A Castle in the Air by Kelley Armstrong

Author:Kelley Armstrong [Armstrong, Kelley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K.L.A. Fricke Inc

Martin’s ale arrives along with our meals, and the hostess brings him bread with butter and a thick slice of mutton, served with a smile that tells me—if Benedict’s demeanor did not—that this is the most popular of the Carleton clan. Martin earns that smile with genuine and effusive thanks.

“The clock,” Benedict says as we begin to eat.

“Mmm, yes,” Martin says after taking a bite of his meal. “It is a fine mystery, though I would not say so to my father, who becomes quite apoplectic at the mention of it. Do you know the history, ma’am?”

“I know what I have heard. That it allegedly belonged to a French queen, whose lady-in-waiting absconded to England with it, whereupon it disappeared.”

“Disappeared would be an exaggeration. That is the story told to keep any Frenchman from demanding its return. The lady-in-waiting seems to have sold it to the first Englishman who offered a fair price, and even then, she had no idea what it was worth. From there it passed through the hands of a few people who also did not understand its value. That is how it came into my father’s possession.”

“He did understand the value.”

“Very well. He also had it on excellent authority that the former owner was uninterested in its return . . . because they had obtained it through questionable means themselves. That meant Father did not expect any trouble buying and even displaying it, at least not way out here in our . . .” He glances quickly at Benedict. “At the house we currently occupy.”

Sterling Hall. The estate where Benedict grew up. The family home he lost.

Martin hurries on. “So my father made the purchase and had it transported here. But it never arrived. The coach was beset by highwaymen.”

That is not the official story Miranda saw in the museum, which claimed a Scotsman had bought it and was planning to sell it back to the French when it was stolen on the way to London. Proof that, with an object like this, even those who made history their business sometimes fell prey to rumor.

“Someone knew the clock was coming to Yorkshire,” I say.

“No,” Martin says, his blue eyes glinting. “That is what makes it such a fine mystery. My father was very shrewd. He hired a coach that is said to be impenetrable, even to musket fire. He also hired six men to accompany it, all crack shots. It was the talk of the town—well, in certain circles. But that was all for show. While my father was personally transporting the supposed clock crate to the coach, it was already on its way here, snuck onto a wagon.”

“The wagon was what the highwaymen robbed.”

“Precisely, and to hear the poor wagon driver tell it, the thieves were as ragged a bunch as ever trolled the highway. They were only hoping for a few trade goods. Instead . . .” He throws up his hands, his face gleaming in the childlike delight of a good story.

“They struck it rich,” I say.

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