The Dark Enquiry (A Lady Julia Grey Novel)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Brisbane gave me the courtesy of thinking over his reply and for a moment, said nothing. “You make perfect sense, my dear. But I cannot shake the feeling that there is more afoot here than a simple kitchen mishap.”

  “Perhaps there is,” I conceded. “Perhaps she was murdered. But it does not touch upon my brother. Whatever evils Bellmont may contemplate, I assure you murdering his mistress is not among them,” I added with some tartness.

  Brisbane regarded me thoughtfully. “You are a very loyal woman, Julia. I often wonder what would happen if you were forced to choose between your family and me.”

  I started, spilling my tea. “Brisbane, what an extraordinary thing to say!”

  The tea smeared the headlines about Madame’s inquest, blurring the words. “And yet you do not know the answer,” he said softly.

  I dropped the sodden mess of tea-soaked newspaper. “Yes, I do, you great fool. You are my family.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it,” he told me, and though I waited for some smile or other sign of levity, I saw that he was deadly serious.

  “Brisbane, you are even more enigmatic than usual this morning. What are you about?”

  He shook himself, as if throwing off a reverie that made him melancholy and gave me a humourless smile. “Nothing, my dear.”

  He rose and pressed a kiss to my brow. “I am off to my consulting rooms. I will take your excellent advice and leave this,” he said, nodding towards the ruined newspaper. “For now.”

  He left me then, and I sat for a while, pondering the strange conversation that had just passed between us.

  Before I could reach any firm conclusions, Plum appeared, dressed in one of his customary dashing ensembles—a town suit with an emerald-and-pink-striped waistcoat and a violet silk neckcloth. He always took great pains with his toilette, but he had grown even more attentive to his appearance since he had begun to spend time with Lady Felicity. They had met, carefully chaperoned, for the theatre and the occasional walk in the park, and matters seemed to be moving along—with glacial slowness, to be sure, but forward at least.

  “Good morning, Julia.” He helped himself to the hot dishes on the sideboard and cast a glance at the pile of wet newspapers.

  “What happened here?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I was clumsy. I am sorry, the paper is quite ruined.”

  I waited for an outburst of temper, for Plum loved nothing better than to read the paper thoroughly over breakfast, but he merely shrugged.

  “No matter. You can tell me any news of importance.”

  His spirits were unnaturally high, and I leapt to the logical conclusion.

  “I take it you saw Lady Felicity last night?”

  He gave me a smug smile. “I did.”

  “I do hope she is more appreciative of our efforts than her father.” If my tone was waspish, I could not help it. Contrary to my expectations, Lord Mortlake had not been at all pleased at the solution we had presented to his troubles. He had been outraged by the statement Brisbane had given him to sign and almost apoplectic at the notion of selling his town properties. But he crumbled at the round figure we offered and had finally agreed to sell us his properties at very fair prices, reimbursing the insurance company and giving him the opportunity to retrench and salvage his family name.

  Plum helped himself at the sideboard. “She regrets his attitude, but she still takes a rather more pragmatic view of the situation than Lord Mortlake. She is happy to keep the matter from the papers and her father’s reputation unsullied.”

  “Excellent.” I pressed him no further. I knew the attachment to Lady Felicity was tender and new, and I also knew that nothing could kill a romance in its cradle as fast as sisterly intervention.

  I bade him a good morning, and as I left the breakfast room, Aquinas approached.

  “If you have a moment, my lady, I should like to present the new staff for your approval.”

  “New staff? Have we more besides the cook?”

  “I have engaged a pair of footmen I think will fit in quite nicely with the establishment. Would you care to meet them, my lady?”

  “I suppose now is as good a time as any.” Our changes in staff had become so frequent that I had instructed Aquinas only to present them in batches once a week rather than piecemeal. It had saved a considerable amount of time.

  Aquinas hurried off, and in a very few minutes he returned with the three newest members of the household. The cook removed her apron and thrust it behind her. Her hair was mousy brown, and she had watery, rather protruberant eyes.

  “Welcome to our home. I hope you do not mind if we simply call you Cook. It’s rather a tradition with my staff. I must compliment you on the wonderful food you have been sending up. Quite delicious, and we’re all terribly pleased.”

  She ducked her head and mumbled something inaudible to Aquinas.

  He stepped forward. “Cook is Swiss and uncertain of her English, my lady. She says she is happy to have given satisfaction.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realise. Well, how very exclusive we are to have a Continental cook.” I addressed her in Italian then, thanking her again, and she gave me a look of confusion.

  “Not that part of Switzerland,” Aquinas murmured.

  “Oh, I see.” I switched to German, and the cook brightened immediately. I thanked her for the excellent breakfast, and she seemed very pleased with my compliments. I gave her permission to return to her baking, and she bobbed a clumsy curtsey to me before fleeing back to her kitchens. I turned my attention to the remaining pair.

