Rose Trelawney Page 14

  “Rose—really there is no reason to assume you are married. There are a dozen possibilities to account for the ring.”

  “No, it belongs to me.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I do know it.”

  “How the hell can you be so sure of that, when you’ve forgotten everything else?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure. Good night.”

  He didn’t answer, but remained behind, frowning darkly. I lay awake for hours myself that night, but I didn’t hear Sir Ludwig come upstairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  We were busy the next day with guests departing, and setting the house to rights after the party. I was treated with all the deference owing to a married lady by Sir Ludwig, and as if the ring had never been found by the other two. They looked at it, shrugged their shoulders, and said it might have come from anywhere.

  “Imagine the rectory not being cleaned out for a month,” was Annie’s comment. I didn’t say so, but I wondered how many months it had been since the collection of boxes beneath her bed had been disturbed.

  “Didn’t old Mrs. Wickey, when she was alive, wear a ring like that?” Abbie asked her brother, who heartily supported this spurious memory. As if Miss Wickey wouldn’t recognize her own mother’s wedding ring! In fact, I believe she wore a gold band on her right hand.

  In the late afternoon we prepared an advertisement for the papers and discussed in what cities it ought to be placed. We chose the largest centers in the four corners of the kingdom, along with Edinburgh and Glasgow.

  We agreed that before it would reach the papers, be circulated and any enquiries made to us, we might expect a lapse of a couple of weeks. The next day the guests were all gone, leaving behind a sense of letdown. It was back to routine, French in the mornings, painting, reading, music. I finished Abbie’s portrait and we had a showing in my studio for the family, honoring the occasion with a bottle of champagne. As I mentioned, Abbie was posed as a nymph in a diaphanous piece of drapery. She stood with a hand on the corner of a Greek statue, the other holding a dove. It turned out rather well. I was pleased with the job. In a gilt frame it might even do for a wall in some not too conspicuous room.

  Annie stood with her arms folded regarding it. “Why hasn’t she got on some decent clothes? You ought to have worn your ballgown, ninny.”

  “Don’t I look pretty, Lud?” Abbie asked.

  “The portrait is beautiful,” he decided, regarding it critically.

  “I hadn’t quite the acres of flesh to work with that your friend Rubens had,” I pointed out, trying to get him back into his former mood of jokes and insults.

  “Professional, I would say.” He looked at me, questioningly. “I wonder if you aren’t known as an artist.”

  But there were no well-known female artists in the kingdom, so I was not likely to find my name by that means, if that was what he had in mind.

  Annie began hinting outrageously that I should render her face in oils. What a task! But a challenge—it would be interesting. I ran in my mind over Hogarth’s Gin Alley for a likely pose. “I should be happy to, Annie, but you must buy the materials yourself. I don’t wish to fall any deeper into debt. I already owe another couple of guineas for the newspaper ads.”

  “No doubt your husband will be happy to repay the entire debt,” he answered, without even a smile. He was being polite to me, damn his eyes.

  I outlined the size of canvas I wished, really my sole requirement as I had a good supply of pigments. As I held out my hands to approximate the width, I noticed him looking at my left hand, to see if I wore the ring. I never put it on, but I often took it out of the drawer when alone and looked at it.

  “You don’t wear the ring?” he asked later, when Abbie and Annie were off chattering over the portrait.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m surprised it isn’t mentioned in the village. Miss Wickey must have kept it to herself.”

  “Ashamed of her housekeeping, I expect,” I answered.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t turn the place out while you were there.”

  I can’t tell you how my heart soared at this speech. It was the first normal speech he had made since the night of the party.

  “Oh but it was cleaned once a month, you see, so I left it alone. It is only when I enter a room as chaotic as in a painting by Jan Steen that I exert myself.”

  By evening, we were quite back to normal, with a few taunts about the floor covering in the morning parlor on my part, and a mention of the size of my bill on Kessler’s. Not a word about a husband happy to pay up for me.

  The next morning Sir Ludwig received a letter from Edinburgh. It happened to be myself who took up the mail from the salver in the hall, and I ran straightway to his office to see what J. Williker had to tell us. He held the letter a minute in his hands, hesitating to open it. I think he feared to read what might be enclosed. At last I could control my patience no longer, and seized it to tear it open myself. He read over my shoulder a message that was as confusing as all the rest of this bizarre case.

