kindly, young Pelham.”
Hawke noticed that, in addition to the decanter and small thistle-shaped crystal glasses, there was a most peculiar box on the tray. It was triangular and made of yellowed ivory, with a hawk carved of onyx embedded in the center of the lid.
“I’ve never seen that box before, Pelham,” Alex said. “Quite beautiful.”
“Yes,” Pelham said. “It was a gift to your great-grandfather from David Lloyd-George himself. Something to do with a political triad long lost to the mists of history.”
“Too small for cigars,” Alex observed.
“Indeed,” Pelham said. “Do you mind if I sit a moment?”
“You may sit as long as you wish, of course. Here, let me pour you a brandy,” Alex said, and he did so.
Pelham pulled up a leather winged-back chair and sat down with a small sigh. He sipped at his brandy, then picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. He focused his clear blue eyes on Hawke.
“Your lordship, I’ve been in service for nigh on seventy years. And for the last thirty years, I’ve been waiting for this exact moment,” the old fellow finally said. Then he downed the brandy in one swallow and held out his glass to Hawke for a refill. This done, he sat back against the cushion and looked about the room. The firelight was licking every corner of the huge space, even reaching up into the ceiling moldings high above them.
“I don’t really know quite where to begin, your lordship,” he said at last.
“I find the beginning is usually appropriate,” Hawke said with a gentle laugh. But Pelham was not amused.
“ ’Tis a serious matter I’ve come to discuss, m’lord.”
“Sorry,” Alex said, and getting to his feet, he began pacing back and forth before the fire, hands clasped behind his back. Something fairly momentous was afoot.
“Your grandfather left this box for you in my trust. He was very clear about its disposition. I was to give it to you as soon as I felt that you were in a sufficiently proper state of mind to receive it.”
“I see,” Alex said, nervously glancing over at him. “A proper state of mind, you say. All very mysterious, old thing.”
“Yes. But he had his reasons, as you’ll soon see.”
“And you’ve obviously concluded I’m in this so-called proper state now?”
“Indeed, I have, m’lord,” Pelham said, a smile passing across his face. “It’s been a fairly rough go for you. Especially since your dear grandfather passed on. We all miss him. But I think he would agree that you have traveled long and lonely through a deep dark wood and have just now emerged into a most sunny place.”
“If you mean by all that, that after a bit of hard sledding I have come to feel as happy as any man has a right to be, then you’re correct. I have. Wouldn’t you agree, Victoria?”
She was about to say “Happy as a clam,” thought better of it, and said, “Never happier.”
“See? And, as you well know, Victoria is something of a psychiatrist. So, assuming the matter of my current blissful state is settled, hand over the goods, young Pelham! Let’s take a look!” He held out his hand.
Pelham extended the box, and Hawke took it.
“Like a mystery novel,” Hawke said, running the tips of his fingers over the lid and smiling at them both. “Isn’t it?”
He placed the strange white box upon the mantelpiece, beneath the mammoth painting of the Battle of Trafalgar. Looking at the box from different angles, Hawke continued his pacing. “Only usually a good mystery writer will stick these intriguing objects right up front to hook the reader.”
“For heaven’s sakes, open it, Alex,” Vicky said. “I can’t wait to see!”
“So, in other words,” Hawke said, looking carefully at Pelham, “Grandfather wanted me to have this box when I had come to grips with—what shall we call it—the past?”
“Precisely, m’lord,” Pelham said, eyes shining.
“Well, then, in that case I think this historic event deserves a toast! Pelham, would you pour us each a wee dram of that fine brandy?”
Hawke received his brandy and stood, glass in one hand, the other up on the mantelpiece. He swirled the amber liquid in the snifter and then lifted it in the direction of Vicky and Pelham.
“A toast,” Alex Hawke said, “if you don’t mind.”
When they, too, raised their glasses, he said, “I would like to drink to the memory of my dear mother and father,” Hawke began, his eyes brimming.
Vicky thought his voice would break, but he continued. “These are memories that have only recently come back to me. But as they do come flooding back, they are filled with a joy and happiness I never knew existed. My father was a splendid fellow, handsome and brave beyond measure.”
“Oh, Alex!” Vicky cried, and there were tears in her eyes.
“My mother—my mother was equally endowed with strength, kindness, and beauty. And she possessed all three in abundance. In the seven short years we had together, she managed to instill in the boy whatever few qualities or virtues the man might have.”
A sob escaped Vicky’s trembling lips.
Alex put the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
“To my mother and father,” Alex said, and flung his empty glass into the fire, shattering it against the blackened bricks.
“Hear! Hear!” Pelham shouted, rising to his feet. He raised his glass to Hawke, eyes glistening, downed the brandy in one swallow, then threw his glass into the fireplace. Seconds later, Vicky’s glass followed his into the fire as well.
“And now at last the mysterious box!” Hawke said, drawing the back of his hand across his eyes. “Let’s see what’s inside it, shall we?”
He took the box from the mantel, looked at it for a long moment, and then slowly lifted the lid.
“Why, it’s a key!” he said, and lifted out a large brass key by the black satin ribbon attached to it. “Where there’s a key, there’s a lock.”
“Yes,” Pelham said. “There is. If you’ll both follow me?”
Vicky and Alex followed him out into the great hall and then began ascending the broad curving staircase, a spiral that formed the center of the entire house. There was a skylight at the very top of the great mansion and flashes of lightning pierced down into the gloom. Pelham, a Scot, never lit any more lights in the house than were absolutely necessary.
“Where are we going, old thing?” Hawke asked, as they passed the fourth-floor landing and continued upwards.
“To my rooms, your lordship,” Pelham said simply.
“Your rooms? What on earth is—”
A violent crack of lightning struck just then, quite nearby, and Vicky cried out, grabbed Alex’s arm, and held on. The few staircase lights that were lit flickered twice and then went out. The whole house was plunged into darkness.
“Not to worry, miss,” Pelham said. “I always carry a small electric torch on my person for just such occasions.”
He flicked the flashlight on and they continued their procession, mounting to the sixth floor of the house.
“Just along here,” Pelham said, “at the end of the hall.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever been to your rooms, Pelham,” Hawke said.
“Ah, but you have done, m’lord,” he said, opening the door to his quarters. “Many’s the time we’d return from an evening out on the tiles and you’d insist on having ‘one and done’ by my fireside before bed. I’d throw a blanket over you on the sofa and try to ignore the horrific snoring.”
“Try the lights,” Vicky said. “They just came back on down the hall.”
Pelham flicked a switch, and two sconces on either side of his small coal-burning hearth came on. It was a simple room, yet rich with books and paintings.
“Let me guess,” Hawke said, dangling the key from its ribbon. “There’s an ancient chest up here, full of priceless gold and silver heir-looms.”
Pelham, meanwhile, had opened a farther door and motioned them to enter.
“What’s this?” Hawke said.
