Joan Smith Read online

  “The title I do lost at this present moment. I am the Comte d’Arnberieu, from the province of Ain. We English like our titles.”

  “I referred to your estates, your money. You are without funds is what I mean.”

  “Ha, I do not liking the funds. Five percent is the too small interest sum. Welland, he agrees with me on this. I do not put into the funds my monies. The Consols, I do not engage in the Consols funds, me.”

  “What I mean is, you do not have any money.”

  “The cash, he is always short. Realizing the funds is my small difficulty. But I am not poor, you comprehend. When I realize my funds, I will be not cash shortage.”

  “How do you set about realizing these funds? How do you get your money?”

  “It is necessary to selling things.”

  “Yes, but as your estates were confiscated, what is there to sell?”

  “Very much true. The real estates is confiscated. The movables are not so confiscating.”

  “You brought things with you from France?”

  “I am looking after these subjects. My cousin Welland, he helps me. Now we are admiring the sceneries.”

  “Your cousin is also without funds, I believe.”

  “He is have the rich patron, St. Regis. St. Regis also is my cousin. He too helps me with realizing my funds.”

  “Does Tante Louise help you too?”

  “Yes, very much helps me. The rack and manger she is giving. What it is, the English rack?”

  “It means bed, in this case. Does she also give you money?”

  “Ah,” he said, tilting back his head. “Welland, he tells me this is of worry at you. No, I do not steal your monies from Tante Louise. She can be giving it all to you, Valerie. I do not want her monies.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, wondering if I had understood him correctly.

  “Certainly, you are welcome to all my pardons.”

  “Did Welland tell you ...”

  “Absolutely. That Miss Valkyrie is wanting the aunt’s money. Is it not so?”

  “She never gives me a penny!”

  “She is very much not realizing the funds at this precise moment, you comprehend.”

  I was so incensed at Welland Sinclair’s telling Pierre I was a gold digger that I lost track of my real project in the ride. “He’s a fine one to talk! Living off his cousin, St. Regis. I don’t batten myself on anyone. I don’t think you should have anything to do with him, Pierre. He is using you. Be very careful of that man. You’ll end up in jail, the way you are carrying on. Blackmail is a crime. It is also extremely contemptible.”

  He sat smiling and nodding throughout my lecture, then prodded his mount closer to mine and tried to grab my hand. “Valerie is most very beautiful, but I don’t know why she is angry with me. We do not doing any crimes, my cousin and me.”

  “I am wasting my time.”

  He smiled in anticipation and began to dismount, thinking, I believe, to get down to some serious flirtation. “We shall be having much better time not riding on horses’ backs,” he said.

  “Get back up there, Peter. I shall take it up with Sinclair himself.”

  “Comment? Take it up? What that means?”

  “It means ... Oh, never mind. I am not angry with you, but with Sinclair.”

  “Good. He also is angry with you too. For my own self, I think cousins should help each one other. Kissing cousins, as we say in English. What one has realized monies, he should helping the others one. I always help all poor cousins. Do you require funds, cherie? I have very much funds soon. We shall pretend at being kissing cousins.”

  “We are scarcely even connections, let alone cousins.”

  “Kissing connections?” he asked hopefully.

  “It is not English, Peter.”

  “If you were not so grand quite, I would be marrying you. Welland is thinking you would not dislike to marry me, since I am being so rich. This is true?”

  “Please do not tell me any more of Welland’s theories. When I marry, money will have nothing to do with it.”

  “This is very foolish talk, Valerie. Poor girls must marrying the money. The same thing very much so in France. The French look much at the dowry, same like we English.”

  “We are going to gallop very fast now, Peter, before we lose our tempers.”

