Gather Ye Rosebuds by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

actually tell me why he had been released from Parham. Nothing was more likely to vex Lord Weylin than tampering with his porcelains. “Two weeks, Steptoe,” I said, and turned to leave, happy to put the unpleasant incident behind me.
    “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, miss,” he said, with a nasty smile in his voice. I turned and looked a question at him. “I’ve a mate at Tunbridge Wells,” he said.
    “What of it?”
    “I go there on my holidays and days off. Interesting, what you see at Tunbridge.”
    “If you have something to say, Steptoe, say it.”
    “I’m not one to go rashly hurling accusations, like some. But I know what I saw at Tunbridge, and I know who I saw—the weekend Lady Margaret’s necklace was stolen.”
    I felt my body stiffen at his words. “Are you referring to my uncle?”
    His lips drew into a cagey grin. “Will you still be wanting me to leave, miss?”
    “There will be no salary increase,” I said, and left on that ambiguous speech.
    Naturally I darted straight down to the saloon to tell Mama what had happened.
    Mama paled visibly. “He’ll tell the world Barry was there when the necklace was stolen! Do you think it is true, Zoie?”
    “Barry had the necklace. Lord Weylin asked whether I was certain Uncle did not go to Tunbridge. We don’t really know where he went. We have only his word for it.”
    “My own brother, a common thief!”
    What bothered me more was what Lord Weylin would say if Steptoe told him. It was intolerable to be in the clutches of a creature like Steptoe. I had been looking forward to Borsini’s visit, but this new development robbed it of all pleasure.
    I discussed the matter with Mama over lunch, and we decided we must go over all Barry’s papers to see if we could find any evidence of his having been at either London or Tunbridge Wells. He might have receipts from hotels, or his bankbook might turn up interesting sums. The deposits should be no more than his pension from John Company. If larger deposits appeared, we would know the worst. We also hoped to discover what he had done with his ill-got gains, for when he died, his total estate of thirty-nine pounds went to Mama.
    I wrote to Borsini, putting off his visit, and spent the afternoon in the attic with Mama, rooting through boxes of old letters and receipts. There was nothing to indicate any untoward doings. The recent bankbooks held only a record of the quarterly pension deposits. Uncle took nearly the whole sum out as soon as it went in. He kept a running balance in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. Whatever he spent the rest on, he must have paid cash.
    Taking into account the small sum Mama took from him for room and board, though, he seemed to have spent a great deal of money. He did not indulge himself in a fancy wardrobe. He had a couple of decent blue jackets, one good evening suit, and one old-fashioned black suit that he never wore. It was quite ancient. He did not set up a carriage, or even a hack. On the few occasions when he rode, he borrowed my mount. He was not the sort to spend his nights in the taverns, or eat meals out. Mama thought it was the rumors of his Indian misadventure with the account books that kept him to himself. He felt it keenly.
    Mama had perched on the edge of a trunk. She called, “Look at this, Zoie. This is curious.” I went to see what had caught her interest. It was a bankbook dating back to the time of Barry’s arrival at Hernefield. “He came home with five thousand pounds! It was withdrawn from the bank the week after he got here. What did he do with it?”
    I stared at the crabbed entries, counting the zeroes to make sure it was five thousand, and not five hundred, or fifty thousand. Nothing seemed impossible, but it was indeed five thousand. We puzzled over it awhile, until a dreadful apprehension began to form.
    “Was he paying someone off, being held to ransom?” Mama suggested.
    “Steptoe!” I exclaimed.
    “Steptoe was still with the