The Moonless Night (15 page)

“What did he say exactly?” Benson asked, his eyes starting with excitement.

“Something about the laws not being used during times of war. A quotation from Cicero, he said. Is it not a great coincidence?”

“That’s all he said? Nothing about Cicero actually being here?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I don’t remember the Latin, but it was only with reference to some quotation. I nearly fell off the chair when he said it.”

“That pretty well clinches it then,” David decided. “Had my suspicions about Sanford all along. Sending out all those letters and so on. He’s Cicero.”

“Sanford would never involve himself in such a risky business,” Benson disagreed.

“In it up to his neck, Ev,” David pointed out. He was fast coming to consider himself an equal partner. “Making up to Monet, trying to cut our chain, bringing down his yacht. Plain as the nose on your face.”

“It does come to seem a possibility,” Benson allowed uncertainly.

“Well then, he must have the ten thousand pounds,” Marie pointed out.

“He’d never miss it. Very wealthy,” Benson said, falling into line with his pupils.

“We’ve got to get into his room and find out,” David said, his blood warming to the delightful task. So much more worthy of him than sitting at the telescope.

“He's there now, writing letters to the newspaper,” Marie reminded them. “It will have to be tonight.”

“You distract him for us, Sis,” David directed. “Make up to him a bit and see what else you can find out.”

“It is unfair Sanford should be so generously rewarded for his dealings,” Benson said, with a little jealous flicker of the eyes towards Marie.

She read volumes into it. “I'll direct some gentle hints about Cicero,” she decided.

“Don’t make it too clear we’re onto him,” David warned.

“Oh no, I'll be as subtle as anything.”

A course of action decided upon, the gentlemen then forgot all about Cicero, and spoke of a ride before dinner. Marie went to the study to bone up on Cicero, that she be not totally unprepared to discuss him with the present-day Cicero. A dusty volume, all in Latin, was her only finding, but she brushed it off and took it with her to ponder over unintelligible words.

Chapter 10

There were guests to dinner that day, the Hopkinses, owners of one of the yachts harbored at Bolt Hall, and signers of the petition. No mention was made publicly of the depths to which Miss Boltwood had sunk in accompanying their guest to Mr. Hazy’s house, but the name arose and was heaped with contumely. After the taking of port, David and Benson did not return to the saloon. The others were told by Sir Henry that they had gone into Plymouth, which filled Marie with regret. But she had her job to do, and walked straightway to Lord Sanford, under the pretext of seeing if he wanted a footstool.

“My ankle is recovering, thank you. We can dispense with the stool, but do please sit beside me and fan me with your great long lashes.”

She ignored this piece of impertinence. “So boring for you, having to miss the trip into Plymouth with David and Mr. Benson.”

“You can’t imagine how much it vexes me to miss out on the treat,” he replied, telling her he was in one of his foolish moods. “I’m thinking of asking your aunt for a cup of laudanum to put me out of my misery.”

“Hush, or she’ll hear you.”

“Oh but I didn’t mean permanently to extinguish this flame that flickers in my carcass. I meant only a soothing draught. You see, the pleasure of the Plymouth circus will soon be mine again. I plan to go tomorrow, incapacitated or not.”

“Still there is this long evening to be got in. Would you like me to get you something to read? Cicero, perhaps?” she suggested with an innocent stare.

“He was never one of my favorites, to tell the truth.”

“What was his philosophy? What did he write, exactly? I have just been glancing at this book by him, but it is all in Latin, and I can’t make a thing of it.”

“How odd that you should try, if you are unfamiliar with the language. You aren’t missing a thing. He wrote a great many tedious epistles to himself and his friends, along with some minor treatises, one on friendship and another on old age being particularly admired—by the critics only, you understand. Real people don’t read them.”

“That sounds very dull.” she said, frowning at the knowledge that anyone should take such an uninteresting code name. “Why is he remembered then?”

“I don’t hear him every day discussed. Why did you recommend him?”

“You mentioned him today at Hazy’s place, quoted him, and I was just curious.”

“You have no other interest in Cicero?” he asked, regarding her closely, so that she began to fear her subtlety was lacking.

