The Dark Enquiry

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Drive on,” he called, slamming the door decisively.

  “Was that absolutely necessary?” I enquired politely.

  “It was, and to his credit, he understood it. Said he would have done precisely the same if it had been his wife. And when it was done, I picked him up and shook his hand. We parted on excellent terms.”

  I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to throttle Brisbane. “Does it not seem entirely feudal to engage in such histrionics on my behalf?”

  “Histrionics? You wound me,” he said, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that told me he was entirely pleased with himself.

  “It looks as if Mr. Sullivan drew blood, as well.” I nodded towards his bandaged hand.

  He shrugged. “The fellow didn’t know how to take a punch. He left his mouth open and his tooth cut my hand.”

  “I trust he knows better now?”

  “Oh, he does.” Brisbane smiled widely.

  “Still, I think he gave us rather a lot of information. How much of it do you think was the truth? I shall be mightily put out with him if he lied about anything of significance.”

  Brisbane gave a short, humourless laugh. “Most days I am lied to half a dozen times before breakfast. You must learn to sift through the chaff to find the wheat.”

  “And the wheat of this particular conversation is that we know Mr. Sullivan is an American agent and that Madame conspired with the veiled lady, a German agent, to bring down my brother and Lord Salisbury with him. The question is why did she turn upon Madame and kill her before the deed was done?”

  Brisbane shrugged. “We may never know, but such things are not uncommon amongst conspirators. Madame may have demanded too much money in return for her compliance. She may have delivered too little or threatened too much. It is enough to know that the situation was extremely dangerous and that Madame was not so clever as she ought to have been.”

  I nibbled at my lip. “I do think he was truthful about Agathe not murdering her sister. He seemed quite impassioned upon the subject.”

  Brisbane smiled thinly. “He does not have the stomach to be a spy. He is far too sentimental and not half as good an actor as he ought to be. For example, did you detect that ‘Sullivan’ is a nom de guerre?”

  I gaped at him. “I did not. How did you?”

  “I have travelled some little bit in America. His name is Irish and he claims to be from New York, but his accent was entirely wrong.”

  “They have different accents in America?”

  Brisbane smiled. “Just as we do here.”

  I waved a hand. “They all sound alike to me.”

  “They say the same of us,” he told me. “Most of them would never notice the difference between your accent and mine.”

  “Impossible,” I murmured. Mine was the expected accent of a well-born person whose childhood had been divided between Sussex and London. Brisbane’s was threaded with the lilt of Gypsies and Highlanders, carefully schooled, but broader when he was angry. There was something both rough and elegant about his speech, and though I would never admit it, Brisbane spoke as I had always imagined Heathcliff would. I was deeply fond of Heathcliff.

  “Nevertheless, they wouldn’t. But I was intrigued by the accents of Americans, and I can assure you that Mr. Sullivan’s accent is Southern, for all his attempts to mask it. His vowels are too liquid and he has a penchant for drawing out his words.”

  “Fascinating! And how did you deduce his name is not authentic? Wait—” I held up a hand. “Let me guess. You know that Irish immigrants are centralised around the northeastern metropolitan areas of the United States, and therefore it is less likely that Mr. Sullivan is of Irish descent.” I was rather proud of that bit of deduction, but Brisbane shook his head.

  “No.” He flashed me a wicked smile and brandished a small leather folder. “I lifted his notecase. His papers identify him as Richard Beausavage of New Orleans.”

  “How precisely did you manage that?”

  “When I helped him to his feet,” he explained. “He was so busy staunching the flow of blood from his nose, I could have taken his shirt, as well, and he would never have noticed.”

  “And do you mean to keep it?” I demanded. “All of his identification papers are in there, as well as what looks to be a good deal of money.”

  Brisbane looked affronted. “Of course I shan’t keep it. I merely wanted to ascertain the fellow’s true identity. It was not my intention to steal it, merely to borrow it.”

