A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He rose and went to the sideboard. One compartment of it was locked and he produced a key, fitting it to the door. From inside he drew an unwieldy bundle wrapped in a length of cloth.

  “Mertensia, ring for Trenny.”

  He held the bundle cradled in his arms as his sister did as she was bade. When Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, his instructions were brief. “Have the table cleared, Trenny.”

  She gave a doubtful look to the bundle held tightly against his chest but nodded, gesturing to Daisy to whisk away the porcelain and cutlery.

  “The port,” Mrs. Trengrouse began.

  “The ladies will not withdraw tonight,” Malcolm told her. “And you ought to stay, Trenny. You are a part of the family, after all.”

  She shepherded Daisy from the room and took a post near the door, closing it against prying eyes or ears from the rest of the staff.

  Malcolm stood at the head of the table, looking us over as we watched with expectant eyes.

  “I presumed Rosamund ran away, as much as it destroyed me to believe it. I was led to this conclusion by the fact that she took her traveling bag, a small affair of scarlet carpetwork. It was the same bag she had brought with her when she first arrived on the island. She had marked it with her initials, and there was no other like it in the world. The fact that the bag disappeared when she did seemed incontrovertible proof that she had taken it and run away.”

  He opened his arms, letting the fabric slip aside to reveal a scarlet traveling bag. The initials R.I.A. were worked in white wool just beneath the handle. It was moldering, with a thick coat of lush green mildew staining the sides, but there was no mistaking the bag.

  Mertensia’s expression was almost angry. “Where did you find that?” she demanded.

  “In one of the priest’s holes,” he told her.

  I sat forward in my chair, gripped by excitement. Priest’s holes were common in Catholic households during the time of the Elizabethan priest hunters. Fitted in such a way as to escape detection, these tiny secret chambers could hold a man, perhaps two, for weeks at a time as agents of the Crown searched for them. All the most interesting ghost stories featured priest’s holes, I remembered.

  “Why on earth would you be poking about the priest’s holes?” Mertensia asked. “I thought they were all blocked up or refashioned years ago.”

  “I was preparing to write a new version of the history of St. Maddern’s,” he explained. “I didn’t tell anyone because I was not certain I could bring it off.” His expression was slightly abashed. “I am no man of letters, after all. I thought I would have a look through the priest’s holes, perhaps take some preliminary notes, and then settle to writing over the winter. But I found this instead,” he finished, his gaze fixed upon the bag.

  Helen Romilly’s eyes were wide in her pale face and her son looked bewildered. “What does this mean?” he asked.

  He had put the question to his uncle, but it was Tiberius who replied. “It means that Rosamund Romilly never left this island alive.”

  “That seems a stretch,” Caspian protested.

  Tiberius regarded him dispassionately. “Is it? If a lady runs away, she takes a bag. Even Miss Speedwell, who has traveled the world five times over, always takes a bag.” He flicked a glance to me and I nodded slowly.

  “I cannot imagine a lady embarking willingly on any sort of voyage without even the most modest assortment of possessions.”

  Tiberius went on. “So let us carry it out to the logical conclusion. If she left and took no bag, she did not leave of her own free will. Or she never left at all. Either possibility points to foul play.”

  Mrs. Trengrouse covered her mouth with her hand as Mertensia gave a little moan. “It cannot be,” she murmured. She reached out blindly, her fingers groping for some comfort. It did not escape me that they landed upon Stoker’s sleeve.

  “What do you want from us?” Tiberius asked Malcolm.

  A brief smile touched our host’s mouth. “I should have known I could count on you for plain speaking, Tiberius. I need your help in discovering what became of Rosamund.”

  “You want us to help you hunt a murderer,” Tiberius replied sharply.

  At this Helen Romilly shrieked a little and half rose. Stoker patted her hand and she resumed her seat. Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head sadly while Mertensia regarded her brother with horror.

  “Malcolm, you cannot be serious,” she began.

  “I am, I assure you, entirely in earnest,” he told her. “This bag means that Rosamund never left the island alive.”

  “But murder—” Mertensia said.

  “What else can it be?” Tiberius asked softly. “If she never left, taking her wretched little bag with her, then she must be here. And who else would hide her traveling bag except someone who wanted to make you think she left of her own accord?”

  Put so bluntly, the question laid a pall upon the gathering. We were all silent a long moment, each of us grappling with the enormity of what we had just heard. Malcolm carefully laid the decrepit bag upon his chair and took up his glass.

  “What do you want us to do?” Tiberius asked.

  “I hoped each of you would bring your skills to the question of Rosamund’s fate.” He paused, his gaze resting upon Tiberius. “Tiberius, you are my oldest friend, and I find myself in need of support. We were close as brothers once, and I think you will not now refuse me.”

  Tiberius stirred. “Naturally, I will do whatever I can. I do have a few contacts in London who might prove useful. I will write in the morning and make inquiries. Discreetly, of course,” he added with a graceful inclination of the head.

