Lure of the Falcon Page 12

  'Bats! '

  'You're not superstitious about them getting in your hair, are you?' He was laughing at her, and she stiffened, trying to subdue the panic that had been instilled by callous young brothers so many years ago that it would never really leave her. 'Your curls are too short to get entangled,' he teased. 'And anyway, I thought you weren't afraid of the dark?'

  'I'm not,' she protested, 'it's the beasties that fly about in it I don't like. Oh, not him,' as an owl whoo-hooed close by, 'he's got business of his own to attend to. It's the flittermice I don't like,' she used the old country name, and ducked hastily as a tiny black rag of a creature glided by alarmingly close.

  'You really are bothered, aren't you?' as she shrank close against him, feeling foolish but unable to quite subdue her irrational fear. 'Don't worry, I'll make sure they don't carry you off.' He put his arms about her and drew her against him. For a second he held her, comfortingly, impersonally, and then without warning the

  feel of his arms changed. He drew in a hard breath and his hold became fiercely urgent, crushing her against him, taking her breath, and when she opened startled lips to speak, closing them with the pressure of his own. For a brief, unresisting moment Wyn responded, unable to help herself, and then from near the house the terrier barked, sharply demanding to know who was about. The sound acted like a douche of cold water in her face. She drew away from him, panting, breathless, pushing both her hands against his chest to thrust herself away from him.

  'Don't—you mustn't—' It was inarticulate, but it was all she could manage. He belonged to Diane. He must not play with her own affections, she could not bear the pain. Pushing harder against him, she staggered free, putting her hands up to cover her cheeks that the darkness hid from him anyway.

  'Mustn't kiss you? Why not?' His voice grated angrily. 'Don't you like being kissed? Or is that Val's prerogative?' His voice followed her harshly as she spun away from him, and turning, fled for the sanctuary of the house.

  Blue shadows marked her eyes with sooty fingers as she set about cataloguing a fresh room the next morning, listless after a night in which her troubled mind, and equally troubled heart, refused to let her rest.

  'I've had a trestle set up, and all the rest of the silver put on it for you, miss. I thought it might make it easier, like,' Nanny told her, and Wyn thanked her gratefully. If she spent the day cataloguing silver, she would not need Russell's help to lift down pictures, she could work on her own. 'That's all the stuff from the

  butler's pantry,' her helpmate told her, and Wyn gasped. The trestle table looked like a Show judge's nightmare, it positively groaned with silver cups, porringers, tureens, and goblets of every description.

  'The Tylar men have always been keen on horses,' Nanny offered the information proudly. 'A lot of these are racing trophies from days gone by,' she confirmed Wyn's suspicions.

  'What a collection ! ' Apart from the bona fide articles of tableware from the butler's pantry, the sporting prizes alone represented a small fortune. There was even a pair of swords, their handles beautifully chased and inscribed with the name of the winner of the race. 'Grange Star, owner Thomas Tylar of Tylar Grange,' Wyn read the inscription out loud. The date was .

  'All that fancy work's going to take a terrible lot of cleaning.' Nanny sounded less than enthusiastic as she viewed the ornamentation.

  'Not really,' Wyn told her cheerfully. 'You don't have to use silver polish and a brush anymore,' she chased some of the gloom from her face. 'There's a modern method that's quick and simple,' she comforted her, 'and a good deal cleaner. No messy fingers afterwards. I'll show you,' she promised.

  I'll bring you some of my special shortbread with your mid-morning coffee,' the older woman rewarded her, and Wyn chuckled as she set to work, beginning to feel better after the friendly encounter. She need not meet Russell until lunch time, and even then with a bit of luck he might decide to lunch out.

  Her list and estimated values grew steadily longer, and she became absorbed as the morning wore on until the promised treat with her coffee took her by surprise,

  and she realised that for the last hour she had not even thought about the owner of Tylar Grange. If, indeed, he was the owner. She had not relaxed her vigil so far as the will was concerned, but the smaller items of silver tableware would make dubious hiding places for such a document, and after her tray had been removed she started on the larger stuff.

