Mrs. Sangster returned with the water. I sipped it slowly, while trying to think how I could elicit more information from her without arousing too much curiosity. She was inclined to gossip, and I said, “I believe I saw that lord's carriage-the one who was looking for his cousin. It was parked just half a block along the street."
"At his cousin's house. I pointed it out to him. Mrs. Langtree's house,” she said. “She was ever so nice. A real lady, but retiring. She did not go out much. Of course, she was only here a few times a year. Her home is in London. She came to get away from the bustle for a week or so every season."
"Did she come here all alone?” I asked.
Had Mrs. Sangster been a suspicious sort, she must have wondered at such an odd question. Fortunately, she was more interested in gossip than anything else, and answered readily.
"Oh no! She had her woman with her. Ladies of quality would not travel alone. She had that nice young nephew who used to stay with her as well, Mr. Jones. And a male servant, too. Real quality. She was ever so fond of Mr. Jones."
It was the word “nephew” that brought Weylin to mind, but a second thought told me he was not Mr. Jones, or the postmistress would have recognized him. Who could Mr. Jones be?
"Who is living in the house now?” I asked.
"No one. Mr. Jones inherited the house. He would have no use for it, which is why he has put it up for sale."
"Ah! It is for sale.” So perhaps Weylin had not actually gotten inside, but had just had a look. I had only seen him coming away from it. I knew at once how I could get into the house, though what I hoped to find was unclear.
"The estate agent is Mr. Folyot. He has his office just at the end of High Street,” Mrs. Sangster said.
I was eager to call on Mr. Folyot, and said, “I shan't take up more of your time, Mrs. Sangster. Thank you very much."
"Sorry I could not help you, Miss…?"
"Smith. Miss Smith,” I replied, and escaped.
I could not like to give my own name. Smith, the most common name in the country, popped out without thinking. Smith or Jones are the usual aliases. I thought of Mr. Jones, and wondered, was that also an alias?
I had Rafferty drive by the house Weylin had been coming out of. It was only a cottage, but a pretty one in the Tudor style, with plaster and half timber on the top floor, and brickwork below. There was a for sale sign posted. The windows were boarded up. I pulled the check string, and Rafferty drew to a stop. I peered out at overgrown grass. Well-tended roses along the border of the walk spoke of recent habitation.
While I was looking from the carriage window, a man came walking along and turned in at the house. The stuffed shoulders and pinched waist of his jacket indicated a lack of gentility. He wore his hat at a cocky angle, and had the strut of a man who thinks well of himself. He was actually holding a brass key in his hand. Mr. Folyot! I leapt out and accosted him.
"Are you the agent for this house?” I asked.
A pair of sharp, green eyes smiled at me. “That I am, madam. Are you on the lookout for a cottage hereabouts?"
"Indeed I am. Could I have a look at the inside?"
"Why not? I am about to go in and have a look around myself. You will find it a nice, snug place. The present owner had it done up over five years ago."
He unlocked the door and stepped into a perfectly dark house. “I shall just light a few lamps. I had the windows boarded up to prevent vandalism,” he explained.
When the lamps were lit, I peered around at an elegant hallway, still very dark due to the wood paneling. He led me through the saloon and dining room and library, pointing out the desirable features of the house. I had to take his word for it that the furnishings, included in the sale price, were of the quality he described, for I could scarcely see them in the gloom. My real interest was not in the house or furnishings, but anything that might suggest my uncle had been here.
After touring below, we went upstairs. All personal items had been removed. There was nothing to indicate habitation by Lady Margaret or anyone else. The dresser tops were bare, the clothespresses empty. The mysterious “nephew” must have tidied up. “Very nice,” I said to Folyot from time to time.
"Mind you don't delay too long if you're interested in buying, Miss Smith.” I was still, or again, Miss Smith. “I have another fellow coming to look at the house this very afternoon, which is why you found me here. Ah! That will be Mr. Welland now,” he said, when the door knocker sounded. He hastened along to the front door.
I had a horrible premonition who Mr. Welland would be. And indeed it was none other than Lord Weylin. It would be hard to say which of us was more shocked and embarrassed. We exchanged a long, silent look as Mr. Folyot introduced us.
"How do you do, Miss Smith,” Lord Weylin said in perfectly wooden accents.
"Good day, Mr. Welland,” I replied, and dashed out the door, with Folyot hollering after me that he would be happy to have the boards taken down to give me a better look, if I thought the house would suit me.
"Thank you. I shall let you know,” I said, and ran to the carriage. “Spring ‘em,” I called to Rafferty.
"Back to the hotel, Miss Barron?"
"Yes, as fast as you can go."
The whip snapped, and I was tossed around the seat like a pig in a poke all the way to Tunbridge Wells.
Chapter Twelve
In the depths of my embarrassment, the only thing I could think of was running away and hiding. Mama would have to sell Hernefield and move back to Ireland, where we would never have to face Lord Weylin again. He knew my uncle was a thief, that he had stolen Lady Margaret's necklace and a great deal more. When I emptied my budget to Mama back at the hotel, she was no more optimistic than myself, but more curious.
"What on earth was Lady Margaret doing at Lindfield?” she kept asking. “And with a young fellow, you say?"
"A Mr. Jones. She was calling herself Mrs. Langtree. Barry must have tumbled to it that she was up to something, and been holding her to ransom. As his thievery was never reported, at least to our knowledge, it stands to reason he was not only a thief, but worse. He ferreted out his victims’ secrets and made them pay him to keep mum. I daresay Mr. Jones was the secret."
"Do you think he was Lady Margaret's… paramour?” she said, blurting the last word out in an explosion of distaste.
A little smile seized my lips at having found some disrepute in Weylin's family to dilute the shame of my own. “Mrs. Sangster did say Mrs. Langtree was ever so fond of Mr. Jones. The name sounds like an alias."
"And she left him the cottage as well. She would not do that for no reason. The old fool took a lover half her age. Well, there is no accounting for taste."
"That was certainly foolish, but it is not indictable. We are in the worse pickle, Mama. What should we do?"
"Go home."
I wanted to, but that was a craven impulse. “If we could find Barry's money, we could pay Weylin for the necklace without mortgaging Hernefield. We must stay and try to find where he lived. Bradford said he had a cottage near Ashdown Forest. There are dozens of little villages tucked away there."
"I wager Steptoe knows more than he is telling,” Mama said. “I think it is time to bargain with him, Zoie. Oh, did I tell you he is here, in Tunbridge? I spotted him on the Pantiles this afternoon. I tried to follow him, but he moved like greased lightning. I think he was looking for us, for he popped into half a dozen hotels, and right back out again."
"He did not see you, then?"
"No, but he probably knows by now where we are staying."
"Then we have only to sit tight and he will call."
At that precise moment, a sharp rap came at our door. We both jumped an inch from our seats. I rose and strode to the door, wearing my sternest face to frighten Steptoe, flung the door open, and found myself staring at Lord Weylin.