Mayhem in Bath (2 page)

The room was indeed in need of attention. Dust was thick on every surface, there was a musty smell in the air, the fireplace had not seen a fire in three winters, and the curtains looked as if they’d never been washed. The carpet was littered with untidy piles of documents and books, and there was such a clutter on the desk that Bodkin marveled the old miser could ever find anything! Hordwell did not deserve any consideration at all, but a brownie had a reputation to consider, and if the state of this room were to become common knowledge among the community, he—Bodkin—would be the target of much criticism.

Putting down his duster, he flung open the window, and then began tidying the desk. Within moments an entry in an open ledger caught his eye. It referred to an agreement between Hordwell and Lord Benjamin Beddem, and the item agreed upon was—
Nutmeg!
She hadn’t run away after all, but had been traded like a sack of flour to look after his lordship’s elegant new rented residence in Royal Crescent. Hordwell must have acquired her belt, to have such power over her!

For a moment Bodkin was so thunderstruck that he could not move, but then his mind began to race. His shaggy fur stood on end as pieces of a terrible puzzle suddenly fell into place. Why hadn’t he realized before? It was so obvious. Oh, what a fool he’d been! He saw red, and the boggart hidden deep inside him came to sudden life. His tail started to lash, and he gave a howl of unutterable rage and dismay.

Polly heard from the garden and came running anxiously into the house. “Bodkin? Bodkin, what’s wrong?” Another apoplectic howl issued from the next floor, so she gathered her blue muslin skirts to hurry up the dark oak staircase. “Bodkin?” she cried again, and then her steps faltered uneasily as she realized the brownie was in her uncle’s study, where not even she was allowed to go. Slowly she entered, and then halted in dismay as she saw the furious boggart-brownie, whose tail was now twirling so fast it was a blur.

Bodkin was too beside himself to speak, and jabbed a quivering linger on the open ledger. She went around the desk to read the damning entry, and her lips immediately parted on a horrified gasp.
“Oh, Bodkin, I’m
so
sorry! Lord Benjamin is capable of anything, but I wouldn’t have thought Uncle Hordwell would stoop so low.”

“Well, he did, it’s there in black and white!” cried Bodkin.

“I know. I’m astonished that Lord Benjamin even
knows
about brownies, let alone has an agreement with my uncle.”

“He can hear us but not see us. Just like Hordwell.”

“I see. Well, if they have control of Nutmeg, I suppose they must have stolen her belt, but how did they get it?”

The brownie glowered at the ledger. “What does it matter? That fact that they have her.”

“All right, but
why?
What possible reason could Lord Benjamin have for wanting to keep a brownie? They’re hardly a fashion accessory.”

Bodkin’s face was ablaze with feeling, and his twirling tail threatened to lift his rear end from the floor. “He wants her because he will soon be able to make her visible to everyone, and make a great deal of money.” Overcome once more, he picked up a sword-shaped letter opener, and hurled it at Hordwell’s portrait. Brownies have amazingly accurate aim, some might even say magically accurate, and Polly’s miserly uncle was stabbed right between the eyes.

She stared at the pierced canvas and then at the boggart-brownie. She had never seen Bodkin in such a state before. Indeed, he didn’t seem like
her
Bodkin at all! “Money? What do you mean, Bodkin?” she asked, stepping aside because his tail was causing such a draft that several papers on the desk fluttered to the floor.

“People will pay a great deal to see a brownie.” Bodkin grabbed his tail to stop its wild activity.

“Pay? Like a fairground attraction, you mean?” Polly was appalled.

“Yes. Just think how much was made from displaying that fake unicorn in London.”

Polly nodded, for the unicorn had indeed minted a vast fortune for its owner before it was discovered to be merely a white horse with a horn glued to its forehead. “Why do you think that is what Lord Benjamin intends?” she asked.

“It
must
be what he intends. Just over a year ago, in spite of the war, an Englishman who fits his description down to the last ounce of blubber, slipped secretly into France to begin the purchase a page from a book by Nostradamus. Last month a French brownie risked coming to London to warn English brownies about it,”

“Nostradamus?
The
Nostradamus? The sixteenth-century magician and prophet?”

“Is there more than one?” Bodkin replied archly. “Anyway, the French brownie wanted us to be on guard because the page contains a spell for making English brownies visible. It’s apparently a very expensive sheet of paper, and the purchaser has only been able to pay in installments. When the French brownie left France, he said there was only one more payment to make.”

