Joan Smith - Delsie

“I’ll be arrested. I know it as surely as I am sitting here,” she said resignedly. “You have married me to a thief! Oh, what shall I do with all this money?”

“I suggest you return it to the vault for the time being, and keep a close hand on the key. Here, take this bag you saddled me with too.” He handed back the bag he had taken for her.

“Yes, you are eager to clean your hands of the evidence, and palm it all off on me,” she charged, accepting the bag gingerly, as though it were dirty, and stuffing it into the vault with the others. “That is twelve hundred guineas we have found today, and we haven’t even begun to look about the house yet.”

“He wouldn’t have left it sitting around the place under plants or on window ledges. He wasn’t that senile.”

“Never mind trying to put a respectable face on it, calling it senility. He was an alcoholic, which is much worse. I shall have a good look around as soon as you have left.”

“Is that an oblique hint for me to leave, and without a glass of Andrew’s excellent brandy to prepare me for the cold winds of December?” deVigne inquired.

“I hope I am not so uncivil. Let us go into the saloon, where I endeavor to keep a few twigs smoldering to ward off the worst of the weather.”

DeVigne went to kick the few logs into flames, while the widow fetched the decanter and one glass. She had no taste for the strong beverage. When she returned, deVigne sat very much at his ease, fingering a bolt of black crepe she had bought that morning.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass. “May I make a suggestion? I cannot speak for others, but for myself, I like a very small glass of brandy, not a brimming vessel. I can’t drink the half of this, and it is a shame to waste it.” He carefully tossed half a glass into the fire, where it flared into leaping flames, blue and green.

“How lovely!” Delsie exclaimed, smiling at the show. “Now I know something useful to do with that dreadful drink.”

“Wastrel! If you discover a hogshead of the stuff you don’t want, I’ll take it off your hands.” He turned back to the materials on the sofa beside him. “Pity you must be confined to black for a year. You would look well in brighter colors,” he mentioned, examining her face, as though selecting his preferred shade.

She felt a sudden warmth at the personal tone the conversation was taking. “I am used to black,” she answered dampingly.

“I have never seen you in anything but dark colors.”

“I didn’t begin wearing black till after my mother’s death. I was obliged to dress somberly when I worked at St. Mary’s. Now, of course, I am a widow, and when they put me in Bridewell for possessing stolen money, I daresay I shall have to wear black there too.”

“I shall use my influence to have you transported if you prefer it, ma’am,” he offered kindly.

“I knew I might depend on you to do the right thing by me, so caring as you have been for my every comfort! Pray make it America, and not Australia. I think I would prefer even wild Indians to the sultry climate that prevails in the latter.”

“You may be sure I shall do all in my power to ease your shipment to America. Plead for the widow, like the Good Book says. I’ll see if I can’t get you isolated from the murderers and the less desirable of the criminal element. But seriously, where could he regularly steal such a sum? One would think even the most simple-minded of victims would tumble to it after a couple of times, and take some precautions to prevent ten or twelve repetitions.”

“What was the one bag doing in the orchard, that is what I cannot fathom.”

“Right in the orchard was it, or at the edge?”

“In the middle, under one of those little runted trees. Why are those two smaller than the others? Do you know?”

“I believe Sir Harold told me, after I returned from a season in London one year, that two trees had died, and Andrew replaced them. It is not unusual to lose a tree. I have a couple of smaller ones in my own orchard, but they never produce gold, only apples.”

“If that ingenious husband of mine has invented a means of turning apples to gold, it is a pity the secret died with him. Bobbie calls them the pixie trees, and says they are more valuable than all the others put together. Is it usual for a smaller tree to have a better yield?”

“No, it is some nonsense they’ve been filling her head with. I wouldn’t encourage her to believe that ignorant sort of superstition.”

Again the widow bristled. “I have not been filling her head with superstition, milord. It is Mrs. Bristcombe. I am trying to discourage the idea of pixies.”

“Sorry again, cousin. Why is it I invariably raise your hackles?-and I am fairly walking on eggs, too. You are very sensitive, I think?”

“Perhaps it is rather that you are insensitive,” she replied, and felt she had gained a point, though it was a somewhat arbitrary charge.

