Rose Trelawney Page 7

  “No, no. Governesses do not lip their employers in the manner you use with me. They do not travel around the world, laugh when they destroy a good length of silk material. They would not automatically stroll down late to the family breakfast table the first day in their new position. You have never behaved in any way to indicate being a servant. Much more like a spoiled heiress. You are a lady.”

  “Upon my word, you make it sound like the worst sort of insult! I’m sorry if I have lipped you, and I did not laugh when I ruined the green silk. I laughed when Annie snatched it up for a shawl.”

  “I didn’t mean to be offensive. The fact is, governesses are mousey, self-effacing women without a word to say but please and thank you. I don’t know why they should behave so when they work hard and are poorly paid, and are generally well bred enough, but so it is. You have always behaved in a perfectly natural manner, to the extent that anyone can in this disordered household. I think very likely you are this Miss Grafton. We shall drive over to Gillingham and see Mr. Morley tomorrow. Don’t fear we mean to quite desert you. It is fairly close—I shall return within a few days to discover how you are going on, and if there is anything amiss . . .”

  “It’s a waste of time. I’m not, I know I’m not Miss Grafton.”

  “No, you don’t, Miss Grafton,” was his answer. “In the meanwhile, I have just had another idea.”

  “If you mean to point out a governess would not buy oil paints . . .”

  “Not that. It’s Gwynne. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he knows this Grafton girl.”

  “He would surely have mentioned it when I was there!”

  “Oh—of course. I forgot that in the excitement of finding out who you are. He would almost certainly know her father, have known him I mean, and likely know Morley as well. It’s worth a visit. I’m going to see him this instant.”

  He didn’t invite me to go with him, and I didn’t suggest it. “You’ll want to tell Abigail and Annie,” he said before leaving.

  I did nothing of the sort. Annie was resting, and I did the same. I went to my room and lay on the bed, to think about this latest turn in the case. How nice if I could be a perfectly respectable heiress who lived within visiting distance of Granhurst. I had come to like the place, the people. I liked even better the fifty thousand pounds. Who in her right mind wouldn’t?

  He was back an hour later, full of excitement. “Mr. Morley is visiting Gwynne tomorrow,” he said, smiling as broadly as could be. “We’ll drop over while he’s there and let him see if you’re his niece. Gwynne has never seen the girl at all. Knew her father as I thought, and knew he had a daughter at school, but has never met her.”

  “Did you think to enquire whether her father was in the habit of taking her abroad with him?”

  “He wasn’t. The girl has never been out of England.” I leveled a look at him. “That means nothing,” he explained. He must have been thinking about it on his way home, for he had the explanation ready. “Your father would have spoken of his travels—told you vivid tales of them, no doubt. With your fertile imagination, you conjured them up into living pictures.”

  “Did I conjure up a rain storm outside of Schloss Ludwigsburg?”

  “Why not? Oh, by the way, it’s that little Italian madonna Morley is coming to see.”

  “I thought it was a Mr. Uxbridge who was interested in it.”

  “I guess Morley is interested too. Everyone seems interested in the Fra Lippi madonna.”

  Till it could be positively proven I was not Miss Grafton, Sir Ludwig continued to use the name to address me, and when the others were told the exciting news, they too tried to remember to address me as Miss Grafton. Abbie did not quite buy his story.

  “Only two years older than I am?” she asked, surprised.

  A hundred seemed more like it. I felt very old, and tired, and not at all like Miss Grafton. I did begin to think though that our stories might be connected, due to some little similarity in our backgrounds.

  Chapter Six

  That night, I had another of my vivid dreams. In it I saw as clear as day the Medici triptych—the central portion, that is, and the wing with the madonna, Gwynne’s share of the intriguing thing. The central portion was a depiction of the Christ child in the crib, with three angels guarding Him. They were all four, Christ child and angels, quite obviously little fat-cheeked, bold Italian babies, just the sort one sees so often in Italy, with that lovely shade of hair, golden on top, darker underneath. The picture was so startlingly exact I took the notion I had actually seen it sometime, somewhere. And why should the idea fill me with that shadow of dread that I hadn’t felt in two days now, dread and anger?

