65 A Heart Is Stolen Page 8

  Far more significant was the fact that a groom had been waiting, the front door had been opened immediately and Ivana was sitting like an elegant lady in her drawing room.

  He was quite sure that she would be far too active and busy even in her restricted life to sit doing nothing at any time of the day, yet the difficulty was how to prove it.

  When she stood calling the parakeets so that they fluttered down to her from the tree, she had made, the Marquis thought, an inerasable picture.

  Then suddenly he remembered a conversation she had with Anthony to which he had hardly listened at the time but which now came into his mind so that he found himself grasping at it almost as if it was a raft in a rough sea.

  They had been talking together as they walked back to the house after she had released the parakeets and Anthony had asked,

  “You must have practised for years, Mrs. Wadebridge, to imitate the sound they make so accurately.”

  If the Marquis remembered correctly, she had replied with a light laugh,

  “Oh, I am a good mimic.”

  He had been so preoccupied at the time, thinking of the barn and the strange Naval patterns in the courtyard that it had been of no particular consequence for him.

  Now he reckoned that the call of the parakeet was a deep note and wondered whether it would be possible for a woman who was a mimic to imitate a man’s deep voice?

  Then he told himself that this was too far-fetched even for his credibility. It must be impossible for anyone so feminine and indeed so beautiful as Ivana Wadebridge to disguise herself as a highwayman.

  But the thought persisted, although he decided in the morning light, as his idea seemed even more exaggerated than it had in the dark, that he would not mention what he had been thinking to Anthony.

  At breakfast, as Anthony helped himself liberally to a dish of kidneys and fresh mushrooms, he said,

  “What excitements have you planned for today? More sleuthing? I am beginning to acquire an aptitude for it.”

  The Marquis merely smiled and Anthony continued,

  “As far as I am concerned I would like to visit Flagstaff Manor again and talk to the dark blue-eyed beauty I find so infinitely beguiling.”

  The Marquis was about to agree that he too wished to see Ivana again when he realised that Travers was in the room.

  “I have a different plan – ” he began, only to be interrupted by Anthony who said,

  “Don’t take up that prosaic attitude again, Justin.”

  He looked up as he spoke and saw that the Marquis was frowning at him.

  “What is upsetting you?” he asked, only to realise that he was being indiscreet and relapsed into silence.

  They then talked of horses and what had been in yesterday’s newspapers, which only arrived at Heathcliffe late in the afternoon as a groom had to fetch them from Brighton.

  When the two men moved from the dining room into the library, Anthony asked,

  “What is going on? Why were you frowning at me and making secret signs during breakfast?”

  The Marquis glanced to see if the door was shut behind him and then he said,

  “Travers was in the room.”

  “I gathered after you had indicated I was putting my foot in it that was the reason you were being so mysterious,” Anthony said, “but why? What has Travers to do with it?”

  “I have no reason to think it was he who sent a message to Flagstaff Manor yesterday when we were on our way to call there. In fact I am almost certain it was Markham. But if we do pay the blue-eyed beauty a visit, I wish to do so without her being forewarned.”

  “Good Heavens, Justin, this really is cloak and dagger stuff!” Anthony jeered. “If you ask me, you are barking up the wrong tree. I am quite certain that ‘Blue Eyes’ is as pure as driven snow and as guileless as a child.”

  “She has a husband,” the Marquis said dryly, “a servant who leaves a wooden leg in the garden and someone who sleeps in the locked barn.”

  “How do you know that?” Anthony asked almost truculently.

  “There was a light in the window when we left there last night.”

  “You did not tell me.”

  “I was thinking about it, wondering why Ivana should have lied, wondering what exactly she is hiding.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Anthony said,

  “You are beginning to intrigue me, Justin, and by the way I think you owe me ten guineas.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as far as I am concerned she gave you no clues last night and that was our bet.”

  The Marquis sighed.

  “I suppose I shall have to admit that you are right. At the same time I think she was particularly adroit at avoiding committing herself on several questions I asked her.”

  “If later you can prove that I was not entitled to it, I can pay you back,” Anthony offered, “but in the meantime, hand over what you owe me.”

  The Marquis smiled as he sat down at his writing table.

  “You will take an I.O.U?”

  “I suppose I must trust you,” Anthony joked.

  The Marquis took the piece of paper on which he had written the sum he owed his friend and, folding it with a practised hand into a paper dart, threw it across the room at him.

  “Would you like to bet on an outside chance?” he asked.

  “What is it?” Anthony questioned.

  “That either Ivana, or perhaps her husband, is the highwayman we are seeking!”

  Anthony’s mouth gaped open in sheer astonishment. Then he replied,

  “Now you are really pulling my leg!”

  “No, I am serious,” the Marquis contradicted. “Do you remember yesterday she told you that she was a mimic? And who is she hiding in the barn – her husband?”

  “Why on earth should she be doing that?”

  “I have no idea, unless he is a deserter from the Navy.”

  “That does not sound much like a Wadebridge to me with all their sea-faring traditions.”

  “It would be all the more reason if he was in trouble.”

