A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Oh, no, my lord. He is a very self-sufficient gentleman. I attend to his clothing but otherwise he is content to take care of himself.”

  “And no one noticed he was missing before now?” Tiberius’ tone was frankly incredulous.

  “He always rises early,” Mertensia put in. “He often has trouble sleeping and even after a good night, he does not lie in.”

  “You don’t miss him at breakfast?”

  “His habits are not fixed. He will sometimes take a bit of cold meat and walk out early to look in on the crops or the quarry. Other times he will take nothing and break his fast with the tenant farmers. It is not unusual for him to absent himself through the morning, but none of the estate folk has seen him today.”

  Tiberius looked to Trenny, who nodded in agreement with her young mistress. Tiberius gave her a nod of dismissal and she left, moving more slowly than was her custom.

  “I do hope Trenny will be all right,” Mertensia lamented. “And where on earth can Malcolm have got to?”

  “There, there,” Caspian told her in a surprisingly kindly voice. “It’s all right. I’m sure Uncle Malcolm is just off in the village having a laugh with the local lads.”

  Mertensia snorted at the notion of her brother consorting with the local ruffians but seemed to appreciate his effort at civility.

  “In the meantime,” Tiberius went on as if no one had spoken, “there is no call for alarm. If it is his custom to be out and about the island, then no doubt he has simply lost track of time and will return in due course.”

  “But Trenny,” Helen began in a halting voice. Tiberius gave her a kindly look.

  “Mrs. Trengrouse is no doubt upset after all this talk of ghosts and has leapt to a conclusion. The rest of us needn’t follow. Still, Stoker and Veronica will have a look around the castle for Malcolm. Caspian, you might send word to the village and farms to see if he has been spotted, while Mertensia can ask the staff. I will be in the library should any of you discover his whereabouts. I am certain this is all a tempest in a teacup and he will turn up in time for his dinner. I have never known Malcolm to willingly miss a meal,” he finished.

  It was a testimony to his authoritative manner that no one questioned him. The two Romillys merely nodded and took their leave to do his bidding, the luncheon dishes abandoned. I saw Stoker glance longingly at the casseroles of macaroni cheese before turning manfully aside.

  “My God, you would have made quite a Caesar,” I told Tiberius when the others had gone.

  “I believe taking a firm hand is the best strategy in all situations,” he told me with a meaningful look. I sighed. The vulnerable, confiding fellow of the previous evening was gone. Tiberius had resumed his mask and his custom of saying outrageous things.

  “I saw Mrs. Trengrouse last night,” I told him. “In the music room, shortly before I came to your room. If she were the last to see him, it was most likely at that time.”

  “So quarter to one, then,” Tiberius said.

  “Something like that. And now he’s gone missing.”

  “I cannot blame him,” Stoker put in. “He must be horrified at how his plan has turned out.”

  “His plan?” I asked.

  “Yes, his plan to embarrass his friends and relations with this idiotic farce of a house party.”

  Tiberius gave him a level look. “Explain.”

  Stoker folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and lounged against the mantelpiece. He looked relaxed and yet possibly lethal, like a lion at noontime rest. “Malcolm invited the lot of you here to investigate Rosamund’s death.”

  “Disappearance,” Tiberius corrected swiftly.

  Stoker waved a hand. “Either. Both. In any event, he brought everyone together and arranged for her flowers to be placed on the table. He organized a séance. He wanted you to talk about her, to stir memories of what she was like and how it was when she was alive. To what purpose?”

  “To investigate her death,” I supplied patiently. “He was quite clear upon the point.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I wonder. Malcolm presented evidence that Rosamund never left the island alive. What if he has other evidence that he did not share—evidence implicating one of his guests?”

  Tiberius did not deny it. He flicked an invisible bit of lint from his lapel. “How very interesting,” he said blandly. “Do go on.”

  “Very well. What if Malcolm intended to lure Rosamund’s murderer to the island to take his revenge?”

  “You have no proof of that,” Tiberius pointed out reasonably.