“Let us hope that under your tutelage I shall become more finely attuned to your sensibilities, ma’am. Jane is kind enough to tell me I am a biddable fellow, and we are all, we bachelors, more amenable to being led by a pretty young lady than anyone else.”

Delsie’s eyes widened at this leading statement, but before she could give voice to any objection, he spoke on calmly. “No, don’t try to quell me with one of your schoolteacher’s scowls. I have been out of the schoolroom a good many years. And never had such a delightful tutor when I was in it either,” he finished with a little suggestion of a smile. Then he immediately arose. “I have a distinct sensation I should take my leave, before the teacher brings out her ruler to slap my knuckles.”

As he entered the hallway, Bristcombe lounged in through the front door, wearing shabby clothing and with his face not shaved.

“Ah, the mysterious vanishing butler!” deVigne said ironically, raking the man from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the incipient beard, the muddied boots. “Mrs. Grayshott has been wondering where you keep yourself these days, Bristcombe. When a lady pays a good sum for a servant’s time, she expects him to perform his duties. You do not appear to serve as a butler in this establishment. At least one hopes it was not your intention to show me the door in that getup. From the jungle at the front door it is clear you have not turned gardener. May one inquire how you do manage to fill your days?”

“I’ve been getting wood,” he said, though he carried no wood with him.

“Mrs. Grayshott will be happy to hear it. While we catch a glimpse of you, there are a few points that want mentioning. You will leave lights burning for Mrs. Grayshott when she is out in the evenings, and remain up and about till she is safely returned, after which you will lock up carefully. Do you understand?” he asked, in a polite tone that carried an unmistakable threat.

“Yes, milord,” Bristcombe mumbled sulkily.

“Good. Otherwise it will be necessary to find servants who know their duties.”

DeVigne was not chided by so much as a glance for his interference on this occasion. Delsie was happy to have the unpleasant chore of a scolding done for her. DeVigne took his leave, and Bristcombe came into the saloon after Mrs. Grayshott.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Grayshott, but me and the missus would like to go visiting my folks tomorrow. Just five miles down the road past the village. Sunday was our regular day off when the master was alive.”

“By all means, go ahead.” And what a relief to be rid of you, she added to herself.

“We’ll go after your luncheon and be back by dark, or soon after. I’ll be here to lock up for the night, and leave the lights on for you and all,” he added in quite a humble tone.

She was half pleased and half angered that the baron’s brief lecture to Bristcombe had proved so efficacious, when she had been wrangling to less avail with the wife for two days. She took her purchases upstairs and spent an agreeable hour going through fashion books choosing patterns for her new gowns. Next she went to the escritoire and wrote the notes to the village girls she wished to come to her. She would send them into the village with a servant. The recipients would not appreciate having to frank them. This done, she began sorting through the desk to discard those items belonging to her predecessor that were now useless.

She debated for five minutes whether to keep or discard the printed stationery bearing the name Mrs. Grayshott. Her inclination was to throw it into the grate and burn it up as fast as she could, so much did she dislike the name, but in the end thrift overcame inclination, and she kept it for rough notes and lists. As she reassembled the drawers to her own convenience, she recalled Bobbie mentioning a secret panel at the back of one. Worked with a button, she had said. She examined drawers for buttons, and found, cleverly concealed on the underside of the top drawer, a little button. When she pushed it, a soft click was heard, and the back panel of the drawer fell forward to reveal another canvas bag. “Oh, no!” she moaned softly to herself, pulling it out. No counting was necessary. She was becoming very familiar with the weight of a hundred gold guineas.

News of her latest discovery was brought to her relatives as soon as she was seated in Lady Jane’s cozy saloon with a glass of sherry in her hand that evening. Jane was enthralled, and confirmed on the spot she would go to the Cottage the very next day to help her conduct a thorough search, from attics to cellars.

“From attic to kitchens,” Delsie corrected. “Any gold stashed in the cellars may remain there.”

“My dear, that is the likeliest place to have put it,” Jane pointed out.

“I saw black beetles in the kitchen. There would certainly be rats in the cellars. I shan’t go near them,” she stated firmly.