He must have stolen it, and he couldn’t know it was at Madame’s house if Aiglon hadn’t told him. Stealing from a Frenchie hadn’t quite the aroma of selling guns to them, but it was hardly a feather in Aiglon’s cap, either. Every time his behavior was put under examination, some new twist turned up.

  I was worried that Mickey Dougherty was in on the whole thing, too, for I wouldn’t have trusted that man as far as I could throw an elephant. When I remembered how artfully Aiglon had discovered that Jeremy was the man following Retchling, I feared Rachel and I were dealing with men too sharp for us. We were beyond our depths, and I urged her to call in help.

  “We’ll wait till Jake returns and tells us what Dougherty was up to,” she decided. “If Jake can give us the name of the boat they’ve hired, it will be very simple, Constance. We only have to have that ship watched and foil their whole scheme. That will be preferable to hauling in the army and the constable and making a great scandal for the family. We’ll keep Aiglon’s name out of it.”

  I was going to urge her to talk to him, to talk her cousin out of his plan, whatever it was, but in the end I didn’t suggest it at all. Aiglon already knew that we were checking up on him. He knew I wouldn’t let him out of my sight in town, and he knew that Rachel had had Retchling followed. He wouldn’t be dissuaded, and the better plan seemed to be to deal cautiously. His whole success relied on the ship that was being hired, and the ship was what we had to learn about. Not only whose ship it was, but where it would be lying in wait to receive the stolen cargo. Rachel was right, as usual.

  We all had dinner together, and afterward Rachel inquired what plans the men had, for she had to arrange to have them followed. Jake still hadn’t returned from duty with Mickey Dougherty. It made a quiet evening when Retchling said he would spend his time in the library and Aiglon, malicious eyes dancing, suggested that he and Rachel have a look at the account books for Thornbury.

  I had no desire to audit that argument and went upstairs for the next hour, pitying poor Rachel. Aiglon would make mincemeat of the sham and charade of her bookkeeping. I was quite astonished when she came to my door within thirty minutes, gloating and holding the bundle of scarlet silk.

  “I got it out of him!” she crowed. “There’s enough here to make us both up a lovely gown after they go on back to London. But it’s the gold I have my eye on. If I get the gold, I really will put this in the smallest guest room. Unless I can sell it back to Madame Bieler,” she added, and walked off, humming, to her own room.

  I followed after her. “What are Aiglon and Retchling doing?”

  “Having a glass of wine. Aiglon asked if you were going belowstairs again.”

  “Someone had best keep an eye on them,” I said, which gave me an excellent excuse to do what I wanted to do without giving Rachel the idea I was tossing my bonnet at her cousin.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  There was no one in the saloon when I returned belowstairs. My first fear that the men had run off was soon abandoned. The library door was ajar a few inches, and from within I heard Retchling expounding some nonsense that had nothing to do with business. While trying to decide whether or not to enter, I heard a scrabbling sound on the staircase that came up from the kitchen. There in the shadowed area just above the bend stood Jake, beckoning to me. I slipped quietly away from the library before I was seen.

  I pulled Jake downstairs a little to avoid detection if Aiglon should decide to return to the saloon. His eager face spoke of great revelations to come.

  “What is it, Jake? What did you learn?” I asked.

  “He’s here, Mick Dougherty!” Jake whispered.

  “Where? Is he coming to the front door?”

  “Devil a bit of it. He’s waiting at the old burnt down.”

  In local speech, the ruins of Our Lady’s Chapel had been shortened to this rustic phrase. Obviously, Mick had arranged to meet his cohorts there, and, equally obviously, either Rachel or myself must go and eavesdrop on their conversation. Most obvious of all was that I would be the one chosen for the job.

  “Tell Lady Savage,” I ordered. “Slip quietly through the hall, Jake, so they don’t hear you. No, better yet, use the servants’ stairway. Tell her I’ve gone to the burnt down and will bring back my report. I’ll get there before Aiglon and hide in the bushes.”