  “No, but it is a working hypothesis that fits all of the circumstances.”

  “I’ll grant you he might have been able to arrange the candles guttering out by means of clipped wicks or some such trickery, but what of the music?” Tiberius demanded. “He can’t have done that. He was with us.”

  Stoker explained swiftly about the hidden passageway between the music room and the library. “Anyone might have managed it by means of a hidden music box or a bit of clockwork mechanism we have yet to discover. But having considered it, I don’t think Malcolm did,” Stoker said slowly. “His expression was too genuinely shocked. I think the music was a warning to him to let well enough alone.”

  “A warning?” I ventured. I drew in a sharp breath. “From the murderer!”

  “Precisely,” Stoker said. “Suppose Malcolm believes one of you responsible for his bride’s disappearance. He summons you here to get to the bottom of things, makes a few suggestive remarks, plans a few little surprises like the flowers to keep everyone on edge. Now, someone who genuinely loved Rosamund and was innocent would be upset, but only the guilty would take action.”

  “By turning the tables,” I said, picking up the thread of his idea. “Making Malcolm think that her ghost had actually been summoned.”

  “That is the rankest, most absurd—” Tiberius began. Stoker held up a hand to silence him.

  “I am not saying it is logical. But if someone were responsible for Rosamund’s death, then coming here, being subjected to Malcolm’s little suggestions—that would be enough to prod the guilty party to act. The candles are blown out, Rosamund’s music comes down the corridor. What is Malcolm to think? He will be overcome with grief and bewilderment. He will not be able to continue his little game.”

  Tiberius looked doubtful. “I could pick a dozen holes in that theory without taxing my imagination.”

  “Do it. And then come up with a theory of your own. I shall be happy to wait,” Stoker told him.

  Tiberius’ expression was thoughtful. “Even if what you say is true—”

  “It is.”

  “Even if,” Tiberius continued as if Stoker had not spoken. “There is no proof. And what has become of Malcolm? He would not be so overcome that he would simply abandon his house party.”

  “Unless,” I began. I let the word drop into silence as I gathered my skirts into my hands and bolted from the room. The Templeton-Vanes were hard upon my heels as I made my way down the corridor and up the main staircase. It took only two wrong turnings to find Malcolm’s bedchamber.

  “Veronica,” Stoker remonstrated. “You cannot simply barge into Malcolm’s room.”

  “I can and I will,” I told him stoutly. I rapped sharply at the door, but there was no response. I threw open the door. The bed had not been slept in. The coverlet was still drawn neatly back, by the maid the previous night, the curtains still tightly closed. The wardrobe door stood open with a few items in disarray, as if Malcolm had snatched up clothing with no care.

  “He left in a hurry,” Tiberius said thoughtfully. “He is always tidy as a monk.”

  “And he never went to bed,” Stoker pointed out, nodding to the pristine sheets. “That is suggestive of a disordered mind. Perhaps he did himself a mischief.”

  Tiberius’ voice was sharp. “You thin
k he might have killed himself?”

  “It’s one of eight possibilities for his absence,” I remarked.

  Tiberius’ eyes fairly popped. “Eight?”

  I ticked off the prospects as I named them. “I have been thinking out the possibilities with regard to Rosamund’s fate, but they will do just as well for Malcolm. He might have killed himself. He might have met with an accident. He may be trapped somewhere and unable to free himself. He might be hiding. He might have suffered a breakdown of sorts. He might have been murdered. He might have keeled over dead of quite natural causes. He might have surprised smugglers or pirates and is being held against his will in a lair—”

  Tiberius made a strangled noise and Stoker shook his head. “You’ve over-egged the pudding with that one.”

  “I never claimed all the options bore equal likelihood. I merely said they were possible. And you must admit, there is a history of piracy in this place.”

  “Not since the days of Elizabeth and her privateers,” Stoker argued.

  “Feathers. As long as men sail the seven seas, those bent upon mischief or profit will find it,” I countered.