  True to his word, Brisbane lifted the shade, lowered the window and flung the notecase out into the street.

  “There. I have made an effort to return his property.”

  “The poor man. He will have quite a bit of trouble replacing his papers, to say nothing of the money.”

  “He ought to have thought of that before he brought you into this investigation,” Brisbane said softly.

  I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, but Brisbane raised a finger and set it with gentle decisiveness upon my lips.

  “He is lucky to have got off so lightly. His bruises will heal and his papers can be replaced, but every minute of trouble or inconvenience will remind him to have a care what he does in future. The next time, I will take his bones apart with my bare hands. Now, hush.”

  For once I did as I was told. I admit there was something primitive and thrilling about having one’s husband shed blood for one’s honour, although it did me no credit whatsoever.

  “It is thoroughly Darwinian,” I muttered, and I realised with some disgust that my only real regret was that I had not seen Brisbane hit him. “You engage in rather more fisticuffs than I imagined when I first met you,” I observed.

  He quirked a brow at me. “Surely you have noticed I only resort to bare-handed violence when necessity demands.”

  That much was true. There was a Webley in his pocket and a knife in his boot, and poor Mr. Sullivan had seen the troublesome end of neither. But a point had had to be made, and I understood that Brisbane had actually used great restraint in the making of it.

  “Still, I cannot like it.”

  “You were not raised in a Gypsy camp,” he reminded me. “Otherwise you would know better.”

  “Surely not. The girls cannot be expected to learn such things.”

  He snorted. “The girls were worse by far than any of the boys. A girl is taught as soon as she can toddle from her mother’s side to take care of herself in any way she can.”

  “Dear me,” I said. I fell silent for a moment, then brightened. “When do you think we will go back to the Gypsy camp to visit your family?”

  “I have no plans to do so at present. Why?”

  “It occurred to me that I might learn one or two useful things from the ladies,” I said.

  Brisbane smothered an oath. “Absolutely not. Anything you want to know, I will teach you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I felt buoyant with anticipation. “There is no time like the present. We will begin this afternoon.”

  By way of reply, Brisbane groaned.

  “There, there,” I said, patting his wounded hand. “It will not be so bad. I will be a very devoted student.”

  “That is what I am afraid of.”

  The Twentieth Chapter

  Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit.

  —King John

  We returned to the consulting rooms where Mrs. Lawson brought the few things I ordered with very little grace and a good deal of grumbling.

  “Are you quite sure you understand what must be done to clean the wound thoroughly?” she asked. “It has hitherto been my responsibility to attend to such things for Mr. Brisbane.”

  I summoned a smile. “I am quite confident, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.”

  She gave a sniff and retreated and I put out my tongue to her back. She was clearly envious of my role in Brisbane’s life and felt her own usurped. She had spoilt him in his bachelor days, and I reflected, not for
the first time, that Brisbane had a rather interesting effect upon women in his service. He invariably treated them with courtesy, far more than they were accustomed to receiving, and to a woman, they adored him. Maids, cooks, housekeepers. I had seen them all turn themselves inside out for a chance to polish his boots and cook his meals, and it was growing a little tiresome.

  Besides, I reflected, Mrs. Lawson never attended Brisbane for the most critical of his injuries, for Monk was very accomplished with a needle and always set any stitches Brisbane required. But even I could manage a few gashes across the knuckles, I decided, and I carried in the tray to Brisbane with an air of brisk efficiency.

  “Good God, what are you about?”

  “I mean to clean that hand before it turns septic,” I told him. I folded a fresh piece of white towelling and demanded the hand.

  “Is this really necessary?” he asked. “I have work.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You know that it is. Now, be quiet and let me get on with it.” He gave an elaborate sigh, but I knew him well enough to know that he secretly enjoyed being fussed over, particularly by me. I put it down to having so little tender treatment as a child, and I made certain to move with gentleness as I bathed the injured hand in warm water. The gashes were not so deep as I feared, merely split knuckles, and I knew I could not bind them properly else he would not be able to write. Regretfully, I put aside the strips of linen I had torn for bandages and reached instead for the pot of salve. It was a preparation of yarrow and comfrey and smelled quite strong, but not unpleasantly so.