“And you think this mysterious Englishman is Lord Benjamin?”

“I know it,” Bodkin replied. “Oh, why didn’t I guess before? It was staring me in the face, but I was too stupid to realize! Now I’ve seen the ledger, it’s so
obvious
that he is the purchaser.”

“You still haven’t told me why you think so.”

“Because the French brownie described the scar the man had on the little finger of his left hand,” Bodkin explained, and Polly’s lips parted, for Lord Benjamin did indeed have such a scar. The brownie went on. “As soon as he makes the last payment and receives the page, he’ll make Nutmeg visible, then put her on show somewhere. He’d have done it months ago if he hadn’t been fighting off the duns. I think the cost of the page is one of the main reasons he’s now so deep in debt!”

“Then surely the wisest thing he could have done was put his purse away,” Polly pointed out sagely.

“Maybe, but he has his eye on grander things. Miss Polly. If he can stave off the duns, he’ll make a huge fortune out of Nutmeg, infinitely more than he outlaid in the first place, and much more than the unicorn, because she’s real. It’s too dreadful to even think about.” Tears welled from Bodkin’s eyes, and he wiped his nose with his arm.

“Oh, Bodkin, I don’t know what to say.” Polly was deeply saddened to think her uncle might be party to such a horrible design. All she could hope was that he didn’t actually know Lord Benjamin’s reason, although it had to be admitted that if there was money to be made, Hordwell Horditall was usually at the forefront. She tried to think of something comforting to say. “Take heart. Bodkin, for Lord Benjamin is now being hounded so much by his creditors, that I suspect he’s no longer in a position to make the last payment.”

“Unless Hordwell gives him the money,” Bodkin replied, this new realization dawning with sickening clarity. “Hordwell Horditall would do
anything to
ingratiate himself with the aristocracy.”

Polly lowered her eyes, for it was true. Her uncle wouldn’t provide sufficient to settle all Lord Benjamin’s debts, because such financial rescue was his lordship’s sole reason for entering the proposed marriage. He would simply dangle the Peach’s Bank carrot by agreeing to pay something. But did he know the full facts about Nutmeg? Oh, she hoped not,
prayed
not.

“Miss Polly, I cannot stay beneath this roof another minute! I have to go to Bath to rescue Nutmeg!”

“Please don’t be hasty. Bodkin, especially when—forgive me— you don’t seem quite yourself.”

“Nutmeg is my sweetheart, and I’m going to get her back!” The brownie’s moments of relative calm were over, and once again he was a boggart, incandescent with outrage. He grabbed a paperweight, and aimed it at Hordwell’s portrait, this time at the chin in particular. The canvas ripped, and the paperweight buried a sharp corner into the wall-paneling behind.

At this point, Polly realized the brownie was becoming a little hazy; indeed she could see through him. “Bodkin!” she cried. “Please don’t become invisible to me, for I’m your friend!”

“I’m too angry with humans, even you!” he retorted ungraciously, and then he unhooked the keys from his belt and tossed them onto the open ledger.

She heard rather than saw them land. “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” she protested indignantly as he began to march toward the door. She barred his way, desperate to calm him down somehow. “At least discuss it all with me before you do anything rash!” she implored, watching in dismay as he grew even more indistinct.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he retorted, scowling.

“You can’t just leave. What about your bees? You are their guardian, and—”

“The bees will understand; indeed when I need them, they will come to me, no matter how far away I am!
Then
Hordwell and Beddem will regret what they’ve done!” he said, and pushed past her to stomp away along the passage, his tail no longer twirling, but lashing like a horsewhip.

Polly caught up her skins and ran after him. “Bodkin, you cannot mean to set the bees on Uncle Hordwell! Or on Lord Benjamin! Oh, please promise you won’t do such a thing!”

“From now on I’ll do as I please,” the boggart-brownie replied over his shoulder, becoming less visible by the second as he began to run up the back staircase to his little attic room. By the time he reached the top of the last flight of stairs, he had disappeared entirely.

