Silent on the Moor (2019 Edition)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  As I drew closer, I fancied I heard his voice, and just as I rounded the top he came rushing from the other direction, nearly knocking me flat.

  “Julia, what the devil are you doing up here? These rocks are dangerous,” he scolded, putting a firm hand under my elbow and guiding me to firmer footing.

  “Is there someone here? You were talking to someone,” I prodded.

  “Myself,” he said, setting me onto my feet. “Why have you come?”

  I pulled my elbow away and rubbed at it. It was the one that had collided with the brickwork, and it was still tender.

  “You have mummy babies,” I blurted without preamble.

  He stared down at me, his dark brows furrowed. “I have what?”

  “Mummy babies. In the house, in Redwall’s study. He kept them jammed into a priest’s hole behind the fireplace. I found it, entirely by accident,” I said quickly. “I was cataloguing the contents of his collection for Lady Allenby, and—” I broke off, realising with a rush of annoyance that I had just told Brisbane something I had not meant to reveal. I hurried on in the hopes he would not notice. “I found them, hidden away in a wooden sarcophagus. They are horrid.”

  He continued to stare at me, his bright black gaze as inscrutable as Grim’s. “Coffin,” Brisbane corrected finally.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Coffin. You said it was wood. Sarcophagi are made of stone. They hold coffins, which are made of wood and gilded and painted.”

  “Brisbane, this is no time to be pedantic. Come and look at them.” I tugged at his sleeve, our earlier quarrel quite forgotten.

  To my surprise, he did not demur. He simply glanced around casually, then gestured for me to descend the crag behind him. I scrambled over the rocks with a great deal less grace than I had ascended, but at length I reached the bottom, Hilda’s cloak only slightly the worse for wear. Brisbane touched it lightly.

  “Taken to wearing Hilda’s things, have you?”

  I pulled a face. “It is vile. I only wore it because it was the nearest thing at hand.”

  “It does not suit you. You are too short by half to wear it,” he observed.

  I snatched the trailing hem out of the mud and shot him an evil look as I stalked away. “Thank you for that. Hurry up, will you?”

  He came along mildly, as unconcerned as if we were on a picnic. I think he may have even whistled a tune at one point. I ignored him until we reached the Hall, pausing only to slip Hilda’s cloak back onto the peg. I made a note to have Minna brush it for her, then hurried on to the study, Brisbane following.

  I noticed he closed the door behind us.

  “Hullo, Grim,” he said, catching sight of my pet.

  “Good morning,” Grim returned cordially.

  “Brisbane,” I said, tapping my foot. He joined me, watching as I slipped the slice of brick from its careful slot, then twisted the small iron ring and opened the panel.

  “Very clever,” he murmured, studying the mechanism.

  “Brisbane, you can admire the craftsmanship later. The mummies,” I pleaded.

  He heaved a sigh, then stepped around me to study the coffin. After several minutes, he stripped off his coat and tossed it to me. In spite of a day spent upon the muddy moor, his waistcoat was smooth, his sleeves perfectly clean. He unpinned his cuffs and folded them back, baring strong brown forearms. He fitted the lid back into place, then tested it to make certain it would hold long enough to withstand a move. He positioned himself then and after a few aborted attempts managed to get a proper grip upon the coffin, removing it carefully to the storeroom floor.

  “It is marvellous,” I breathed, watching the lamplight play over the gilded wood.

  “Quite,” he murmured. He ran his hands over the coffin as carefully as a lover, testing the surfaces, for what I could not imagine. Only after he had gone over every inch of it did he straighten. He slid a hand into his boot and retrieved a knife. I blinked in surprise, but he carried on, sliding the sharp blade between the lid and the body of the coffin. As it had done against my blade, the lid eased open and Brisbane slid his fingers underneath. A few moments’ careful manoeuvring and it was open. We both peered into the shadows of the coffin.

  “Mummy babies indeed,” he murmured, studying the little forms intently.

