Silent on the Moor (2019 Edition)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

When we reached Grimsgrave, Miss Allenby and I went our separate ways. She left her basket in the hall, inclining her head graciously toward Valerius who passed her upon the stairs.

  “Are you just now rising?” I asked him. He yawned broadly.

  “I am. I have not slept so well in years. Something about the air up here, I think,” he commented, smiling.

  “I am suspicious of you, Valerius. You look entirely too cheerful for a person whose presence here has been secured by means of extortion.”

  He shrugged. “I am of a gentle and pleasant disposition,” he said mildly.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “I am in no mood to quarrel, Julia. I have a mind to walk out over the moor, perhaps to the village. I am rather curious about how they manage for a doctor in Lesser Howlett.”

  “Not very well,” I told him. I quickly related what Rosalie had revealed about the village doctor.

  He rolled his eyes. “I am not surprised. Any medical professional with the slightest bit of acumen would have had something done about the drains in Howlett Magna. I mean to see if they fare any better in Lesser Howlett. Good drains are fundamental for public health,” he added. I hastened to divert him before he warmed to his theme and we spent the better part of the morning discussing public hygiene.

  “And you might like to stop for a chat with Rosalie Smith whilst you’re out,” I advised. “She seems quite knowledgeable about folk remedies.” We parted then, Val full of schemes for his entertainment, and I felt a little deflated. With Brisbane gone there was nothing pressing, and I looked about the hall for something to do. Ailith had taken herself upstairs. Portia and Lady Allenby and the mysterious Hilda were nowhere to be seen, and I was seized with a sudden, childlike urge to explore Grimsgrave on my own.

  I crept to the nearest set of doors, enormous, panelled things, and pushed one open, holding my breath as it creaked in protest upon its hinges. I moved into a handsome hall of excellent proportions, the walls panelled, the plaster ceiling worked in a repeating pattern of lozenges and crowns. The room was impressive, not the least because it was entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture nor vase nor picture warmed the room. It was a cold, austere place, and I shivered in spite of myself.

  I turned to leave, surprised to see that I had been quite wrong in thinking the room was bereft of decoration. Hung just next to the great double doors was a length of tapestry, bordered in flame stitch, and fashioned as a sort of genealogical chart. The names and dates had been worked in thick scarlet wools, and far back, just near the top of the tapestry, several of the names were surmounted by crowns heavily stitched in tarnished gold thread.

  I moved closer to read the names. Those at the top were Saxon royalty, the kings of England before the Conqueror came from across the sea. From them descended an unbroken line, all the way down to Lady Allenby herself, married to Sir Alfred Allenby, I noticed. Peering intently, I could just make out that they had been first cousins, and that Lady Allenby had been orphaned quite young.

  “I wonder if that was arranged,” I murmured. It seemed too neat otherwise, the orphaned heiress of the old blood royal married off to the sole heir. Rather like royal marriages of old, I thought irreverently, keeping the bloodlines and the family fortunes secure. Still, the notion of an arranged marriage left me cold, and I hoped it had been one of affection instead.

  I traced the line between them, and down to where Sir Redwall’s name had been stitched, the year of his death still bright and untarnished. Some distance apart was Ailith, and between them a place where another name had been recorded but had clearly been unpicked by a careful needle. After Ailith was Hilda, the letters quite narrow and cramped, looking rather like an afterthought. My eyes returned to the empty spot between Redwall and Ailith.

  I passed then to a smaller room, the dining room I suspected, a similar chamber with panelling and plaster ceiling, its furniture also missing. In these panels I noticed the crowned initial A carved over and over again, endless reminders of the once-royal blood that still flowed in the Allenby veins.

  I clucked my tongue at the carvings. There were royals within my own family, but most of them were not the sort worth remembering, I reflected wryly. For all our exalted history, the Marches were very much country gentry, deeply connected to the land and its people. We had a gallery of painted ancestors, but as their exploits were always of the wildly eccentric and deeply embarrassing sort, I had learned to ignore them. I was much more attached to the modern, American idea of finding merit in one’s efforts rather than one’s birth. But I had little doubt the Allenbys would find such a notion heresy.

