A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “The fact that you envied him anything at all would come as the most appalling shock to him,” I returned.

  His mouth twisted into a wry expression. “I envy him more than any other man I have ever known,” he said.

  “Tiberius,” drawled a familiar voice, “how very touching. I did not realize how much you cared.”

  I whirled to find Stoker lounging idly, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, his arms folded.

  “How on earth—”

  “There was an express from Exeter,” he told me. “Tiberius ought to have taken it, but I suppose he was too enchanted with your company to want to shorten the experience.”

  “How is it,” I demanded, “that we did not see you on the train from London?”

  “I traveled third class,” he told us with a grin as a porter came trundling up with an assortment of smart shagreen cases stamped with the viscount’s initials.

  Tiberius’ mouth thinned. “How very predictable of you, Revelstoke.”

  He seldom used Stoker’s proper name, and it was a measure of his displeasure that he did so.

  Stoker shrugged and picked up his single piece of baggage, a small battered naval chest. I turned to Tiberius. “Will Stoker’s arrival present difficulties with your host?”

  “I doubt it, since I expected this very course of action on his part,” was the smooth reply.

  Stoker fixed him with a penetrating look. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, dear brother, that you are as easy to anticipate now as you were in childhood. I wired Malcolm this morning that my brother would be joining the party and I hoped he could be accommodated. Just before we departed, I received an affirmative reply.” He bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I know how much you like to play the prodigal brother, so I have arranged for the fatted calf.”

  With that he turned on his heel, signaling the porter to follow. I looked to Stoker, whose expression was one of naked astonishment edged with resentment.

  “Why so vexed?” I asked. “You obviously wanted to come and now you’re here.”

  “True,” he replied slowly. “I just resent like hell being Tiberius’ foregone conclusion.” He looked at me for a long moment. “What about you? Are you bothered that I have come?”

  His jaw was set, his lips tight, belying the easy tone he had adopted. He was trying for nonchalance and very nearly achieved it. But I knew him too well for that.

  I turned on my heel to follow Tiberius. “I have not yet decided,” I called over my shoulder. “Try not to use your kennel manners. We are guests.”

  It was almost dark then, well past sunset with only the fading purple light of evening to illuminate the horizon. Off to the west, silhouetted against the violet sweep of the sky, a pointed black shape rose, thrusting itself upwards.

  “St. Maddern’s Isle,” Tiberius said as I joined him, and there was a note in his voice I had never heard before, some strong emotion he was struggling with and very nearly concealing. But I heard it, and I saw it in the expression in his eyes before he looked away, brushing at some invisible lint on his sleeve.

  “Come, Veronica. It would be best to make the crossing before nightfall.”

  I followed him down to the quay and took his hand as he helped me into a narrow boat. Stoker followed, leaping nimbly into the boat with the grace of a seasoned sailor. A local fellow of advanced years sporting fisherman’s clothes and a Cornishman’s accent tugged at his cap and welcomed us aboard.

  “Trefusis, I’m called. You’ll be the guests of the master of St. Maddern’s. I’ll have you over in a trice, my good lord, and your lady and t’other gentleman as well. Your bags will come over on the next boat, but you’ll be wanting to get across before the storm comes.”

  “Storm?” I asked. The sky was as yet a soft plum color, with gentle gauzy wisps of clouds just masking the first glimmer of starlight.

  “Aye, but not to fear, lady. A bit of a squall, no more. Gone by midnight and a fair day tomorrow,” he promised. “Now, stand you here if you like for the best view of St. Maddern’s Isle as we approach.” I did as he advised, and Tiberius came to stand behind me. Stoker remained in the stern of the boat, feet planted wide apart, hands thrust into his pockets as he lifted his head, sniffing the air. A mist had risen, shrouding the island and its castle from sight until we were quite close, and then, without preamble, a soft sigh of wind blew the shreds of fog away and there it was, looming above us, black and forbidding and utterly enormous from the vantage of the tiny boat in the open sea.

  “There she be,” the Cornishman Trefusis said proudly. “The Isle.”

