Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I am surprised that you are amenable to the suggestion, considering your earlier vehemence.”

  I raised my brows lightly at him. “Was I vehement? I don’t recall.”

  “You questioned my sanity,” he returned with a touch of asperity.

  I smiled sweetly. “Yes, I do recall that. As a matter of fact, I do still think it a daft notion. However—” I put up my hand to stem his interruption. “However, I am willing to concede the possibility that someone at Grey House was involved. I fear the only way to put that particular suspicion to rest is to establish without question the innocence of my staff. And the only way to accomplish that is to search their rooms.”

  “All of Grey House,” he corrected.

  I suppressed the little ripple of irritation I felt at his bossiness. He was still recovering, I reminded myself, and though his temper was vastly improved, he was still a trifle prickly.

  “I do not see the purpose—” I began.

  “The purpose would be clear if you applied your considerable intellect for even a moment,” he said coldly. “If the perpetrator is an inmate of Grey House, he may share his quarters with someone else. That means that any evidence of his wrongdoing—poison, glue pots—would best be hidden in some neutral part of the house, someplace that would not implicate him if it were discovered.”

  I sipped again at my tea, torn between my pleasure at the slightly peachy undertones of the Darjeeling and impatience at my own stupidity. Really, I was going to have to start thinking things through before I opened my mouth. I was going to have to start thinking like a criminal.

  “That’s it,” I said suddenly.

  “What is it?” Brisbane’s voice was weary and I wondered if his strength was beginning to flag.

  “I do not know how to think like a criminal,” I said with some excitement. “If I knew how to think like one, I could probably unmask one.”

  “It does help,” he returned dryly.

  I tipped my head and regarded him from crisply shined boots to clean, waving hair. “You seem to have no difficulty with that. Have you a criminal past?” I asked, joking.

  To my astonishment, he flushed. It was almost imperceptible, but I watched the edge of dull crimson creep over his features.

  “What a perfectly stupid question,” he commented, his voice as controlled as ever. But in spite of the even tone, his colour was still high and I knew that I had struck a nerve.

  “Your past is your own concern, of course,” I said lamely. I had never been so socially inept as I managed to be with Brisbane. How exactly did one extricate oneself from an apparently valid accusation of criminality against one’s investigative partner? There were no rules for this in the little etiquette books with which Aunt Hermia had drilled us. I stumbled on the best I could. “I mean, who among us has not stolen a sweet from a shop as a child?”

  Brisbane’s complexion returned slowly to normal, but his hand had gone to his throat and he was rubbing absently at the spot where I knew the Medusa pendant hung beneath his shirt.

  I had just opened my mouth to mention it, when I realized that I was not supposed to know about that pendant. I gulped at my tea, now gone stone cold, aghast at how nearly I had given myself away. He was irritated enough with me as it was. I did not think he would ever forgive knowing I had been with him during his illness.

  “I will of course search all the rooms of Grey House,” I said quietly. “Even my own. I take your point. You are quite correct.”

  He was silent a moment, his black eyes thoughtful.

  “This is more difficult for you than you had anticipated.”

  I nodded, tears springing suddenly to my eyes. I blinked them back, determined not to let them fall.

  “I warned you when it began. But you thought I was simply being cruel.”

  I bit my lip in silence. The tea had grown scummy. I placed it on the table, careful lest my trembling fingers upset the porcelain.

  “I underestimated the difficulty, yes. And you were cruel.”

  “And correct.” His voice held no trace of triumph, only certainty. He had known from long experience what this would cost me, and I had not listened.

  I shrugged. “It does not matter now. I have thought how easy it would be to put an end to this, to resume my life and pretend none of this ever happened. But I cannot. It is changing me, has changed me. And I do not know yet if it is for the better.”

  He did not pity me, and I blessed him for that. Had there been any sympathy, any kindness in his eyes, I would have crumpled. But that cool, appraising stare pricked at my pride. I raised my chin, determined to retain my dignity at least. And as always, he told me the truth, unvarnished and plain.

  “You will not know until it is done. And then, only you will know if the cost has been too high, if the change has been too great.”