  I crossed the hall again, feeling very intrepid indeed as I made my way into the dust-sheeted room next to Brisbane’s bedchamber. I crept through, scarcely heeding the ominous, ghostly shapes in the half-light. I was bound for Brisbane’s inner sanctum, for reasons that did me no credit.

  “Curiosity is a dangerous pastime,” I reminded myself as I edged into his room. But then so is love. I sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, breathing in the scent of him. It was an easy thing to imagine him there, lying with his black hair tumbled across the soft white linen of the pillow. I put out a hand to touch it, then drew it back in haste.

  He had made his bed, skilfully as any housemaid would have done, and I was suddenly glad of it. I had been seized with such a tremendous sense of longing I might well have lain down.

  I surged up from the bed, realising I had strayed into rather dangerous territory. I had not come to build castles in Spain, I told myself firmly. I had come to find some clue as to Brisbane’s state of mind as master of Grimsgrave.

  His trunk yielded nothing unexpected, save a copy of Socrates in Greek, the endpapers heavily marked in Brisbane’s distinctive hand. I had known he had a facility for languages, but I had not realised Greek was among them.

  I tucked it neatly back into his travelling trunk, along with a small leather purse full of what seemed to be Chinese coins, and a set of false white whiskers so realistic I started back in fright at the sight of them. I had seen Brisbane in them once before and had not known him, I reflected with a smile. We had come quite far since then, and yet not far at all.

  I rose and moved to the covered table in the corner, lifting the linen cloth carefully. A set of scientific instruments reposed there, some chemists’ glass, a scale, and most impressively of all, a microscope even finer than Valerius’. “No wonder Brisbane keeps that under cover,” I mused. “He would never know a moment’s peace if Valerius suspected this was here.”

  “Talking to oneself is the first sign of a disordered mind.” I whirled to find Lady Allenby standing in the doorway, leaning upon her rosewood walking stick, her expression gently reproving.

  I dropped the cloth and straightened. “I was just—”

  Her expression softened and she held up a hand. “There is no need to explain, my dear. I was once your age. And I was in love.”

  I took a deep breath. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Only to someone who has also suffered.”

  I dropped my head. “It isn’t always dreadful, you know. In fact, it is rather wonderful most of the time.”

  She gave me a moment to compose myself. I took a deep breath and forced a smile.

  “I was looking over the other rooms as well. The dining room and the great hall. They must have been magnificent.”

  “There were Jacobean suites of furniture in each of them, the finest English oak, carved by a master’s hands. They were sold along the way, with the Flemish tapestries and the French porcelains,” she added with a sigh. “So much of this place lost. It will be a mercy, I think, to leave it behind.”

  I marvelled at her courage, twisted and wracked with pain, forced to leave the only home she had ever known.

  “I hope you will be happy in your new home,” I said impulsively. It seemed a stupid sentiment. Who could be happy in such circumstances, torn up by the very roots?

  “God will provide. As w
ill Mr. Brisbane. He might have turned us out into the streets to starve, you know. We must be grateful that he is a generous man.”

  “Or perhaps he feels kindly toward old friends,” I ventured, watching her closely. She blinked a little, but her expression of gentle kindliness did not falter.

  “Ah, I suppose Ailith has told you they knew each other as children? Well, do not be misled by that. Their acquaintance was of short duration. Mr. Brisbane was, er, travelling, with his mother’s family at the time,” she said, neatly glossing over the fact that the gentleman who now owned her house had once been a wild half-Gypsy boy. She went on smoothly. “They passed through, every spring. And you know what children are, always swearing eternal friendship, then quite forgetting one another when the season has passed. Ailith did not even know him when he first arrived here in January, he is so changed.”

  I remained silent, wondering whether Ailith’s attachment to Brisbane had been deeper than her mother knew.