  We both continued down to the kitchen, where Jake turned to the backstairs and I went to the door for my old gray cloak that was kept there in readiness for such rough work as gardening. Meg turned a fiercely demanding eye on me, but I paid her no heed.

  It was cool in the shadows of evening. Such a tangled garden surrounded Thornbury that every step was menaced by a shadow. A pale gibbous moon rode the sky, but little illumination seeped through to the footpath along which I sped toward the chapel.

  When I was still several yards from it, Mickey’s mount let out a whinny that frightened me half to death. I moved more stealthily then, creeping forward step by step, peering into the near distance. The humped pile of stones stood out against the dark foliage. When my eyes were totally adjusted to the shadows, I was able to distinguish a dark hump atop the rocks. It was Mickey sitting cross-legged with his head bent down. He was talking to someone, but it couldn’t possibly be Aiglon or Retchling, whom I’d left sitting in the library.

  The other person was invisible, though the direction in which Mickey was looking told me his companion was concealed by the thornbushes around the chapel. They spoke in low voices, and I crouched down to advance without being seen. My mind was alive with all manner of wild conjecture as to who he was with. Was it no more than an amorous tryst with some local wench? The fact that the other voice was so soft and low suggested it wasn’t a man’s.

  I had to be sure, however, and the only way to get closer without being seen was by skirting behind the bushes. My progress was painfully slow. Every step had to be tried gently for snapping twigs, and during all this while I was missing out on what they were saying. At last I had inched close enough to hear, and even to see dimly through the branches.

  It was a woman with him. She wore a shawl over her head and from behind I couldn’t tell who she was. Madame Bieler came to mind, but somehow it was impossible to picture her having come to such an inhospitable spot so far out of her way. When Mickey stopped talking, the woman at last spoke, and I very nearly let out a shriek to recognize Rachel’s polite accents.

  “You don’t mean it! Famous, Mickey. You shall be rich, whatever about the rest of us, but did Lord Ware agree?”

  “He gave me the commission before he went to London to cart home his statues. And you know I always bend over backward to ingratiate my dear old stepfather, the blackhearted blister.”

  If this was Rachel’s idea of “common civility,” one trembles to think how she must entertain close friends! I was so shocked at the manner of their conversation that it took me a few seconds to tune in to its meaning. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. What profitable commission could Lord Ware have entrusted to Mickey Dougherty, and why should he be boasting of it to Rachel in a secret assignation?

  “He’s not so bad. He’s made your mother happy,” she pointed out.

  “No, Rachel, my pearl, he’s only made her a lady. ‘Tisn’t the same thing, now ‘tis it? I’ll whisk her back to Ireland with me one of these fine da
ys, if she’ll come. But she’s promised to love, honor, and repeat every word the old slice says, so likely as not she’ll rest where she is. But we’re not here to discuss Lady Ware.”

  “No,” Rachel said pensively. “Where could it be?”

  Of more interest to myself was what it could be they were talking about, and I listened as hard as I could.

  “It’s not likely it ever was here at all. Sure, the story is as old as the stars,” Mickey replied.

  “He didn’t actually say Our Lady’s Chapel, you know,” Rachel mentioned.

  “Well, what did he say, then?”

  “I can’t remember it word for word. He mentioned a small stone building standing free from the house—something about the building’s being dedicated to his lady’s honor or interest, or something of the sort.”

  “You’re a goose, Rachel!” Mickey charged. “Our Lady means the Blessed Virgin Mary; his lady means Lady Aiglon. He didn’t mean the chapel at all. You have to remember Englishmen were all Papists in those days, and better for it, too, if you want an honest Irishman’s opinion.”

  “If I wanted an honest Irishman’s opinion, I wouldn’t ask you, Mr. Dougherty. What other small stone building standing close to the house is there? The barn is huge and made of wood. I can’t believe the ice house was dedicated to either Lady Aiglon or the Blessed Virgin. It has to mean the chapel.”

