Joan Smith: Gather Ye Rosebuds

"Why no, he was not,” Mama said, brightening. “He was in London when Weylin had his last election do. And really, you know, I seem to remember Lady Margaret lost it at Tunbridge Wells. She used to go there often for the chalybeate waters."

"Uncle Barry never went to Tunbridge Wells, as far as I can remember."

"No, why would he? He was healthy as a horse-until he died, I mean. He was used to run up to London as often as he could find an excuse. He liked to visit at East India House, and chat to the lads, but Tunbridge Wells-never."

"So how did he get the necklace?” I asked.

Mama bent her mind to this problem and soon came up with an answer. “This goes from bad to worse, Zoie. He must have been part of a gang! One of them did the robbing, and others peddled the goods."

"If that were the case, he should have been rich. You know he hadn't a sou to his name when he died. One would have thought he would have squirreled away a couple of hundred pounds at least. He had no expensive habits."

"And I only took a nominal sum from him for board,” Mama added. “Why, from his pension alone he ought to have saved up a few hundred. I made sure his savings would at least bury him, but I had to pay for the coffin along with everything else. He must have been a secret gambler,” she decided, as she could think of nothing else to explain the mystery.

"Perhaps he had a woman in London,” I suggested. There had been a certain Surinda Joshi in Calcutta. Barry never mentioned her in his letters, but Mama's family used to write about her. They feared he would marry this dusky beauty.

"Now, that is entirely possible. He was always a mouthful among the parish for his flirting ways. He could have been sending money to Surinda."

"It is odd he had not sold the necklace, if that was his plan. The thing was stolen five years ago, and he still had it when he died."

I never thought I would come to hate the sight of diamonds, but that glittering little heap on the table was enough to make my blood run cold.

Steptoe came in and said, in his uppity way, “There does not appear to be any more stolen jewels among Mr. McShane's belongings, madam. Shall I send the necklace back to Parham?"

"You must not think of it, Steptoe!” Mama exclaimed.

In our confusion, we had forgotten we had Steptoe to contend with. It seemed best to take the bull by the horns. I said, “We plan to return it secretly, Steptoe. We would appreciate it if you did not speak to the servants, nor indeed to anyone, of the necklace."

Steptoe remained silent a moment, scanning this for opportunities of exploiting us. He was a perfectly self-centered man. He presented a good appearance and lent a certain cachet when he answered the door, looking down on all our callers, but really he was not at all pleasant.

"Very well, madam. Ah, and while I have your attention, might I inquire whether you have given any thought to the matter of increasing my wage?” he asked, while peering at us from under his lashes.

Steptoe is always after an increase in his wage. He has had three while Brodagan has had one. This latest demand was nothing less than extortion, but it was not the time to chastise him.

"How much increase will you need, Steptoe?” Mama asked fearfully.

"Five pounds per quarter would be convenient, madam."

"You only asked for three last week!” I objected.

"Yes, madam, but now I find five would be more convenient.” His eyes slid to the diamonds, then turned to Mama with a speaking look. “Thank you, madam.” He bowed and left.

"That one will be no stranger in hell,” Mama said.

"This is intolerable! We shall not give him another sou."

"The alternative is to tell Lady Weylin-and Lord Weylin-the truth, Zoie,” she pointed out.

"I daresay we can eke out another five pounds per quarter, but if he demands one more penny, Mama, we must turn him off. Let him tell what stories he likes; no one will listen. People know we are honest."

"They do not know Barry was honest. There were a few rumors in town about that unfortunate bookkeeping error in India. How very disagreeable it will be, having to call at Parham tomorrow,” Mama said, gazing forlornly into her teacup. “My blood shakes to think of it, for I haven't the heart of a mouse."

"We must go in the morning. Borsini will be coming in the afternoon."

"Gracious, as if having a thief in the family were not bad enough! I hope Weylin is not there when we call. His mama is enough to frighten the dragoons, but if I have to face him with stolen diamonds in my pocket I know I shall crop right out into a confession and land in the roundhouse."

"Dangle from a gibbet is more like it."

"Do not say such things, Zoie!” She daubed at her eyes. “One dislikes to speak ill of the dead, but I do think this was not very nice of Barry, and after I was kind enough to give him a home, too. He did it black on us, Zoie, and that's the truth.” Mama slips into the old Irish expressions when she is upset.

"It is pretty clear that Uncle Barry was pulling the wool over our eyes for years. I have no reluctance to speak ill of him. I always thought he was sly. It would not surprise me if he had his fingers in the till in India."

"Now, that is not true. They caught the fellow who did it. Barry left the company with a clean record and a full pension."

"Perhaps, but do you not remember how he used to keep a very sharp eye on the post? He'd be waiting for the delivery, and snatch up his letters, slipping them inside his jacket before anyone got a look at them. They were orders from his gang, I expect."

"I always thought they were from Surinda. There was a strong musky scent in the hall after he took the letters away. He certainly had something to hide. And with all his treachery, he did not even end up rich,” Mama said, “but left me to pay for his coffin."

Once Steptoe learned our secret, the only person in the house with any vestige of control over him was Brodagan. He was becoming bossy even with her, which brought her to the saloon to complain. We took her into our confidence regarding the necklace and asked for her forbearance at this time. She was marble-constant, as usual. Brodagan would not complain if we murdered the archbishop.

"You may be sure as soon as the matter is straightened out, he will be dismissed,” Mama promised.

"My sorrow!” she declared, black eyes gleaming fiercely. “A viper in our own bosom. Him in his grand black suit, looking like his nose would bleed if you said boo to him. He's no better than a thief hisself, squeezing money out of a widow. He wants the good wine brought up to his cubbyhole, if you please. I'd sooner part with my eyes than let him have Mr. Barron's good claret."

"Since Mr. Barron no longer has need of it…” Mama said.

"That old rack-pot is to have ambrosia then, while the rest of us belowstairs make do with small beer?” Brodagan asked, with a gimlet glance that would cut forged steel.

"I think Brodagan would like a bottle of the claret, Mama,” I said, as Mama was not quick to take her meaning.

"You do not have to ask, my dear Brodagan,” Mama said, and won a smile from the Turk. “Naturally you must do as you wish."

Having won her point, Brodagan said piously, “I never touch a drop, melady!” She continued, “That scarecrow has had the spite in his nose for us ever since he came here, only because we lack a handle to our names. ‘His lordship did it this way,’ says he, and ‘Her ladyship did it that way,’ as if he was quoting the Bible. Why did he leave Parham and go to the Pakenhams? That is what I would like to know. And within a year or two, he hopped along to us. Sure it was a dark day when you hired the likes of that grasshopper, melady."