  “Ah, good. A nice galloping,” he agreed, but proceeded on at the pace of a constipated crab, while I galloped away some part of my anger. The latter part of our ride, when I rejoined him, was no more enlightening than the first, so I shall omit it, except to mention I will not be helped down from a mount by Pierre St. Clair again—ever. That man could turn a handshake into an obscene encounter. He is so small too, but very strong,

  My aunt possessed a charming little whisky, a light two-wheeled gig painted a spruce green color. I had been looking forward to a drive in it and got her permission to try it that same afternoon after luncheon. I turned left at the main road, toward Dr. Hill’s place, to see what I could learn from him about my aunt’s situation. He lived in a pretty half-timbered cottage, with pink rose gardens in front. It would make an ideal subject for an artist’s sketch, but unfortunately I have no talent in that direction.

  The doctor was at home, working in his study, where the butler took me. Hill’s Harley Street practice had been profitable, to judge from the elegance of his home. I am not one who can pinpoint furnishings and artworks as to exact periods or even schools, but I have eyes enough to distinguish fine things from inferior.

  There was nothing inferior in the doctor’s cottage. I had come expecting to see a provincial, mediocre establishment, for his own plain appearance suggested such a background. Instead I found a scholar in a book-lined study, with tomes open before him, a pair of pince-nez perched on the end of his nose, and a piece of paper half filled with small writing before him.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your work, Doctor. It is a social call only. Shall I leave and come back later?”

  “Not at all, Miss Ford. I am delighted you should take time to pay me a visit. An unlooked-for pleasure,” he said, arising and removing his glasses to show me a seat.

  “My, such a lot of books. I did not take you for a scholarly sort. I expect I am interrupting some vital piece of medical research.”

  “Far from it. I am involved in my true love. I pretend to be a doctor, but I am really a detective.” I stared blankly at this statement, causing him to go on and explain. “I am a delver into the past, to discover its mysteries. To be exact, my field is archaeology, Miss Ford. What you see me scribbling out here is my views on Stonehenge. A strange affair it is, a real mystery. Nothing serious has been done on it since the work of Aubrey in the sixteen hundreds. England is not without its remnants from antiquity. My love, archaeology, is not a well-paying mistress, however, and I was obliged to eke out a living with the practice of medicine.”

  “Eke out a living is the wrong phrase. I could not help admiring your home as I was shown through.”

  “You refer to the few things my late wife left. Anything fine in the house was hers. She was a ring above me, socially speaking. A cousin to Sir Edward’s first wife. I met her when she was visiting Alice at Troy Fenners. I was no more than the family physician then, but she took me up to London and made me fashionable. I did not stay long.”

  “Actually it is my aunt I wanted to speak about, Doctor. I am worried about her.”

  “Worried? You must not give it a thought. It is the change of life—a little insomnia, depression. She is better since coming back from her visit. What is it that disturbs you?”

  “I was not referring to her physical health.”

  “Is it this séance business? It is a passing hobby. Last year it was orchids. Next year it will be something else. Bird watching, or collecting dried flowers, or playing the pianoforte. It is good for her to keep occupied.”

  “No, it is not that either. It is something more serious. She is being blackmailed.”

  The poor
doctor nearly fell from his chair in fright. “What in the world are you talking about, Miss Ford?” he demanded, angry at being frightened.

  I told him everything. He was an old and trusted friend, and I had to confide my fears in someone, had to receive advice from an elderly person. “Young Sinclair, you think, is at the bottom of it?” he asked, his interest mounting to worry.

  “He had copies of her jewels. Why would he, if not to substitute them and take the originals? I cannot think of any other explanation, can you?”

  “You’re sure he hasn’t done the switch already? Were they the originals you saw? Could you swear to it?”

  “Good gracious, no! I am not a connoisseur. Do you think he might already have ...?”

  “It’s possible. You mentioned he had stacks of money. Where else would he have gotten it, if not by selling off others of her pieces?”

  “No, I told you Pierre gave it to him, or is working with him—I don’t know exactly how it works, but I know Aunt Loo gives Pierre large sums, and it is Mr. Sinclair who ends up with the money hidden under his bed. He has some business involvement with Pierre—gets money for him somehow, and from him I am convinced.”