  A punchbowl was nearest to her hand and she picked it up. Ornately decorated, it was another racing trophy, but this time there was no date on the inscription, an omission that was unusual in such a piece. Russell had inherited his ancestors' love of horses, she mused, even if Val hadn't. But to carry on the line it only needed one in any generation, and if all went well the property would still go to the one most interested in it. She searched for the hallmark. Every piece she had touched in the house so far was 'signed' silver of the finest quality. She found the tiny assay stamp, which told her the date and where it had been made. It was on the base of the bowl, and automatically she breathed on it, as she had done on all the other pieces she examined. Almost in the same movement she reached out for the soft duster on the table beside her, to rub the clouded spot bright again. A faint line at the side of the hallmark arrested her hand, and she frowned, looking at it more closely. As the mist of her breath on the silvei faded, so did the mark. To Wyn's keen eyesight it was still faintly discernible, but to anyone who did not know exactly what they were looking for, it would probably be unnoticeable. She breathed on it again, harder this time, a prolonged puff that deeply clouded the surface, which she tipped towards her, leaning it so that the full light from the windows fell

  on it, the better to see. To her trained eyes the line was definite enough, and it matched the line that creased her forehead.

  `If you scowl at it like that you'll melt it

  She was so absorbed she did not even start when Russell spoke from just behind her. Her whole attention was concentrated on her work. She spared him a quick glance, but it was the impersonal look of a professional, armoured by her task against personal feelings.

  `Come and look.' She beckoned him closer, undisturbed for once by his nearness as he bent over her, his head close to hers.

  `Is something wrong?' His frown matched hers, but this time it was born of curiosity and not anger.

  `The hallmark's been faked.' She made no attempt to cushion the information, the evidence was there before his eyes for him to judge for himself.

  `D'you mean someone's forged an assay stamp, and ...?'

  `No, the stamp's genuine enough,' she told him, 'but it doesn't belong to this punchbowl. I'd say the assay mark that was on this piece originally was cleverly removed, and this mark,' she pointed to the small stamp, 'has been taken from something smaller and more insignificant than a punch bowl, and grafted on to the larger piece. Faking isn't unknown to the trade,' she smiled faintly. 'That's why people employ an expert, to make sure it's all genuine,' she reminded him drily.

  'I don't see how you can tell.' Diane bent her head beside Russell, she must have followed him into the room unnoticed, and Wyn looked up at her indifferently.

  'If you breathe hard on the metal,' she suited action

  to her words, 'you can see where the new hallmark has been grafted on. The line of the joint shows up faintly —there ...'

  'I can't see ...' Diane frowned.

  'I can, -which is all that counts,' Wyn retorted brusquely.

  'I can see it. It's very faint.' Russell traced the line with his fingernail. 'You can just see where it's been soldered in—oh, it's disappeared,' as the haze cleared from the surface. 'It's clever,' he commented interestedly. 'Whoever did that knew how to use his tools.'

  'He'll do the job so you won't even detect a join.' Russell's earlier description of Val's welding prowess returned to trouble Wyn. The join on the punchbowl did not look all that old. It was difficult to tell. According to what Louise had told her, the family had been in re
sidence at the Grange for over three months now.

  'Powered flying's expensive. You've no idea how the charges mount up ...'

  It couldn't be Val. She refused to let her mind even dwell on the possibility. Borrowing his brother's petrol was one thing, he had intended to replace it the moment he got his next allowance. But faking hallmarks on the family silver—no, that just wasn't Val. Or was it? She liked the boy, but she didn't know him all that well, really.

  'I don't see that one hallmark's much different from another,' Diane shrugged indifferently. 'Why all the fuss?'

  'I should say the bowl is at least a hundred years younger than the assay mark suggests,' Wyn addressed

  Russell, ignoring the other girl. 'That makes it a good deal less valuable, and having a faked hallmark will detract from its worth still more.' She pencilled it in on her list, and after a brief moment's hesitation put a figure beside it. 'I'll check this with Bill Stapleton, but I don't think it's worth anymore.'

  'It must be worth a lot more than that,' Diane butted in angrily. 'A piece this size—why, it'd be worth twice that much, even melted down.'