  Tiberius held up a hand. “I have never, in all of my life, needed two people to shut their mouths more urgently. The point is that Malcolm has gone missing and we must determine our next step.”

  “Our next step,” I instructed, “is to search the castle from turrets to terraces. Onward!”

  * * *

  • • •

  They did as I bade them with ill grace. For all their differences, the Templeton-Vane men were of a masterful bent and never liked being told what to do. As for myself, I never permit petty irritations to dissuade me from my purpose. (For most people, a potentially murderous viscount, a missing host, and a vengeful ghost might seem out of the realm of petty irritations. But then, most people have not led my life.)

  We divided the task thusly: Stoker took the wardrobe, Tiberius searched the washstand and water closet—a rudimentary affair whose plumbing arrangements do not bear further discussion—whilst I gave the bed a careful going-over. There was no safe in the room, no strongbox for the keeping of anything of a private and valuable nature. I felt my way through the pillows and between and underneath the mattresses, scattering feathers into the air as I searched. I even went so far as to crawl beneath the bed, where I was impressed to find not so much as a mote of dust. Mrs. Trengrouse was as thorough as she was devoted.

  “This is ridiculous,” Tiberius said, emerging from the tiny water closet with decided distaste. “There isn’t a place to hide as much as a pin.”

  I crept out from under the bed, straightening my skirts and accepting the hand Stoker proffered. He hauled me to my feet and shook his head. “It pains me—you cannot imagine how deeply—to agree with Tiberius. There is nothing to be found here.” After a thorough search of the wardrobe, Stoker had stood in the fireplace, running his hands over the stones and sifting through the cold ashes until his face and hands were black as a badger’s pelt.

  I tipped my head, looking thoughtfully at the wooden paneling on the interior wall of the room. Like the rest of the bedrooms, this one had been built into a tower, with circular stone walls surrounding most of the space. But a partition wall of stout oak had been installed along one side, dividing the bedchamber from the adjoining water closet.

  “Tiberius, how large is the water closet?” I inquired.

  “Six feet?” he guessed.

  “And how long is this wall?” I asked, running my hands over the elaborate linenfold carving. Finding a likely spot, I rapped it with my knuckles. A dull thud echoed back.

  “Nine,” Stoker supplied, coming immediately to help. Together we rapped our way down the panels, alternating to listen as the other knocked.

  “What are you both doing?” Tiberius demanded. “You look like figures in a fun fair.”

  “The Romillys are an old Catholic family,” I replied. “Malcolm said he found the bag in a priest’s hole and Mrs. Trengrouse mentioned the castle has several. Many recusant households boasted them. Some were doubtless holdovers from the days when good Englishmen feared invasion from abroad and wanted a place to hide, but most were purpose-built in order to conceal a priest or Catholic relics during the reign of Elizabeth.”

  “And they went on being used through the Civil War,” Stoker added. “Many is the Royalist who was hid away as the Roundheads searched fruitlessly for those who fought for the Stuarts.”

  “Thank you for the history lesson,” Tiberius said dryly.

  We rapped at the panel for several more minutes before the telltale hollow echo repaid our efforts.

  “Here!” I cried. Stoker moved to my side, inspecting the seams in the panel.

  “It cannot be a large space,” he mused. “You couldn’t hide much more than a dog in there.” He traced the panel with his finger. It could not have exceeded three feet by two. The linenfold was bordered by a pattern of lozenges and roses and I pressed them all in turn.

  “There must be a mechanism,” I protested. “There is most definitely a space behind this panel. But how to gain access . . .”

  I repeated the process, taking my time as I ran careful fingers over each petal and leaf with disappointing results.

  “It appears your efforts are in vain,” Tiberius said, inspecting his fingernails.

  “And I was so certain,” I muttered. As I had in the music room, I kicked lightly at the baseboard, a thick panel of stout oak almost a foot high. Suddenly, the panel swung out noiselessly.

  “Which of us shall go in?” Stoker asked. I did not bother to reply. The entrance was too tiny to admit a man of his inches comfortably. Besides, the discovery was mine. I would have sooner cut off my own arm than let him precede me.