  “Yes, of course. I see your point, but it seems very farfetched. So are the parakeets, a light in the barn which we were told was locked, a highwayman walking into the dining room when we are at dinner and Ivana Wadebridge herself, if it comes to that.”

  Anthony threw up his hands.

  “I agree. The whole scenario is unreal, preposterous and could only happen in our dreams.”

  Without speaking, the Marquis glanced towards the empty cabinet that had held his father’s snuffboxes.

  “All right,” Anthony capitulated. “You win! But because I refuse to believe anything you tell me, I bet you fifty pounds that Ivana Wadebridge is not a highwayman, although I am not sure I can say the same about her husband.”

  “Agreed,” the Marquis said, “and we will take another step forward in our investigations.”

  “Where to?”

  “I want to visit Bateman who was the butler at Heathcliffe for at least twenty-five years and who was here on my last visit.”

  “Very well,” Anthony said. “Have you ordered the horses?”

  “They should be at the door,” the Marquis replied.

  *

  They rode through the Park, taking the longest way to the village so that they could gallop and take the first crispness out of their mounts.

  As they rode between the trees, they disturbed the spotted deer lying in the shade. The Marquis realised the herds had increased enormously since his father’s day and thought that he must speak to the gamekeepers about them.

  There were really a great many people he should have seen since he arrived had he not been so busy trying to track down the highwayman.

  When he thought about it, he realised that he should have congratulated the Head Gardener on the gardens, talked to his gamekeepers and foresters and had a report on the conditions of the farms.

  He was surprised that Markham had not suggested it to him, bu
t he supposed the agent was afraid that he might find it boring and was anxious for him to enjoy himself at Heathcliffe after an absence of so many years rather than immediately having to face domestic problems.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the Marquis thought, ‘it is something I must do and, as Anthony and I will not be leaving quickly, there is plenty of time.’

  They trotted through the gates outside which began the small rather straggly village.

  Most of the houses with their attractive thatched roofs had been built by the late Marquis for pensioners. They all had small gardens filled with flowers and were clustered round the grey stone Norman Church which had stood there long before Heathcliffe was built.

  It struck the Marquis that the tombstones that he had noticed when he used to accompany his grandfather to Church on Sundays must have been erected by the Wadebridges.

  It interested him to think that that family had been there long before the Veryans, who, almost like usurpers, had taken over their land and the prestige of being the most important people in the vicinity.

  It did not surprise him that the old Admiral hated his father and he wondered what Ivana felt about him personally. He was almost certain, although he could not be sure, that her feelings were those of fear rather than of dislike.

  He saw a man walking in the village and realised from his appearance he was a Clergyman.

  The Marquis drew up his horse beside him.

  “Are you the Vicar of this Parish?” he enquired.

  The Cleric looked up with some surprise. Then the expression of enquiry on his face changed to one of recognition.

  “I am,” he said, “and I think you must be the Marquis of Veryan.”

  “That is correct,” the Marquis answered, “although I am surprised that you should recognise me.”

  The Vicar smiled.

  “It is not a question of recognition, my Lord,” he said. “I heard that you had arrived at Heathcliffe and you have a distinct look of your father about you.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Only in the last two years of his Lordship’s life,” the Vicar replied, “and may I say it is very pleasant to think that there is a Veryan at Heathcliffe again.”

  “Thank you, Vicar,” the Marquis answered, “I realise I have been away too long. As it happens at this moment I wish to call on Bateman who I learn has retired from my service. Can you tell me in which cottage he lives?”

  “Haytop Cottage,” the Vicar answered, pointing to the one in question, “but you will find he is not very well, poor fellow.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” the Marquis replied. “Was ill health the reason for his retirement?”

  The Vicar hesitated, then, as the Marquis waited, he said after a moment,

  “Has not Mr. Markham informed your Lordship of the exact circumstances?”

  “No,” the Marquis replied, “and I would be grateful if you would do so.”

  He dismounted as he spoke to stand by the side of the Vicar, who was a middle-aged man, his hair just beginning to turn grey.

  “I think Mr. Markham should have told you, my Lord,” the Vicar began after a moment’s hesitation, “that Bateman was drinking too much and was therefore incapable of carrying out his duties.”

  “Drinking!” the Marquis exclaimed.

  “I hope your Lordship will not think I am criticising in any way,” the Vicar said, “but quite frankly he did not have enough to do and since he was also, I understand, in charge of the cellar, the temptation was too great for him.”

  “A pity,” the Marquis remarked. “I always thought him a good man.”

  “He was,” the Vicar agreed, “but Satan, my Lord, finds mischief for idle hands.”

  The Marquis’s lips tightened and he added,

  “Haytop Cottage, you say. Well, thank you, Vicar, I am glad to have met you.”

  “And I you, my Lord,” the Vicar replied.

  The Marquis, holding his horse’s rein, moved along the road to the gate of the cottage the Vicar had indicated.

  When he reached it, he looked around and saw on the other side of the road that there were several small boys staring with admiration at the horses.

  He beckoned the tallest of them who crossed the road eagerly.

