A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  To my astonishment, I realized Malcolm Romilly, grieving bridegroom with a missing wife, was engaging in a flirtation. True, he was slightly intoxicated, but not wildly so. Still, there was something at the back of his eyes I did not like, something calculated. I eased my hand out from under his just as Mrs. Trengrouse entered.

  “The clock is striking ten, sir,” she said in a toneless voice. “It is time.”

  We rose slowly and made our way to the drawing room. As I passed Mrs. Trengrouse, I saw that her expression was unhappy, a trifle nervous even. I gave her a reassuring smile.

  “I am certain all will be well,” I told her, sotto voce.

  “From your lips to God’s ear, miss,” was the fervent reply. “I will go and order hot drinks for afterwards. Some revivifying may be in order.”

  “An excellent notion.” She followed us to the door of the drawing room, closing it after us. I could hear the rattle of her chatelaine as she bustled away, no doubt concealing her concerns for her master in the demands of her position. Far better to go and supervise the clearing up of the dinner things than loiter outside the door.

  Helen was already in the drawing room, and I saw at once that it had been arranged a little differently—no doubt to her specifications. The drapes were drawn tightly against the night sky, and two tall tapers, church candles of beeswax, had been lit in holders that stood on either side of a sturdy wooden chair. This was set at a round table covered in a dark cloth, and other similar chairs had been arranged to encircle the table. A third candle, small and low, rested in a dish in the center of the table. No fire had been kindled in the hearth, and I was surprised at this, for the storm was still blowing, the wind moaning softly at the windows like a voice asking permission to enter. The soft metallic ping of raindrops against the glass was the only sound beyond the rustling of our skirts as we ladies took our places, the gentlemen coming after.

  Helen directed us, taking the chair between the tapers for herself. Malcolm was seated at her right hand, Caspian at her left, and Tiberius was almost opposite. I occupied the spot between Malcolm and Tiberius, while Mertensia took Tiberius’ other hand and Stoker seated himself next to Caspian. We exchanged glances, none of us entirely comfortable, it seemed. Helen was dressed in her usual black, severe and unrelieved except by the mourning brooch at her throat. A veil of black lace rested on her coiled hair, and her eyes were enormous, the pupils inky against the pale irises.

  “Let us begin,” she said in a low voice. She put out her hands, indicating that we should do likewise. Tiberius took mine with a light clasp, his fingers warm, and I felt the weight of his signet ring. Malcolm’s grip was firmer, a slight callus between his middle and forefinger where his pen rested when he wrote. He shifted his hand, putting his palm flat to mine and folding his fingers over as if we were preparing for a waltz. I gave his hand a slight squeeze of reassurance and glanced across the table to where Mertensia was holding Stoker’s hand tightly, her knuckles white in the dim light.

  “I must ask that you do not speak,” Helen instructed us. “No matter what occurs. You must not intervene when I am communing with the spirits. It is dangerous, for me and for you,” she said ominously. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, once, twice. A third inhalation went on for a long time, and she expelled the breath slowly through slightly parted lips. As the breath escaped, a hum began to sound, nothing at first, a mere vibration. But then it gathered strength, filling the air.

  “Spirits, can you hear me?” Helen demanded in a louder voice than she had yet used, one unlike I had heard from her before. It was a voice that would have done Sarah Siddons proud, ringing past the footlights and into the rafters. The invocation was delivered three more times, each punctuated by a low breath and a hum as she began to sway in her chair.

  Suddenly, the candles guttered and one of the tapers blew out. Mertensia sucked in her breath and I felt Malcolm’s hand flinch in mine.

  “Spirits,” Helen said, coaxing now. “Speak to me. I can feel you near.” The second taper blew out in a rush of cool wind. Mertensia gave a low moan of protest and I heard Stoker’s murmur of reassurance.

  “Silence! No one must speak but the dead,” Helen rebuked. “Come, spirits! Come and speak with us now. I call upon Rosamund Romilly, if you are here, make yourself known to us.” The rush of cool wind came again, and this time a series of raps.