  He beached the little craft and clambered into the water as Tiberius vaulted smoothly over the side of the boat. I dropped into his waiting arms, rather more solid limbs than I would have expected. To my surprise, there was nothing flirtatious in his embrace. He held me firmly against his chest as he strode with apparent ease through the thigh-deep water. When he had placed me solidly upon my feet on the shingle beach, he offered the Cornishman a coin before Stoker bent his shoulder to help old Trefusis turn the boat towards Pencarron. The Cornishman tugged his hat brim and set his course for home as Tiberius and I looked to the castle, Stoker standing just behind.

  Tiberius had fallen silent and merely stood for a long moment, his gaze fixed upon the black stone built upon the eminence. He was sunk in some sort of reverie, and for a fleeting instant, something dark and terrible touched his face.

  “Tiberius?” I asked gently, drawing him from his thoughts.

  He shook himself with visible effort. “My apologies, Veronica. I had not thought to be here ever again. It is a curious and winding road, the path of fate.”

  “Certainly,” I said briskly. “But the wind is rising. Should we not make our way up to the castle?”

  “Of course. I seem to have misplaced my manners. What you must think of me for leaving you standing about!” He had found again his usual mocking tone, and when the starlight shone upon his face, I saw that his expression was guarded once more.

  Before I could reply, he put a firm hand beneath my elbow and guided me towards the cliff towering above us, Stoker following silently behind. As we approached, I saw a staircase had been cut into the stone, switching back upon itself over and again as it rose towards the castle.

  “There is a funicular on the other side of the island,” Tiberius told me as we began to mount the steps. “But it is a temperamental beast and means a walk of a few miles to go around that way. If you can bear the climb, this is much more direct.”

  “Nothing would suit me better than a chance to stretch my limbs after the train journey,” I told him truthfully as I clambered ahead.

  “If you get tired, I’ll push from the back side, shall I?” Stoker asked nastily.

  “Do shut up,” I muttered as we pressed on.

  Iron lanterns had been set at periodic intervals in the stone and someone had lit them; they glowed like small golden stars against the vast black reaches of the cliffside, pointing the way ahead. We climbed for what seemed hours, ever further, ever higher, until at last we reached the top and the last step led us to a stout stone wall fitted with a high archway.

  I glanced upwards as we passed through. “Is that a portcullis?” I asked over my shoulder.

  But it was not Tiberius’ voice which replied. “It is indeed, dear lady.”

  The archway led us into a courtyard thick with shadows, illuminated by starlight and torchlight and the glimmer of dozens of golden windows set within the black walls. A broad door had been thrown back upon its hinges, letting more light spill over the paving stones. Standing just before it, silhouetted against the warm glow, was a figure of a man. He stepped nearer, letting the light fall upon his face.

  It must have once been an almost handsome face, I judged. The features were regular and agreeably arranged, and his phys
ique was that of a common country squire, heavily muscled in shoulder and thigh. He looked the sort of gentleman England had made a speciality of producing, stalwart, principled, and with an air of dutiful determination about him, the kind of man who would have been in the first charge at Agincourt. But a second look showed eyes that were a little sunken, as if from sleepless nights, and there were deep lines incised from nose to chin that looked as if they had been drawn on with an unkind hand. If this had not persuaded me that he was troubled, a single glance at his hands would have done so. His fingernails were bitten to the quick, a slender thread of scarlet marking the end of each.

  But his smile was gracious as he threw open his arms expansively. “Welcome to the Isle. You must be Miss Speedwell. I am your host, Malcolm Romilly.”

  “How do you do?” I asked, shaking his hand gently.

  “And you, sir, must be Revelstoke Templeton-Vane,” he said, moving forward to shake Stoker’s hand.

  “Stoker, please,” he urged his host. Stoker answered to his surname as seldom as possible.

  Malcolm Romilly turned to the viscount at last. “Tiberius. It has been a long time.”

  “Indeed,” Tiberius replied coolly. “I hope you are keeping well.”