  I nodded, and our eyes met. We were comrades now, bound more closely than lovers, it occurred to me. Lovers may quarrel and part company. We were linked, irreparably, until this thing was finished. And in one of those rare moments of harmony, I knew that he felt it as well, this bond that we could neither explain nor break. I did not know if he was comfortable with the knowledge, or if perhaps he resented it. But he knew it as clearly as I did.

  He moved quickly then, putting his cup on the table and bringing out his notebook. His manner was crisp as he outlined the places to which I would have to pay careful attention, the details I must not overlook. It was awkward to read upside down across the little table, so I went to sit beside him on the sofa. He talked briskly, turning once to make certain I was paying careful attention to his instructions. We were sitting in close proximity, his leg very nearly pressing against mine on the tiny sofa, the black wool of his sleeve brushing my silk as he sketched on the paper. I caught the scent of his soap and something else—something that made it rather difficult to breathe. It reminded me of bay rum, but smoother, without the sharpness of the spice. It was a mellow scent, perhaps it was the smell of Brisbane himself. It was warm on the terrace, the air heavy with rain that had not yet fallen and voluptuous with the fragrance of Madame de Bellefleur’s syringa. Together, the lowering sky, the combination of scents, were a heady mix. I could not focus clearly on what he was saying. Instead I watched his hands, one penciling broad, sweeping strokes while the other gripped his notebook. They were large hands, and not quite a gentleman’s. The nails were short and clean, but there were a few scars crossing the knuckles, and a callus or two, possibly from riding without gloves. They were deft, competent hands, and I could not imagine a single task they could not perform.

  The wind rose then, blowing a shower of syringa petals onto his black hair, spangling the shoulders of his coat like confetti. Some dropped onto my lap and I gathered a handful, crushing them to release the thick fragrance into my fingers. Had I been with anyone else, it would have been an achingly romantic scene. And for the space of half a heartbeat, I wondered…

  But then he turned, his expression forbidding.

  “You have petals in your hair,” he said, gesturing toward my cropped curls.

  I reached up and brushed at them, sending a flurry of petals over his hands.

  He tore the page he had been filling out of the notebook and thrust it at me, almost angrily. He rose, dripping petals onto the stones of the terrace.

  “Mind you do not fail,” he said severely. “Everything depends upon this. I cannot like leaving this in your hands.”

  Stung, I clutched at the paper. “I can do this,” I protested. “You have told me what to look for, and I assure you I can be discreet.”

  He regarded me for a long moment, then gave a little snort of disgust. “What choice do I have?”

  He turned, crushing the flowers beneath his heel, and went inside, to fetch Madame de Bellefleur, I expected. I folded the paper carefully and placed it inside my reticule, thinking that I had been quite stupid to wonder, if only for a moment. Apparently Brisbane only found me attractive when he was out of his sen
ses.

  To my credit, I managed to comb the petals from my hair and compose myself before Brisbane returned with Madame de Bellefleur on his arm.

  We talked idly for a few minutes, about nothing in particular, when Brisbane rose suddenly.

  “I have business to attend to at home,” he announced. Despite Madame’s protests he left us, bowing coolly to me and giving Madame’s hand a dryly affectionate kiss. The difference could not have been more marked. But he need not have bothered. I was firmly in my place. I would not think of stirring from it again.

  The atmosphere lightened a little after he left, and Madame and I remained on the terrace, watching the failing light cast long shadows over the garden.

  “This is a charming house, Madame, and so prettily situated. You must be very comfortable here.”

  She nodded eagerly. “Oh, it is so. I am so very grateful to Nicholas.” She pronounced it “Neekolas.”

  I blinked at her. “Oh, I should have realized. Brisbane has provided the house.”

  “He provides me with an annuity, as do a few other of my friends,” she corrected me. “But Nicholas found the house for me and arranged the purchase. It was exactly what I wanted after all those years of wandering. A house of my own.”

  She stretched a little, catlike, her limbs supple and sleek. She moved like a dancer, and I wondered if this was part of the courtesan’s repertoire.

  “So many cities, so many rented rooms,” she reminisced, her expression dreamy. “I did not even know where I was sometimes. I would have to tell Therese to ask the maids. Always living on someone else’s sufferance…” Her tone was not bitter, but I caught a trace of something akin to it. Regret?