  Lady Allenby looked around her for the first time, taking in the small room and its tidy complement of furnishings. “This was my son’s room,” she said suddenly.

  She turned away then, and I knew she was thinking of the son she had lost so precipitously. “I wonder if you would like to see Redwall’s things,” she said, almost hopefully.

  Nothing could have appealed to me less than sorting through the possessions of a dead man, but Lady Allenby had been very gracious, and I did not like to offend her.

  “Of course.”

  We entered the long room I had passed through the previous night. She busied herself lighting a few lamps to throw off the chill and the shadows. Without the gloom, the room seemed more inviting, the shrouds less sinister. The tops of the walls were decorated with the same frieze as the small bedchamber—a riverbank, edged with marsh grasses and flights of birds taking wing. Here and there a lily bloomed, pale and fragile against the delicate green grasses, and near the corner a graceful gazelle stopped to drink from the river. It was beautifully done, and I remarked upon it to Lady Allenby.

  “Oh, yes. Ailith painted that. She’s rather clever at such things, and it was a present for Redwall after he returned from his travels in Egypt. He was quite taken with the decorations of the tombs, and brought back many drawings, and even a few plates taken by the expedition’s photographer.”

  “Egypt—how exciting! I should love to travel. I have only been to the Continent, but Africa seems another world entirely.”

  She smiled, her expression nostalgic. “It was to Redwall. He was never happier than when he was reading his books about the pharaohs or working on his models of the tombs and temples. I am afraid it was rather difficult for him to leave Egypt behind. I believe Ailith thought he would pine less if he had something of the place here in his private rooms. Let me show you something.”

  She moved toward the nearest dustsheet and tossed it aside with a theatrical flair. I swallowed a gasp. There was a long, low couch, fashioned of thin strips of woven leather and held aloft by a pair of golden leopards.

  “Astonishing,” I breathed, moving closer. I dared not touch it. The gilt of the cats’ spots was alternated with blue enamel, the eyes set with great pieces of amber that glowed in the lamplight.

  “It is a fake, of course,” she told me, regretfully, I fancied. “Redwall purchased many treasures in Egypt. He wanted to furnish all of Grimsgrave in the Egyptian style. Much of what he purchased is of no value—modern reproductions of the furniture of the pharaoh’s tombs, although I believe some of the smaller pieces and the papyri may be worth something. And there is some jewellery as well. I seem to recall a few pretty things amongst these bits.” She gestured toward the other shrouds in the room, and I turned slowly on my heel, thinking rapidly.

  “All of these dustsheets are covering his antiquities?” I asked her.

  “Most of them. The others are covering boxes of smaller statues and amulets, boxes of jewellery, his collection of scholarly works and publications. My son travelled for many years, you understand. He often sent things back and we stored them as best we could. This was his workroom, then beyond, in the room Mr. Brisbane uses as a bedchamber, was Redwall’s private study. When Mr. Brisbane came, Redwall’s things were moved into this room to give him a bedchamber on the ground floor. One must observe the proprieties, even here,” she finished with a wan smile.

  I took a deep breath and plunged into what I was afraid might be a colossal piece of impudence.

  “Lady Allenby, I do hope you will forgive me for speaking so frankly. You have given me to understand that your son’s death has left you and your daughters in rather straitened circumstances.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but I hurried on, afraid both that she would accept my proposal and that she would reject it. I had suddenly seen how the Allenbys might be made solvent again, and I was certain that in some fashion I was conspiring against some larger scheme of Brisbane’s. I had no notion how, precisely, only that I was very sure he would not have cause to thank me for what I was about to do.

  “It is entirely possible that within this room may lay your salvation. Have you a catalogue of what pieces Sir Redwall brought from Egypt?”

  She shook her head. “No. I have his letters, and in those he talks about a few of the larger items, but if he kept an inventory, I do not know of it.”

  “Then one must be made,” I said boldly. “You told me that Mr. Brisbane was preparing a home for you. Surely you will have no room for this collection there.”

