Page 89 of Impetuous

Cassandra studied them. Tears threatened at the backs of her eyes. It was too awful—to have come so far and done so much, and still the location remained a complete mystery!

She reached down and touched the tissue-thin paper Philip had taken from the book today. “I wonder why this one is a different kind of paper. The one we found at Chesilworth was on good, thick bond. This is so easily torn—why would she have used it?”

“Made it easy to fold it and slide it beneath the back cover,” Philip answered pragmatically. “Anyone would have noticed a bulge there.”

“Yes. I suppose. Still, it isn’t a large piece of paper.” She looked at the map copy she had made. It, too, was on thin paper because she had used it to trace from the original map. Suddenly her heart began to pound. “Oh, my God!”

“What?” Philip glanced at her, startled, then down at the maps at which she was staring so fixedly. “What is it? Did you think of something?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just this thin paper…it’s like what I put over the map to trace on….” With trembling fingers, she picked up the tissue map and laid it gently on top of the other. The symbols and names from the other map showed through, but it was an even bigger jumble.

Carefully she turned the top page around, and suddenly everything clicked into place. The word creek on the new map lay beside the word Littlejohn on the first, and above them both was a squiggly line. Now the rows of lollipop shapes said copse of trees, and the square building held a steeple and the legend Saint Swithin.

“I’ll be damned!” Philip stared at the map, stunned. “I know where this is. This church is no more than a mile from Haverly House, and this road leading from it past the creek… I know this place.”

“What about this hut, the peat-cutter’s hut? And the stone wall?” She pointed toward the small square, her fingernail tracing the words fifteen paces to a mark stating stone wall. On the other side of the wall, an arrow pointed five paces to a spot where a small round-topped chest was drawn, along with the simple word, “Dowry.”

“They’re not familiar to me. But you have to remember that this was drawn almost two hundred years ago. The hut has probably fallen to pieces by now. The remains of it might still be there, though. And the wall.” He looked at Cassandra, excitement glowing in his eyes. “We can find it now, Cassandra. That treasure is in our hands.”

* * *

THEY SET OUT for Haverly House the following morning. Aunt Ardis grumbled about racing down to London to spend only three or four days, then racing back, but she allowed the maids to pack her trunks with only a minimum of fuss. She had apparently taken to heart Cassandra’s warning of the day before and was afraid of losing the valuable connection to the Neville family. Cassandra had heard her assuring Joanna during one of her pouts that there were “other fish in the sea.”

The servants had finished piling their cases atop the carriage and strapping them down, and they were just about to walk out to the carriage when there was a loud rapping on the front door. One of the footmen opened it and was nearly bowled over by a well-dressed man, who barreled into the hallway. He stopped, ignoring the agitated footman, and swung his head around. His gaze fell on Sir Philip, standing with Cassandra and the Moultons, and he charged forward, shaking off the footman’s hand when he grabbed for his arm.

“Sir Philip! By God, I won’t stand for this!”

“Mr. Bigby?” Cassandra stared at the man in astonishment. His suave demeanor of the day before was gone. He was red in the face, his eyes flashed, and he had not even worn a hat to cover his head.

“You appear upset,” Philip said in a classic understatement. “Perhaps we should go to my office and talk.”

“I’ll talk right here and now!” the man thundered back. “You may be all high and mighty, but if you think that I’ll just let you take my—my jewel—my precious—“ He spluttered to a stop, looking as if he might burst a blood vessel.

“Calm down, man,” Philip said in a tone of aristocratic command, and, amazingly enough, it seemed to decrease Mr. Bigby’s agitation somewhat.

“That’s better. Now, kindly tell me what on earth you are talking about.”

“The Queen’s prayer book, of course!” Bigby snapped. “What else?”

“What about it?”

Bigby let out a snort. “You know good and well what about it! Don’t try to cozen me with your elegant ways. It’s gone!”

Cassandra gasped, and Bigby glanced at her, nodding vehemently.

“That’s right! Gone. Stolen. Right out from under my nose.”

“And you think that I did it?” Philip asked in tones of amazement.

“Who else? You were the one wanting to buy it, and I wouldn’t sell it to you. I know you aristocrats—not used to not getting your way. When I wouldn’t sell, you decided to snatch it back. That’s why you came over yesterday, to see if it was worth stealing. To see where I kept it.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Bigby,” Cassandra assured him earnestly. “I promise you. Sir Philip did not steal your book.”

“Not with his own hands, no doubt. He wouldn’t want to get them dirty. No, he just hired a burglar to come in and get it, told him where it was and what it looked like.”

The man continued in this vein for some time, with Aunt Ardis and Joanna looking on in avid interest, but finally Cassandra’s and Philip’s assurances that they had had nothing to do with stealing the book began to sink in on him.

“I assure you, Mr. Bigby, I would never steal that or any other book. We, too, have been the victim of bizarre break-ins, both here and at our homes in the country. Three of them.”