  I daubed it gently, making certain to apply the salve just thoroughly enough to soothe the torn flesh. I was standing over him, my concentration fixed upon my task, when I realised he was watching me closely, his eyes never leaving my lips.

  “Brisbane, I must finish,” I said softly, but before I could quite manage the sentence, he had surged out of his chair and pinned me to the desk behind. I rather enjoyed the interlude that followed, brief as it was, for Brisbane had not quite achieved his aim when there came a noise from the doorway.

  “Good God, man, she is my sister! I do not need to see that.”

  Brisbane looked past my shoulder. “Then get out,” he growled at Plum.

  Plum lounged into the room and dropped into a chair opposite the desk. “Would that I could. But I am at loose ends and you must give me work or I shall run mad. Julia, do something about your hair.”

  I put up my hand to find that my hair had almost entirely escaped its pins. “Oh, dear.” I dropped to the floor to retrieve the pins where they had fallen.

  Brisbane resumed his seat, and I saw from the evil glint in his eye that Plum was not to be forgiven for his intrusion.

  “Very well. I have just the job for you.”

  * * *

  “I will not,” Plum said flatly. “You cannot make me.”

  “You wanted a task, and Julia must be taught how to defend herself,” Brisbane pointed out evenly.

  “Yes, but like this?” We had pushed back the furniture in the main consulting room and Brisbane was instructing me in the finer arts of pugilism with Plum as my object.

  “You haven’t given her padded gloves,” Plum put in. “And you told her to aim for my face.”

  Brisbane tossed him a velvet cushion. “Hold that up if she frightens you.”

  Plum swore fluently, and I positioned myself according to Brisbane’s instructions. “Feet apart, knees loose, arms up,” I recited.

  “Very good. Now Plum will come at you with a right cross,” he instructed. He shot a piercing look to Plum who eventually complied, though with very little enthusiasm.

  “Block it,” Brisbane told me. “Now weight forward, lead with the flat between the knuckles of your right hand, stepping through the punch straight to the gut.” We pantomimed the steps, and when my knuckles grazed Plum’s waistcoat, he doubled over. “Turn your wrist to hit an uppercut straight to the jaw, then left cross. Then a right again.”

  I did as he told me, each time quickening the combination. He nodded. “Good. Of course, that will not help you if you have a left-handed fellow, and it will not aid you at all unless you have the element of surprise. No man will expect a lady to know how to do that, so it ought to stand you in good stead, but you must know a few other things, as well.”

  He then proceeded to teach me how to do several unspeakable things with my foot and my elbow and the heel of my hand, and with each new endeavour, Plum’s face grew whiter.

  “My God, Brisbane, you cannot teach her that! She is still a lady, for all her running about town like a savage.”

  Brisbane gave him a level gaze. “Anyone who would attack her will not care that she is a lady and this knowledge might well save her life. Again.”

  We walked through the steps again and again, until Plum finally cried off, pleading hunger. I was not quite ready to leave it, and at the last moment, I decided to apply what Brisbane had taught me to another part of Plum’s anatomy.

  Instantly, he collapsed onto the floor, deadly quiet and doubled over.

  “Oh, that is very effective,” I remarked. “Plum, dearest, are you quite all right?”

  “He will be fine, but he may never father children,” Brisbane put in drily.

  Plum lifted a shaking finger towards Brisbane. “I blame you for this.”

  Brisbane had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I never told her to do that.”

  “You never told her not to,” Plum put in before giving a deep groan.

  “Julia, it is indeed effective, but not considered sporting for reasons that ought to be immediately apparent,” Brisbane advised me.