  I shuddered. “But why babies? It’s so horrid.”

  “Some collectors prefer to purchase the remains of children. They are usually less expensive, and the decorations on the coffins can be quite beautiful, although in this case, that was clearly not the motivation. The coffin was designed for a grown woman,” he said reasonably.

  I pulled back and gave him a reproving look. “Are you not outraged? Those are someone’s children! And he bought them, like they were trinkets in a bazaar!”

  Brisbane shrugged. “Most likely they were. That is where most tourists in Egypt purchase their souvenirs, Julia. He was probably walking through the souk one day and thought they would be an interesting memento of his travels.”

  “I do not care,” I said fiercely. “Dead people ought not to be souvenirs.”

  “No, they would not be my first choice of keepsake,” he agreed mildly, “but I only know of one person who has returned from Egypt without some bit of mummy. Everyone wants a mummy, even if it’s only a cat.”

  I thought of an unrolling of a mummy I had attended, given by a duchess to amuse her friends. It had seemed a diversion, an entertainment then. I had had no sense of the person beneath the wrappings. Just a bundle of withered skin and bones, a few bits of dark red hair still plaited into a tidy arrangement.

  But this…I leaned over again to peer once more into the coffin. The bundle was neatly wrapped, the linen strips woven into a perfectly-executed pattern of lozenges. It was so beautifully done; I could imagine the painstaking care to make certain each fold was just so. And it was heartbreakingly small. The child could not have been more than a few days old at most. The other was almost precisely the same size, and I wondered if perhaps they were siblings or if Redwall had merely begun his macabre collection out of whichever stray mummy babies he could find.

  “It is horrible,” I said finally. “One oughtn’t collect people as though they were curiosities.”

  “I happen to agree with you—” He paused, dropping his arm. He had stepped closer to the desk, but not to look at the mummy. His gaze was fixed on the photograph of Redwall Allenby. He arched a black brow at me in inquiry. There seemed no possible explanation without revealing to him my purpose in being in Sir Redwall’s rooms.

  Instead, silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring, until Brisbane bent to retrieve the lid of the coffin. He replaced it, shutting the tiny remains from sight. He returned the coffin to the priest’s hole and slid the panel neatly back into place.

  “Brisbane, you cannot leave them there!” I made to move toward the priest’s hole, but he turned and placed himself squarely between me and the resting place of those sad little bundles.

  “I can, and I shall. There is no reason to disturb them at present. Carry on with your cataloguing,” he said, his tone oddly cold.

  I gave a little sigh of resignation. “I knew you would not like me poking about in here, but the Allenby ladies have so little, and they cannot have these things with them in the cottage. I suggested to Lady Allenby—”

  “You suggested? I might have known. And here I thought you were meddling in here at her request,” he observed, his tone acid.

  I blinked at him. “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. You were careful to replace the dustsheets, but there were signs things in here had been disturbed. And you will forgive the observation, I am sure, but it did occur to me if there were someone snooping about, the likeliest culprit was by far yourself.”

  He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and I thought of the implacable expression of a particularly imperious pharaoh I had just catalogued. In his current mood, Brisbane might as well have been fashioned out of the
cool black basalt himself.

  I took a step toward him, deliberately gentling my tone. “There is no need to be cross. The Allenby ladies must have some means of keeping themselves. The sale of this legacy might well be the making of them.”

  “Oh, that it might,” he said agreeably, “save that it is not their legacy to sell.”

  I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned close so there would be no mistaking his words, each syllable clipped and impersonal. “This house and everything in it with the exception of the personal effects of Lady Allenby and her daughters is mine.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Then let me be quite clear—this house and all of its remaining contents were sold. Lord Salisbury, acting as an agent of Her Majesty, purchased the estate and deeded it to me. I own every stick of furniture, every pillow, every spoon. I even own that revolting tapestry mouldering on the wall in the great hall. It is mine.”

