Page 66 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

Thavey wasn’t buying it. His sharp eyes had picked Afton apart and put him back together as something quite different from a wandering barber.

‘Stamps are a specialist thing. I don’t deal with ’em.

And I don’t deal with stolen goods. Everyone round here knows me.

What’s your game, Mr Barber-I-don’t-think? ’

Afton came clean. ‘I’m trying to track down a missing stamp collection.’

‘You’re from up the Castle? I’ve heard rumours. If anyone took ’em, they wouldn’t bring ’em to me. London’s the place to get rid of something like that.’

‘But if a person couldn’t get to London?’

‘I wouldn’t know what a thief might do.’

‘You could take a guess,’ Afton suggested.

He thought for a minute, staring hard at Afton, who stared steadily back. ‘You could try Pogrebin’s, up at New Ashmore. He’s not as particular as some. But I never told you that.’

‘Of course not. I was never here,’ Afton said.

New Ashmore was the settlement that had grown up around the railway, larger than a hamlet, but with no parish church, so it was not a village.

There were rows and rows of terraced brick cottages, a couple of low-looking ale houses, and a flight of shops catering to basic needs.

One of these had the three golden balls hanging outside.

It was small and dark and there was nothing in the window but dust. Inside the space was choked with racks and racks of clothes, and the counter at the back had metal bars fixed above it all the way to the ceiling, suggesting the owner was not unfamiliar with the violence of the desperate.

Behind the bars, a figure emerged from some crepuscular haunt in the rear: shortish, a smudge of pale face between bushy dark hair and a massive dark beard. Afton suspected all the foliage was Pogrebin’s defence, as Thavey’s was his unyielding expression.

‘What can I do for you?’ the man asked, in a rich voice with a hint of some accent. The dark eyes were unfriendly.

Afton thought he was probably too well-dressed to be in here, raising suspicion. ‘A friend of mine sent me,’ he said. ‘He pledged something and now he wants it back. Sentimental value, you understand.’

‘Everybody’s sentimental,’ said Pogrebin. ‘Why don’t your friend come himself?’

‘He’s at work – can’t get away. I said I’d come as a favour.’

Pogrebin sniffed, as if he didn’t believe this but didn’t much care. ‘Wot’s this thing he pledged, then?’

‘A stamp album, bound in red leather. Have you got it?’

‘Wot’s he look like, your friend?’

‘Tall, skinny, dark hair.’

‘Face like a skellington?’

‘That’s him.’ Afton suppressed a thrill. He was on the right track.

‘He didn’t pledge it. He sold it. Too bad for him if he wants it back.’

‘He’ll pay,’ Afton said. ‘With interest.’

Pogrebin bared unexpectedly white teeth in what was not a friendly smile. ‘Too late. He can’t have it. It’s gone.’

‘You’ve sold it on?’

‘Reckons he can get more for it somewhere else now, eh? Too bad. Should have thought of that before. Sold is sold. If he didn’t know the value of it, that’s his fault.’

‘Who did you sell it to?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Please. He’s very attached to that collection.’

‘I bought it fair and square and sold it the same. He was glad to get what I give him.’

‘But maybe I could get it back, if you tell me who bought it.’

‘London dealer. It was too rich for my blood. Specialist items like that, I sell ’em in London.’

‘Specialist items? You mean stolen goods?’

The face tightened with anger. ‘What’s your game? Who are you? Are you police?’

‘No, I’m just—’

‘Get out, before I come out there and throw you out! And don’t come here again.’ As Afton didn’t move, he went to the end of the counter and made to open up the flap.

‘All right, I’m going,’ Afton said. He didn’t relish an encounter with the man who, though short, looked strong and, more to the point, capable of violence.

‘And tell your friend not to come here again. I’ve done him favours enough. If he can’t hold his tongue, he’s a bigger fool than I took him for. Get out, I tell you!’

The interlude at Kincraig was coming to an end.

Uncle Stuffy had announced that he was going to Italy at the beginning of September and closing up the house.

The astonishment Linda ought to have felt at the announcement, that her mother clearly felt (he had never done such a thing before), passed her by.