  “Don’t,” Mertensia begged.

  But Helen carried on, commanding Rosamund to make herself known to us once more. The raps came again, slow and inexorable, closer now.

  “Rosamund, is that you?” Helen demanded. “Rap once for yes!”

  The silence was infinite, stretching out between us as the darkness pressed in from all sides. We circled the single flame, like cave dwellers desperate for solace against the terrors of the night, I thought. It danced wildly, casting shadows over our faces, making sinister masks. I realized that Helen had opened her eyes and was staring into the flame, never blinking, her black pupils reflecting the light.

  We waited, the silence growing taut and unbearable until at last it came.

  A single knock.

  Malcolm’s hand grasped mine convulsively as Helen moved almost imperceptibly forward in her chair. “Yes, spirit! Tell us again. A single rap if you are Rosamund.”

  Again it came, one knock. Mertensia moaned again and closed her eyes. I saw Stoker’s fingers tighten over hers in support.

  Helen spoke, her voice coaxing. “Rosamund, tell us now. You are in the spirit realm. That means you have left your body. Is this true?”

  Another single knock.

  “Rosamund, were you murdered?” Helen breathed out the words barely above a whisper. Beside me, Malcolm clasped my hand like a drowning man. I thought I heard him murmur in protest, half begging not to hear what he knew he would.

  We waited in the silence, the candle flame flickering. It settled, the golden light holding almost still for a long moment. Then, without preamble, it streamed sideways, flaring once before it blew out. In the sudden darkness, I heard a new sound, tentative at first, then gaining strength. Soft at first, so distant and quiet I almost thought I imagined it. It was a harpsichord or spinet, constructed with strings, I realized, and the melody was old—something Baroque and complicated with trills and a slow, slightly melancholy rhythm.

  “It is music,” I said in some surprise.

  “No, it isn’t,” Mertensia burst out. “It is Rosamund!”

  “Will someone light a bloody candle?” Tiberius demanded. I heard the rasp of a lucifer being struck and Stoker’s face sprang into view, illuminated by the small flame. He held it to one of the tapers, but it would not take light. It guttered out at once and Mertensia made a small noise of protest. Stoker struck another lucifer, cupping one hand to protect the tiny flame.

  “Mama!” Caspian cried. His mother was slumped senseless in her chair. He shook her gently until she came to with a start.

  “What has happened?” she demanded. Then she heard the music, sitting forward, clutching at her son’s sleeve. “Rosamund,” she breathed.

  Stoker’s lucifer burnt out and he struck another.

  “There are lamps in the hall,” Malcolm told him.

  “You mustn’t,” Mertensia cried, curling her hands into fists at her temples. “We must stay together! Do not leave,” she pleaded.

  Malcolm half started from his chair. “The music is getting louder,” he said, still holding fast to my hand.

  Stoker vanished with the tiny flame, plunging us once more into darkness before returning a moment later with a small lamp lifted just high enough to throw his face half into shadow. “The music is louder in the passage.”

  “The music room,” Malcolm managed in a strangled gasp.

  We rose almost as one, Malcolm, Stoker, and I at the front of the little band, leading the way towards the music room. The door was closed bu
t we could hear the music clearly, growing louder with every step. The trills and flourishes seemed to surround us in the passage, music conjured from nowhere, teasing and tormenting as snatches of it danced around us.

  “She is still here,” Helen said in a strangled voice. Her son supported her, one stalwart arm at her waist. To my surprise, Mertensia supported her other side, gripping her sister-in-law’s hand with her own grubby one. For once, Helen did not pull away. She seemed, instead, grateful for her kindness.

  Instantly, the music stopped, the last notes cut off sharply but an echo of them lingering in the passage. Malcolm burst through the doors of the music room, leading us as he held the lamp aloft. In the center of the room stood a harpsichord, the lid lifted, music scattered upon the floor. Attached to the harpsichord was a bracket for a candelabrum fitted with slim white tapers. The scent of blown candles filled the air and a slender wisp of grey smoke spiraled lazily upwards. Stoker put his finger to the smoking wick.