  “But surely your husbands…that is, you married, did you not? Their homes would have been yours.”

  She laughed her light, musical laugh. “Spoken like an Englishwoman! You have never married a Continental, my dear, or you would know better. My third husband, a Russian prince—never marry a Russian, my darling. They are the gloomiest husbands. Always complaining about the money, the leaking roof, the furniture being sold to pay for the repairs. Serge once sold my favorite bed literally out from under me. They came to take it away while I was sleeping in it. They carried it off with the bedlinen still warm.”

  “Good heavens!”

  She shrugged. “Well, I suppose he thought it justified. I did have a lover in the bed with me at the time,” she added with a wicked gleam in her eye.

  In spite of myself, I laughed. She was so frank about her adventures that it was difficult to be judgmental. I relaxed and listened to her stories, each more colourful than the next. She sent Therese to a chophouse to buy our dinner and we ate there on the terrace, wrapping shawls about our shoulders and sharing a bottle of remarkably nice Burgundy. By the time we had finished pudding, she was calling me Julia (“Zhuleea”) and begging me to call her Fleur.

  “It was my childhood nickname,” she told me. “But I always thought it was pretty.”

  I agreed that it was. “Fleur,” I said, gargling the vowels a little like she did.

  She clapped, her eyes bright. “That was very good! Ah, it has been so long since I have enjoyed the company of another woman. I have Therese, of course,” she confided, “but she is an old woman, so set in her ways. You are young. I like to be around young people. It reminds me.”

  I cut my eyes at her, thinking she was looking for a compliment. I was not that much younger than she was—perhaps a dozen years. Well, I would not give her the satisfaction of balming her vanity. I sipped at my wine and found myself suddenly emboldened to ask a question that had been niggling at me.

  “How long have you known Brisbane?”

  She tilted her head, counting on her fingers. “Oh, goodness, it must be nearly twenty years. Something like that.”

  I choked a little as my wine struggled to go down. Twenty years. No great wonder they were so familiar or that he had come to her when he was ill. No great wonder he trusted her.

  “It was in Buda-Pesth,” she said, drawing her shawl about her more closely. The stars were beginning to peep out and she tossed her head back to look at them.

  “Buda-Pesth? Hungary?”

  “Yes. I was with an Hungarian count at the time—very fiery those Hungarians. Deliciously so, but it becomes tiresome after a while, I assure you.”

  I took her word for it, but I was still trying to make sense of what she had told me. She and Brisbane had met in Hungary, when he was little more than a boy.

  She smiled at me, understanding my confusion. “Yes, he was very young. I was his first real love,” she said, yawning discreetly. “It did not last, of course. My Hungarian would not permit a rival, even a boy, but Nicholas was delightful. Very ardent.”

  I was not certain that I wanted to know about Brisbane’s ardor. I was just trying to decide how I could tactfully change the subject when I grasped what she had said.

  “Did not last? Do you mean that now…that is to say…”

  “Am I his mistress now?” she supplied frankly. My face was burning, and I was glad the terrace had grown so dim. But she was not offended. In fact, she laughed.

  “Oh, my dear child, I have not shared his bed since that summer in Buda-Pesth. I am his Pompadour, if you understand the reference.”

  I did. I adored history, not the dry dates and boring battles, but the stories and the people who populated them. I knew that Madame du Pompadour had been mistress to Louis XV for only a short while, but had reigned as his dearest friend for many years after their physical liaison ended. The fact that Louis XV was my cousin, though only of the most distant variety, had only spiced the story for me.

  “I understand. Forgive me, I assumed…”

  She patted my hand. “Forgive? Child, I appreciate the compliment. I am far too old for such frolics now.”

  I took her in, from her dark hair, only lightly laced with silver, to her limber figure and exquisite carriage.

  “Too old at forty?” I teased.

  She laughed again, this time without a trace of silver bells. It was a hearty belly laugh, and she reached for her handkerchief, wiping at her eyes.

  “Oh, chérie, thank you for that. Forty indeed! My dear girl, I will be sixty on my next birthday.”

