In twenty-five minutes I went to the library, to slip out by the side door into the rose garden. I noticed then that Steptoe was not on duty. He had certainly gone upstairs to have a look for whatever it was Borsini wanted. I did not think it likely he would find it. Whatever it was, he had been looking for it ever since Barry's death.
I went to the kitchen and asked Brodagan to find Steptoe and see that he returned to his duties, as Mama might want him at any time.
"I know where he'll be, melady, for he spends more time in them trunks of your uncle's old clothes than the moths do. He is up to something, the twisty creature."
"Lock the attic door, Brodagan, and do not let Steptoe up there under any circumstances."
"Aye, and I'll hide the ladder in the shed, or he'll break a window and fly in like a bat."
I turned to leave, but she stopped me with a complaint. “Do you see what poor sort of a cake I have to put on the table for melady's guests? Didn't it rise up light as a cloud, but when that gossoon of a Jamie dropped a big log on the floor, the cake fell till it looks like an omelet."
The cake was a good six inches high. “It looks fine."
"Fine, is it? I am ashamed to put it on the table. It looked fine before Jamie dropped the log. There's six eggs and two cups of flour wasted. I only hope melady's guests are hungry enough to eat it."
"It's lovely."
I escaped, before she could start on the inadequacies of the cold cuts and bread, and hastened to the rose garden.
Chapter Nineteen
The night was warm and balmy. Moonbeams cast a wan light on the garden, bleaching the pink and yellow roses to white, and turning the bushes a sinister black. As if to make up for stealing the garden's color, night enhanced its perfume. The very attar of roses hung heavy on the air. On such a night did Romeo beguile his way to Juliet's balcony.
My attention was diverted by the sound of hoofbeats from the park. A dark shadow appeared over a rise of ground. It advanced swiftly, revealing itself as Weylin, mounted on his black gelding, coming to me by moonlight. A lady would have to be withered and sere not to feel a frisson of anticipation at such a sight.
I went forward to meet him. He hopped down from his horse, wearing not a romantic smile but a scowl.
"I should have given myself longer than half an hour,” he said, breathing heavily. “I had the devil of a time getting away from Borsini. What must the clunch do but go to the stable, to say good night to that spavined jade of his."
"There was no hurry,” I assured him.
He dropped onto a stone bench to recover his breath. I sat beside him and said, “The roses smell lovely, do they not?"
"I daresay. It is difficult to tell, with the scent of the stable-and on my good jacket, too.” He actually lifted his arm and sniffed at his sleeve.
This effectively destroyed the romantic mood of moonlight and roses. I said curtly, “What do you make of Borsini and Steptoe sharing a secret, Weylin? I have been pondering it this half hour, and cannot make up my mind."
"I have no proof, but I shall share my suspicions with you. I think it is Borsini who has been posing as my aunt's son, Andrew Jones."
The notion was so bizarre, and so unexpected, that I emitted a snort of laughter. “Why do you say posing as their son? Did the lawyer not have proof of it?"
"He has proof a son exists, but that is not to say the man visiting at Lindfield is the true son."
"If that man was Borsini, he would hardly assume the persona of an Italian count. You recall Andrew Jones was found in Ireland, teaching in a boys’ school."
"Teaching art," Weylin said, and wrinkled his brow, as if that proved anything.
"Barry's letter did not say art."
"One of the letters mentioned it. You did not read them all. I have been over them with a fine-tooth comb. When did Borsini turn up in Brighton?” When he answered himself, I realized it had been a rhetorical question. “Five years ago, shortly after your uncle arrived at Hernefield. Who introduced Borsini to you? Your uncle. I have weaseled this information out of Borsini. Is it not true that McShane met Borsini first?"
"Yes, it was my uncle who took Mama and me to his exhibition, but-"
He lifted an imperious hand to silence me. “But me no buts until I have finished, Zoie. I have already conned all your objections. I believe I can answer them. Here is what I think happened. Your uncle knew long ago, before he ever left Ireland, that Margaret was enceinte. He made it his business to learn that the child was put out for adoption. When he returned from India a quarter of a century later, virtually penniless-"
"He had five thousand pounds."
"That is hardly enough to retire comfortably-but it was enough to hire Borsini to pose as his and my aunt's long-lost son, and diddle her out of her fortune."
"This is a monstrous accusation!” Yet I remembered Steptoe's sly grin, and his talk of Barry and Jones being involved in criminal doings. Steptoe knew Borsini was Jones, and had gone to Parham to threaten or bargain with him.
"Hear me out! Your uncle came to England; then, hot on his heels, Count Borsini appears at Brighton. Your uncle takes you to Brighton, to his studio. Within months, Borsini suddenly transfers his business to Aldershot-hardly the art mecca of Europe! Matters are arranged in such a manner that Borsini is a regular visitor at Hernefield, where he and your uncle can connive at their scheme. Lady Margaret is an aging, lonely, well-dowered lady, eager to believe she has found her long-lost son. I doubt she conducted any strenuous inquiries into Borsini's past."
I listened in astonishment to this outlandish story. Yet there was enough truth in it to pique my interest. “You have not explained how this English bastard ended up as an Italian nobleman. Are we to believe the real Count Borsini is a part of this plot?"
"There is no Count Borsini. They got the name from a wine bottle. Borsini is as Irish as poteen. He has the typical looks of the black Irish. He knows half a dozen Italian words, and imitates the accent, to cozen the ladies. Your uncle probably did find him teaching school in Ireland. He had to come from somewhere."
"You're mad. Why would Borsini pose as an Italian at all? That was an unnecessary complication."
"That was to divert suspicion. Who would ever connect an Italian count to McShane or Lady Margaret? Borsini was in close contact with you and your mama. You would not look for a resemblance to your uncle if you believed him a foreigner."
"No, and we would not find any resemblance if we looked till the cows came home."
"He has dark hair like McShane, and blue eyes like Margaret. I don't know whether Margaret was aware of the double life of Borsini. He says he never met her, but even if he did, he would say it was a pose to allow father and son to meet without arousing suspicion."
"If my uncle conned your aunt out of her fortune, how does it come he died penniless?” I demanded.
"I can only assume he was a demmed poor manager. His Indian career supports the theory. I daresay Borsini ended up with the lot. I don't claim to know all the details. They may have had a safety box, each having keys. Whichever died first, the other got the money."
"There is not much doubt which would die first. My uncle was an old man. Why would he go to all the trouble of bilking your aunt, and go on living like a pauper, just to hand the money over to a stranger? If there is any shred of truth in this unlikely tale-and I don't believe it for a moment-then Borsini is their real son."
"That is another possibility. I had quite convinced myself of it-until Steptoe entered the picture. You recall this evening Borsini displayed an unholy eagerness to get into your late uncle's room to look for something. Something he did not wish us to see."
"And what would this item be? A deathbed confession written by my uncle?” I asked satirically.
"Hardly that, I think. More likely they had a written agreement of some sort. Or perhaps letters relating to the scheme. The possibilities are endless. The missing item might be a key to a safety box. That would explain why it is of value to Borsini, who knows where the box is, and useless to Steptoe."