Suzanne Robinson (19 page)

Fighting tears, Emmie swore under her breath and hurled herself away from the drawing room door. “He’s a hypocritical, poor-spirited creature. Looking down that aristocratic nose at fine fellows like Turnip and sweet girls like Betsy and Dolly.”

Emmie wiped her wet cheeks and scurried across the salon. Her heart hurt again with a fine-edged pain she feared would never leave her. She had to find privacy in her room before she started bawling. The gold could wait. It had been there for hundreds of years. A few more hours wouldn’t matter.

She’d find it and scarper as soon as she could. She didn’t owe Valin North a thing. Taking his gold would be her revenge. A pity he’d never
know about it. Of course, there was a consolation. When she hooked it, everyone in Society would think she’d run away from him.

He’d be humiliated. Yes, humiliated like she’d been at Hartwell Keep. In the years to come, she could think of that whenever she was fool enough to wish he’d really loved her.

“Ow!” Emmie turned and hissed into the darkness. “You stepped on my heel, Betsy.”

“It’s monstrous dark in here. Curse it, Pilfer, you’re treading on my gown.”

“Missus has got the lamp, and I can’t see,” grumbled Pilfer.

Emmie walked out of the topmost room in the Gallery Tower with Betsy and Pilfer behind her. Despite the risk, she’d been forced to bring a lamp in order to search the stairs. She’d left Turnip on the ground floor to stand guard while she and the others began looking.

“If the gold’s at the bottom, why start at the top?” Betsy whispered.

“No sense searching all around unless this is the right tower. Hold the lamp.”

Emmie knelt on the landing and began to examine the stone floor. “Bring the light closer. I can’t see.”

Pilfer hunted along the walls for a few moments, then stood behind Emmie. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“I told you,” Emmie said, “Foreign words.”

“Like carving?”

“Yes.”

“I can read, you know. I can read twelve letters.”

“I know, Pilfer, now be quiet.”

She crawled toward the door that led to the room, her fingers brushing the stone. She couldn’t see any trace of carving.

“I bet this one’s an
S
.”

Emmie’s hands stilled and she looked over her shoulder. Pilfer’s small finger was pointing at something near the first step of the spiral staircase. Scrambling around, Emmie crawled over to him while Betsy brought the lamp.

Faintly etched words appeared in the pool of light. Pilfer brushed away sand and dust to reveal the rest of the letters. The carving was worn and shallow and in an archaic script.

“That’s it!” Emmie shoved Pilfer. “Why didn’t you say so at once?”

“You said to be quiet. You weren’t paying attention.
You never pay attention to me. I told you I could read.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry.”

“So what’s it say?” Betsy asked.

“
Sic itur ad astra
. Thus one goes to the stars.”

“I know what that means,” Pilfer said. “It means the stairs.”

“ ’Course you know,” Betsy muttered. “Emmie told us.”

Emmie patted the boy’s head. “That’s very good, Pilfer. You’ve been a great help, so now we know we’ve got the right tower.”

“See?” Pilfer sniffed at Betsy, who rolled her eyes and followed Emmie down the winding stair.

Their progress was slow. They had to make sure they didn’t miss another phrase carved in the stone, but Emmie was almost certain that the next clue would be found at the bottom, under the spiral. Upon reaching the ground floor they met Turnip, and searched the area under the bend in the stairs.

However, try as they might, not even Pilfer could discern any carving. Emmie widened the area of the search to no avail. Soon she, Pilfer, and Betsy returned to the bend in the staircase to stare glumly at the flagstones. Grumbling, Pilfer kicked the ancient stone wall.

Emmie sighed. “Pilfer, don’t do that. You’ll damage the finish.”

“Already crumbling, an’ if I had a glim I could see where I was going.”

“You can’t have a candle,” Betsy said. “We can’t have wax dropped all over to show where we been.”

Turning back to Pilfer, Emmie asked, “What do you mean, it’s crumbling?”

“Got dents in it, has this rock.”

“Where?”

“At the bottom here.”

