Lily Lang by The Last Time We Met Page A

behind the stables.
    As for Mrs. Finchly, Miranda concluded gravely, she had never again dared set foot on Thornwood land.
    “I don’t believe it!” declared one of the smaller hall boys, who evidently worshipped Jason and would brook no such undignified tales about his hero. “Mr. Blakewell would never put frogs in a lady’s carriage!”
    This provoked a flurry of discussion about Mr. Blakewell’s disposition and whether or not he was capable of playing practical jokes. The staff all agreed it was very unlikely.
    Mr. Blakewell did not play at anything, Briggs explained to Miranda. Mr. Blakewell simply won. Always . At dice, at cards, at the Newcastle races.He had long ago exchanged an abacus for his heart, while his brain appeared to be largely filled with a sort of Domesday Book in which he recorded the whole financial history of the great English families and which he consulted whenever he was in a foul mood and wished to ruin someone.
    “And I ain’t never seen Mr. Blakewell laugh,” Daniel Pooley concluded, as though this were an irrefutable argument against the veracity of Miranda’s story. “Never. Even when he finds something funny, his mouth kind of goes up, but he don’t laugh.”
    Miranda looked down at the hands she had folded in her lap. It hurt, unexpectedly, to know that Jason, who had laughed so often with her, never laughed anymore.
    “But he is good to you?” she asked, looking around at the faces assembled around her.
    On this score at least the response was swift, enthusiastic and universal.
    “He’s the best I ever worked for,” declared Polly. “After all, looked what ’e did fer poor Bruno. Sendin’ him that great big hamper because his wife broke her leg.”
    There was a chorus of assents. Mr. Blakewell might not know how to laugh, but he was, one and all of the staff members agreed, the best and most generous of masters.
     
     
    Late that afternoon, Jason was sitting at his desk when a firm knock sounded on the door.
    “Enter,” he said, looking up as the door swung open, admitting John Martin, one of the men he had sent to Hertfordshire. He had asked Martin to return as soon as they concluded their investigations, allowing the others to travel on to Middlesex to find William and convey him to his estate in Buckinghamshire.
    “You’re back,” he said. “Excellent. Come in.”
    As Martin removed his hat and cloak and sat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk, Jason poured the man a glass of brandy. Martin grunted his thanks. He had clearly not washed before coming to see his employer, but Jason didn’t care. He wanted to know what the man had to tell him, and a general lack of hygiene and cleanliness would not affect his report.
    When Martin had drained the glass, he let out a long sigh.
    “Thank ye kindly, sir,” he said. “That just ’bout hit the spot.”
    “Would you like more?”
    “No, thank ye. Not now.”
    Jason nodded. Martin, though not a staff member of the club, had been in Jason’s employ for over seven years and was one of his most trusted men. Jason had been in the habit of employing men such as Martin from his earliest days as the operator of a gambling establishment, finding it useful to have spies capable of investigating the finances of his clientele, business partners and associates.
    “Tell me everything you’ve learned,” said Jason.
    Martin nodded, launching into a detailed if grammatically incorrect account of the current goings-on at Thornwood. When the man had given his full report, Jason thanked him, gave him an extra gold guinea and dismissed him.
    For a while he contemplated what Martin had told him. Then he rose to his feet and set out in search for Miranda. He found her, as he had expected, in the kitchen, showing Monsieur Leblanc how to bake one of Cook’s mouthwatering cream-filled pastries.
    For a moment Jason stood without moving in the doorway, watching her. She wore the same massive apron she had worn the day before, and