Authors: Susan Barrie
“But, so far, not a penny for yourself?”
“No
...
not—not so far.”
The Countess clicked her tongue between her teeth. She stretched forth an imperious hand, burdened with some very dirty-looking rings.
“Give me my
jewelbox
,” she commanded. “Take the key and unlock my wardrobe and get it down off the top shelf. We shall have to see if we can’t part with one or two of the smaller pieces.”
“But,
madame
,”
Lucy objected feebly. “Aren’t you keeping the contents of your
jewelbox
intact to help swell the fund that will one day be used to restore the monarchy of Seronia?”
“Tsck, tsck!” the Countess exclaimed. “At the moment we are dealing with practical matters!”
CHAPTER II
THE
jewelbox
was brought, and Lucy returned to her seat on the bed and watched as the Countess unlocked it. The usual shivers of pleasurable excitement crept up and down her spine as she did so, for this was by way of being a familiar experience, and a method of enjoying herself the Countess was pleased to share with her. She spread the jewels all over the bed and ran her fingers through them, playing with them as if they were toys.
Anything more paradoxical than the sheer poverty of her daily life and the display of wealth inside the jewel case Lucy could not imagine. They represented a fortune in diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, yet the old lady lived on a modest allowance that was made her by her grandson, and if the allowance ran out before another quarterly instalment was due, there was nothing to meet her needs. The bank knew nothing about the treasure that lived on a shelf high up in a commodious but moth-ridden wardrobe, and they had no security on which to advance loans. To them the Countess von Ardrath was a faded and rather tiresome relic of her times who quite failed to understand the principles of banking in a country that was not her own by birth, and was not above expecting them to honour a cheque when there was nothing to meet it.
The local branch manager sent her tart little notes at frequent intervals, warning her of the dangers of anticipating an overdraft, and Lucy had once tried to picture his face if he was suddenly informed of the existence of the jewels. She was quite sure the peevish expression which she had never seen because she had never been admitted to his official private sanctum—when she presented a cheque on behalf of her employer it was one of the junior clerks who dealt with her—would evaporate like morning mist, and he would get straight on to the telephone and implore the Countess, with overpowering urbanity, to allow him to take charge of such a priceless hoard. And even if he was told about Seronia, and the purpose for which the hoard was being preserved intact, he would still advance the superiority of bank vaults over a wardrobe shelf and urge her to entrust them to safer custody.
But nothing would have induced the Countess to part with her jewels, and it apparently never occurred to her that they were not being very well guarded. Or, if it did occur to her, she probably lulled any temporary feeling of anxiety by remembering that Mitzi, Carl and Heinrich always slept in her room, and any attempt made by anyone to enter the maisonette without an invitation would have resulted in a positive avalanche of barking.
And three dachshunds once launched on their favourite occupation of giving tongue in the manner bred into them in the days when they were used to scent out badgers would have provided any burglar with second thoughts. Even Lucy, who was not really afraid of burglars, recognised that; but she was afraid that Augustine might be so indiscreet as to mention them during one of her exchanges with the butcher, or the milkman, if only to enhance the prestige of her employer in their eyes.
The Countess lifted a heavy rope of pearls and twisted them into a cat’s cradle on her bony fingers. She said dreamily:
“These are the pearls I wore at my wedding.”
But Lucy, who was better informed, corrected her. “Oh, no,
madame
... at the first big function you attended
after
your wedding! They were a present from your father. Remember?”
The Countess nodded her head.
“How clever of you never to be confused. It was decided that, as I so much resembled a flower, my only adornment should be flowers
...
white flowers. I had a lace dress, and there were so many yards of satin in my train the attendants kept stumbling over it. Afterwards we spent six weeks in the mountains on an official honeymoon, and another three months touring Europe.” She half closed her eyes, as if she was reliving the past, and then opened them to catch sight of an emerald bracelet. “I wore
this
,”
picking it up and holding it towards the firelight, so that it blazed like green fire, “when the Emperor Franz Josef or Austria paid us a state visit, and as my mama was ill I had to undertake the role of hostess. The Emperor complimented me on my appearance and a member of his suite kept his eyes glued on me throughout an entire performance at the opera. I was told afterwards by one of my ladies-in-waiting that he threatened to shoot himself because I wouldn’t look his way.”
“You were—single at the time?” Lucy enquired, her cheeks very pink, her lips parted expectantly.
“No, my dear, I was married,” the Countess admitted. “Otherwise,” she added with a twinkle, “I would almost certainly have looked!”
“Then it was rather pointless him threatening to shoot himself, wasn’t it?” Lucy said practically. “I mean, if he couldn’t possibly have you
...
”
The Countess touched her cheek.
“
When you’re in love, my dear, and when you’re young
...
But then you’ve never been in love, have you? Not yet! But your time will come
...
believe me, it will come!”
Not while I spend my days keeping the peace between you and Augustine downstairs, Lucy thought ruefully. But on the whole she enjoyed keeping the peace between the Countess and Augustine, and she wanted to know the stories attaching to several other pieces of jewellery lying out of the box. But the Countess started sorting them methodically, and reminded her that today they were not examining the contents of the casket purely for pleasure, but they had to find something to sell.
She selected a brooch encrusted with rubies and diamonds, in the shape of a garland of flowers, and announced that that would have to be the item to be sacrificed. It was quite small by comparison with most of the other pieces, and the stones were not as good as they might have been. One or two of them, in fact, actually contained flaws; but she was prepared to part with it because it had very little sentimental value, and the sum it would fetch would not help materially in the restoration of the ruling family to Seronia.