  “Hard to believe St. Clair is involved in anything crooked. The thing is, Miss Ford, he is as rich as may be. His estates in France are uncertain at the moment, of course, but when we beat Boney, they will go back to him, and in the meanwhile my understanding is that he brought a king’s ransom with him in gold coin and jewelry. His family contrived to hide it somehow, and with the help of friends he got a good part of it to that monastery or whatever the deuce it was where he was raised. He is selling part of it as he requires funds. I wonder if that is not the jewelry you saw in Welland Sinclair’s room. His cousin helps him with transactions, as you mentioned. They make no secret of it. I don’t suppose you got a very close look, through a window in the dark of night.”

  “I could not swear the design was identical, but certainly it was remarkably similar. Pity I could not get a closer look.”

  “Yes, one dislikes to put it to the chap in so many words. Mean to say, if we are wrong, you’ll look no how, an interfering busybody.”

  “The matter is too important to let that stand in the way.”

  “I wonder if your aunt is not purchasing some of St. Clair’s pieces. She would be happy to have them—sentimental, family meaning, you know. It would give the lad some cash. Just like her. She is generous, and would not bruit it about. I know she is short of cash lately, but she did not confide the reason in me.”

  “There would be no reason to hide a sensible business transaction. There is no shame in it for Pierre. No, she told me not to interfere, so she has something to hide. Besides, I heard Pierre demand money.”

  “In payment for his jewelry, possibly. The way he speaks will often cloud his meaning, poor fellow. Then too your aunt has a few devious twists in her, Miss Ford. I don’t mean to say she is paying him less than the stuff is worth, but she likes to have secrets. Those books she writes, for example. No harm in it, but she has taken the notion St. Regis won’t like it, and runs around hiding her papers when Pierre or Sinclair are in the house. Women like playing at secrets. I have often observed an intelligent mind with insufficient to keep it busy will invent intrigues. I think we have found our explanation. She is buying Pierre’s jewels and has taken the notion she will keep it a secret. Welland must be in on it, of course—good friend of St. Clair. That explains the demand for money, the cash you saw in Sinclair’s room, and it explains the jewelry. It also explains her shortage of funds. Ties it all up right and tight.”

  “I suppose it could be that. I wager Sinclair has told St. Regis the whole thing too.”

  “For a certainty. I’ll do a gentle quizzing of your aunt, if you like, to confirm our suspicions. I hope you have set your mind at rest. Let me know if you come across anything puzzling. You came here for a holiday, not a month of worrying. How are you making out with Nancy?”

  “She’s marvelous. Are you sure you don’t need her for your own use?”

  “No, she’s a spare. Got her in payment for a debt.”

  “Do you think she is capable of jumping over the toll-booth?”

  “She could jump over the moon, but I hope you will convince your aunt the testing of her theory is not necessary.”

  “You really think she could do it?” I asked, feeling an unsettling stir of interest deep within myself.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Miss Ford. She has done it. Or so the fellow who gave her to me told me. I made the grave error of telling your aunt the story, and that is where she got the idea of having her heroine do it. She wants to know if a female can repeat the performance. I doubt Nancy could make it with my weight, but yours ...”

  “I wonder.”

  “Don’t try it. Nancy is capable of it, and let that be enough for your aunt. Well, it has been done before, so no one can claim she is being inaccurate. It is a fact, or a legend at least, that Pitt the younger did a similar thing. It can be done, and there is an end to it.”

  We chatted for a while. Dr. Hill offered me tea, but instead I asked him to show me his roses, which he was happy to do, since he was rather proud of them. I thought, as I drove home, that he was probably correct about the mystery of Aunt Loo’s missing money. She did love a secret, an air of intrigue. In any case, there was a way to find out. If I could get Auntie to show me her jewels again, examine them carefully to try to discover if they were genuine, and if I could then get into Sinclair’s strongbox, I could see if his pieces were identical, or only similar. Perhaps I could tell too which set was genuine, if the design proved identical.