  “Still hot,” he murmured.

  “What does that signify?” Malcolm demanded.

  Stoker opened his mouth to speak, but paused as Tiberius came forward. He moved like a sleepwalker, slowly, inexorably towards the harpsichord. He put out his hand and lifted something from the seat, turning towards Malcolm with an expression I had never seen before.

  Clutched in his fist was a single striped rose.

  He held it up, but Malcolm did not touch it. He stared in horror, his white lips parted, his breathing heavy. Suddenly, with a choking gasp, Helen slid to the floor, crumpling into a heap of black taffeta.

  Caspian bent to his mother just as Mrs. Trengrouse bustled into the room.

  “Mr. Malcolm, I am sorry. I’m afraid the storm—” She broke off at the sight of Helen Romilly huddled on the Aubusson.

  “Fetch a vinaigrette, Trenny,” Malcolm said wearily. “I think it is going to be a long night.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  By unspoken agreement, we reassembled in the drawing room, where a fire had been kindled against the rising storm. The draperies were drawn to shut out the pounding rain, but a restlessness seemed to have settled over the group. Helen had been roused from her swoon and was settled on a sofa, a rug over her knees. Caspian disappeared and returned a few moments later with her cat, Hecate, dropping the animal onto his mother’s knee. The creature turned a few times, kneading its claws, before gathering its legs underneath and assuming a posture of watchful rest upon its mistress’s lap.

  “Thank you, darling,” Helen murmured to Caspian. He shot her a fond smile and then ducked his head, as if embarrassed at being caught in the act of a kindness.

  The rest of us said little, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackle of the flames, and after a long while, Mrs. Trengrouse reappeared, leading Daisy and another maid bearing platters of sandwiches, bread and butter, and bouillon cups of steaming beef tea. There were pots of strong black tea as well, and Mrs. Trengrouse set the maids to serving. “Mind you all have a cup of the beef tea. It is sustaining and should prevent anyone else from succumbing to shock.”

  “Strong drink, you mean,” Mertensia put in. She was seated on a sofa next to Helen, not touching her sister-in-law but keeping a curious eye upon her. Whatever fright Mertensia had taken during the séance, she seemed determined to recover herself. I knew well the inclination to explain away the inexplicable. It was easy to forget the things that waited in the dark when one was warmed by the light. But there was a tautness to her expression that made me wonder if she had been more frightened than she would like to remember.

  “Mertensia!” her nephew called sharply.

  His aunt shrugged, and Helen bestirred herself. “Never mind, Caspian. It is true that I drink more than I ought. It is the only thing that quietens my head.” She trailed off, letting her words hang in the air.

  “Be that as it may, no one can deny that what happened tonight was sufficient to disturb the stoutest constitution,” Malcolm said evenly. “I confess that I myself was startled.”

  “Startled!” Caspian’s handsome mouth curled in scorn. “You looked as if you had seen a ghost. That is—” He stopped abruptly, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks. “You never expected that, did you?” he demanded. “You thought Mama’s gifts were a joke, but now the laugh is on you because she did conjure something.”

  “Something? Or someone?” Mertensia asked softly.

  Silence blanketed the room save the sound of the crackling fire and the rising wind and Stoker, munching happily at a slice of cake he had unearthed behind the sandwiches. I pulled a face at him, but I knew better than to remonstrate with him when he was indulging his sweet tooth.

  “I presume Rosamund played the harpsichord,” I said to Malcolm. He turned to me in surprise.

  “Why, yes. She was quite accomplished. It was an old-fashioned pastime for a modern girl. She took no end of japing about it, but she refused to give it up. She could be stubborn like that,” he added, his expression faraway as he no doubt thought of his beautiful bride.

  “And that was her instrument?” I pressed.