  “No, of course not,” she said slowly. “I confess I hoped not to. The Egyptian things have never been to my taste. I find them rather gruesome. It was something of a relief to be able to put them all in here and close the door.”

  I felt a glimmer of hope. If she had been relieved not to see the things, she might well have no objections to my plan.

  “This room will have to be cleared for Mr. Brisbane’s use eventually, and you will not be able to keep the things. Why not let me prepare a catalogue and make some inquiries for you? My brother, Lord Bellmont, is rather good friends with the director of the British Museum. Perhaps he can arrange for the museum to purchase some of the items. Or, failing that, we could no doubt interest one of the antiquities dealers in London in mounting an exhibition with an eye to selling the entire collection. Scholars will certainly be interested in his papers and books and the papyri, and collectors will be terribly keen for the rest of it. Even society ladies will go mad for the reproductions. Egyptian décor is rather in vogue just now, you know.”

  I paused, and for a long, terrible moment Lady Allenby said nothing. Then she swallowed hard and looked down at the dustsheet still clutched in her knobby fingers.

  “You are very practical, my dear. And as I suspected, very clever. It might well be an end to all of our money troubles. But I do not think—”

  She broke off and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Just as quickly as she had broken down, she composed herself, her posture once more erect, her eyes dry.

  “I do not think I could bear to touch his things, nor could Ailith. Hilda might, if you could ever run her to ground, but I fear we would be of little help to you.”

  I felt a surge of relief. “I do not care about that, I assure you. If I have need of assistance, I am quite certain I can persuade my brother, Valerius, to lend a hand. I would be happy to take this on, and if you will permit me, I will write to Bellmont tonight to set things in motion.”

  Lady Allenby paused another long moment, then nodded. “In that case, I accept your generous offer with one caveat. Do you think it would be possible to arrange the sale without bringing the Allenby name into it?”

  I started to protest, but she held up a hand. “I realise the interest would be much greater if Redwall’s name was attached, but it has been so difficult already, with the sale of the house, and being dependent upon Mr. Brisbane’s good graces. The sale of our furnishings has been discreet. We have so few visitors. Very few
know how dire our situation has become. I should not like it to be known that we were forced to sell Redwall’s things.”

  I laid a hand on her arm. “Of course. I shall make certain the entire affair is handled with discretion.”

  She smiled then, and for an instant I saw the staggering beauty she must once have been.

  “Thank you, my dear.” She glanced about the room, her expression unfathomable. “I only hope you do not come to regret your generous offer.”

  I laughed at the time, but much later I realised that had I never offered to arrange for the sale of Redwall Allenby’s possessions, nothing that followed would have happened, and one of the few inhabitants of Grimsgrave Hall would still be alive.

  THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

  Youth is hot and bold; age is weak and cold.

  —William Shakespeare

  “The Passionate Pilgrim XII”

  I passed the rest of the morning attending to the various grievances and demands of the maids and the pets. Morag complained bitterly about sharing her room with Minna, and the dogs, my own Florence and Portia’s Puggy, demanded to be walked. Minna cheerfully offered to attend to the animals, even to the extent of feeding my raven, Grim, when she was finished with the dogs.

  “Thank you, Minna,” I told her. “Mind you wrap up well when you take them out, and keep to the moor path. They needn’t go far, and Florence will want her little coat.”

  She bobbed a curtsey. “And what about Puggy, my lady?”

  “God himself could not kill that dog. I doubt a little cold air will do him any harm. Take a shawl for yourself as well, my dear. We don’t want you taking a chill.”

  Minna smiled her dimpled little smile and hurried off to her charges. I turned to Morag who was busy plumping the bedpillows.

  “You might take a leaf out of her book,” I advised her. “Minna is always ready to lend a hand, no matter if it is her job or not.”

  Morag gave a deep sniff. “I am making the bed, am I not? Not that I’ve a choice.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “No chambermaids. What sort of household is this, I ask you?”