  'I didn't know you were an expert on silver,' Wyn said evenly.

  `I'm not.' Her bluster faded as Wyn faced her squarely. 'But any idiot can see ...'

  'If you think I'm an idiot,' Wyn turned to Russell, putting faint, cold emphasis on the 'you', 'you're free to seek other advice,' she reminded him, refusing to acknowledge Diane's assumption of the right to even criticise her, let alone interfere. She was not prepared to tolerate any interference where her work was concerned. 'If you don't want to keep the piece, there's always a ready market for this kind of thing,' she added, deliberately keeping her tone brisk and businesslike. `Hotels and restaurants are always willing to take anything that looks the part, particularly those that are converted country houses, and they're not particular whether the sideboard silver is genuine or not. Generally, they prefer it not to be,' she told him, 'the stuff is less costly to buy, and to insure afterwards, and it doesn't attract the attention of thieves. Bill Stapleton would take it off your hands for you, if you wished,' she added indifferently, and turned back to the table to get on with her task.

  'That's a clever manoeuvre,' Diane sneered. 'You tell

  Russell the thing's a fake, then offer to take it off his hands. He believes you, and you get a huge piece of silver for next to nothing. No wonder antique dealers get rich, on that sort of profit,' she snapped accusingly.

  `How dare you!' Wyn jumped to her feet furiously,

  Russell

  and stooped with equal haste to prevent the silver punchbowl from rolling to the edge of the table, and on to the floor. She did not want to lose face by letting it fall and dent itself, now. She pushed it back on to the table with the rest of the silverware, resisting an almost overpowering impulse to hurl it at the girl's sneering face.

  'Diane's only joking,' Russell intervened hastily, and Wyn turned on him, her eyes snapping.

  'I don't regard it as a joke,' she cried angrily. 'Accusations like that are actionable,' she flared, and Diane paled.

  'I didn't mean ...' she faltered, taken aback by the unexpected attack.

  'Well, I do mean. And I'm not joking,' Wyn refusal to relent. 'You've been insufferably rude,' she turned on her tormentor, goaded beyond endurance, and heedless of what she said, equally heedless that Russell heard her, 'and now you've openly accused me of malpractice, in front of a witness.' It was Russell's turn to look dismayed now, and he put out a restraining hand and touched her arm.

  'I say, Wyn, cool off,' he begged. 'I'm sure Diane didn't mean ...'

  'She meant exactly what she said.' All the frustration and misery that had welled up inside her during the last few days spilled over in a spate of words. 'She didn't expect me to answer back, that's all.'

  'You wouldn't ...?' Diane began, and checked, biting her lip.

  'Sue you for defamation of character?' If the other girl was squeamish about putting it into words, Wyn had no scruples now. She put it plainly to her so that there was no possible doubt of what could be the outcome of her outrageous behaviour. 'I most certainly would,' she assured her icily. 'By casting doubt on my personal integrity, you cast doubt on my firm,' she pointed out. 'I don't care what you think of me,' she gave her a look as haughty as any that she herself had received from Diane, 'but I do care about the firm's good name. And so do Bill Stapleton and his father,' she added meaningly.

  'I'm sorry ...' Diane looked thoroughly frightened now, seeing. that Wyn was in deadly earnest.

  'Won't you reconsider, Wyn?' Russell looked deeply disturbed, and for a moment Wyn's heart smote her. As if he hadn't got trouble enough, without this storm blowing up and making things worse, she thought wretchedly.

  'I'll do nothing for the moment.' She spoke more quietly, keeping a tight control of her anger. It was a costly effort, her own face was as white as Russell's stallion, and the blue shadows under her eyes even more deeply marked than they had been when she first got up, but her chin was high, and the glint of battle shone in her eyes. 'But since I've been here I've stood the brunt of Diane's rudeness, as well as her mischievous behaviour that could have cost me my life,' she reminded him' bluntly, and had the satisfaction of hearing Diane's sharp intake of breath behind her. 'I came here to do a job, and I expect to be allowed to do

  it without hindrance,' she pointed out. 'It's up to you to see that I have the facilities to work in peace, and without interference.' She gave no quarter to Russell either. It was now or never. If he let Diane get away with this, Wyn felt she would have no alternative but to pack her bags and leave. And wearily she acknowledged that she did not want to do that. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to remain at the Grange and find the will, to ensure Russell's future if it was in her power, even if that future was to be spent with Diane.