  “Dear Sir Ludwig: Re the matter discussed with you at Granhurst, I have run into an unexpected situation here. Mrs. Knightsbridge is not in Scotland. She left on November 15 for London with friends, and has not been home since. There never was any Miss Smith in her employ. She has for companion a Miss Empey, who accompanied her south. Her secretary, Mr. Soames, tells me he received an unusual request of his employer in late November. She wrote him enclosing a letter to be forwarded to Mr. Morley in Gillingham if she received any letter from him. Mr. Soames did not read the Morley letter.”

  “How odd!” I said, reading it again to make sure I had it right.

  “That’s Miss Smith’s character reference she was forwarding to Morley,” Kessler pointed out. “Must be, the time, just right.”

  “Why should she give a reference to a person she didn’t employ?”

  “I don’t know. It begins to look as though Mrs. Knightsbridge is in it up to her eyes.”

  “I never liked her above half. I bet I knew her. Could it be I am Miss Empey, and hate her because she’s my cruel employer, and she was posing as Miss Smith herself? Uxbridge spoke of her to Morley about the triptych. Perhaps she and he are in it together.”

  “Pity he doesn’t mention their ages or appearance. You could very well be Miss Empey, and you’re not married at all, just as I knew.”

  I realized his reason for jumping at this straw was no more than an eagerness for me to be unattached. It was very sweet, but not very helpful.

  “But why would Mrs. Knightsbridge do such a deceitful thing? She owns a museum—she must be rich,” I said, grappling with the tangled skein of the puzzle.

  “Maybe you’re Mrs. Knightsbridge,” he mentioned next.

  “Maybe I’m Princess Augusta!” I countered. How dare he suggest I was that hateful woman? “What else does he say?”

  We read on down the letter.

  “Mr. Uxbridge is not here, has not been in touch with Mr. Soames at all. It begins to look as though he and Mrs. Knightsbridge are in on the thing together. I’ll be in contact with you as soon as I return south. I leave tomorrow a.m. Your respectful servant, J. Williker.”

  “Why should he think Uxbridge and Mrs. Knightsbridge are in on it together,” I wondered. “If she is Miss Smith, she has created a good deal of mischief for Uxbridge, pointing out the Giorgione forgery.”

  “I don’t know where he gets that idea. As Mrs. Knightsbridge gave false references for Miss Smith, it looks more as if Miss Smith is either herself or this Miss Empey, the pair working together to spike Uxbridge’s gun. Which would account for his kidnapping Miss Smith—but what happened to the other lady? She has to be you, Rose. You must be one of them.”

  “I refuse to be Mrs. Knightsbridge. I don’t like her.”

  “No, you’re Miss Empey.” He looked very well pleased with this arbitrary interpretation, making me a maiden. Oh, but I wasn’t; I was married
, and I refused to be Mrs. Knightsbridge!

  We read and re-read that letter till I’m sure we both had it by heart, regretting its terseness. We were eager to learn a dozen more details. Why had the two ladies come south? What ages were they, what their appearances? We sat on discussing it for a full hour. I was alternately Miss Empey and Mrs. Knightsbridge, but either way, I was a sneak, giving false references or using them. Why does one pretend to be what one is not but for illegal purposes? Sir Ludwig was inventive in finding ways to whitewash me. He was convinced the wicked Mrs. Knightsbridge was using me, and quite often mentioned blackmail, without, I believe, quite tumbling to it that blackmail is not used against perfectly innocent persons. It might be used against a ruined woman, though, if she were trying to pass herself off as respectable. You may be sure I didn’t mention this possibility.

  Eventually we proceeded to the next question: What were we to do about it? “Williker should be here in a day or two. We’ll wait to see what he has to tell us,” Sir Ludwig decided.

  I wasn’t in a mood for waiting. I wanted to do something, but hardly knew what. In the afternoon, we received a call from Mr. Morley, with a new problem to worry him. He was falling away to a skeleton. “It has arrived!” he announced in a voice of doom.