  The doctor was certainly correct about one thing. Women did love secrets and intrigue. My heart was walloping with happy excitement as I stabled the whisky and went back into Troy Fenners.

  Chapter Nine

  While I went for my visit to Dr. Hill, Aunt Loo was in hands with the tarot cards and Madame Franconi. The feathered room was always used for any occult session. Madame wore the same loose, black outfit. Over the next few days, there was a heavy rash of these readings. Something big was in the air, but with the door of the room firmly closed, and with my aunt puffing up like a pigeon and poohing the moment I hinted for information, I discovered little. I did wheedle her into opening her safe once more to allow me a close examination of her various heirlooms. I memorized as best I could their design. My aim was to get into the gatehouse and complete the comparison while the memory was fresh.

  I do not mean to give the impression my visit at Troy Fenners was one long ordeal of investigation and worrying. I was enjoying myself hugely. I had Pinny to tend to all my personal chores, so that my time was absolutely my own, to fritter away on pleasure.

  I had Nancy for pleasure riding, the green whisky for a change of pace, a new village to be visited, a new friend in Dr. Hill, who came so often to the house that I soon tumbled to it he was a suitor to my aunt. I had as well two gentlemen to court and to be courted by. I rather enjoyed Pierre’s foolishness. He was half-lecher to be sure, but such a small lecher that I had no fears for my safety.

  The larger lecher, Welland Sinclair, was not nearly so forthcoming, though he was by no means the recluse he first implied he was. We met by accident a few times when he was out for exercise. This exercise was taken by him on an Arab gelding that reminded me forcefully of pictures I have seen of some old Greek or Roman horse with a pair of wings growing out of its sides. You would think Diablo had wings, the way he flew over fences, streams and hedges. A magnificent animal.

  It smacks of vanity for me to say Mr. Sinclair made a point of being in the meadow on Diablo each afternoon, after finding me there once. It smacks of man-chasing for me to have returned each day myself at the appropriate hour. I accept the vanity, but the only reason I was chasing him was to get into his gatehouse, and eventually into his strongbox. The very sight of his green glasses got my back up. One feels she is being spied upon, to be on display without
getting a fair chance of reading her companion’s thoughts, through his eyes. I tried to damp down my frustration, for I saw no good to be gained from antagonizing him. Considering the many insults I had got indirectly from him through Pierre, I think I did not do too badly.

  The first time we met at the meadow, my admiration of Diablo was expressed spontaneously. “He’s a goer,” Sinclair admitted modestly. “From St. Regis’s stable. He breeds horses.”

  “I wonder he would have had this one gelded. He would have been a fine stud.”

  “Too rambunctious to ride before he was fixed. Gelding tames them down a little. You are managing to control Nancy, are you?”

  “Control her? She is not at all unmanageable. My only complaint is that she is a little lacking in liveliness.” When you pride yourself on your horsemanship, a hint that you might have difficulty controlling a tame mare is not welcome.

  “She’s big though. Not a lady’s mount. Of course you are not ...”

  It was at such moments I revolted against the green glasses. Impossible to read his expression. Was he making fun of me, or merely run into an awkward pause? “Oh, but I am a lady, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Not small, I was going to say.”

  “How observant of you. How does your work go on? Found any new ghosts lately?”

  “The problem is not the lack of them in literature, I assure you. From the ancients—Odysseus trying to embrace his mother’s ghost—to the gigantic Alfonso in Walpole’s Castle of Otranto, they have been an integral part of literature, but no serious study of them has been undertaken. I begin to reach the conclusion they are most commonly viewed as benign presences, except when they come to harass wrongdoers. Even then, they could be viewed as benign to mankind in general. Don’t you agree?”

  “I really never had the least interest in ghosts.”

  “Madame Franconi feels my interest in the beyond has sensitized me to the spirit world. She is going to hold a séance for me at the gatehouse. The usual group will meet, and try if the new location is better for my mother. I think, at times, I feel her presence there.”