Emmie and Betsy gathered around the spot to which Pilfer pointed.

“Ha! It’s not a dent. It’s an
I
. There should have been an
S
in front of it, but the carving has been damaged. Pilfer, you’re marvelous clever you are.”

“I am?”

“Yes.” Emmie pointed to the faintly carved letters. “It should read
‘Si ste viator,’
or ‘Stop traveler.’ ” She glanced from Pilfer to Betsy. “This is it.”

Standing in a half circle around the carving, they looked at it for a while, then backed away from it slowly. Betsy held the lantern close to the floor. They bent low, except for Pilfer, and examined the flagstone in front of the carving. It was larger than most and a bit more regular in shape, almost square. Emmie stepped on it, tapped it with the heel of her boot, and exchanged triumphant glances with Betsy.

Everyone dropped to the floor around the stone, and with Turnip’s help and the aid of a couple of crowbars, they were able to move it. A little shoving revealed a sliver of blackness beneath the flagstone. Emmie wiggled her fingers into the space.

“Right,” she said. “There’s a hole. Old Beaufort put it where people seldom walk.”

Everyone stood by while Turnip wrestled the stone aside. Then Emmie took the lantern and held it over the blackness to reveal a dust-covered wooden stair, rickety and steep.

“Turnip, you stay here. No one’s been down there in centuries by the look of it, so we won’t be meeting unwanted company.”

Holding the lantern in front of her so that light played on the top stair, Emmie tested each step as she went.

“Be careful,” she said to Betsy and Pilfer. “The wood is thick, but it’s really old.”

They reached the base of the stairs without mishap, and Emmie held the light aloft to reveal a room carved out of bedrock. To her disappointment it was filled with ancient litter. Connected by open arches, two smaller chambers flanked the larger.

“That’s what he meant,” Emmie said to herself.

“What?” Betsy asked.

Emmie indicated the three rooms. “Three joined in one.”

“Where’s the gold?” Pilfer asked as he picked up an old chisel from the floor. “Coo, what’s all this?”

Emmie glanced at the debris that formed an irregular pile covering a good deal of the main chamber floor. “Ancient rubbish, I suppose. Look for another carving.”

This time their search proved fruitless. Emmie, Pilfer, and Betsy gathered at the rubbish heap and surveyed it.

“Nothing for it but to move this lot,” Betsy said.

Emmie went to the stairs and whispered up to Turnip. “Everything quiet up there?”

“Fine, Missus.”

Betsy and Pilfer righted a Tudor oak buffet that had been tossed on top of the heap, and Emmie set the lamp on it. Then they attacked the rubbish. They picked through an odd assortment—pikes, a bread paddle, medieval quarrymen’s wedges, earthenware jugs and dishes, broken lances and scythes.

“Gracious mercy,” Emmie said as she moved a disintegrating stack of baskets to reveal an iron cage used to hang torture victims from battlements. “Someone threw anything they could get their hands on in here.”

Betsy straightened up with a brass hunting horn in one hand and a shield in the other. “I’m coming to bits of rock.”

“That’s not rock. That’s parts of statues. Probably from the garden.”

Beside her Emmie heard Pilfer catch his breath.

“Coo! Look at these.” In his hand lay blackened arrow points, which quickly vanished into his pocket.

“What are you planning to do with those?” Emmie demanded.

“Nuthin’.”

“Precisely, young man, because as soon as we get home you’re moving in with Flash and Sprout and Phoebe, and you’re going to school.”

Pilfer let out a howl, and Emmie clamped her hand over his mouth while he danced in agitation.

“Quiet,” Betsy said as she brandished a pitted sword.

Bending down to eye level with Pilfer, Emmie whispered, “You want to get lagged?”

Pilfer shook his head violently.

“Then look sharp.”

She released the boy, and he went back to work with an aggrieved air. Emmie picked up a scarred chessboard along with a mason’s level and a copper vat and stepped back. Her foot landed on something pointed, and she slipped. Her load of rubbish flew out of her hands. The vat landed with a bang onto something made of stone and spun to a standstill while the level and chessboard crashed behind her.