  `I'll see that you're not disturbed again.' Russell's face was as grim as his voice. In future, Diane,' he turned on the girl, and his voice was steely, 'when you come to the Grange, kindly remain in the drawing room, unless I'm with you.'

  `But I've had the run of the house,' she protested, flushing to the roots of her hair.

  `From now on, consider yourself tethered,' he advised her drily. `Do you understand? Well?' As she remained mutinously silent, his voice rose a fraction, and she nodded hastily.

  `Oh well, I suppose I'll have to—while she's here,' she tossed her head in Wyn's direction.

  `See that you do,' he advised her tightly. 'I don't want to forbid you the house ... yes, what is it, Benny?' as the Corporal clattered along the hall and burst in on them in evident distress.

  'Sorry to come into the house after you, Major,' he apologised, with the nicety of manners that Wyn had liked him for from the start. It was a pity that Diane didn't cease despising him and copy his natural good breeding, she thought caustically. 'I couldn't see Nanny

  to come and find you, and I daren't wait. The mare's foaling,' he said breathlessly, 'and she's in trouble.' 'Have you phoned the vet?'

  'I didn't stop, sir. I thought I'd come and tell you first, then if you'd phone I could go back to the mare.' He stood poised impatiently at the doorway, and Russell waved him away, his hand already reaching out for the receiver.

  'On your way, I'll ring through and then come and join you.' His fingers drummed impatiently on the telephone table as he waited, then he straightened. 'Is Mr Barlow in? Tylar here, the Grange,' he said hurriedly. 'D'you think you can contact him? Good, as soon as possible if you will.' He explained briefly what the trouble was, and rang off. 'We'll have to do the best we can,' he spoke worriedly. 'The vet's gone over to Harry Williams' place to attend one of his cows.' He came over to where the two girls still stood. 'Diane, come with me,' he commanded.

  'What, to the stables?' She looked at him incredulously. 'You're mistaken if you think I'm going to help you with the mare,' she told him bluntly. 'Leave that to the groom, he's paid for it.'

  'Where are you goin
g, then?' Russell did not intend she should break his promise, evidently.

  'Home, where do you think?' she snapped. 'If you insist on getting mixed up in that messy business in the stables, I'm not going to be confined to the drawing room like a criminal until you've finished. You could be hours.' She stalked out of the door ahead of Russell, and Wyn stood for a moment in the empty room, letting the quietness seep in. Now that the unpleasant scene was over, she realised she was trembling. She was

  not used to rows, and discovered she did not like them. Poor Russell! She hoped the mare and foal would be all right. 'She's in trouble,' Benny had said, but he didn't specify what. It would be a tragedy if Russell were to lose his first foal by Pendelico. The thought galvanised her into action.

  'Nanny?' She invaded the kitchen quarters. 'Sorry to barge in, but they'll want a lot of hot water down in the stable. And some soft soap, if you've got it. Quickly ! ' She explained the reason why, and soon the elderly woman had produced a tin of soft soap from the depths of a cupboard while Wyn got a couple of kettles and three saucepans all boiling on the big cooker at once.

  'There's a galvanised bucket here, miss.' The nurse produced one, bustling with eagerness to help. Russell could not complain about the co-operation he received from his household, thought Wyn gratefully. They worked like a smoothly running team. If only she could join them ... She thrust the thought aside, pouring boiling water into the bucket and adding enough cold to make it bearable.

  'I'll take this on down to the stable, and then come back for more.'

  'I'll get some more on the boil while you're gone. Oh, miss,' Nanny touched Wyn's arm, 'I do hope he gets this foal all right. It means such a lot to him.'

  'We'll do what we can to make sure he does,' Wyn assured her, with a cheerfulness that she did not feel. Corporal Benny was not a man to panic, and by the time the vet arrived his services might be too late.