  “Excelsior!” I cried, diving into the dark space headfirst. A strong arm about my waist pulled me back. “Unhand me, Stoker,” I instructed.

  “Not until you promise not to hurl yourself into trouble,” he replied. “That panel may have been closed for centuries. Even if it has been opened recently, the air will still be bad. There is no ventilation and no light. Give it a moment to air out and at least take a candle.”

  I pulled a face at his precautions but he was entirely correct. In my haste to explore, I had failed to make even elementary preparations, and I was chagrined at my own recklessness. “Very well,” I said meekly.

  The minutes ticked by slowly, but after a quarter of an hour, I took the candle that Stoker had obligingly lit for me and folded myself once more into the tiny space. The air was, as he had predicted, thoroughly foul. It was cold and smelt of old stone and something else I could not place, a dankness, a rankness that offended my nostrils. I clapped a hand over my nose and peered into the shadows. The candle gave enough illumination to reveal that I was crouched in a space even smaller than I had imagined. The opening behind me was the entirety of the panel—three feet high by two feet wide, barely large enough to permit me to enter while bent double. The back wall was another paneled affair, some three feet from the front, giving approximately the dimensions of a very small coffin. I shuddered. I knew that priests had often spent weeks in their sad little hiding places. I could not imagine any man lasting more than a few hours in such confinement without going entirely mad.

  As I raised the candle, the shadows in the corner revealed a dark bundle. I retrieved it and stepped backwards out of the filthy little hole.

  “That was vile,” I said, brushing myself off. It was a futile gesture. The priest’s hole had been free of cobwebs. It was only the atmosphere of the place that clung to me like a spider’s silk. I blew out the candle and handed it to Tiberius.

  He stared at the bundle clutched in my arms. We had none of us examined it properly when Malcolm had presented it—an eventuality I could attribute to my own delicacy in asking for the thing and a decision I regretted—but we had the chance no
w and we took our time. The fabric was wool, or it had been once. It smelled like something wet that had never properly dried, no doubt the source of the dankness I had detected. I opened it carefully, but the sodden fabric fell to shreds in my hands. Inside the bundle was the traveling bag.

  He had been expecting it, but Tiberius still reared back as soon as he saw the case. I traced the initials worked into the wool with a careful fingertip.

  “R.I.A.,” I said.

  Tiberius managed a nod. “Rosamund Isabelle Aylesworth.”

  I flicked a glance towards Tiberius. “We ought to examine it.”

  “Do it,” he ordered, his mouth grim.

  With as much care as if I were mounting Priam’s Bird-wing, I opened the bag and extracted the items inside. A toiletry case marked with the same initials, some underclothes, beautifully embroidered, and two dresses. A pair of shoes and a florilegium of Restoration poetry. The things were all damaged, the clothing stained and smelling of damp, the book pulpy, the soles of the shoes coming away from the leather. I peeled back the cover and saw a signature inscribed in a flamboyant hand. Rosamund Aylesworth.

  Tiberius said nothing and I repacked the bag silently. When I had finished I sat back on my haunches.

  “It would appear Malcolm told the truth, at least with regard to the traveling bag,” I said gently. “This is indeed proof that Rosamund never left the island on her wedding day.”

  Without a word, Tiberius strode to the door, closing it quietly behind him. I think I would have preferred if he had slammed it.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Malcolm had still not made an appearance by teatime, and as we gathered about once more in the drawing room, we were a solemn group. Helen made no appearance at all, sending word that she preferred a cup in her room. Mrs. Trengrouse, pale and fretful as a mother hen, had ordered heartier fare than usual, fruitcake and sandwiches thick with roasted beef to stand with the scones and pastries, and she lingered as Tiberius, Stoker, Mertensia, Caspian, and I settled to it. The rest of us seemed to have little appetite, but Stoker helped himself to a liberal assortment of sandwiches, giving a happy sigh as he bit into the first.