Emmie hopped on one foot, cursing the spiked mace head she’d stepped on, then stood still. Everyone listened. At last Emmie ventured a loud whisper.

“Turnip?”

The coachman’s head appeared through the hole at the top of the stairs. “No harm, missus.”

The three treasure hunters sighed in unison and went back to work. In a few minutes they had cleared the area of everything except an oddly shaped stone slab. Emmie grabbed the lamp, and they walked around the object, which was rectangular, except for a rounded end, and rather narrow. She stopped at the square end with Betsy to her right side and Pilfer to her left.

“Cor,” said Betsy.

“Coo!”

“Goodness gracious mercy.”

Pilfer made as if to touch the block with the tip of his boot but drew his foot back. Betsy pressed her skirts against her legs so that they didn’t brush the stone. The lamp wavered in Emmie’s hand. She glanced at Betsy.

“It’s a headstone.”

“Off a grave.”

“Coo!”

They were silent again.

“There’s a corpse under it,” Pilfer said, and he backed away.

Emmie ignored him and set the lantern on the headstone. She brushed the surface with her hands, clearing away wood chips, mortar, and dust.

“I don’t think there’s anyone under it,” she said. “See what’s carved here? It’s French and it says ‘Here I am, here I remain.’ ”

Emmie, Betsy, and Pilfer exchanged grins. Then they shoved the headstone aside to reveal an iron ring set in another flagstone. A bit of struggling moved this last obstacle. Peering into the cavity thus exposed, Emmie beheld two caskets sitting side by side covered in dust. A few minutes work had them out of their hiding place. Betsy brushed them off with her petticoat while Pilfer produced a hammer and chisel. One casket was larger than the other, a plain chest of brassbound wood with a heavy lock. The other was a piece of decorative art, a jewel casket with curved sides and ornate gilded decoration.

Her tongue caught between her teeth, Emmie placed the chisel on the lock of the larger chest and aimed the hammer. As she drew it back for a strike, she heard something from the floor above. She recognized the sounds of a scuffle and blows. Then Turnip hurtled headlong down the stairs and collapsed.

Betsy cried out and rushed to him. Emmie dropped the chisel and ran forward as someone
took the steps two at a time. She stopped short when Valin North stepped into the lamplight holding a pistol.

About his lips played one of his infrequent smiles. It was one she’d never seen—contemptuous, glacial yet malevolent—a smile one encountered on dark nights in Whitechapel alleys. Emmie’s skin crawled as Valin walked over to her.

“ ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’ ” Valin glanced at the two caskets, then back at Emmie. “I always believed the Beaufort treasure a myth, but I was wrong.” His voice softened even as rage sparked in his eyes. “And you’ve been after it all along.”

No one moved or breathed.

“By God, I’ve been a fool.”

Emmie shook her head. “It’s not like—”

“Shut up, Emmie, and open the boxes.”

“But I—”

The pistol swung to point at Betsy. “Don’t make me any angrier than I am already. I’d like to shoot you, but I’m sure wounding your little helper here would hurt you far worse.”

Emmie bit her lower lip and watched him. His expression had a light, amused quality she didn’t like. She had no notion what he might be capable
of in such a mood. Without further protests she jammed the chisel into the lock of the chest and bashed it. The old metal snapped. Then she applied a hairpin to the jewel casket’s delicate lock and stood back.

“Open it,” Valin snapped.

Betsy brought the lamp, and Emmie lifted the heavy lid of the chest. It was filled with gold and silver. Valin glanced at the coins, at Emmie, and back at the coins.

“Those are Spanish,” he said.

Emmie nodded. “Escudos and reals, I think.” She picked up an irregularly shaped silver real. At the top was a crown above a large heraldic crest. The inscription read, “
Philippus D G Hispaniarum et
.” She turned the coin over to see the remainder of the inscription. “
Indiarum Rex
.”

“The Armada hoard,” Valin said softly. “Open the other one.”