Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “All my life, I think. I told you that Father permits the Gypsies to camp on his land in Sussex. Magda’s people have been coming there since my father was a boy.”

  “And has she always gotten on well with your family?”

  “Oh, yes. Father would pay her to tell fortunes at the harvest ball. He always bought horses from her brothers and told the tenants to buy the clothes-pegs and harnesses they made.”

  Brisbane was thoughtful. There was an expression, almost of distaste on his face, as if he did not like peering too closely into their transient lives. I remembered suddenly the ragged bit of conversation I had overheard from the laundry room, and my certainty that it was Magda taunting Brisbane.

  “Who is Mariah Young?” I asked.

  His face did not change, at least not in any way I could define. It seemed to go flat, though, as if his features were no longer flesh and blood, but paper and ink, technically correct, but utterly devoid of animation. He sipped at his tea and then looked at me, his eyes strangely hooded. I had never seen quite that expression in them before, although his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  “I thought I heard someone crashing about. What is down there? The laundry?”

  I nodded, my hands a little clammy. I patted them surreptitiously on my napkin.

  “Mariah Young is my business,” he said evenly. “And she has no bearing on this case.”

  “But you were there, talking to Magda—”

  He did something then, something I had not seen him do before. He put down his teacup and brought out a little wooden box. From it he took a slim, very dark cigar. He lit it in an unhurried fashion, taking a few deep draws to make certain it was smoldering properly. He had not asked my permission, but the tobacco had a sweet, musky smell that was actually quite appealing.

  “Spanish,” he said with a thin smile. “I find they help me think. Mariah Young,” he said, his tone thoughtful. He was silent a moment, as if weighing within himself how much he could or should reveal. I sat very still, trying to look more trustworthy than curious, but I did not deceive him. He simply shook his head and said, “I can only tell you that the conversation between Magda and myself has no bearing on this case except in one respect.” He blew a soft blue cloud of smoke over his head. “I think that your laundress might very well be capable of blackmail. And if that is so, it is a short step to murder, don’t you think?”

  “And that is all you are going to say on the matter?” I demanded.

  “That is all.” The words were softly spoken, but underpinned with iron, and I did not doubt he meant them. I would learn nothing from approaching him directly. I decided to leave it—for now. But I made up my mind that before I was done with Brisbane, I would know the full story of Mariah Young.

  “How does a Gypsy teller of fortunes come to be employed as a common laundress?” he asked, taking back the reins of the conversation.

  “Her people were encamped at Bellmont Abbey when she got into some sort of trouble. She became unclean, according to their laws. You see, the Gypsies believe—”

  “I am familiar with the mythology,” he said dryly. Of course he was. I had deduced from my conversations with Monk and Fleur that Brisbane was extremely well traveled. Doubtless he had encountered many wanderers in his own journeys. Likely that accounted for his antipathy toward them.

  “Yes, well, Magda was deemed unclean for a period of a year or two, I am not certain of the precise rules. It meant that she could not travel with them and would probably have starved. She came to me and I told her she could work for me, here in town. She has only just now been allowed to visit her brothers. They are encamped in London at the moment, and I think she may rejoin them soon.”

  Brisbane sat and puffed, staring at a point some inches above my head. I might have been a bowl of fruit for all the attention he paid to me.

  “If you did not want a biscuit, you did not have to take one to be polite,” he said finally.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He gestured with the glowing tip of the cigar. “You have crumbled that biscuit to bits. You had only to decline.”

  I looked at the wrecked remains of the little pastry mounded on the plate. I put it down hastily.

  “Did Magda have any reason to bear a grudge against Sir Edward?”

  “Absolutely not. If Edward had objected to her employment, she would never have been given a post at Grey House.”

  “And yet she brought poison into that house,” he mused. There was another interval punctuated only by the soft exhalation of his breath. I sat quietly, mentally redecorating the room. It was quite nicely proportioned with good moldings, but I thought the chairs were a little dark, a little heavy for my taste. And the green of the curtains was entirely too grey.

  I had just moved on to the artwork, replacing his stark sketch of an Eastern mosque with my own rather good copy of Jupiter and Io when he spoke.

  “Why was she found to be unclean?”

  I began to toy with my rings. “It is really quite distasteful, Brisbane. It has no bearing on the investigation, I am certain of that.”

  “But I am not,” he rejoined with a smile.

  I fumed a little, but I told him. “It has something to do with the dead. She touched a dead person. Apparently that violates their greatest taboo.”

  He took up a small china dish figured in gold dragons and ground out the remainder of his cigar. “What were the circumstances?”

  “Really, Brisbane, must I—”

  “Yes, you must,” he said, his tone hard. “I will know everything.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Very well. Her daughter, Carolina, had died. My father arranged for her to be buried in the village graveyard at Blessingstoke. Magda was found there the next night. Her daughter’s body had been dug up. She was embracing the corpse.”

  “Good God.” He sat back heavily in his chair, and I felt a childish sort of satisfaction at having shocked him. “I am surprised they only banished her.”