  “Most country ladies get the proceeds from the henhouse. Would it be made of stone at all?”

  “Yes, part of it is, but I had it built myself after I came here, so I think we can leave the henhouse out of our consideration,” she replied.

  “There must have been a belvedere or gazebo or some other stone monstrosity he built for his lady. What you’ve got to do is look over the old historical documents of the place. I don’t plan to spend the rest of my nights digging up the whole demmed estate.”

  “I’m sure you have much better things to do. Or more amusing, at any rate,” she sneered.

  “Aye, and more profitable. I’d best go. And, Rachel, you can tell that ragamuffin lad you’ve had dogging my steps all day to shab off. I deal fair and square with all my partners.”

  “Except for Lord Ware, of course,” she inserted, her tone quite toplofty.

  “The one and only exception that proves the rule. I’m off to my ladylove now.”

  “She’ll receive you with open arms tonight when you give her back her money,” Rachel laughed.

  They waved and parted. Mickey threw his leg over his mount and rode off along the path to the main road, and Rachel scuttled out of sight in the other direction. I stood up to let the cricks ease out of my knees before going home. The pale moonlight turned the rocks white and the foliage black, and the setting was so eerie that I almost believed I had dreamed the whole bizarre meeting.

  I puzzled over the details of their talk while I walked back to Thornbury. Rachel and Mickey were in league in some scheme to find what they unhelpfully called “it.” For Mickey Dougherty to take a shovel in his hands and dig for anything, “it” must be valuable, indeed. Yet its actual existence was apparently based on some ancient story, and its location was lost in the sands of time. The story must have come to light in the old book Rachel had bought in Folkestone. But in that case would she have offered me the book? Not likely! I had to remember how devious Rachel was. She might have offered it on the assumption that I would lose interest after she told me that story about golden chalices and monstrances. And she might also never have intended to let me see the book if I had said yes. She would have conveniently lost it. Well, it was somewhere in her room, and I’d find it and discover what she was up to.

  Other branches of the conversation were equally interesting, of course. There was the commission Mickey was performing for Lord Ware, whom he hated. He had some trick up his sleeve there. And most intriguing of all was Rachel’s calm statement that Madame Bieler was to get her money back tonight. If Mickey dealt fairly with all his partners, as he had claimed and Rachel had not denied, then Aiglon knew that the money was to be returned. What could possibly have transpired to make Aiglon agree to that after having arranged to have the money stolen himself?

  There wasn’t a soul in the house I could trust. Willard was in Rachel’s pocket with the button closed. Meg didn’t care for Rachel, but she was no friend of mine, either, and it was Rachel who paid her salary. As to Aiglon and Retchling, they were worse than the rest. Even Lord Ware, one of my main mental comforts as being approachable at the last moment, had gone off to London to arrange the shipment of his statues.

  I slipped in quietly at the back door. Rachel’s cloak hung on the peg beside it. Meg looked up from her dish washing and gave me a sulky look.

  “Did you tell Lady Savage I was out?” I asked her.

  “What would I be telling her anything for?” was her insolent but still satisfying reply. “What’s afoot then? Is it my guinea?”

  By “my guinea” she meant the bag of gold found in the cellar. Only one of those coins held any interest for her. “No, that’s safe, Meg. Finders keepers.”

  “Hmph,” she snorted, but contentedly.

  I smoothed my hair before going upstairs. I peeked around the corner to the library. The door was wide open, and the lights were extinguished. The gentlemen would be in the saloon then. If Rachel was with them, I meant to nip upstairs and search her room for the old book. I walked along to the saloon and saw that it was empty. Willard was putting out the lamps.

  “Where is everyone?” I demanded.

  “The gentlemen have gone out, Miss Pethel. Her ladyship is gone upstairs for the evening.”

  “Gone out! Where? Does Lady Savage know?”