It would, however, settle all the tradesmen’s bills, and leave something over for current expenses and Lucy’s wages. Lucy wanted to protest that, if there was only the question of her wages, there was no need at all to sell the brooch, but having made up her mind to separate herself from one, at least, of her treasures, the Countess was impatient for he
r
to be off and execute the sale.
“Go and put on your outdoor things and tell Augustine to put back the lunch for half an hour or so, in case you’re not back in time. You’d better take a taxi
...
”
She fumbled beneath her pillows, and brought to light a small embroidered purse. From it she extracted a one-pound note. “Take this, and in the name of heaven be careful and do not lose the brooch, and do not allow anyone to accost you or address you in any way until you have arrived at the jeweller’s. You had better let Augustine get a taxi for you.”
“But I don’t need a taxi,” Lucy said quickly. “I can walk.” And then she remembered that she had not the least idea how to dispose of a brooch, and that the Countess had not even mentioned the name of a jeweller. “And you haven’t said where I’m to take it.”
“True.” The old lady waved impatient fingers. “Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write the name down for you. There is a man in St. James’s
...”
“Or how much I’m to accept.”
“Tell him you want two thousand pounds—not a penny less! Believe me, he won’t jib. And ask him to give it to you in cash.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly ... I could never walk about London with all that money on me!”
“You won’t have to. One of the assistants
c
an find you a taxi, and you’ll come straight home.” Lucy felt somewhat appalled. She was longing to get out in the fresh air and the sunshine, but the very idea of being responsible for the safety of such a valuable item of jewellery provided her with a sensation next door to sheer alarm. And the idea of returning with two thousand pounds in her bag ... a very shabby bag, the clasp of which was none too secure, so she’d better keep it tightly
c
lutched up under her arm.
The Countess gave her an affectionate little push, and then called her back.
“If you can get him to make it guineas—two thousand guineas, which might be worth trying for— I’ll buy you a complete new outfit when you return. Coat, suit, dresses, underwear
...
everything!”
Augustine could not refrain from having something in the nature of an argument with the taxi-driver once the taxi had arrived at the door. He was a good- natured man, with a rugged but kindly face, and he told her not to be such a ‘bad-tempered old so-and-so’ before he and Lucy drove off.
Lucy was wearing a tweed suit that had seen much wear, but which nevertheless suited her because it had a light greenish fleck which made her eyes look light greenish also. Her hair, spun-gold and unfashionably long, swayed like a gold cloud on her shoulders.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked, sliding back the glass window which separated them once they were well away from the kerb.
Lucy told him.
“It’s a jeweller’s,” she added.
He laughed.
“I’ll say it is. The sort of place where you ask for a nice diamond tiara, or something inexpensive like that. Going to treat yourself to a set of emeralds, miss? Something not too ostentatious!” He laughed still more throatily, for he had seen the da
rn
s in the elbow of the tweed suit, and the milkman had told him something about Augustine the other day. A regular old termagant she was, and the old lady she looked after hadn’t a penny to bless herself with!
Lucy let down the window of the taxi, and she felt as if her heart expanded as she inhaled the excitingly cool air. It was the sort of morning she loved in London, with sunshine falling across the pavements and fleecy clouds chasing one another across the blue sky overhead. There were lilacs bursting into leaf behind iron railings, and short sweet grass showing in the squares. Milkmen were still doing their rounds, and milk-bottles tops gleamed in the sunshine as they sat on newly whitened steps and waited for a housewife to whip them indoors, and cats, aware of a sudden rise in the temperature, sprawled in the middle of window-boxes that would bear stunted examples of spring flowers as a result.
A lot of the houses the taxi flashed past were receiving coats of new paint, and some of the doors were a bright and cheerful yellow. Others were a sort of turquoise blue, and startling vermilion. Lucy decided that if ever she had a London house of her own—which was extremely unlikely—she would have an ivory white door, because they looked so nice with shining brass letter-boxes, bell-pushes, and so on.
There were one or two cafes opening up in the quieter streets, and they looked quite Continental with their striped awnings, little tables placed outside on the pavement instead of inside, and gaily painted chairs. She wondered whether the patrons minded when a chill breeze swept along the streets and cooled their soup, or an odour of exhaust fumes from a passing car added flavour to their coffee.
But they did that sort of thing in Paris. So why not London?
They were turning into Piccadilly, and she glanced eagerly at the Burlington Arcade as they swept past.
Then St. James’s Street, and at the bottom of it St. James’s Palace, a beautiful cool grey in the morning light. There were sentries standing outside it, and one or two obvious tourists with cameras. Lucy tapped on the glass of the window, and ordered the driver to stop.
“Set me down here,” she requested. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The taxi-man shrugged.
“Just as you please, but we’re not there yet.” Lucy smiled at him and proffered the Countess’s pound note. While she waited for her change she clutched her handbag tightly under one arm, and between admiring the petal-soft beauty of her
sk
in
and thinking what a funny little thing she looked in that old-fashioned suit and low-heeled shoes—his daughter wore stiletto heels that made holes in the floor covering all over the house, to his great annoyance—he found himself charging more than he ought to have done. Lucy realised that he had pocketed two shillings of the Countess’s money, but decided to say nothing about it since she supposed he expected a tip.