“No indeed! How should I? Is he famous for something else?”

“The only other fact generally mentioned about him is that he was named Cicero due to a wart shaped like a pea on the nose of an ancestor.
Cicer
being Latin for pea. Plutarch is responsible for the story. Plutarch is a more interesting gentleman altogether than Cicero. I would highly recommend Plutarch’s
Lives
, if you are looking for something to read.”

Plutarch was of no more interest to her than a sermon on trans-substantiation. She regarded Sanford’s nose, innocent of warts, and asked, “Did any of your ancestors have a wart?”

“Very likely, but if so, it was not on the nose. I have never noticed one on either the living or the portraits of the deceased. Is your family prone to warts, Miss Boltwood? A new career for your aunt.”

“No, we haven’t any. That is, Uncle Heffernon has one on his hand, but that could have nothing to do with it.”

“With what?” Sanford asked, slightly at sea, or pretending to be. She wasn’t sure.

“With Cicero,” she answered.

“No, I shouldn't think it at all likely you will trace a family connection with a Roman who died B.C. But if you are looking into the matter, his name actually was Marcus Tullius.”

She became aware that Lord Sanford was roasting her, and quickly abandoned the subject.

“You are going to Plymouth tomorrow, you say?”

“Yes, but I sha’n’t pester you to accompany me, as I have failed to live up to my promise. I said I would entertain David tonight and let you have an hour with Benson, but they’ve both run off on you. And his little bout of
mal de mer
this morning made the sail quite useless to you. A very unsatisfactory lover, your Mr. Benson.”

“He is not my lover,” she disclaimed, but she wished he would behave more like one.

There was a canvassing for participants to play cards. Lord Sanford was drawn into the game. Biddy took up her needlework and went to sit beside Marie on the sofa. “How did you make out with Sanford at Hazy’s?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“He is extremely eligible, Henry tells me. And such a nice young man. Very proper notions. He asked me if I would have any objection to your accompanying him to see Hazy before he asked you to go. That indicates a nice regard for the civilities.”

It indicated rather to Marie that Sanford had made good his boast of bringing Biddy round his thumb. Benson, on the other hand, had sunk very low. “He is much better off than Benson,” Biddy continued. “There is something about Benson I cannot quite like. He was hinting, ever so carefully, to discover of me what your dowry is. He knows from Henry of course that it is ten thousand pounds, but he was trying to find out if you come into more from me, or some other female relatives. I dislike such a conniving rascal as that. Trying to hide his aim by mentioning some cousin or other who is interested in making a match, but it is himself wants to know.”

“He is not here to court me, Biddy.”

“Of course he is. Why else in the world do you think he is here? And we have heard a very unsettling fact about him. I don’t know just where Henry heard it, but someone told him Benson has lost his home—Oakhurst you know, a very decent property.”

“I know where he heard it! Sanford told him,” Marie said, her heart heating angrily.

“Very likely. It was well done of him to tell, if it is true. They are both from Devon—certainly Sanford would know. And another thing, Benson drinks brandy. A great deal of it. The decanter on the sideboard is nearly empty, and no one here drinks it, you know. Sanford never touches brandy. He has an excellent constitution, Sanford. He would be a good breeder. He is nearly recovered from that sprain already, and without leeching. He will have it it is my help that cured him, but I did nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps the splints and bandages were put on with more care than a mere doctor would have used... However, what I mean to say is, he would make an excellent husband for you.”

“That dull old stick, with a chin six inches long!”

“Nonsense, he is a little long-jawed, of course, but it doesn’t show when he smiles. I like him very well. I shall speak to Henry. I daresay he came here to look you over. All a faradiddle, his coming to see Boney. You don’t see him jauntering off to Plymouth three times a day like Benson and David. He would stay with his friend Hazy, if that were the case. One cannot quite like that little Whiggish streak of course, but he is young. He’ll outgrow it and turn into a sensible Tory in the end.”