  Mr. Romilly gave a small and mirthless laugh. “Not as well as you, it seems. I am delighted to make the acquaintance of your fiancée.” The words were cordial but there was an undercurrent of something inexplicable swirling beneath.

  Behind me, I felt Stoker stiffen like a pointer at the remark, but Malcolm Romilly was already speaking again, urging us in the door. “Come inside, won’t you? There’s a storm brewing and we have rooms prepared for all of you.”

  Stoker fell in step behind me. “Fiancée?” he murmured in my ear. “We shall speak of this later.”

  “There is nothing to discuss,” I told him, still mightily put out that he had taken it upon himself to come to Cornwall. I had been anticipating a few weeks to straighten my disordered feelings and instead he was there, inches from me, causing every nerve to tingle and my thoughts to leap about in a most unsettling manner.

  To my surprise, Stoker let the matter drop then and we followed our host into the great hall of the castle. It was exactly what one hoped a castle would be. The vast stone hall was furnished with an enormous fireplace—the sort for roasting half an ox or an annoying child—at one end and a minstrels’ gallery at the other. The ceiling was vaulted and ribbed in an elaborate Gothic pattern of lozenges, each painted in hues of scarlet or blue, surrounding the heraldic mermaid emblem of the Romilly family. Along the stone walls hung the usual assortment of weapons and armor and other trinkets of warfare that interested me not at all. There was even a tapestry of great antiquity, faded and gently nibbled by moths. When I squinted, I could just make out that it seemed to depict a scene of mermaids luring sailors to their doom.

  “I know it all seems a bit Gothic these days,” Malcolm Romilly explained with an apologetic little bob of the head. “But the great hall is the pride of the Romillys and we cannot bear to change it. The rest of the castle is far more comfortable, I promise,” he assured me.

  I smiled. “I am accustomed to living rough when required. I hardly think a castle would challenge that.”

  There was a silken murmur of soft, padded feet upon the stone as a black cat slipped into the room. “Hecate, come back,” chastened the lady following the cat. She was holding her skirts in both hands, moving swiftly to retrieve her pet. Somewhere on the dark side of thirty-five, she was dressed expensively in a gown of austere black satin. The fabric shimmered in the light, heightening the pastel rose of her cheeks, and I noticed her eyes were an unusual pale blue-grey. She was an attractive woman, but her greatest asset was her voice. It was low and melodious as she scolded her cat, sweeping the animal into her arms. It settled down comfortably, preening a little as she cradled it.

  “Malcolm, I simply cannot find Mertensia. She knows that you were expecting guests and she is not here to welcome them,” she protested.

  Mr. Romilly gave her a wan smile. “You fuss too much, Helen. Mertensia will be in the gardens, I have no doubt.” He turned to us. “You must forgive my sister. Mertensia is a tireless plantswoman, and her gardens here are renowned. If she is not elbow-deep in the soil, she is brewing up concoctions in her stillroom or coaxing bulbs to flower out of season.”

  He turned and gestured for the lady to come forward. “Lord Templeton-Vane, Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Lucian Romilly. Helen, this is the Viscount Templeton-Vane and his fiancée, Miss Speedwell, and the viscount’s brother.”

  She smiled. “Of course, Lord Templeton-Vane, I remember you well. We met once before here, although you had not yet succeeded to your title.”

  Tiberius bowed low over her hand. “I recall,” he said softly. There was an undercurrent I could not place, but before I could puzzle over it, Helen Romilly turned to greet me, her smile of welcome firmly in place. “Miss Speedwell, welcome to the island. And Mr. Templeton-Vane. I must say, I do not think I would have known you for his lordship’s brother if Malcolm had not said it is so. You are very different upon first look, although I think I detect a faint resemblance about the eyes,” she observed.

  “You are too kind,” Stoker said archly, bowing over her hand. I rolled my eyes heavenwards, but Helen Romilly seemed pleased with the gesture.

  “And who is this beautiful creature?” Stoker asked, stroking the head of the cat with practiced gentleness. It half closed its eyes, a low purr beginning to rumble in its throat.