  I shook my head. “Brisbane, that is not possible. Lady Allenby—”

  “Lady Allenby does not know. She never troubled to read the terms of the sale, and her solicitor, a drunk old devil from Leeds, never bothered to tell her. He couldn’t even be bothered to travel out here to see her. He conducted the entire matter by correspondence, taking a fat fee for himself. She has nothing except the clothes upon her back.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, scarcely able to comprehend what he had told me. “That poor woman,” I murmured finally. “To lose her home must be a complete devastation, but this as well. She has nothing, and neither have her daughters. How could you not tell them?”

  He shrugged one muscular shoulder, his expression indifferent. “They will discover it soon enough. When the cottage I am preparing is ready, they may take a few furnishings to suit and their own effects. Under the law, I will have been far more generous with them than I am required.”

  “And what of your conscience?” I demanded. “Is there no moral law greater than those passed by Parliament? Brisbane, you cannot let them go on thinking they have been fairly treated. And you cannot let them believe this collection will be sold to their benefit. I must stop cataloguing,” I finished, more to myself.

  “Oh, no. Do go on. I won’t want these things around, so you might as well catalogue them for me. I daresay the proceeds will more than recompense me for the repairs I have put into the cottage.”

  I took a step still closer, searching his face, but to no purpose. I did not know him. “You are a stranger to me,” I said softly. “I never imagined you could treat a defenceless lady with such callousness. This is not you.”

  “Perhaps you do not know me,” he returned.

  “Oh, it would please you to think so. You do enjoy the masquerade, don’t you? The mysterious, the enigmatic Nicholas Brisbane, living in shadows and secrecy. But I do know you. I know you as well as I know my own name. You are not a man who would torment any woman, no matter her offence. You are not cruel or malicious or vengeful, and yet you pretend to these things because you have some secret purpose you do not care to share with me.”

  Brisbane curled a lip at me, his smile scornful. He jerked his head at the photograph on the desk. “Blame him. He is the one who left them with nothing. The sale was arranged before his death.”

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of a senseless situation. “No, the sale was concluded after his death, when the ladies had no choice, when they had sold all of the important furnishings.”

  “The sale was arranged before Redwall’s death,” Brisbane repeated. “He did not have time to complete it, but the papers were presented for Lady Allenby’s signature, and she did not trouble to read them properly. He was the one who put them into this situation. And anything I do for them, anything,” he said, his voice low and brutal, “is more than he would have.”

  He straightened and cast another glance at the photograph. “Not such a handsome face now, is it?”

  He brushed past me, collecting his coat as he went. I sank down onto the chair, desperately trying to understand. I had never known Brisbane to be so cold, so distant, but neither could I comprehend a man who would leave his closest relations penniless. I picked up the photograph and searched the face, looking for something, anything that would offer some insight. There was nothing. Just the same beautiful features, the same winsome smile, the same exotic background. I did not replace it on the desk. Instead I tucked it carefully into one of the drawers. If nothing else, I did not want Brisbane to dispose of it in a fit of pique. For a stranger, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of antipathy on Brisbane’s part to the previous owner of his house.

  And then, I realised what I ought to have known since the first conversation I had had with Ailith Allenby. Redwall was no stranger to Brisbane. They had been children together on this very moor, and whatever had passed between them, it angered Brisbane still.

  THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

  How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

  —William Shakespeare

  The Comedy of Errors

  After a quiet luncheon taken by myself in the kitchen—Lady Allenby felt unwell, Hilda had disappeared onto the moor, and Ailith had sent word to Mrs. Butters not to expect her—I wanted nothing more than to get right out of the house. I buttoned myself into a snug coat of heathered green tweed and tucked a scarf of soft bottle-green wool into my collar. The day was not quite so cold and the wind had died to a dull murmur, like gossiping voices whispering over the moor. I left by the front door this time, skirting the reed-fringed pond. The front wall sheltered the pond from the wind, its green surface barely rippling. I heard a frog croak and then a little splash as I walked past. The reeds shivered where something had disturbed them, and I hastened my steps a little, making my way around the ruined wing and onto a narrow path that led to a little copse of ash trees.