  “I told her myself. She was asking for you, miss.”

  “Was she, indeed?” I felt the anger gather in my chest and ran up the stairs two at a time to accost her.

  I flung open her door without knocking and found her in conversation with Jake, who must have waited all this time to make his report. She gave me an eagle-eyed look and said, “Ah, Constance, there you are. I was looking for you. Jake told me about Mickey being at the old chapel. Did you get there in time to learn anything?”

  “Plenty!”

  “Good, you can tell me all about it presently. Jake says they’ve arranged about the boat.”

  Jake couldn’t be satisfied with this poor telling of his adventures. “I followed Mick all the livelong day till my bones are weary. When he went home, I went down to Lord Ware’s kitchen to talk to Alfie, my cousin. He carries the wood and coal and slops for his lordship. That’s where I learned the whole story. His lordship has got his Nimble Nymph up for sale, and her rotting apart at the seams. So Mick, he got a couple of the kitchen lads at it, bailed her out, hammered wood over the holes, and says he sold it, but it’s hisself that’s keeping her for to take them guns to Boney! It’s still docked at Lord Ware’s place.”

  I remembered Rachel’s coy question as to whether Lord Ware would like the manner in which Mickey executed that vague “commission” and realized that Rachel was in on the whole scheme up to her scrawny neck. She knew what the ship was to be used for. She knew all about that bag of money being passed back and forth. She had managed—how, I would never know—to cut herself in on the profitable and heinous crime of selling arms to the enemy of her own country.

  I steeled myself to hide what I knew. “Good work, Jake,” I said. There was one ally for me, at least. Two—Jake and Jeremy. They were both loyal to the marrow of their bones. They had often spoken of joining the army, but Rachel had talked them out of it.

  Rachel smiled and turned to Jake. “Now that we know what boat is chosen and where it is, it won’t be necessary for you to do any more following, Jake. You can tell Jeremy the same. Mission accomplished. And don’t either of you breathe a word of it, mind!”

  “Oh, no, your ladyship. Not a syllabub will leave our lips. Where should I go now?”

  “I suggest you go to bed, Jake. You must be dog-tired,” R
achel answered.

  Jake tugged his lock a few times and backed out the door. Before the door was closed, Rachel turned a glinting eye on me. “And what’s your story, Constance?” she asked, attempting a smile that made her face look strangely like a death mask.

  “I saw you and Mickey down at the old chapel. I was amazed to see that you had beaten me down. What had Mickey to say?” I looked at her with eager interest, as though I had done no more than look and was mystified still.

  After a few seconds of swift calculating as to my veracity and what story she could palm me off with, she spoke. “I happened to spot Mickey’s horse from my bedroom window. I saw where he was going and darted down to the chapel to see what he was about. I made sure he’d be meeting Aiglon. Unfortunately, I lost my footing in the dark and he discovered me. I told him I had seen him and feared he was a housebreaker. He knows we’re nervous after your scare in the cellar.”

  “Did he meet Aiglon?” I asked, as though I had swallowed this monumental fib.

  “Very likely my being there kept Aiglon away. No, Mickey just made some foolish excuse about wanting to stop and pray. He says the ground there is consecrated or something, and he often stops to commune with God. That should be an interesting communication!”

  “Did you know Aiglon and Retchling have gone out?” I asked, curious to see whether this alarmed her.

  It didn’t. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve only gone to the inn for some cards and company. Things are pretty dull here for those city bucks.”

  I felt some show of concern was necessary from me and said, “Aren’t you afraid who they might be meeting at the old chapel. Mickey will be telling them what Jake told us. We know all about it, so we don’t have to worry, do we?”

  It was impossible not to admire her quick thinking. All the Howells had this incredible ability to lie as easily and convincingly and reasonably as anyone else told the truth. She smiled a very natural-looking smile and said, “I believe I’ll just run down to the library and find something light to read. I mean to do my reading in bed.”