The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [99]
“Damn all of you, I did not murder Reverend Mathers. I did not even know that you met him in the British Museum!”
“Now, sir, ye’ll burst yer liver if ye squawk like that.”
Lord Crowley looked ready to commit murder now. He grabbed his cloak and cane from a stolid Flock and slammed out of the front door of Shugborough Hall.
“The strange thing,” Lord Beecham said thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his jaw, “is that I believe the fellow. He’s afraid. He’s really afraid.”
“But Reverend Mathers’s brother, Spenser? Old Clothhead?”
“I don’t think that’s right either, but who knows? Now, Helen, let us all have some tea and have Mr. Cave tell us what he has discovered.”
It amounted to nothing much at all. Mr. Ezra Cave prepared to take his leave to return to London an hour later. “I got my fivers in all sorts of pockets, milord, and me ears plastered against all sorts of walls wot got blokes on the other side speaking in whispers amongst themselves. Something will pop out, ye’ll see.”
After Ezra Cave had left, Spenser and Helen looked at each other, each feeling the instant pull, the drugging desire. They both held to their places. It was a close thing. They would have leapt on each other if Lord Prith hadn’t chosen that particular moment to stroll into the drawing room.
“Something I never told my little Nell here,” he said to Lord Beecham, “but if I had to describe Gerard Yorke, it would be that he was a fraud. Oh, yes, I know, he was a hero then, and everybody believed him to be Lord Nelson’s right hand. And perhaps it was true at one time. But by the time I met him in ’01, it was clear to me that he was a deceitful creature, all decked out with ribbons and braid. This letter you got from him, Helen, it is what I would call a preliminary exploration. He wants something, don’t doubt it. What he wants, I just can’t figure out. I’m sorry, Spenser, but Gerard is alive. I can smell him.
“Look to your back. If you need help slitting his bloody throat, call me. Where is Flock? Flock! Oh, there you are. I want you to rub my shoulders. All this excitement has left me stiff.”
And Lord Prith walked out of the drawing room, Flock on his heels. They heard him say, “I wonder if one could mix champagne with some sort of sweet cream and perhaps have a perfect concoction to rub into one’s shoulders?”
“Oh, dear,” Helen said. She turned bewildered eyes to Lord Beecham. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“I don’t either, but I believe it is time you and I returned to London. We need Douglas Sherbrooke. He knows everybody in the Admiralty. We have got to get to Gerard’s father, Sir John Yorke. I’ll send a message to Douglas, make sure he and Alexandra are still in London.”
Lord Beecham walked to Helen, automatically raised his hands to touch her, then immediately lowered them, and took a quick step back. “No,” he said, “no. Now, I believe that you and I should discuss what I have added to the translation on the leather scroll.”
Rather than translating word for word, Lord Beecham pulled out several sheets of foolscap from Helen’s desk drawer. “I have put together a narrative. There are still many concepts, ideas, words missing that Reverend Mathers scratched his head over. But what we have here, Helen, is the good beginnings of a story.
“No, please sit over there.” He pointed to the settee, a good eight feet distant.
She sat on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped together, all her attention focused on him. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Helen.”
26
“ ‘THERE WAS A POWERFUL magician in Africa who divined that he needed a particular boy to gain something he wanted in Persia. He used guile and deceit and managed to lure the unsuspecting boy to a hidden place in the mountains, telling him that if he did exactly as he was told he would gain riches beyond belief. He sent the boy underground to fetch him a very old lamp that was protected by powerful gods who knew the magician and wouldn’t allow him to come near, but the boy, the magician had divined,