She was too concerned about her own future.

The Tullamores would be going home, to Craigend near Perth – and had politely declined to take Arabella and Arthur, so she was probably going to have to take them back to Ashmore – unless another invitation miraculously appeared.

She had some hopes of Prince Usingen. Close observation on that first visit had convinced her that he was not interested in Rachel: he hardly looked at her, and took no pains to seek her out.

So Linda had been assiduously cultivating him ever since, and she believed she was making progress.

Usingen spoke to her increasingly as though there were some connection between them, and he even, she observed, seemed to be taking trouble to get to know her mother for her sake.

It would, of course, be improper of him to address her so early in her mourning.

The problem was to stay within reach of him until the end of her sixth month, at which point she would be able to indicate to him that a discreet courtship could decently commence, with a view to marriage as soon as the twelve months were up.

And then – riches, security, and a proper social life.

She felt she would do better in the wider courts of Europe than in the tightly packed circles of English society where she was already too much known.

The news had come from Ashmore about Kitty’s new baby – another boy, the lucky creature!

– and her difficult lying-in. She was apparently very poorly and, if she survived at all, would be recovering for many weeks, requiring quiet, rest and good nursing.

Linda had hastened to argue to her mother that it would be better for them not to go home – only to find that her mother had already come to the same conclusion.

‘A second boy is good,’ Maud said, ‘and one is glad, but his birth is not of such great importance, and there is no need for me to be there. Indeed, given Kitty’s frail state, we should hesitate to burden the household by returning.’

She did not say so aloud, of course, but she was thinking it might not be such a tragedy if Kitty were to succumb to her condition.

Her fortune was already secured to the family, and while there might be more to hope for from Sir John Bayfield on his death, it was not a sure thing, and Giles could as easily find a new wife with another fortune – and preferably this time a female from their own rank in society, who would bring more credit to the family name.

In the mean time, she had to find somewhere else agreeable to go.

She had tried to talk Fergus out of going to Italy, had even tried to discover why he wanted to go, but he was as uninformative as he was stubborn on the subject.

He said only that he wanted to see what condition his house in Venice was in, and when she said an agent could just as easily do that, he shrugged and changed the subject.

On raising the matter again, she had hinted that she would welcome an invitation for her and Rachel to accompany him, but he had merely laughed and walked away.

Meanwhile, Paul Usingen’s attentions were growing so marked that she was afraid they would be noticed and arouse questions to which she was not sure she had any answers.

Rachel was still on her hands, and while she could be packed off back to the Castle for a couple of months, there was still the prospect, if she did not get a suitable offer between now and Christmas, of having to chaperone her through another Season next year.

What she ought to do was go back to the Castle and harangue Giles ceaselessly until he agreed to provide Rachel with a decent dowry, at which point all difficulties would evaporate: she would have her pick of suitors then.

But the past year had tired her, and though she never normally shrank from a conflict, the thought of arguing with her unexpectedly mulish elder son filled her with ennui .

Which meant she had to find somewhere else to go.

Then a letter came from her sister Vicky, announcing that the family was departing for southern France for six weeks. The announcement did not include an invitation, but that was not necessarily a problem. Once they were there, Vicky could hardly refuse to take them in.

The prince, obligingly, brought up the subject when they were out on a ride, pacing side by side and a little apart from the rest of the company. Usingen had evidently heard the news that Fergus was to close up the house.

‘What will you do, then, when it is time to leave?’ he asked. ‘Or will you go sooner? I had thought you would be here the whole summer.’

‘I thought so, too,’ Maud said. Usingen was gazing at her admiringly, and she was aware that she presented more than usually elegantly on horseback, even though her borrowed mount was built for endurance rather than style.

‘But you, of course, have many, many houses to choose from,’ he went on.

‘You, who must be welcome wherever you go. Do you yet favour one invitation over the others? Or do you go back to Ashmore Castle?’ His tone revealed that he hoped her answer to that would be no.

Of all places, the Castle was the least likely to provide him with access to her.

‘I am minded to go to France. My sister and her family will be in Biarritz.’