  “They pitied her. She was ranting, half out of her mind with grief. They put out her things and packed their own. They were gone by daylight. Within the space of a few short days she had lost her only child, her entire family, her whole way of life. Now perhaps you can find some pity for her.”

  His eyes lifted to mine, cool and black as a night sea.

  “Pity is a luxury I cannot afford, my lady. For anyone.”

  “How can you be so unfeeling?” I demanded. “What is your heart made of that it can remain so wholly untouched by the suffering of another human being?”

  “Stone. Steel. Flint, if you like. I am sure that is what you think.”

  “What I think does not matter at all,” I retorted. “I simply cannot comprehend how any person can live as you do.”

  “That is because your ladyship has the advantage of a clean conscience and an untroubled past,” he said, his words tinged with ice. “If you had to live with what I do, you would understand it well enough.”

  A sudden image flashed into my mind of Brisbane, drugged and in agony, and I felt ashamed of myself. I inclined my head.

  “You are right, of course. I should not have judged you. I apologize.”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have just apologized,” I said, smoothing my skirts. “You were right and I was wrong. I spoke thoughtlessly. Shall I make amends, or do you forgive me?”

  I waited coolly for his reply, but he simply stared, dumbfounded. He was shaking his head, his expression entirely astonished.

  “Now I do not understand you. One minute you are passionately attacking me for my cold heart, the next you are craving my pardon.”

  I lifted my shoulder in a genteel shrug I copied from Fleur. “A lady’s prerogative. We are widely believed to be the less logical sex.”

  “Not you,” he said. “I am suspicious of you now.”

  I smiled guilelessly. “You have no reason to be.”

  “That I do not believe.”

/>   I did not reply and he moved on, rather reluctantly, I thought.

  “Is there anything else I should know about Magda?”

  I thought, then shook my head. “I have told you everything, as far as I remember. If I recall anything else, I shall write to you.”

  He rose and walked me to the door. “I will send the ars—powder,” he amended hastily, “to Mordecai in the morning. As soon as he sends word I will let you know.”

  He paused, his hand curved around the knob.

  “I am very impressed, my lady,” he said quietly. “You turned up a piece of evidence that makes a needle in a haystack seem like a winning proposition. And you did not permit sentiment to dictate your actions. I know how easy it would have been for you to conceal this from me.”

  “It would not have been easy at all,” I remarked, pulling on my gloves. “As you observed, I have the advantage of a clean conscience. I should like to keep it that way.”

  THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

  They love not poison that do poison need,

  Nor do I thee, though I wish him dead.

  —William Shakespeare

  Richard II

  The next day my spirits were low. I could not bring myself to question Val about the second bloody shirt or even scold him for failing to get rid of the stolen raven. I cringed every time Henry came near me, remembering his foul collection of French pornography. And I had a ferocious headache, the result of spending several hours copying my observations during the search into legible form for Brisbane’s records. After my surprising success in Magda’s rooms, he had sent word that he would require a full list of the contents of the house, particularly personal possessions. It was tedious stuff, and I strongly suspected he had requested it simply to keep me occupied with something dull while he had the more interesting task of taking the grey powder to Doctor Bent’s for analysis.

  After three hours of writing, painstakingly listing the contents of every room I searched, I threw down my pen, spattering the page with a temperamental spray of ink. I had been cooped up in the study long enough. It was time for some physical labor to stretch my limbs and clear the cobwebs from my mind.

  I instructed Aquinas to send boxes and tissue to Edward’s room and give me the loan of one of the servants—anyone except Henry. I had no desire to be alone with the mad pornographer. To my surprise it was Magda who came, clinking her gold bracelets and swishing her taffeta petticoats. I cringed a little—it was the same red petticoat that I had found wrapped around the box of powder.

  “Magda, I have decided to clear out Sir Edward’s clothes and personal effects. I would like to box them all up and send them along to Lady Hermia’s refuge. They should be able to make quite good use of them.”

  I was chattering, but Magda did not seem to notice. She simply shrugged and began shifting the stacks of shirts from the wardrobe. Without being told, Magda wrapped the garments into neat parcels, putting a shirt, collar and cuffs with each suit of clothes to make a complete ensemble. After a long moment of watching her, I remembered something I had meant to ask her for several days.

  “Magda, what does it mean when there is a serpent in the tea leaves?”

  Her inky eyes narrowed. “You have let another Gypsy read the leaves for you?”

  “No, of course not. I was just wondering.”

  She regarded me a long moment, then shrugged.

  “Sickness. Bad luck. Spiteful enemies.”

  “Oh,” I said feebly.

  The dark gaze narrowed still further. “Are you certain the leaves were not yours?” she demanded.

  I gave her a thin smile as I lied. “Of course. But, I wonder, speaking of fortunes, why could you not tell Mr. Brisbane his fortune?”

  Her hands did not hesitate but moved smoothly along as she wrapped the next shirt. “I cannot tell you, lady. He can.”

  We worked another minute in silence.

  “Who is Mariah Young?”

  There was a reaction at this, a tiny jerk of the hands and a bit of the paper tore. She smoothed it, regaining her composure. “I cannot tell you, lady. He can.”

  “But he won’t.”