Polly hurried up the stairs as well and stood in the doorway of the room, which had a sloping ceiling. She watched in alarm as a large square of red-and-white checkered cloth seemed to lay itself on the plain little bed that stood against one wall. Sunbeams danced through the open dormer window as the brownie’s belongings, which were all quite visible because only his belt and keys could not be seen, were piled on top of the cloth. They included his fork and spoon, his brush and comb, an earthenware jar of the exceedingly potent mead he made from his honey, a large pot of the honey itself, and a small tin of clove balm. His knife he tucked into his belt. The cloth was tied into a bundle and fixed upon a brush handle that happened to be propped in a comer. Then the whole thing was jerked on his invisible shoulder. Next the top drawer of the chest beneath the window was opened, a ball of sturdy cord taken out, and the strange assortment bobbed past her toward the staircase.

Polly followed him downstairs and out into the garden, where he made for his pumpkin plant. Placing his things on the grass, he cleared the leaves around the largest pumpkin of all, then took his knife again and began to hack at the stalk. Polly was bewildered. “What are you doing? Why are you cutting a pumpkin?” she asked.

“I need it for Halloween,” the boggart-brownie muttered darkly.

“Need it? Whatever for?”

“Never you mind.”

Polly stared at the pumpkin. “But it’s as wide as you’re tall! How on earth will you carry it?”

“All brownies can carry three times their own weight without any trouble,” he replied, getting up to haul the pumpkin from the bed onto the grass. Then he took some leaves to wipe it clean.

“You ... you won’t do anything really horrid with it, will you?” she inquired uneasily, for now that he was a boggart, heaven alone knew what he had in mind.

“If I do, it will be no more than they deserve,” he replied, then refused to speak again as he unraveled the ball of cord to wrap and knot it like a net so that the great orange-yellow orb was securely held. Then it, too, was fixed to the brush handle. Polly watched as the great load was heaved over his shoulder. For a moment she could tell that his little knees buckled, but then he gave a huge grunt, straightened, and set off down the garden path toward the gate just as the superior gentleman’s carriage, now very dirty indeed, returned from the ravages of Wrecker Johnson’s farmyard.

Chapter 3

After passing Horditall House the first time, the carriage containing the haughty young gentleman had driven blithely on, but on turning a sudden sharp comer, it found itself in Wrecker Johnson’s waterlogged lane, where wild clematis tumbled over the high hedgerows and gossamer drifted clammily in the air. The vehicle’s immaculate wheels were soon up to their axles in mud and deep puddles, the fine horses splashed with dirt and the dismayed coachman had no choice but to drive on. He was already in Sir Dominic Fortune’s bad books for having drunk too much ale at the inn last night, and being the cause of a fracas, so he was certain that this disaster would signal the end of his employment.

As if on cue, Sir Dominic leaned irritably out of the window. “Where in God’s name are we, Jeffries?”

“I... I fear I must have taken the wrong road back at the signpost, Sir Dominic. But I vow that this was definitely indicated as the way to Bath.”

“If this is the road to Bath, I’m a Dutchman,” Dominic replied cuttingly as he glanced down at the muddy water swirling in ruts so deep they resembled Cheddar Gorge itself.

Jeffries gazed desperately along the lane, and then his eyes brightened hopefully. “I see buildings ahead, sir. I believe it’s a farm. We’ll be able to turn around there.”

Dominic sat back on the sumptuous brown leather upholstery. The last thing he wanted to do was go to Bath, but when inheritance of an uncle’s considerable estate depended upon marriage, what choice did a sensible nephew have but to find a wife? Not that he really needed any more wealth, for he was already ridiculously well provided for, but another handsome helping did no harm. London was clearly the best place for choice, but right now the metropolis held too many painful memories.

He’d left the capital two weeks ago, but while his luggage and saddle horse were sent to Bath, he had traveled by way of friends in Winchester. The visit over, he’d made a detour of a few hours to see the wonders of Cheddar Gorge, and now he was finally en route for England’s finest watering place. Pray God the spa was teeming with likely contenders for the title of Lady Fortune, for he wanted the matter over with as quickly as possible. It would be a loveless arrangement, because his heart was already given to a beautiful, but selfish and single-mindedly ambitious widow by the name of Lady Georgiana Mersenrie. Georgiana was the only daughter of the Duke of Lawless, and her late husband, an elderly Scottish lord of immense wealth, had left her with ample funds to make her Berkeley Square house one of
the
places for society to gather. She was one of London’s foremost hostesses, a lady whose invitations were as sought after as vouchers to Almack’s, but this wasn’t enough. Her avowed intention was to be a duchess, and not just any duchess, for her designs centered upon Lord Algernon Lofty, the son and heir of the Duke of Grandcastle, England’s richest and most influential nobleman.