Free The Riddle of Alabaster Royal by Patricia Veryan Page B

letters, or when his coaches and the team arrived.
    His introspection was interrupted by an enquiring bark. Corporal sat in the doorway, watching him expectantly. Amused, he said, “Think it’s dinner-time, do you? Well, you’re likely right, but there’s not a banquet awaiting us, I’m afraid.” He reached out to the shaggy little creature, and it started eagerly towards his outstretched hand, only to dart away suddenly and race from sight.
    â€œNo banquet, no faithful hound, is that it?” Vespa gathered up his sketchbook and limped into the corridor. There was no sign of the dog, but a scampering sounded from the flight of back stairs that led to the first floor. Vespa hesitated, but the light was fading, and he was cold and hungry. Corporal could find his own way down. He wished it was not so far to the livable part of his inheritance.
    It was as he turned away that he caught the first whiff. He jerked to a halt and sniffed. It could not be! Onions frying? And—woodsmoke…?
    There was someone in his house, by George! The woman he’d seen that first night, no doubt. And not content with trespassing, the wretched creature had the gall to be cooking in one of his bedchambers!
    â€œConfound the wench!” he growled, starting awkwardly up the winding stairs. “It’s not my stupid head after all! And this time I’ve caught her!”

4
    Steps were difficult, stairs worse, but rage is an excellent stimulant, and Vespa climbed at a quite respectable speed and arrived in a rush at one end of the dusty upper corridor. Breathless, he came to an abrupt halt. A young woman knelt a few yards from him, caressing Corporal, who wriggled and wagged his small tail ecstatically.
    â€œPoor little soul,” she cooed. “Does he never brush or—”
    At this point Vespa recovered sufficient breath to snarl, “Perhaps you’d be good enough … madam, to explain—”
    The intruder leapt to her feet and crouched, facing him.
    He had a brief impression of a tiny, somewhat plump form, an untidy mass of jet black hair, and wide blue eyes that hurled loathing. Red lips curled back from gnashing white teeth. “Ora basta! Vada via! Vada via!” she cried shrilly, and on the words, turned and with a swirl of petticoats and an unseemly display of ankles, ran wildly along the corridor.
    Vespa spoke French fairly well and had picked up a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese. These admonitions he could not quite place, but he had the impression he’d been told to do something, and that the something was very probably a demand that he leave.
    â€œDevil take it!” he gasped. “I’ve got a foreigner in my house, not a ghost! A spy, more like!”
    That a foreign agent would dare order him out of his own home brought his rage to the boiling point. He fairly leapt along the corridor and shot around the corner, remembering too late that the manor had been built on different levels. A short flight of stairs shot at him. His fight to retain his balance was doomed, and with a startled shout he plunged down, lost his footing and fell heavily.
    For a few seconds he lay there, dazed, the breath knocked out of him.
    There came a clicking of claws, and Corporal was licking his face and whining. Vespa opened his eyes, and beyond the dog saw pink skirts and a ridiculously small pair of sandals. Immediately, he closed his eyes again.
    â€œIf you are dead,” said the spy, speaking English this time and with no trace of an accent, “you deserve to be.”
    â€˜Vicious little traitor,’ thought Vespa. ‘Come a few steps closer, madam, or Señorita, or whatever you are, and I’ll show you if I’m dead!’
    The sandals crept towards him. “Are you … really … dead?” she asked, seemingly suffering a belated twinge of conscience.
    The skirts swished at him. She bent low and touched his face. With a swift