The Masqueraders Read online

  There was an uncomfortable air of strain in the room; my lord was too much master of the situation. Rensley sat on Mr Clapperly’s right hand, and scowled at the table. Mr Clapperly had begged him to leave all to his men of business, and he had agreed to hold his peace. He did not look at my lord; the sight of that smiling countenance enraged him to the point of desperation.

  Mr Fontenoy preserved his prim severity; my Lord Clevedale lounged beside the old gentleman, and was frankly agog with curiosity. Burton and his sister sat together on one side of the table, and appeared to be rather bewildered.

  Mr Brent signed to his clerk, who brought forward a leather case. Mr Brent opened this, and produced a slip of paper. It seemed to have been cut from a letter, for it was closely written over. ‘Perhaps, sir, you would be good enough to tell us if you recognize this writing,’ he said courteously, and gave the slip to the clerk, who carried it to my lord.

  My lord put out a white hand to receive it. He glanced at it, smiled, and gave it back. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘It is my father’s hand.’

  Mr Rensley shot a quick look at him, and bit his lip.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ bowed Mr Brent. ‘And these?’

  My lord took three other such slips. One he handed back at once. ‘My brother. Pray take it away.’ He frowned over the second and shook his head. ‘I have not the smallest notion,’ he said calmly. ‘I doubt whether I have ever seen it before.’ He turned to the third, and spent some time over it. ‘I am inclined to think that this must be my Aunt Susanna,’ he said.

  ‘Inclined, sir?’

  ‘Inclined,’ nodded my lord. ‘I never received a letter from her in my life that I can remember. But I perceive the word Toto. My respected aunt, when I knew her – and I do trust she’s dead? – had a small dog of that name. A yapping, petted little brute of a spaniel. Mr Fontenoy would remember.’

  Mr Fontenoy nodded. The lawyers exchanged glances. If this were indeed an impostor he knew a deal about the family of Tremaine.

  ‘But the second letter, sir?’

  My lord raised his brows. ‘I told you, did I not? I do not know the hand at all.’ He put up his glass and looked at it again. ‘Very ill-formed,’ he remarked. ‘No, I know no one with such an undistinguished hand.’

  Mr Rensley reddened angrily and opened his mouth to speak. Mr Brent put up a hand to silence him. ‘Is it not a little strange that you should not know the writing of the man you claim as cousin, sir?’ he asked.

  My lord was aghast. He looked at Rensley. ‘Good gad, cousin, is it yours indeed? I have been guilty of a breach of manners! I am desolated to have passed such a stricture on your hand.’

  ‘You do not answer me, sir,’ Mr Brent pointed out.

  My lord turned to him. ‘I crave your pardon. But does it need an answer? I thought I had made the situation between the Tremaines and the Rensleys clear to all. It is not in the least strange that I should not recognise the hand. I had never seen it before.’

  Mr Brent bowed in a non-committal manner, and drew a miniature from the case before him. ‘Do you know this face, sir?’

  ‘I ought to,’ said my lord. ‘But do put it away again, dear sir! I’ve not the smallest wish to gaze upon my late brother’s image.’

  Old Mr Clapperly gave a dry cackle of laughter. Young Mr Clapperly looked reproachful, and said: ‘I believe, gentlemen, we cannot regard that as conclusive. The late Viscount was well known. Show him the other one.’

  My lord held a miniature of a dark lady at arm’s length, and surveyed it critically. ‘When was this done?’ he inquired. ‘It quite fails to convey an impression of her charm.’

  ‘You know the face, sir?’

  ‘Dorothea,’ said my lord. ‘At least, so I suppose, but it is very bad. More like my aunt Johanna. There is a far better portrait of her in the gallery of Barham.’ He showed the miniature to Mr Fontenoy. ‘You knew my sister, sir. Do you agree that this does her less than justice?’

  ‘Miss Tremaine had certainly more animation than is shown here,’ Mr Fontenoy answered.

  My lord gave back the miniature. There was a gleam in his eye. ‘But why not produce a picture of myself ?’ he suggested.

  Mr Fontenoy, and old Mr Clapperly looked sharply. Rensley said triumphantly: – ‘You make a slip there, my clever gentleman! There is no picture of you!’

  My lord smiled. ‘No? And does my friend Mr Fontenoy agree with that?’

  Mr Fontenoy said nothing. My lord tapped the lid of his snuff-box. ‘What of the sketch that was taken of me when I was eighteen?’ he asked softly.

  It was plain Rensley knew nothing of this; equally plain was it that my lord had impressed the two eldest people present. ‘It is true that there was once such a portrait, sir,’ said old Mr Clapperly. ‘But it exists no longer.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said my lord politely. ‘It is a long time since I left England. But perhaps you have not looked for it in the right place.’

  ‘We have searched both in this house, and at Barham, sir. It is not to be found.’

  ‘I see that I must assist you,’ smiled my lord.

  There was an alert look in Mr Brent’s face. ‘Indeed, sir, and do you know where this likeness is to be found?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Brent. But do not let us be rash. If the likeness is still where I hid it, then I can find it.’

  Mr Fontenoy lost some of his primness. Everyone was staring eagerly at my lord. ‘Where you hid it, sir?’

  ‘Where I hid it,’ repeated my lord. ‘Now I have overheard you to say, Mr Fontenoy, that young Robert Tremaine was a romantic youth. It is very true! Years have not dulled the edge of my romantic fervour.’ He laid down his snuff-box on the table before him, and his strangely compelling eyes swept the room. ‘They have only sharpened a brain that was always acute, gentlemen. You cannot fail to have observed a forethought in me that excites the admiration. I had it even as a boy.’ He smiled benignantly. ‘Such a contingency as the present one I dimly expected, even in those far-off days. I saw that the day might come when I might desire to prove my identity. The romantic boy, Mr Fontenoy, hid a picture of himself in this very room, to serve as a proof if ever he should need one.’

  ‘In this room!’ ejaculated my Lord Clevedale, looking round.

  ‘Certainly,’ said my lord. ‘That is why I chose this room to-day.’ He rose. ‘Tell me, cousin, are you a great reader?’

  ‘No, I am not,’ said Rensley curtly.

  ‘Nor was my brother,’ said his lordship. ‘I thought of that at the time. My father was much addicted to the works of Shakespeare but I believe he had no Latin.’

  ‘What’s all this to do with it?’ Rensley demanded uneasily.

  My lord’s glance travelled to the top shelf of the books that lined the room. ‘Do you ever chance to take down the works of the poet Horace, cousin?’

  ‘No, I do not, and I don’t see –’

  ‘Nor did my brother, I am convinced,’ said my lord. ‘I thought it was safe – wonderfully safe, and wonderfully neat. I admire my own astuteness.’ He met the puzzled eyes of my Lord Clevedale. ‘A great pity to have no knowledge of the humanities,’ he said. ‘It is an estimable advantage. Had you been familiar with the Odes of Horace, cousin – but you are not. But take them down now: it is never too late to begin. Over in that corner, on the top shelf you will find the first volume, elegantly bound in tooled leather, the covers clasped by wrought hasps.’

  ‘Pray, sir, what’s your meaning?’ Mr Brent asked.

  ‘Why, is it not plain?’ said my lord. ‘I ask my cousin to pull the steps to that corner, and to take down the Odes of Horace. Let him open the clasps, and turn to the Fifth Ode.’

  ‘You speak in riddles, sir.’

  ‘But the riddle will very soon be answered, sir, if my cousin will do as I say. The fir