  “I want you to hold my horse,” the Marquis said. “Do you understand horses and how to be quiet and gentle with them?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Just take him by the bridle and if he becomes restless you can walk him a little way up the road as far as the Church and back again. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Seeing what the Marquis was doing, Anthony did the same and the two boys, pink with excitement were patting the horses and making a fuss of them as the Marquis and Anthony walked up the small flagged path of the black and white painted cottage.

  The door was opened by a buxom young woman of about thirty who was overwhelmed by their appearance and curtseyed awkwardly, being for the moment obviously too tongue-tied to be able to say anything.

  “I am the Marquis of Veryan and I would like to see Bateman. Are you his daughter?”

  “N-no, my Lord – his niece. I give up me position up at the ’ouse to look after ’im.”

  “You were at Heathcliffe?”

  “Aye, my Lord.”

  “I have missed your uncle since I returned. May I talk to him?

  The woman hesitated for a moment.

  “Your Lordship might find ’im somewhat changed.”

  “I understand,” the Marquis said. “Where will he be?”

  In answer the woman crossed the small kitchen and opened the door at the back of it. It led into a small but clean bedroom in which the old butler, wearing a red flannel nightshirt, was lying.

  It was hard to recognise the man who he had always thought had the somewhat pontifical look of an Archbishop.

  His face was now red and puffed, his nose swollen and both his hands and his head seemed to shake as the Marquis moved into the room.

  “’Ere’s ’is Lordship to see you, Uncle,” the woman said.

  She returned to the kitchen, leaving the Marquis and Anthony alone with Bateman.

  There were two chairs and, as the Marquis brought his nearer to the bed, he saw that the old butler’s eyes were bloodshot and was quite certain that, although he was bedridden, he had not given up his drinking habits.

  “I am sorry to see you in such a state, Bateman,” he said. “I missed you when I returned to Heathcliffe. The house does not seem the same without you.”

  “It’s kind of your Lordship to say so, my Lord,” Bateman replied. “I used to plan how I’d have everythin’ ready for your Lordship when you paid us a visit, but I were taken ill and Mr. Markham gave me this cottage.”

  He paused for a moment and then said in a resentful tone,

  “Not that it didn’t suit him to be rid of me!”

  He slurred his words slightly and the Marquis was aware that early though it was in the morning, he must have already been drinking unless it was a hangover from the night before.

  It seemed extraordinary that his niece should allow him to drink to excess when he was in fact an invalid, but the Marquis was more interested at the moment in what he had just said.

  “Why should it suit Mr. Markham to retire you?” He asked.

  “That’s somethin’ your Lordship’ll have to find out for yourself,” Bateman replied.

  “I have known you long enough, Bateman,” the Marquis said, “to know that my father trusted you as I do and I always believed that you were devoted to Heathcliffe.”

  “I thought of it as me home, my Lord,” Bateman replied, “and his late Lordship were a grand gentleman, no one can deny that.”

  “I agree with you,” the Marquis said quietly. “But what I am trying to find out is if anything went wrong after he died and why you are no longer serving me as I would like you to do.”

  “It weren’t fair, my Lord. After Cobbler and Wilkins and the othe
r two footmen went to the war, they weren’t replaced. For a while I managed on me own, but it wasn’t easy to keep things as your Lordships have wanted.”

  “Cobbler and Wilkins were not replaced?” the Marquis asked.

  “No, my Lord. They went first, then James, then Nicholson – not that he was ever much good. Had a head like a sieve, he had. I’d tried to carry on, my Lord, but ’twere too much for me.”

  “You told Mr. Markham so?”

  “Told him? Over and over again I tells him, but he didn’t want to listen.”

  There was a pause before Bateman went on,

  “He had reasons for not listenin’. I knows that but ’twere not fair on me, my Lord.”

  “What reasons did he have?” the Marquis questioned.

  He spoke sharply and then realised that it had been a mistake.

  Bateman stiffened and his confidential air vanished. There was a look in his eyes as if he remembered something and became wary.

  He pushed himself back against the pillows.

  “My nieces say I were talkin’ too much, my Lord,” he said in a different tone. “I gets muddled in me head at times. I’ve nothin’ to say against Mr. Markham. Very generous he is to me – very!”

  This was a complete change of front and the Marquis thought it best not to comment on it.

  He decided he could get no more out of Bateman and it would be unhelpful to press him.

  Instead he rose to his feet.

  “I am glad to have seen you, Bateman,” he said. “You must hurry and get well. I would like to see you back at Heathcliffe.”

  “’Tis too late, my Lord. Too late now!”

  The Marquis followed by Anthony went from the room into the kitchen where Bateman’s niece was busy at the stove.

  “I am sorry to see your uncle in such a state,” the Marquis remarked.

  She did not reply and he added,

  “Surely it is a mistake for him to have so much to drink?”

  The woman made a restless movement and averted her eyes.

  “There’s nothin’ I can do about it, my Lord.”

  “Except prevent him from having it,” the Marquis remarked. “How does he get hold of it and how can you afford what it costs?”