  “What has?” we asked in unison.

  “The ransom note,” he replied, handing it to Ludwig, who ripped it out of his fingers in alarm. “Good God, it’s from Miss Smith!” he exclaimed.

  I don’t know what thoughts were in Ludwig’s mind, but the worst possible things reeled through my own. I was linked up with a kidnapper. Miss Smith—my employer or employee—was a kidnapper, and I was in it up to my neck. I soon had the note from his hands and perused it hastily. “Only ten thousand pounds?” I asked, surprised.

  “That is a good deal of money,” Sir Ludwig pointed out.

  “Oh, yes, but for an heiress of the caliber of Miss Grafton, I would have thought more would be demanded. The estate was worth fifty thousand, I recall.”

  “I’m glad it was no higher,” Morley said. “That sum I can raise very easily. I am on my way to London now. Miss Grafton has ten thousand in the funds, and that can be sold out quickly. Had she demanded more, I would have been obliged to raise a mortgage or sell off some of the collection, and that would take a long while.”

  I exchanged an understanding glance with Kessler. The kidnapper was well informed of the financial situation of Miss Grafton, then. Knew exactly how much might be demanded and got in a short space of time. Ludwig mentioned this to Morley.

  “You mean to imply it is Mr. Uxbridge,” he said, “but the fact is Miss Smith knew as well how financial affairs stood. I cannot think Uxbridge would do it. He was a nice fellow. Not quite so bright and knowledgeable about art as I was led to believe. He took too low a sum for some works he sold, but I cannot believe he would sink to this.”

  “He didn’t disappear for no reason,” Ludwig reminded him.

  “How did Miss Smith come to know about the money?” I queried.

  “Mrs. Lantry confessed to me she told her. The woman asked outright, which looks suspicious. They had a long chat about it one day, the day before the kidnapping, it was. It looks as though Miss Smith is our culprit. I must pay. I hope I do the right thing.”

  “How is the payment to be made?” I asked.

  “I will be informed,” he answered, still worried. “I will receive another communication. She tells me not to notify the police, and I shan’t do it, but as you were so interested in the case, Sir Ludwig, and seem such a sharp fellow, I decided to talk it over with you. I’m not sure I ought to go to London at all at this time.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Write to London and have them sell the funds and have the cash on hand when you get the next notice.”

  “You think I ought to pay, then?”

  “You don’t have much choice if you want to see your niece alive.”

  “That was my feeling. I miss having Uxbridge to advise me. One dislikes to do it, but I must. I was wondering—do you think I should demand some proof she is alive and well?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What sort of a thing should I ask for? I have been fretting about it a good deal. A piece of clothing or hair is no good. That could be taken from a corpse. How could I be sure she is alive?”

  “Don’t hand over the money till you have seen her—have her back.”

  “Aye, that would be best, but if they tell me to take the money to some dark, secluded spot, promising to hand her over, and don’t do it, where am I? I have thrown away ten thousand pounds that don’t belong to me, and still my niece is not back.”

  “Let me know how it is to be done,” Sir Ludwig said at once. “I’ll help you.”

  “Oh that would be monstrous kind of you,” he said. I took the idea this was why he had really come. To get someone to handle the exchange for him. Surely he had not planned to go to London at such a time. I felt extremely sorry for the poor man. He at least was above suspicion of being guilty of anything but foolishness and cowardice.

  “Where did the note come from? What is the postmark on it?” I asked.

  “There is no mark. It had been put under my front door when I came downstairs this morning. Delivered by hand, you see. They cannot be very far away.”

  I remembered Miss Wickey receiving a note for myself in the same manner. Sir Ludwig looked at the envelope. His brows rose, and an expression crossed his face that said very plainly he had noticed something of importance. He flickered a glance at me, a sort of warning glance, so it was something he did not wish to share with Morley. The man soon left, deciding not to go up to London after all. I doubt there was any luggage stored in his carriage. He had gone as far as he intended going that day, unless he meant to try his luck with Gwynne if Kessler failed him. Such eagerness to secure the help of outsiders confirmed his innocence.

  “What is it you noticed on that envelope?” I asked Ludwig as soon as it was possible.