  It put me in a peevish mood that was not improved when Sir Ludwig chose that particular day to resume wearing his monocle. I had hinted him out of it earlier on, but he stuck it into his eye as I came to the breakfast table. “Good morning, Miss Grafton,” he said.

  I bid a sulky good morning to the group. As you may imagine, I was on thorns to get over to Gwynne’s place. Mr. Morley was not coming till afternoon, however, so that I had first to get in an interminable morning before going. Kessler had mentioned three as the hour we were to go. At two neither of us could contain curiosity longer, and we went, being sure to arrive an ill-bred half hour before we were expected. Mr. Morley was there before us, as it had been Gwynne’s idea to get his business out of the way before our coming. I knew when Mr. Morley regarded me with no more than mild curiosity that I was not his niece. Sir Ludwig knew it, too, but pressed on with his enquiries all the same.

  Much was made of the affair of Miss Grafton’s and my own similarity of background—both young, art-interested, and so on. “My niece is a much younger girl of course,” Morley said. I looked with significance to Kessler at this, letting him know he was mad to have thought me seventeen. “Less able to take care of herself. I am extremely worried about her.”

  He looked worried. He looked in fact like a constitutional worrier. A small, harried, worry-wart of a man, with much of the woman about him. I smiled to myself at the absurdity of my companion’s thinking I should have gone in fear of this man.

  “We do not fear she is dead in any case,” he explained. “We suspect it is a kidnapping, as her woman was with her, and she too has vanished. We believe, the police and myself, that the companion was instrumental in having her abducted. She was new with us, you see. We didn’t know all that much about her. She had credentials, a letter of character from her last employer, and it checked out all right.”

  “Have you received a demand for payment?” Sir Ludwig asked.

  “No, not yet, but it is hardly over two weeks.”

  “Surely they would have been in touch with you before now!”

  “Not necessarily. We do not give up hope by any means. My friends feel the first object of the kidnappers may have been to remove her well away from the district to avoid detection, and then we will hear from them. The storm has delayed everything. You don’t think they’d harm her, do you?” he worried.

  “How the devil should I know?” Kessler replied, with no feelings whatever for the poor man’s predicament.

  “What was her companion s name?” I asked.

  “Miss Smith,” he answered, while I shriveled into my chair.

  “You should have circulated a description of her as well as your niece,” Gwynne informed him.

  “My friends feel it best not to antagonize the kidnappers,” was the reason given for not having done so. “Not to worry them, or rush them into precipitate action.”

  I began to perceive that with such friends advising him Mr. Morley had no need of enemies, to use the common saw. I could see the others silently echoed my view from the stunned manner in which they regarded him. But he was worrying into his collar, and didn’t observe us as we exchanged a look.

  “What did the companion look like?” Kessler asked.

  “I never saw the woman myself,” he told us. “I was gone up to London to see som
e paintings I was having restored for my niece’s collection, and the woman was hired during my absence.”

  “Who hired her?” Kessler demanded.

  “My housekeeper—a connection of my late wife’s, and an excellent, competent woman in every way. Miss Smith was hired as a companion to Lorraine. We had been looking about for someone since her coming out of the school in Bath. She needed companionship. As the woman had a good knowledge of French and art, too, we felt she might put the final touch on Lorraine’s French, and try to inculcate in her some appreciation of her inheritance. The woman was quite exceptional, my housekeeper said, and seemed too good to pass up, so she was hired provisionally during my absence. The solicitors gave permission. They knew I would want it done. Otherwise the woman would not have waited. She said she was in demand as a companion to young ladies.”

  We were then treated to a description of the inheritance, the Grafton collection, that is. I only half listened, and I noticed that Sir Ludwig was acutely uncomfortable. It had not escaped his notice that the description of the unknown companion bore a strong resemblance to myself. Even, God help me, the name I was currently using, which might very well be my own, for I had slipped into it with no trouble at all. The French, the knowledge of art, sounded dreadfully like me. And was I a kidnapper, then? Sunk from heiress to servant-kidnapper in one day?