  “Then it is not my place,” she said calmly. She was fetching hats now, crumpling paper to fill out the crowns.

  I twisted one of Edward’s neck cloths in my hands. “Magda, how can you be so stubborn! Don’t you realize that I am only trying to help you?”

  She continued to work deliberately and slowly, moving with a certain deft precision that I had often seen among the Roma. I moved closer, determined to make her understand.

  “He means to see you hang for murder, do you hear me? He has the poison.”

  She turned, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “He took my arsenic?”

  I groaned and dropped Edward’s neck cloth to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, fluidly, with none of the creaking and snapping one would expect from a woman of her years. A life spent traveling had kept her supple and strong, stronger than I.

  “It was arsenic, then. He thought so. He has sent it to a doctor to be tested.”

  I reached out and took her hand. It felt cool and wrinkled, like the top of a blancmange left too long in the larder.

  “Magda, I know that you must have had some innocent purpose for the arsenic. I must believe that you wanted it for a cosmetic, a face cream. But Mr. Brisbane believes Sir Edward was poisoned. I cannot help you if you do not tell me the truth.”

  Her face was utterly blank. No emotion, just the calm, fatal acceptance of her race.

  “I always tell you the truth,” she said. “Not all of it, not at once, but what I tell you is never false.”

  I nodded encouragement.

  “I did not kill Sir Edward.”

  I felt my spine sag. I had never actually believed her guilty, but it was a profound relief to hear her deny it.

  She looked at me curiously, her eyes snapping with emotion. “You know why I am unclean to my people. But you have never asked me why I went to Carolina’s grave. It was because she called me.”

  My breath caught painfully in my throat. “Called you? Magda, how can that be?”

  “I was sleeping, and I dreamed of her. She came to me and said that I must go to her, that she was in danger. I rose and I went to her. My brothers found me there, sitting on her grave with her body in my arms. My brothers understood, they knew that I had to protect her, but the taboo had been broken. I was unclean and I had to leave them.”

  Magda fell silent, but her words echoed in my head. Why had she felt the need to protect her dead child? The graveyard was a quiet country place, with no one to disturb her. And why should anyone want to? Granted, graverobbing had been a lucrative occupation fifty years before, but there were laws now, providing for the legal use of cadavers for medical study. Schools no longer needed to rely upon unsavory villains to retrieve the newly dead for their anatomical dissections.

  But there were others, I thought with a thrill of horror, others who might have need of a fresh corpse, others who had no access to proper medical schools. I thought of my poor, misguided brother, and it was almost more than I could bear.

  “Magda, did someone else remove Carolina’s body from her grave before you reached the churchyard?”

  She nodded and began to rock slowly, her arms crossed over her womb.

  “I was too late to stop him disturbing her rest, but I chased him away. He could not take her.”

  I had read before, in lurid Gothic novels, of one’s blood running cold. Until that minute, I had thought it an exaggeration. But as the implication of her words took root, a monstrous idea began to grow, and with it, a cold, creeping certainty.

  “Did you have that arsenic because you intended to kill the man who defiled her grave?”

  She looked directly into my eyes. “Yes. I waited. It is almost time for me to return to my people. I did not want to kill him and remain under your roof.”

  I clamped my hand around her arm and shook her hard.

 
“Do not speak. Do not say another word. Your intentions are enough to buy you a noose.”

  I stopped a moment, thinking with an icy clarity that should have surprised me.

  “Are any of your brothers in London?”

  “Jasper. He is at Hampstead.”

  Jasper, he would do. He was a horse dealer, and a good one. During the season, he could usually be found in London, peddling prime horseflesh to the pinch-purses who would not pay the prices at Tattersall’s. I moved swiftly to the mantel, sweeping up the nearest bibelots.

  “Take these,” I ordered, thrusting the Sèvres candlesticks and the porcelain Pandora’s box into her startled hands. “Go to Jasper. He will know where to sell them to get money for you to live on. I haven’t any banknotes in the house and I dare not ask Aquinas. Once Jasper has gotten some money for you, get straight out of London. Go anywhere, but not into Sussex. Stay as far away from me and mine as you can, and above all, do not send word where you are. In a few months, you should be able to rejoin your people, up north would be best.”

  She tightened her grip on the pieces of porcelain, nodding slowly. “You understand that I would never harm you, lady.”

  I regarded her coldly. “You were prepared to poison a member of my family, my own kinsman. You have already harmed me.”

  She nodded sadly and turned to wrap the objects in paper. I instructed her to cushion them with waistcoats and shirts, and in a very few moments she was finished. She reached into her pocket and drew out a piece of knotted calico.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is a charm, made from the graveclothes of a dead Rom. This comes from Carolina. It is the strongest magic I can give you.”

  I took it with reluctant fingers. “Magda, I do not—”

  “You will need magic. Because of him, the dark one. I cannot tell his fortune, but he brings death. He brings ruination and despair. I hear weeping when he walks and the screams of the dead echo in his shadow.”

  The words might have been a trifle melodramatic, but the effect was ghastly. Her voice was low and her eyes glowed conviction. Whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen in Brisbane, she believed it.