Part 21 (2/2)

The lid followed the ribbon to the floor, and I sifted through the tissue paper in the box. The gaslight flared and twinkled upon a metallic object. I lifted it carefully from the box and looked at it with some dismay. A rapier, of the finest English steel, with a tooled leather case of maroon leather scrolled in gold leaf.

”Blimey,” breathed Vincent. ”That's a beaut'.” I could see he was already calculating its worth at the nearest p.a.w.nshop.

”From Wilkinson,” said French, beaming. ”The finest swordsmith in the country.”

”You shouldn't have,” I said.

Really.

No wonder the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was still a bachelor.

Or was he? I remembered French's awkward attempt to deflect the prime minister's inquiry into his holiday arrangements. Then there was the matter of the marchioness. Was she on the prime minister's payroll? Was she in league with Dizzy and French? What did she know about my mother, and did French know what she knew? I had several points to clarify with the poncy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and if I didn't get some satisfactory answers, I might find some use for my new Christmas present after all.

”I say, French-”

Berkley Prime Crime t.i.tles by Carol K. Carr.

INDIA BLACK.

INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR.

end.

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