Free The Riddle of Alabaster Royal by Patricia Veryan

and began to pace the floor. He tried to concentrate on anything but his misery and after a while became aware that his footsteps had an odd sort of echo. He peered downward. The glow of moonlight enabled him to make out a small shape trotting along beside him. He’d given up trying to keep the dog out of the house and, truth to tell, was glad of its company. Seldom was it far from his side, and today it had demonstrated its affection by bravely charging at Gentry and his hirelings.
    â€œHullo, there,” said Vespa. The dog sat down and gazed up at him. “We’ll have to find a name for you,” he added, and resumed his pacing, searching about for a likely name. In some ways the little dog put him in mind of his former batman. Corporal O’Malley had been slavishly devoted, utterly ruthless in procuring whatever was needed to ensure his captain some measure of comfort, and ready, willing and able to fight any man in the army at the slightest provocation. Constantly obliged to rescue him from the consequences of his misdeeds, Vespa had been devastated when O’Malley was fatally wounded while rushing to aid him after he’d been knocked from his saddle early in the Battle of Vitoria. Dear old O’Malley had been undersized, unkempt and fiercely loyal; it would seem the dog had similar traits.
    â€œHum,” said Vespa, halting. “How does ‘Corporal’ strike you?”
    The small hind-quarters wriggled.
    â€œThen Corporal it shall be.” His own anguish easing, Vespa crawled back into bed, but refused the newly christened canine’s appeal to join him, saying sternly that he would not be put upon. “Or sat upon!”
    For three days all was tranquil at Alabaster Royal. On the third night, however, Vespa awoke to the rustling of windblown leaves, seemingly inside the house. When he got up and carried a lamp into the corridor, Corporal looked up, but did not follow. There was no sign of blowing curtains or of leaves on the floor; no flicker of the lamp’s flame. The air was frigid, but still. Vespa experienced a sudden wave of dizziness, then an eerie feeling that someone stood very close beside him. So strong was the sensation that he could scarcely bring himself to look around. The passage was as empty as before; he was quite alone.
    Disturbed, he went back to bed, trying not to recall two voices: the army surgeon who’d warned gravely that the head wound might cause more problems than the severe headaches he suffered with unhappy frequency, and Strickley’s harsh assertion—“Lotsa folks has heard ’em whispering and rustling about.” He did not sleep well for the balance of the night.
    Two more days passed peacefully. Never a fussy eater, he cooked himself simple meals on the vast kitchen stove and ate them in the breakfast parlour accompanied only by Corporal. Strickley worked outside, took care of Secrets, kept the house well stocked with logs and started the fires in the mornings. Vespa sent him into the village with a letter to Sir Kendrick reporting on his progress and advising that his curricle and the new phaeton and his matched greys had not yet arrived at Alabaster Royal as expected. He also despatched letters to an old school friend now living in Bristol and another in London, asking that they be so good as to have enquiries made with regard to securing the services of a competent valet. Once he’d found a good man, he could leave to him the business of hiring a cook and other servants. He ignored the awareness that the most logical course would be to turn for assistance to his father’s butler at Richmond. Rennett would, he knew, have been only too glad to help, and would, moreover, find an excellent man. Logic, however, played no part in his determination not to admit to Sir Kendrick that he was incapable of handling his own affairs. He might be temporarily uncomfortable and not quite up to par, but be damned if he meant