  “Hecate,” Helen Romilly replied. “How curious! She hates strangers, but she seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  “Stoker has a great appeal to animals and other creatures incapable of rational thought,” Tiberius put in with a bland smile.

  Just then, a figure in grey materialized in the doorway. “Mr. Malcolm, the rooms are prepared.”

  The woman who appeared was dressed in bombazine, the unmistakable jingle of a chatelaine at her waist proclaiming her the housekeeper. Her hair was winged back on either side of her face in an old-fashioned style, the pins covered by a neat cap of black lace.

  “Thank you, Trenny. My dear guests, Mrs. Trengrouse will show you up. Dinner has been put back half an hour to accommodate your arrival. When you hear the gong, it will be time to join us in the drawing room.”

  He stepped back, giving a little bow of welcome, and we moved to where Mrs. Trengrouse stood, lamp in hand, as he made the necessary introductions. “Welcome, my lord, Miss Speedwell, sir,” she said, greeting each of us in turn as she led us through a narrow stone passage which gave way to a still narrower set of stairs cut into the stone. “I am afraid the castle has not yet been fitted with gas, so you will need a lamp or a candle if you mean to move about in the evening. Please watch your step upon the stairs. They are very old and quite uneven.”

  They spiraled up into the darkness and I turned to flick Tiberius a glance. His face was immobile, set in an expression that looked very much like one of grim determination. I followed Mrs. Trengrouse and Tiberius followed me and Stoker followed him like a crocodile of schoolchildren.

  “You are up here, my lord, on the first floor,” she said, indicating a door on the landing. It stood open and I could see a round bedchamber furnished in deep blue. “It is the largest of the suites in the tower because the structure narrows as it rises. Hot water has just been brought up and your bags are on their way. Your things will be unpacked before you have finished bathing,” she promised.

  He made a noncommittal noise and went inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Miss Speedwell,” she said, gesturing for me to follow. “I have put you just above his lordship. It means an extra flight of stairs, but the views make it quite worth the climb. Mr. Templeton-Vane, I have put you on the top floor in the smallest chamber, the Bachelor Room.”

 
“That’s me put in my place,” Stoker murmured as we climbed to the next floor.

  My bedchamber was very similar to Tiberius’ except that it was of slightly more modest proportions and my furnishings were of violet velvet. It was a surprisingly comfortable room, with a welcoming fire kindled upon the hearth and a tub of water giving off fragrant steam. There was a tall, narrow window embrasure facing west, and I imagined the views over the water would be spectacular as the sun rose behind the castle, glittering across the sea. A pair of cozy armchairs flanked the fireplace, and the bed was an old-fashioned four-poster, hung with more violet velvet and spread with heavy linen sheets of near-blinding whiteness. A soft fragrance permeated the air, and I sniffed appreciatively.

  “’Tis the potpourri Miss Mertensia makes for me to keep in the linen press,” Mrs. Trengrouse told me. “And the flowers,” she added with a nod towards the tall vase of exuberant hydrangeas standing upon a polished oak chest. “She always does the flowers for guests. Not much for conversation, but she likes folk to feel welcome,” she said with a slight air of defensiveness. She was obviously devoted to her mistress, and I gave her a reassuring smile.

  “It is very charming, Mrs. Trengrouse, and far too grand. I shall feel like a princess.”

  She broke into a smile, and her face, sad in repose, was transformed. “That is very kind of you to say, Miss Speedwell.”

  She turned to leave, but Stoker raised a hand. “I daresay I can find my own way, Mrs. Trengrouse.”

  “I daresay you could, sir. From here, the stairs lead only to your chamber. There is no proper bathtub in your room, for the stairs are too narrow, but hot water will be brought so you can wash at the basin.”

  “You needn’t show me,” he assured her. “I am used to looking after myself.”

  He did not even glance at me as he left, and I turned away, feeling somehow chastened by that parting thrust.

  But Mrs. Trengrouse had other matters on her mind. She moved swiftly to plump a pillow. “There. That’s better now.”