  “That note wasn’t in Mrs. Knightsbridge’s handwriting,” he said. “I saw her letter of recommendation for Miss Smith, and the writing was markedly different. A very pretty, flowing script she used. Florid.”

  “What!”

  “All loops and swirls—almost an art form itself.”

  “Oh,” I said, in a weak voice.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” How was it possible he hadn’t seen my cards of invitation, hadn’t heard Abbie and Annie mention their artistic loops and swirls? I was Mrs. Knightsbridge! A married woman, as I had known all along. I must tell him. How could I do it? Such a deceitful creature, this Mrs. Knightsbridge, whom I really detested, if the truth were known. The very name set my hackles up. No wonder I hated me. Keeping this knowledge from Sir Ludwig, and he had done so much for me. It was infamous. I was infamous, a deceitful, lying kidnapper.

  I made sure he would soon tumble to it that as Miss Smith was not Mrs. Knightsbridge, I was. But no, he wouldn’t let it occur to himself. He came up with another explanation, quite ingenious I must admit.

  “Mrs. Knightsbridge might have monkeyed around with that character reference, but she didn’t write the ransom note. I believe Uxbridge did it himself and signed her name to it. It is the only explanation.”

  I should tell him. I should! I hinted at it, without quite putting it in black and white. “Maybe Miss Empey wrote it—Miss Empey is Miss Smith, I mean.”

  “Oh no, you recall Miss Smith wore the fur-lined cape, indicating she was a grand lady.”

  “I wore the silken petticoats,” I mentioned.

  “Yes, so you did. You are thinking you are Mrs. Knightsbridge?”

  I nodded. It had been agreed I was one or the other. It had also been agreed the villain in the piece was the employer—me.

  “Well, even if you are, which I don’t believe for a minute, we don’t know any worse of the woman but that she wrote a letter changing her companion’s name. We don’t know why she did it,
don’t know any actual harm of her.”

  “That’s true,” I said, wanting to believe him. There was some detail nagging at the back of my mind, but with such a multitude of great thundering troubles, it didn’t quite surface. “The letter from Mrs. Knightsbridge—the character letter—how did you say it was signed?”

  “Mrs. J.F. Knightsbridge, I believe. Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if she had signed her Christian name.”

  “No, her husband’s initials, in the usual way.” But if the husband’s initials were J. F., who was Ivor, who took an interest in my petticoats? Was I a philanderess, along with the rest?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I went to my room, claiming a headache, not entirely falsely, pitched myself onto my bed and worried in a manner that would have put Mr. Morley to shame. I was a wretch. Here was I, foisting myself onto poor unwitting Sir Ludwig when I knew perfectly well I was Mrs. Knightsbridge. Letting him fall in love with me and worry over me and believe me a poor put-upon companion, when I was a wealthy woman who was involved in this messy business for more gain.

  I didn’t think it was money I was after. I wanted Miss Grafton’s share of the Medici triptych, and my ultimate goal was to get my hands on it. Why I had asked for money in lieu of it I had no idea (or had Miss Empey do so, surely on my behalf), but I knew that my real motive in this business was to get the painting. Since seeing Gwynne’s madonna, I had coveted it. I had dreamed of my portion of it one night—all in good clear detail, as it was well known to me, Mrs. Knightsbridge, who owned the main panel. Whatever I had been doing roaming the roads late at night, it had to do with getting Gwynne’s piece of the thing. I was the brains behind it; I felt it in my bones.

  I was so mortified with myself, hated Mrs. Knightsbridge so very thoroughly, was so ashamed to have to face Sir Ludwig with the truth that I decided to disappear in the same mysterious manner in which I had come to Wickey. I would leave. Period. I didn’t know where I would go. Certainly turning myself over to the authorities was the farthest thing from my mind. Evading them was more like it. Edinburgh was there, not as a first stop, but one that must be taken in. It would require careful scouting to discover if there was a warrant out for my arrest before I went dashing to the north. Once Williker returned with a description of me, there was no hope of concealing the truth. Meanwhile, I would require some money to make good my escape, and wondered how I was to excuse yet another loan from Sir Ludwig, my only possible source.