  Ludwig was clearly thinking in this groove, too. “You didn’t see the companion, but you must have heard her described, as she is considered to be involved deeply. How did she look?”

  “My housekeeper, Mrs. Lantry, described her to me. She was a youngish woman, late twenties or early thirties, she thought. Tall, well built, with darkish hair. She was very stylish, elegant. She was wearing a blue fur-lined cape on the day she disappeared, and a blue suit under it. She always dressed well, Mrs. Lantry said. Hardly dressed like a woman who had to work, but then she used to work for some wealthy French family teaching the children English, and she said her employer gave her the clothing—the fur-lined cape and so on.”

  “What was Miss Grafton wearing that day?” I asked, with my heart in my throat. If the man said she had been wearing the navy bombazine gown in which I sat, I was ready to hand myself over to the authorities. I was afraid I had somehow got the clothes off my victim’s back.

  “She wore black. She was still in mourning for her father, you must know. Died less than a year ago, and she was still in mourning for him. She was always respectful of the proprieties.”

  This was some small relief. Kessler arose at once and suggested we leave. I knew he wanted to get me out the door before either Morley or Gwynne tumbled to it I was the missing companion, but Morley’s next speech riveted me to my chair.

  “May I see the Medici madonna now?” he asked Gwynne, in a small, apologetic voice.

  I had to see it again, too. I had been yearning for another look at it. We all went into the gallery, and Morley lifted it from its easel. I had an overwhelming desire to grab it from his fingers. Naturally I controlled the impulse, but it took all my will to do it.

  “It certainly looks to me to match our Saint Joseph. Surely it is the other half of the door. I’ll have Mr. Uxbridge stop by and take a gander next time he is passing by. He will know for sure. If the two are a pair, what price do you ask for it, Mr. Gwynne?”

  “Uxbridge—was he working on your behalf?” Gwynne asked.

  “He is my agent. He tells me he can get a better price on acquisitions if he acts for me. When the seller hears it is the Grafton people who are after a piece, they raise the price to the skies. He is very clever, Uxbridge.”

  “Yes, that is often done,” I agreed with him.

  “She is not for sale,” Gwynne said firmly. “I wish to purchase your half.”

  “Oh I don’t think I should sell it,” Morley answered, worried of course. “Uxbridge has told me to hang on to it, and try if I can find the central portion. I leave the transactions of the gallery in his discretion, for he knows a great deal more than I do about art. He makes all sales and purchases for me.

  “What, and are you selling off some of the Grafton pieces then?” Gwynne asked, startled.

  “Only a few pieces Mr. Uxbridge feels are inferior, not worth holding on to.”

  “I don’t recall any such pieces in Mr. Grafton’s collection,” Gwynne said at once, then with a collector’s crafty greed, he quickly went on. “I would be interested to be notified if any pieces are up for sale.”

  “I’ll speak to Uxbridge, but he has found some fellow in London who gives him a better price than he can get elsewhere. There are people with money to burn in London.”

  Gwynne looked disbelieving at this speech. He was also disappointed that Mr. Morley had not brought his piece of the triptych with him, as it appeared this had been the idea behind the visit, but it turned out after lengthy talk that Morley had been visiting relatives trying to decide what to do about recovering Lorraine, and did not come directly from Gillingham. He assured Gwynne he would be happy to receive him at Gillingham, and why did not he bring his piece when he came, that they might put them side by side to see how they matched.

  They were both as jealous as mother hens of their piece of the triptych. Mr. Morley soon took his leave. I made sure Kessler would be out the door with him, but he remained behind.

  “This Uxbridge is up to some monkey business,” he said to Gwynne, the instant the man was gone.

  “The same thought occurred to me. I know Grafton’s collection, and he had no inferior pieces. All were worth keeping, and as Morley has no notion what the stuff is worth, he might be allowing himself to be bilked out of priceless masterpieces. We must look into this business, Lud.”