  “Thank you, Tiberius. I am grateful,” Malcolm Romilly replied gravely. “I cannot imagine there has been any further development, but if there is the slightest chance, we should ask.” He seemed about to say something more but fell silent instead. There was an odd undercurrent between the two men, as if something more significant than words had passed between them, only a flicker and then it was gone as Malcolm Romilly moved on, looking to Stoker and to me.

  “I had no thought of asking either of you to help, but when you unexpectedly joined our little endeavor here, it did occur to me that, as natural scientists, you are trained observers. There must be something the rest of us have overlooked. A fresh perspective from those who are experienced at observation must be useful and I am desperate enough to throw myself upon your generosity and implore you to lend your skills.”

  He turned his head slightly. “Mertensia, Caspian. You are both Romillys. The local folk are loyal to us. It is possible that someone has seen or heard something. They might be willing to tell you.”

  He took a deep breath. “Helen, that brings me to your particular talents.”

  She inhaled sharply, the jet beads at her throat dancing in time. “Malcolm, surely there are better ways—”

  Mertensia regarded her brother in dismay. “Malcolm, this is not wise,” she started.

  He held up a hand, silencing them both. “I am resolved.”

  “What talents?” Stoker inquired.

  “My sister-in-law is renowned for her abilities to contact those who have passed beyond the veil,” Malcolm said. “She is a spiritualist.”

  “Not just any spiritualist,” Caspian put in proudly. “She is rather famous. Perhaps you have heard of Madame Helena?” He finished with a flourish, bowing to his mother, who looked deeply unhappy.

  “Malcolm, really,” she began again, but her brother-in-law shook his head.

  “Helen, I know you must think me inhospitable. I have not invited my own brother’s widow and son to enter his family home for years. I have not answered letters. I have fulfilled the very least of my obligations and nothing more.”

  Helen shook her head. “You have continued the allowance that was Lucian’s. You were not obligated to do so,” she said in a low v
oice.

  Malcolm brushed her remark aside, and for an instant I saw a flash of the man he must have been before tragedy and isolation had worked their worst upon him. He was decisive and unflinching and new blood rose to his cheeks, giving him a more animated look than I had yet seen. “It is not enough. I have failed,” he said firmly. “I have scrutinized my own conduct, and believe me when I say that I am the first to condemn myself for being consumed with my own difficulties and giving little consideration to yours. I wish to make amends, truly. But I understand if you do not wish to clasp the olive branch that I extend.”

  “It is not that, Malcolm. You must not think so.” She stopped, biting her lip until the blood rushed into it.

  He rose and went to her, putting out his hand. “Shake hands with me, Helen. Do this for me, and let us be a proper family once more.”

  Her eyes flicked briefly to her son and she summoned a smile that did not touch her eyes. Slowly, she reached out and took the hand he offered. “Of course, Malcolm. Whatever you wish.”

  “Then it is settled,” he said. “Tonight we will begin our investigations in earnest. With a séance.”

  “No,” she put in sharply. “That is, I cannot possibly summon the spirits with so little preparation. I must have time.”

  “You do not have to do this,” her son said. “Uncle Malcolm has done little enough for us.”

  Malcolm flushed but did not reply. Helen gave her son a look of mild reproach. “Your uncle is right. We have the chance to be a proper family. And if I can help, I owe it to him. I will do this,” she said, more firmly than before. But as she reached to her son, her hand trembled, and something like dread settled in her eyes.

  I moved forward as if to look into the bag, but Malcolm met my gaze, his expression bleak. I paused, checking my enthusiasm. To me, it might rank as evidence to be met with scientific inquiry, but to him it could only be a painful reminder of the wife he had lost. Worse still, it was no impersonal item, but her traveling bag, doubtless packed with her most intimate possessions. There would be time enough to ask for its examination later, I decided. I stepped back.

  “Tomorrow,” Malcolm said firmly, picking up the decaying bag. “We will begin.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As with my visit to Stoker’s room the previous night, I did not bother to knock. I entered Tiberius’ bedchamber under a full head of steam, surprised to find that he was already undressing. He gave me a wicked glance.

  “Why, Veronica, this is all so terribly sudden. Will you still respect me in the morning?”

  “You dreadful man. I ought to have known. Stoker warned me, but I would not listen. You’ve dragged me down here for some nefarious purpose and I mean to know what it is.”

  I stood with my back firmly against the door as I waited for his reply. He stripped off his evening coat and waistcoat and began yanking at his neckcloth, long fingers plucking irritably at the silk. “Dragged you? My dear Veronica, I had only to mention the glasswings and you were fairly begging to come.”

  “Semantics,” I said firmly. “Now, what is this all about? What is Malcolm Romilly playing at with this gathering and what the devil happened to Rosamund?”

  He arched a brow at me. It was an effective gesture, one Stoker often attempted and rarely achieved. “Excellent questions. I wish I knew the answers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He plucked at his studs, removing each and dropping them to a tray upon the washstand before removing his collar and cuffs. “Lucky for you the master of the house didn’t see you creeping into my bedchamber like a lady of imperfect virtue. Malcolm is something of a prude, you know. He would be mightily shocked if he knew you were here right now.”

