“It is to protect people from themselves,” she said sternly. “Even breathing the wrong plants in there is dangerous.”
I regarded her thoughtfully. “I wonder at your keeping them then if they are so perilous.”
She shrugged. “Plants develop poison as a protection against predation. Should I keep one out simply because it has learnt better than its brothers how to defend itself? Roses have thorns and yet no one ever thinks to ban them from a garden for being prickly.”
“A simple thorn has never killed a man,” I pointed out.
“That one has,” she told me, guiding my gaze towards a tall plant that reared up against the gates. Through its lacy leaves, I could just make out the thorns, each one as long as my finger and sharp as a needle.
“Senegalia greggii. A catclaw acacia from Mexico,” she told me. “Capable of holding a man in its grasp until he dies of inanition. When it flowers, the blossoms appear on yellow spikes that are a warning to give it a wide berth.”
“It is magnificent,” I told her truthfully. “It reminds me of a certain butterfly—Battus philenor, the Pipevine Swallowtail. It will poison a bird that eats it. The bright blue of its hind wings is a warning to birds to leave it or suffer the consequences.”
“Exactly,” she said with obvious satisfaction. “Nature knows how to take care of itself.”
I glanced at her gauntlets and veil. “I see you take a number of precautions for working in your garden.”
She nodded. “One cannot be too careful in a poison garden. The Medici had one, you know. It was where they grew the plants they used to dispatch their enemies.”
“And that inspired you to create one of your own?” I ventured.
She shrugged. “Why not? It is far more interesting than monkey puzzle trees and herbaceous borders. Proper gardening is dreadfully dull. This adds a bit of discomfort to the mix. And things are more enjoyable when there is just a little discomfort to sharpen the edge.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course. And so do you, if you only stop to consider it. Isn’t a meal more pleasurable when the appetite is strongest? Isn’t sleep sweetest when the fatigue is greatest?”
I blinked at her. “My dear Miss Romilly, you are a philosopher!”
“Mertensia, please. We do not stand on ceremony here. And do not look so surprised that I bend towards philosophy,” she said with a touch of asperity. “There is nothing to do on this island but read and think. I have done much of both.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“That poison is no different from medicine,” came the prompt reply. She gestured towards the silken scarlet flowers heaped in the trug. “Take my poppies, for instance. In small doses, a preparation of the milk soothes the fiercest pain and gives sleep and respite. Too much, and death follows.”
“Do you make many medicines from your plants?” I asked.
“As many as I can.” She pulled a face. “Malcolm would prefer if I spent my time making bramble jam and weaving lavender bottles, but even he has had cause to thank me for a digestive tisane from time to time. We’ve no doctor on the island, and so my remedies must suffice for smaller ills.”
“And greater ones?”
Her expression soured. “There is a doctor in Pencarron who is summoned for matters beyond my ability.”
I looked her over from square, capable hands to clear, unlined brow. “I cannot think there is much beyond your ability.”
For the first time in our short acquaintance, Mertensia Romilly smiled. Her teeth were small and white and even, just like her brother’s. “There is much I am not permitted since I have never studied formally. But the old ways are not forgot, not on this isle.”
Abruptly, she gestured towards my dress. “That is clever,” she said, peering closely at the curious arrangement of my costume. On the right-hand side, from just above the ankle to just above the knee, a deep pocket had been stitched, just wide enough to permit a furled umbrella to be tucked neatly away, ever at the ready should I require it but without encumbering my hands.
I spread my fingers. “A butterfly hunter needs her net,” I reminded her. “Mr. Templeton-Vane devised this for me so that I can secure my umbrella when I am on the hunt. But I have found it generally useful in keeping one’s hands free.”
“And you carry no reticule,” she noted.
I demonstrated the further modifications to my ensemble, interior pockets fitted into the seams of my dress, deep but easily accessible, and one secret compartment located just under my modest bustle. “And if I button back the skirt, you will see that I am wearing trousers underneath.” I showed her. I had a few variations on my hunting attire but all modeled on the same basic principle: a narrow skirt, slim trousers, and a fitted jacket of serviceable and handsome tweed. Underneath was a well-tailored white shirtwaist, and my legs were protected from brambles by flat leather boots that fitted like a man’s and laced to the knee. The original design had been my own, but the pockets were entirely Stoker’s doing, both in conception and in execution. He had learnt to stitch as part of his training both as a surgeon and as a taxidermist. The fact that he occasionally used those skills to alter or mend my clothes was a particular pleasure to me.
“It’s the cleverest thing I have ever seen,” she pronounced. “At first glance, you look like any other countrywoman, but you can move like a man in it.”
“I can move like a scientist,” I corrected. “And that is more to the point.”
She smiled again, and I sensed a softening in her. Mertensia had put me in mind of a hedgehog before, prickly in her defenses, but she had clearly found in me a kindred spirit.
“I could send you the specifications, if you like,” I told her. “Any competent dressmaker could run it up for you.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I would like that.”
I took advantage of the moment of rapport to put a question to her. “I was surprised to hear of the disappearance of your brother’s bride. What do you think became of her?”