  He nodded absently. “It was a wedding gift, I don’t know from whom. She demanded that it have pride of place in the music room. The evening before the wedding, when there was a reception for our guests and a dinner to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, she spent it in there, playing hour after hour. The same Baroque melodies.”

  “Like the one we heard tonight?” Stoker asked.

  Malcolm nodded again. “I think so. They all sound alike to me,” he said, his manner slightly abashed. “I am afraid I don’t understand music. Never did.”

  “The Romillys, none of us, are musical,” Caspian put in. “Which is why the music room is usually shut up.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  Malcolm shrugged. “There are instruments in there that my grandparents played, badly, I recall. But after their time, no one took an interest save Lucian. My father had been made to practice as a boy and loathed it, so when he inherited the castle, he left the room shut and that was the end of it apart from Lucian noodling away as a boy. He was the only one of us who had any sort of feel for music. I don’t suppose I have been in it more than a dozen times in the whole of my life.”

  “Until tonight,” I observed.

  “Until tonight. I certainly never went in there after Rosamund . . .” He did not finish the sentence.

  Caspian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Perhaps ghosts know how to pick out a tune,” he ventured.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Mertensia snapped. “We have had enough talk of ghosts for one night.”

  “Yes, but we have made a start,” Malcolm said. There was a boyish earnestness to him that was oddly touching.

  “You want to do this again?” I asked.

  “I do. I believe we have only scratched the surface. My God, if Helen has managed to make contact with her so quickly and so comprehensively, imagine what Rosamund could tell us.”

  His eyes were almost feverish, and his sister stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “You cannot be serious, Malcolm. It’s the rankest chicanery.”

  “How dare you—” Caspian leapt to his feet, his fists balled at his sides.

  Mertensia rose, standing toe-to-toe with her nephew, lacking a few inches but nothing in courage. “I do dare,” was the stout reply.

  “Mertensia, Caspian, we have guests,” Malcolm reminded them.

  “Guests?” Mertensia whirled to look at her brother. “I hardly think so. Tiberius has been coming here since he was a boy, and as for the others, what secrets have we now? We are beyond polite conventions, brother. We have been since you asked them to search for a dead woman.”

  The gentlemen had risen as soon as Mertensia got to her feet. Only Helen and I remained seated, but she rose now, gathering the cat to her breast. “Malcolm,” she sa
id in her usual gentle voice, “I will try again tomorrow if you insist. But I am not certain it is wise. Perhaps Mertensia is right. Perhaps it is best to let the dead bury the dead.”

  Malcolm’s mouth set in a mulish line. “Do you know what the past three years have been like? No, none of you can imagine,” he said, looking from each of us to the next. “I have been as one insensible, sleepwalking through my days. I cannot put her memory to rest because I do not know what became of her. I have been driven halfway to madness, and you would have me stop now?”

  “But what if the truth is too terrible to bear?” Mertensia asked in a voice of surrender.

  “There is no truth so terrible as the unknown,” he replied.

  “Very well,” she said. “I am against this. I do it under protest, and I think it unwise. But I will do it for you.”

  He reached out and clasped her hand. He turned to their sister-in-law. “Helen, I do insist that you try again tomorrow. After dinner, we will attempt once more to contact Rosamund.”

  “As you wish,” she murmured. “I will do my best.” But I noticed that the hand that stroked the cat trembled and the smile she offered her brother-in-law did not meet her eyes.

  * * *

  • • •

  We neglected the sandwiches, but the beef tea and hot whiskies did not go unappreciated. When we had drunk our fill, the party began to break up, with Helen retiring first, followed swiftly by her son and Mertensia. The rest of us filed out a few minutes later, each taking a lit taper from the housekeeper, who stood stationed by the foot of the stairs. Stoker disappeared up the spiral stairs while Tiberius gave me a low bow, his expression thoughtful as he closed his door. I took the opportunity to slip back into the corridor, following the housekeeper’s shadow until she reached the dining room.

  “Mrs. Trengrouse?” I called.

  She whirled, her face as white as the taper I held aloft. “Miss Speedwell. What can I do for you?”