  “He will be more shocked if he has to treat you for the injuries I am about to inflict if you do not begin answering my questions.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter in spite of himself. “God, I was right to bring you,” he said, stripping off his shirt. His musculature was not as impressive as Stoker’s but it was a glorious thing in its own right. He was long and sleekly sensuous as a Praxitelean statue, and under other circumstances my fingertips would have itched to discover if that marble perfection was as solid as it looked. He took up a dressing gown of black silk and knotted it about his waist.

  He gestured towards the chairs by the fire. “Would you like to make yourself comfortable? Or would you prefer the bed?” He chose the bed for himself, lounging against the pillows and patting the coverlet invitingly.

  I remained where I was. “Tiberius.”

  He gave a gusty sigh. “Very well.” He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the canopy of the bed. The fabric had been gathered in a complex starburst pattern, pleated elaborately and most likely at great expense. “To repeat what you have already learnt this evening, three years ago Rosamund and Malcolm Romilly were married here in the castle. On their wedding day, Rosamund disappeared—apparently in her wedding gown and veil.”

  “Apparently?”

  “No one saw her leave,” he said in a flat monotone. “The wedding cake was left to molder, the ropes of flowers dropped their petals. It was all frightfully reminiscent of Miss Havisham. Finally, Malcolm accepted that she was gone and was not returning. Now, with the discovery of that dreadful bag, it seems he has decided he wants to rake it all up again, hence the party. He has brought together the only people he believes he can trust to investigate the problem.”

  “Why not go to the police?”

  “The police?” Tiberius pulled a face of mock horror. “My dear Veronica, the police would have been quite happy to hang him for her murder, only it was rather difficult without a body. They made no secret of their suspicions, and one or more of them spoke to the press with disastrous results. You and Stoker were both abroad at the time, but believe me when I tell you I have seldom witnessed a more brutal evisceration by our newspapers. You had only to read one to be convinced that Malcolm was an unholy combination of Bluebeard and Henry VIII. The scandal nearly destroyed him. That is why he is so skittish about my being discreet with any London inquiries I might make—for fear it might all be raked up again.”

  I was not surprised. Similarly vicious stories had circulated about Stoker during his divorce proceedings. As he was not present to defend himself, the tales had done their work and even now many people believed the worst of him.

  “How dreadful,” I murmured.

  “Yes, well. The dangers of an unfettered press,” Tiberius returned. “In any event, the result is that Malcolm and Mertensia withdrew entirely. Neither of them has been off this island since, and they do not issue invitations. That is why I suspected something was afoot when I received his letter asking me to come.”

  “Why did he ask you particularly? You said you had not seen him in some years?”

  He did not answer for a long moment, and when he did, I smelt evasion in his reply. “Our paths have not crossed for a while, but we have been friends from boyhood, close as brothers. Closer, in my case,” he added with a thin smile. “You will have observed that Stoker and I are not especially devoted.”

  “I think you are more attached to one another than either of you would care to acknowledge,” I told him. I canted my head, studying his long, elegant form. “I find it hard to imagine you as a child with boyhood friends. What were you like?”

  “Incorrigible,” he replied with some relish. “Although not as savage as Stoker. I was always refined in my tastes, even as a lad.”

  “Was Malcolm? Is that what drew you together?”

  “Heavens no!” He seemed genuinely amused at the idea. “We were as different as chalk and cheese. Malcolm was a better oarsman, I was a more skilled rider. He liked maths, I preferred poetry, preferably the erotic sort. I was an enthusiastic adherent of Ovid,” he added with a vague attempt at a leer. “And my temperament was more in h
and than his. Malcolm had a temper, rather a ferocious one.”

  “Indeed? He seems rather mild,” I replied. Apart from the scene with Caspian, I amended silently.

  Tiberius’ eyes widened. “His temper is the reason he was sent down from school,” he told me with obvious relish. “He choked a boy, bigger and older than either of us. It did not diminish my regard for him,” he hastened to add. “If anything, it rather increased it.”

  “He choked a boy? Are you entirely serious?”

  “As the grave, my dear Veronica.”

  “Did he have good cause?”

  “Is there ever good cause to choke a fellow human being?” he asked, blinking slowly.

  “I can think of at least a dozen,” I replied.

  He laughed. “Remind me never to fall afoul of you, although I cannot say the proximity of your person, even if homicidal, would be unwelcome.”

  I might have pressed the issue of why Malcolm Romilly had invited him, but I knew Tiberius well enough to know when a pursuit was futile. I changed tack instead. “Why did you accept Malcolm Romilly’s invitation to come here?”

  Again he did not meet my gaze, preferring instead to stare up at the canopy. “I told you. Malcolm and I have been friends for a long time. A few years’ absence doesn’t wipe all that away. He asked for my help and I am giving it.”

  “I don’t entirely believe you.”

  “Very well. I was bored in London and I suspected Malcolm’s little problem might present an interesting diversion.”

  “Try again.”

  His expression was mocking. “You doubt my veracity. I am wounded. I should demand a forfeit,” he said, thrusting himself onto both elbows, his body stretched in languid invitation.