His mouth started to work first, opening and closing to no effect. Then: "Aaarrrrgh!!!" His face a mask of abject horror, Whitticombe pointed. "What's that cat doing here?"
Alice looked, then frowned at him. "That's Myst. Patience's cat."
"I know." Whitticombe's voice shook; his gaze didn't shift.'
Risking a glance around the screen, Vane sighted Myst, sitting neatly erect, her ancient, all-seeing blue gaze fixed, unwinking, on Whitticombe's face.
"But it was in London!" Whitticombe gasped. "How did it get here?"
Alice shrugged. "It didn't come down with us."
"I know that!"
Someone choked on a laugh; the second screen wobbled, then teetered. A hand appeared at the top and righted it, then disappeared.
Vane sighed, and stepped out, around the other screen. Whitticombe's eyes, which Vane would have sworn could not get any wider, did.
"Evening, Colby." Vane waved Minnie forward; the others followed.
As the company assembled in full sight, Alice chortled. "So much for your secrets, dear brother." She sank back in her chair, grinning maliciously, clearly unconcerned by her own misdemeanors.
Whitticombe threw her a swift glance and drew himself up. "I don't know how much you heard-"
"All of it," Vane replied.
Whitticombe blanched-and glanced at Minnie.
Who stared at him, disgust and disaffection clear in her face. "Why?" she demanded. "You had a roof over your head and a comfortable living. Was fame so important you would commit crimes-and for what? A foolish dream?"
Whitticombe stiffened. "It's not a foolish dream. The church plate and the abbey's treasure were buried befor
e the Dissolution. There's clear reference made in the abbey records-but after the Dissolution there's no mention of it at all. It took me forever to track down where they'd hidden it-the crypt was the obvious place, but there's nothing but rubble there. And the records clearly state a cellar, but the old cellars were excavated long ago-and nothing was found." He drew himself up, inflated with self-importance. "Only I traced the abbot's cellar. It's there-I found the trapdoor." He looked at Minnie, avaricious hope lighting his eyes. "You'll see-tomorrow. Then you'll understand." Confidence renewed, he nodded.
Bleakly, Minnie shook her head. "I'll never understand, Whitticombe."
Edgar cleared his throat. "And I'm afraid you won't find anything, either. There's nothing to be found."
Whitticombe's lip curled. "Dilettante," he scoffed. "What would you know of research?"
Edgar shrugged. "I don't know about research, but I do know about the Bellamys. The last abbot was one-not in name-but he became the grandfather of the next generation. And he told his grandsons of the buried treasure-the tale was passed on until, at the Restoration, a Bellamy asked for and was granted the old abbey's lands."
Edgar smiled vaguely at Minnie. "The treasure is all around us." He gestured to the walls, the ceiling. "That first Bellamy of Bellamy Hall dug up the plate and treasure as soon as he set foot on his new lands-he sold them, and used the proceeds to build the Hall, and to provide the foundation for the future wealth of the family."
Meeting Whitticombe's stunned stare, Edgar smiled. "The treasure's been here, in plain sight, all along."
"No," Whitticombe said, but there was no strength in his denial.
"Oh, yes," Vane replied, his gaze hard. "If you'd asked, I-or Grisham-could have told you the abbot's cellar was filled in more than a hundred years ago. All you'll find under that trapdoor is solid earth."
Whitticombe continued to stare, then his eyes glazed.
"I rather think, Colby, that it's time for some apologies, what?" The General glared at Whitticombe.
Whitticombe blinked, then stiffened, and lifted his head arrogantly. "I don't see that I've done anything particularly reprehensible-not by the standards of this company." Features contorting, he scanned the others. And gestured disdainfully. "There's Mrs. Agatha Chadwick, struggling to bury a nincompoop of a husband and settle a daughter with not two wits to her name and a son not much better. And Edmond Montrose-a poet and dramatist with so much flair he never accomplishes anything. And we mustn't forget you, must we?" Whitticombe glared vituperatively at the General. "A General with no troops, who was nothing but a sergeant major in a dusty barracks, if truth be known. And we shouldn't forget Miss Edith Swithins, so sweet, so mild-oh, no. Don't forget her, and the fact she's consorting with Edgar, the rambling historian, and thinking no one knows. At her age!"
Whitticombe poured out his scorn. "And last but not least," he pronounced with relish, "we have Miss Patience Debbington, our esteemed hostess's niece-"
Crunnnch! Whitticombe sailed backward and landed on the floor, some yards away.