Her face shuttered immediately. She picked up a shovel, clutching it with practiced fingers. “Speculation is the refuge of an idle mind and mine is seldom without occupation. Forgive me, Miss Speedwell. I must get on.”
“Veronica,” I corrected. “After all, you do not stand on ceremony,” I added with a smile.
Mertensia did not smile back.
CHAPTER
5
Mertensia recovered enough from her momentary brusqueness to walk with me to the edge of the terrace, pointing out the path that would lead me eventually to the little village nestled at the foot of the castle. Patches of fog had drifted inland, draping wisps of gossamer mist over the trees. “If you mean to go to the village, go now. There will come a storm later and you won’t enjoy the walk back if it’s raining. Do stop in at the Mermaid for some cider. We grow the apples here in the lower orchard and it is like nothing else you will ever taste,” she promised. “Mind you do not go into the pubs,” she added. “Their trade is with the sailors who call in on their way to Ireland. The inn is the only suitable establishment for unaccompanied ladies.”
The grounds were cleverly laid out so that they seemed quite private right until the end, the path winding through copses thick with trees in the full glory of their late summer foliage, dressed in coats of glossy green in every shade imaginable. The air was humid and heavy, pressing close against me as I walked, drawing beads of perspiration from my temples. I picked my way down the path, into the mist-shrouded trees. The formal gardens gave way to orchards and then to wilder patches of forest, little copses that had been so cleverly planted they gave the impression of much larger woods.
I kept to the path and in a very short time found myself at the foot of the mount on the main street of the village. It was a bustling little place, boasting a shop, a church, three schools, an inn,
a trio of pubs, and a smithy, all dating from the Tudor period to judge from the architecture. The half timbering was old, but the plastered bits had been freshly whitewashed, and the windows in each were gleaming. It had a tidy, prosperous look. The blacksmith was busy at his forge, shoeing a horse whilst a farmer waited. A few of the island’s women were gathered at the shop, purchasing stamps or exchanging gossip as they waited to be served, falling to interested silence as I posted my letter to Lady Wellie. Strangers were clearly a matter of note in so small a place, and I gave them a cordial nod as I emerged from the shop. Down the street a buxom maid poured a pail of water onto the steps of one of the pubs, sluicing it clean. In a patch of sunlight in front of the church, an elderly woman sat tatting, her cat at her side, licking daintily at its paws. It was as peaceful a place as any I had seen, and I felt a curious somnolence steal over me. It was like walking into a storybook village, a sleepy place where folk never changed and life went on as it always had throughout the centuries.
Even the inn seemed like something out of time, I decided, as I pushed through the door and entered the low-ceilinged main room. The sign out front had depicted a fairly lascivious-looking mermaid, but within all was peaceful. Chairs and tables were scattered about, good plain oak, so darkened by time and polish that they were black as walnut. I glanced about for a proprietor, and to my surprise, the elderly woman from in front of the church appeared, cat trotting neatly at her heels.
“Good day to you, Miss Speedwell,” the woman said in a curious, creaking voice.
“How did you—” I paused and began to laugh. “Of course. It is a small island, after all.”
She smiled, displaying a surprisingly beautiful set of teeth. “Old Mother Nance knows more than you might believe, my dear.” She gestured with one long-fingered hand. “Come into the parlor and sit by the fire. The mist is rising and it won’t be long before the sun is gone. You must warm yourself and take some cider,” she insisted. She guided me into a smaller parlor where a merry fire was burning upon the hearth. It was much colder in this room with its stone walls and tiny windows and she noticed my shiver.
“This is the oldest part of the inn,” she told me. “Built into the living rock, it is. You can feel the damp, can you not? The whole island is laced with tunnels and secret passages.”
“Not surprising for a property owned by a Catholic family in the reign of Elizabeth,” I pointed out.
She laughed, a small wheezing sound that shook her bony shoulders. “Lord love you, my dear. You think they practiced secrecy because they were recusants? Nay, the Romillys were smugglers, child. That is how they made their coin and crafty they were with it. There’s not a square inch of this island that doesn’t hold a secret.” She turned away and busied herself for a moment before returning with a tray upon which perched a tankard. “Take it and drink,” she urged.
“Only if you will drink with me,” I told her.
She seemed pleased at the invitation. She fetched herself a tankard and we toasted before I sipped. Mertensia had been right. The cider was sweet and cold, but behind the bright apple taste was a sharp note of something dark and complex, like an excellent wine.
“You mark the difference,” Mother Nance said.
“Miss Romilly mentioned that the local apples are unique,” I agreed.
“Grown in the bones of a dead man,” she said solemnly.
I stared at her in horror.
“Heaven bless you, miss! Not a real dead man,” she said, wheezing again in amusement. “’Tis only the legend that the island was once a giant who strode across the seven seas before curling up to sleep. It is said the sea washed over him as he slept and he never waked again and only his bones were left, picked clean by the creatures of the deep and that is how the island came to be.”
“I suppose a place like this is thick with legends,” I said.
“That we are. We’ve our giant and a mermaid and more ghosts than we have living folk.”
“Ghosts—” I began, but we were interrupted by the boisterous arrival of a young boy, his dark hair tumbling over his brow as he bounded in. The cat twitched its whiskers at him but did not move.