  I shrugged. “You were the one who taught me that in a street fight, one does not trouble with rules. Why bother with the rest of it when this does the trick so much more quickly?”

  “Because you cannot always guarantee that you will be so fortunate as to land a blow in that particular area. Some men are a little quicker to protect themselves than Plum.”

  Plum muttered something unintelligible and no doubt profane, and I leaned nearer to Brisbane.

  “Have I really hurt him? I mean, damaged him? He will be all right, won’t he?”

  “In time,” Brisbane promised. He leaned over and clapped Plum on the shoulder. “Come back tomorrow. We start swords then.”

  Plum shuddered by way of reply.

  * * *

  We took Plum home shortly afterwards. He hobbled to his room and said he would have his dinner there on a tray, and Brisbane and I decided to do the same. A companionable meal taken in the privacy of our bedchamber always put me in mind of our honeymoon. True to his word, Swan proved an excellent cook and sent up an exquisite little meal with a bottle of superb wine as an accompaniment. We ate in our dressing gowns, chatting idly, and by tacit arrangement saying nothing of the investigation. We deserved at least a few minutes’ peace, I thought, and Brisbane must have, as well, for it was not until the tray had been removed and we were settled before the fire and warming glasses of brandy that the subject came up.

  “So, how does one go about finding an elusive German lady who has decided to make herself a proverbial needle in the haystack of London?” I enquired.

  Brisbane rolled his glass thoughtfully between his palms.

  “By tossing pebbles in a pond,” he replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When you toss pebbles in a pond, you create ripples, some of which may be strong enough to come back to you. It is the same with detection. Put a few enquiries out, and something will shake loose. It has to,” he finished firmly.

  “I suppose we could retrieve the button from Stokes,” I offered. “If he can tell us nothing further, we might show it to other haberdashers or even jewellers. It is a valuable little trinket.”

  “Possibly. We might also try an advertisement in the newspaper, mentioning Madame’s death and alluding to the letters. The German still hasn’t got her hands on those, and I suspect if she is still in London,
it is solely to achieve her objective and retrieve the letters.”

  “You think there is a chance she has gone back to Germany already?”

  “She may have, although I, for one, would not like to face Bismarck with work left undone. I suspect she is still here, biding her time until she can get her hands upon the letters. She must be frustrated by now,” he mused. “Increasingly so. Bismarck does not countenance failure. It would be dangerous for her to return to Germany without the letters.”

  I sipped, but the brandy tasted sour upon my tongue and I put the glass aside and voiced a question that had been nagging at me for the better part of the day. “Brisbane, if you know Sir Morgan and he could vouch for you, are you quite sure the police would be so quick to think the worst of you if you interfered in an investigation? You said you could be gaoled if they found you in the wrong place, but surely Sir Morgan would speak on your behalf, use his influence to help.”

  Brisbane’s gaze was inscrutable. “That shows precisely how little you know Morgan Fielding. I assure you, if I am apprehended by the Metropolitan Police, I am entirely on my own.”

  “Too bad, really,” I mused. “Seems a pity to know someone so well connected and be unable to make use of him.”

  Brisbane gave me a slow smile. “I find myself thoroughly bored of the subject of Morgan Fielding. Come here.”

  He put his glass aside and I went to him. What followed has no bearing upon the investigation, so I will pass on to the next day.

  * * *

  At breakfast, Swan sent up an array of hot dishes—coddled eggs and savoury kidneys and bacon coupled with a warm fruit compote. Plum was up early and gone, set off with Monk on an enquiry into the disappearance of a sculpture from a private collection in Kensington, and Brisbane was very nearly finished when I descended, yawning broadly.

  “Good morning, my love. Tired?” he asked. He did not raise his eyes from the newspaper, but a satisfied smile played about his lips.

  “Exhausted, as you can well imagine,” I responded. “Really, Brisbane, you have the stamina of a domesticated farm animal. You cannot have had more than half an hour’s sleep altogether.”