  They discussed it for a few moments, taking the decision to go to Gillingham on a fishing expedition in the near future, then we left. I saw no point in mincing words. “You can drop me off at the constable’s office,” I said.

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “There’s nothing foolish about it. We have discovered who I am at last. I speak French; I am traveled; I am interested in art, know a little something about it. Clearly I palmed myself off on this Mrs. Lantry as a companion to Lorraine Grafton for the purpose of kidnapping her. I have figured out my motive, too. I wanted to steal St. Joseph—her piece of the triptych. I daresay I have it stashed away somewhere, and was on my way to steal Mr. Gwynne’s madonna when someone knocked me senseless.”

  “I can’t credit you would be so ineffectual. If your motive was to steal the door, you would hardly have gone about it in such a fashion. It was there, presumably, in the Grafton gallery, to be picked up any time without kidnapping the girl.”

  “I have expensive tastes and habits. I wanted a little cash to go with it.”

  “You weren’t wearing a fur-lined cape when you turned up.”

  “Thank God for that! And I wasn’t wearing Miss Grafton’s mourning outfit, either. I feared I had switched clothing with her, though I can’t see why I should. Mine sounded nicer.”

  “Stop chattering, Rose. I’m trying to think.”

  “Calling me Rose Trelawney instead of Miss Smith isn’t going to save me from Bridewell and very likely the gibbet.”

  “The companion, Miss Smith, she was older. Late twenties or early thirties, he mentioned.”

  “I could be a well-preserved twenty-nine or so.”

  “I doubt you’re a day over twenty-one. Twenty-two at most.”

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “Stay well away from Gillingham.”

  “Oh, you do think I am the kidnapper!”

  “I do not think anything of the kind. It is only an assumption that the companion abducted the girl. She, too, disappeared; kidnapped herself for all we know.”

  “In that case the thing to do is to confront Mrs. Lantry with me, and see if I am the companion.”

  “That’s one way of proceeding,” he allowed reluctantly.

  “Can you suggest a better?”

  “I sh
ould like to know who did snatch Miss Grafton before we go charging in. The housekeeper herself could be in on it for all we know, eager to find a victim to lay the blame on. A nice, helpless victim unable to defend herself. Then there is the mysterious Mr. Uxbridge, selling off the Grafton paintings and being held accountable to no one but Mr. Morley, so far as I can see. Who is to say Morley is innocent, for that matter? I felt his performance to be a trifle overdone. No, we don’t take you there till we know a little more.”

  “Well, I think I am Miss Smith, and my only hope is that I, too, am a victim in the affair, and not the ringleader.”

  “There have to be three women. Whose cloak were you wearing? Not Miss Smith’s fur-lined one; not Miss Grafton’s black; and not, we think, your own. Someone else’s. Mrs. Lantry’s, perhaps?”

  “Surely that makes at least four women.”

  He wasn’t listening. “We didn’t think to enquire for a description of Mrs. Lantry. But then she is not missing . . .” I went on. “Oh, dear, what a muddle it is!”

  “All part and parcel of the same muddle. Same date, same place, more or less, same theme—art. You know what we might do is discover from Morley who the Smith woman’s reference was. She had a character reference, and he said he checked it out, or the solicitor or someone did.”

  “Yes, but very likely it is some person in France. Is that not what he said, her last employer was a French family?”

  “She used to work for them, I believe, is what he said. The mention of the woman’s being outfitted in a higher style than one would expect—that is interesting, is it not?”

  I felt it the most condemning of the lot myself. “I like pretty feathers. If I were someone’s companion I would spend all my money . . .”

  “Or someone’s,” he tossed in.

  “Or someone’s, on clothing, and make up an excuse to account for it. It sounds remarkably like me.”

  “It exceeds the bounds of probability that Miss Grafton is also suffering a loss of memory, and as she did not turn up with you, why does she not come forward, if you are her alleged abductor? What is to stop her from going home, since she has evaded your clutches?”