“Hello, Gran,” the boy said, dropping a kiss to her worn cheek.
“Hello, poppet. Miss Speedwell, this is my grandson, Peter. Peterkin, this is Miss Speedwell from up the castle. You say a proper hello to the lady.”
He bowed from the waist in a gesture of such refined courtliness it would have done credit to a lord. I inclined my head. “Master Peter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“How do you do?” he asked gravely.
His grandmother gave him a fond look. “He’s a right little gentleman, isn’t he?” she asked me. “Always reading books about his betters and practicing his manners.”
“Good manners will take him far in the world,” I observed.
“And he will go far,” Mother Nance said sagely. “I have seen it.”
“Seen it?”
“Gran is a witch,” the child said calmly.
There seemed no possible reply to this that could achieve both candor and politeness so I opted for a vague, noncommittal murmur.
Mother Nance gave another wheezing laugh as she petted her grandson’s curls. “Miss Speedwell thinks you’ve told a tale, my little love, but she’ll soon discover what’s what.”
The boy gave me an earnest look. “’Tis true, miss. Gran is a witch. Not the nasty sort. She shan’t put a spell on you and give you warts,” he said seriously. “She sees things. She has the sight.”
“The sight?”
“Things come to me,” Mother Nance said comfortably. “I do not ask them to come, mind, but come they do. Things from the past and things that have yet to be.”
“And ghosts,” her grandson reminded her.
“Aye, I have had more than a few chats with them that walk,” she agreed. She narrowed her gaze at me, but her expression was still kindly. “Miss Speedwell is a skeptic, poppet. She believes in what her eyes can tell her. She has yet to learn there is more to see than what the eyes can perceive.”
“I am skeptical, as you say. But I am willing to be persuaded,” I told her.
She laughed and exchanged a look with her grandson. “Persuaded! Lord love you, there’s no persuading to be done. Either you believe a thing or you don’t. And your believing doesn’t make it so. The ghosts don’t care if you see them or not,” she added.
I thought of Malcolm Romilly’s missing bride and experienced a shiver of curiosity.
“Have you seen ghosts?” I asked the boy.
He nodded gravely. “Twice. I saw a dark fellow with a funny sort of tin hat. He were on the beach, lying as still as the dead. Then he seemed to rise up and he kept looking behind him at the sea as though he were seeing something awful.”
“A Spaniard,” his grandmother said promptly. “An Armada ship was wrecked upon these shores, and one or two sailors washed up, half-drowned and despairing.”
“What became of them?” I asked.
“One was a priest, a chaplain to the vessel which sank. He was welcomed by the Romilly family, and it is said they kept him on secretly and he held masses for them, although no one ever saw a trace of him within the castle.”
“And the man on the beach?” I pressed.
“He drew his sword when the islanders came down to the shore,” the child told me calmly. “He did not have time to do more than that.”
“You mean they killed him?”
“He was an enemy,” he replied in the same matter-of-fact way.
“Never you mind, Miss Speedwell,” his grandmother said with a laugh. “We’re a far sight more welcoming to most visitors.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I said, taking another deep draft of my cider.
“There’s another ghost that walks,” her grandson went on. “Bu
t I’ve never seen her because she doesn’t leave the castle.”
My pulse quickened. “A ghost in the castle? A lady?”
“The bride,” he said, his dark eyes rounding in excitement. “She walks abroad in the night in her wedding gown, waiting to wreak her vengeance on those left behind.”
A chill passed over the room, but before I could respond, the boy leapt to his feet. “I am hungry, Gran.”
“There is cold meat pie in the larder,” she told him. “Mind you wash first.”
He scampered off and she completed several more stitches on her tatting before she spoke. “He was talking of Miss Rosamund, of course,” she said mildly. “Mrs. Romilly, as she was when she died.”
“You think she is definitely dead, then?”
Her gaze was piercing as it held mine. Her fingers fairly flew as if enchanted, never faltering, but she did not look down at her work once. “She must be,” she told me. “Otherwise how could her ghost walk? No, some folk want to believe she is still alive. But mark me well, miss. Rosamund Romilly is a dead woman. And she is coming for her revenge.”
I stared at her, but Mother Nance continued to stitch away, as placidly as if she had just told me the price of corn.
“Is that one of the things you have seen?” I asked after a moment.
She slanted me a sideways, inscrutable look. “Mayhaps.”
“Do you read tea leaves? Or peer into a bowl of dark water when the moon is full?”
Mother Nance pursed her lips. “You’re a nimble one, aren’t you, miss? You’ve made a habit of skipping lightly through life, no matter what perils besiege you. Troubles fall away from you like water off a duck, do they not? You’ve a high opinion of your abilities.” I started to speak, but she held up a hand. “I don’t say it is a bad thing. Too many women think too little of themselves, content to live by a man’s lights instead of their own. No, your pretty ways have served you well, and you could no more change them than a hen could learn to crow. But you won’t always be so lucky, you know. And mind you remember, ’tis no more than Fortune’s favor that has saved you thus far. If she should choose to turn her back upon you, there be none that can save you.”
A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Page 7