The mention of Hazy and Whiggish streaks made Marie realize that this was an excellent opportunity to search Sanford’s room for gold. She’d surprise Mr. Benson and do it for him. She made an excuse to go upstairs. As she slipped along the hall to his room, she took care not to make any noise lest his valet should be listening in the next room. The door was unlocked, and she went in, carrying a lighted taper as she assumed the room was unlit during Sanford’s absence. She found no trunks or cases, though he had certainly brought some with him. He was always well turned out, and had already worn three different jackets, including his formal wear. She looked through the drawers, under the bed, in the clothes press, all without success. Then she noticed in the corner a large cardboard box—not a part of the room’s furnishings, but his own. She removed the lid, her heart quickening, to discover one good boot and one cut down the side—the result of Biddy’s ministrations. She took out the good one, then heard a sound at the door. Her heart pounding, she blew out her taper. But it was no good. Sanford entered carrying a lamp in his hand. He softly closed the door behind him and set the lamp on the dresser, looking at her with a sardonic smile on his face the whole time. For a long minute he said nothing, just looked while the smile turned to a gloating expression. “Well, well, to what do I owe the honor of this call, ma’am?”

She was speechless with embarrassment. What was there to say? “I—I was just seeing if you required anything,” she answered. “Fresh towels or—or anything,” she finished lamely.

“You ought to have given yourself a light. You must have had some trouble discovering the state of my towels in the dark. Ah, but your candle has—gone out. Allow me to assure you, my towels are quite unexceptionable. I have not been using them to clean my boots, as you apparently thought,” he added, glancing at the boot that she still held in her hand. She dropped it and looked at him in confusion.

“Now, what are you really looking for?”

“Nothing.”

He turned and slid the bolt on the door lock. “I hope it isn’t going to be necessary for me to search you? Dear me, what a precarious position you put me in. I will be expected to do the right thing by you if Miss Boltwood should happen along to check up on my towels and find me unbuttoning your gown.”

“You wouldn’t
dare!”
she gasped.

“Don’t put too much faith in your aunt’s high opinion of me. Benson put you up to this, did he?”

“Certainly not? It was my own idea.”

“Hogwash! What is it you’re trying to discover?” He advanced towards her, a menacing expression on his face. She backed up till she ran against the wall, and still he kept corning.

In a panic, she said, “I was just curious to see if you had written letters to the
Morning Chronicle
.” She knew it sounded absurd, but the truth must be concealed at all cost, whatever he thought of her.

“And posted them in my boots? I see.” He strolled slowly to the desk and lifted a sealed envelope, whose existence she had not even been aware of, with her eyes looking for a much larger piece of guilt. He examined the seal, and set it down, satisfied that it was untampered with. He regarded her fixedly, tapping the envelope against his other hand. “And had I written to the
Chronicle
?” he asked.

She hesitated, reckoning the odds that his one letter was to the newspaper. “No,” she said.

“Who did I write to?”

“I forget,” she said.

“No, Miss Boltwood. You’re lying in your teeth. We’ll have the truth now, if you please.”

“I didn’t steal anything, if that’s what you think!”

“No, I didn’t think it was money you were after, and I am wearing my diamond stud. So, what was it brought you here? I would like to conclude it was a social visit merely, but alas you knew I was belowstairs.”

Her tongue touched her lips as she tried to calculate what actual danger she was in. Under her father’s roof, he couldn’t do anything to her. “This is the last place I’d come to for agreeable company!” she said sassily.

He looked over his shoulder to the locked door, and advanced from the desk to where she stood, placing himself squarely between her and the door. “You’re not home free yet, my girl.”

“You will not quite dare to murder me in my own home, and if you have any other alternative in mind, you had better murder me, or you will find yourself facing a judge and jury.”

“It is not the custom for a peer to be sent to trial for turning an upstart over his knee and giving her a well-deserved spanking. What, did you think it was seduction I had in mind? You have a very odd notion of my preference in females. Go, before I lose my temper and box your ears,” he said, not even angry, but with a dismissing gesture, as though she were a naughty child. He unlocked the door and closed it quietly after her, then went into the next room to give his valet a tongue-lashing for not having the communicating door open, and not guarding his room.