  I stared at her, at the unlined complexion and firm, high bosom. “Witchcraft,” I said distinctly.

  She hooted again. “Nothing like that. Cosmetics of the most precise kind,” she said. “I mix them myself, with Therese.” She put the tip of a pointed finger under my chin and raised it, looking closely at my skin. “Very nice, very lovely. Only the English have such complexions. But too pale sometimes. You must let me give you a jar of my rose-petal salve. It will bring the fresh pink roses to your cheeks, you will see.”

  “Do you—” I indicated her own delicately tinted complexion.

  “Of course. Rub a little into the lips, as well. It heightens the colour and will taste of roses when someone kisses you.”

  I bit my lip against telling her how unlikely that would be. We sat a while longer, gossiping like old friends, and I realized that, except for a few suppers with Portia, I had not done this in a very long time. Not since before I married, when I still lived at March House with my sisters. It felt so natural, so effortless to be in Fleur’s company. I realized, too, that if I had followed the conventions dictated by society, this evening would have been forbidden; Fleur would have been forbidden. I watched her as we talked, aging so gracefully, so happily. She was a bit lonely, I could see, but apart from that, she seemed quite pleased with her lot in life. She did not have regrets, which was the most one could expect of life at her age.

  I thanked her when I left. She pressed a jar of the rosy salve into my hands, advising me on its use.

  “If you like it, I will give you more,” she promised.

  Impulsively, I embraced her. She held stiff a moment, and I remembered that the French did not care for physical affection.

  But before I could withdr
aw and apologize, she threw her arms around me and squeezed tightly.

  “You must come again, anytime,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling almost violet in the lamplight.

  “I will. And I hope you will come to Grey House. In a few days,” I temporized, remembering the distasteful task Brisbane had set me about.

  She nodded and I left her then, profoundly grateful to have spent such a lovely evening in such delightful company. But before I was halfway home my thoughts had turned to Brisbane. And for that I was not grateful at all.

  THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

  There’s small choice in rotten apples.

  —William Shakespeare

  The Taming of the Shrew

  It occurred to me as I began my search of Grey House that size is entirely relative. I had always thought it a modest sort of town house. But when I began to pace it thoroughly, methodically, and above all surreptitiously, it seemed enormous.

  The most difficult part was inventing plausible excuses to be in rooms I had scarcely even seen before. I murmured that I was thinking of changing the wallpaper when Aquinas found me in the butler’s pantry, and I very nearly insulted Cook by delivering the day’s menus to the kitchens in person. Cook did not like even Aquinas setting foot in her domain. I was strictly persona non grata belowstairs.

  For a while I walked around with paper and pencil, ostensibly making an inventory of furnishings to be sold when I left Grey House. That ruse got me through Edward’s rooms, but by the time I finished, my hand was cramping and the inventory had grown to an unwieldy length. The search saddened me, more than I had anticipated. I had not ventured into Edward’s rooms since his death. The sight of his things, freshly dusted but undisturbed, brought quick, hot tears to my eyes. The rooms looked cold, unused, unfriendly even, like a set piece in a rather forbidding museum. I wandered about for the longest time, touching things, picking up little treasures and peering into photographs. I touched the beautiful candlesticks on the mantelpiece, Sèvres, with a design of roses and lilies, copied after a pair made for Madame du Barry. They had been his mother’s, the only really decent pieces she had ever bought. There were a few other bits with them, not quite so beautiful, but still pretty enough: a little clock with a shepherdess and a porcelain box decorated with a picture of Pandora opening the legendary box. There were only a few books, the histories he liked to read when he could not settle to sleep, a few volumes of poetry, that sort of thing. On the walls were a pair of rather good paintings with mythological subjects—one of Narcissus gazing into a brook and the other of Achilles mourning the death of Patroclus. I had never much cared for them, but they were very much to Edward’s taste—refined, fashionable, serenely coloured with his favorite blues and greys. I moved from item to item, opening boxes and drawers and peering into vases. I found nothing except a little dust and a few ghosts. It was a disturbing experience, and I realized then that I had no wish to search Grey House by myself. In the end, I convinced myself I had no choice. I told Aquinas.