  Just as I reached the edge of the copse, a shadow fell across the path and I started, my hand at my throat.

  “’Tis only me, my lady. Thou art skittish as a new colt,” Godwin said, smiling as he came near, an axe swinging from his hand.

  “Oh, no. You just startled me. I did not realise anyone was about. I have never taken this path before.”

  “You’ll not get lost,” he promised. He pointed over his shoulder. “Tha’ way lies the gardener’s cottage where I sleep. Just beyond is the graveyard and the chapel ruins, and from there the path to the Bear’s Hut, but mind you don’t go tha’ far. Mr. Brisbane’s given orders it’s not to be disturbed while the repairs are being done.”

  “The Bear’s Hut? Were there really bears kept there?”

  “Aye, though tha’s quite before my time. ’Tis a cottage now, and has been for many a year. The roof is rotten through, and ’tis a dangerous place. When it is fitted up good and tight against the weather, ’twill be a fine home for the Allenby ladies. ’Tis quiet there and far from the bleating of the sheep.”

  “Rather inconvenient lodgings for you at the gardener’s cottage,” I remarked, keeping my tone deliberately light. “So far from the moor and the flock.”

  “Tha’ it is, particularly when the ewes are throwing lambs and the weather is grim, and it’s twice as broken-down as the Bear’s Hut. The wind fair roars through some nights, and I can hear my own name in it.” He paused a long moment, then hefted the axe in his hand. “I must be getting on,” he said, edging around me on the narrow path. “If there is aught you need, make use of the cottage. Whatever I have is yours,” he added with a gallant little bow. There was a twinkle in his eye, and I waved in response, turning my back and setting off down the path without looking back. His manner was one that puzzled me exceedingly. He was friendly to the point of flirtation, but for what reason I could not fathom.

  I was still turning over the question of Godwin’s familiarity when I rounded a bend in the copse and came upon the gardener’s cottage. The little stone house, which must once have been quite snug and handsome, was in a state of pitiful decay. Half of it had co
me down, although the other half, considerably newer by the look of it, seemed sturdy enough. Judging from its size, it would just admit a single room, enough for a bachelor’s needs, but whatever would they do if Godwin decided to marry?

  But that was Brisbane’s problem, I realised with a little stab of annoyance. However high-handed he was about the Allenby ladies, Godwin was his responsibility as well, and I wondered if he meant to make any better accommodation for his farm manager. I moved on, thoroughly irritated now and beginning to get a little chilled. I had been optimistic in thinking it was growing warmer, or perhaps it was the trees that made a difference. The ashes had given way to larger trees, oaks and elders and a few conifers, planted thickly and blocking out much of the sunlight. It was much darker now, and I had the sensation of venturing into a faery-tale forest, one out of myth and perhaps populated with dangerous creatures. It seemed difficult to breathe in that little wood, as if the trees themselves had robbed the place of air.

  “Rubbish,” I said stoutly, tugging my coat more tightly about me and straightening my shoulders. “They are just trees.” I walked on for some distance, the path winding ahead of me, always turning one direction and then back on itself so I could never see far ahead. Suddenly, the path opened abruptly and I was in a large clearing on the edge of a hill, the ground sloping down and away toward a river. I took a deep breath and the feeling of constriction in my chest eased. It was peaceful, partially because of the gentle rushing of the river, for once drowning out the constant murmur of the moor wind, but also because of the little graveyard nestled against the stone wall of a chapel. The building itself was in ruins, only the barest structure remained, and a bit of tracery in a window where stained glass must once have been fitted. It was perfectly situated to capture the dying light of an afternoon, and I wondered what story had been memorialised there.