  It was their first morning in service and they had been breakfasting belowstairs and showing off their new livery. I had chosen it myself and was rather proud of it—smart black tailcoats with waistcoats of striped black and pewter. The trousers had a narrow piping of scarlet and the effect was dashing, or would have been with a pair of matching six-footers. Aquinas had proven himself an original in his choice of footmen, for it was the custom to engage footmen in pairs as close to one another in appearance as possible. A set of identical twins would have been a coup beyond measure, but even young men with similar build, good shoulders, excellent calves and superior height would have been the thing.

  The pair that presented themselves to me looked more suited to the stews than a drawing room. They were of wildly variant heights, the taller having long limbs and a particularly graceful neck and a head of shining silver-blond hair. The shorter of the two had a great barrel chest and a nose that looked as if it had been broken. Twice.

  I summoned a smile. “Welcome to our employ. Mr. Brisbane and I do hope you will be happy with us.”

  I put out my hand to shake theirs, and the shorter of the two nearly crushed it in his great paw. The taller gave me a gentler, but still thoroughly brutal handshake. I winced only a little.

  “Tell me, I am curious as to your previous employment.” I turned to the taller of the two. “Where have you worked before?”

  The tall fellow darted a glance at Aquinas, then swiftly back at me. “At a club in St. James Street.”

  I regarded him a moment, then put the same question to the other. He gave me a nod. “What he said,” came the gruff reply.

  I stepped back and looked them over again. “Aquinas,” I began, setting a deliberate smile upon my lips, “I know I have not Mr. Brisbane’s experience of the world, but one thing I do know is what a footman should look like. Neither of these men has ever so much as seen a suit of livery before, much less been engaged by one of the St. James Street clubs.”

  Aquinas began to protest, but I held up a hand. “Really, Aquinas, you ought to have known better. The St. James Street clubs are the most fashionable in London. They employ only the most experienced, most exclusive staff in the city. They do not engage men who look as if they have just lost a prizefight.”

  “Here, now, my lady, I have never lost a fight,” protested the shorter of the pair. “I am undefeated, I am.”

  I narrowed my gaze at him. “You are a prizefighter?
”

  He drew himself up to his rather diminutive height and gave me a broad smile, revealing a pair of missing teeth and an enormous one that seemed to be made of solid gold.

  “I am. Bert Pigeon, at yer service, my lady.” He swept me a low bow.

  I looked to the other. “And you? What is your talent?”

  He gave me a languid glance. “I am a cracksman, my lady, and the best pistol shot in all of Surrey and sometimes Kent.”

  Aquinas began to speak again and once more I held up a hand. “You did not find these men, Aquinas. Brisbane did.”

  “That he did,” Bert Pigeon said proudly. “And a finer man to work for you’ll not find in all of London. He’s a proper gentleman he is, and he saved me from the hangman’s noose and I’ll not forget it.” He pitched his voice lower. “There was some bother with some jewels, but we will not speak of it,” he added with a wink.

  “And you? Did Brisbane save you, as well?” I asked the taller fellow.

  He shifted a little. “Mr. Brisbane might have intervened in a matter that could have caused me some trouble,” he acknowledged. He cleared his throat. “Bert and I formed a professional partnership that was ill-fated.”

  “And jewels were involved?”

  He gave a graceful nod. “They were, my lady.”

  “You were stealing them.” It was not a question. I knew the answer.

  Bert Pigeon’s expression was pained. “Well, that is a blunt way of putting the matter, but I do admit we had an eye to liberating one or two items when Mr. Brisbane apprehended us and put it to us that it was perhaps not the best of schemes.”

  My head was swimming, and I took a deep breath, striving for patience. “Whose jewels?”

  The taller fellow blinked. “Beg pardon, my lady?”

  “Whose jewels?” I persisted. “If I am to have two jewel thieves in my employ, I want to know what your intentions were.”

  They exchanged wary glances.

  “Well,” Bert Pigeon began uncomfortably, “I suppose you might say they were Her Majesty’s, although I like to think of them as belonging to all of us as it were.”

  I blinked at him. “You were attempting to steal the Crown Jewels?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “From the Tower?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “How close were you to success?” I demanded.

  They exchanged glances again, this time with a touch of pride. “I held the Koh-i-Noor in my hands,” Bert Pigeon said, raising his blunt chin.

  I turned to Aquinas. “I really ought to have a vinaigrette for moments like this.”

  “Shall I fetch one, my lady?” he asked, eager for something—anything—to do.

  “No, I think I shall recover.” I turned to the pair. “I can only surmise that my husband had his reasons for engaging you, and I trust him completely. I would, however, like to remind you quite firmly, that any and all felonious activities are strongly discouraged from this point on.”

  They nodded sharply. I turned to the shorter of the two. “It is the custom to address footmen by their Christian names, but I cannot have a footman called Bert. You will be Pigeon in the house.”

  He nodded briskly. “That suits me fine, my lady.”

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to think of the perfectly turned out and impeccably mannered servants that other people managed to employ. “And you, I do not believe I heard your name.”

  “Swanson, my lady, although since Bert and I took up partnership, folk usually call me Swan.”

  I looked from one to the other. “Very well. Pigeon and Swan. Welcome to our employ.”

  I hesitated, a sudden suspicion dawning. “Pigeon, how did you break your nose?”

  He gave me another of his broad smiles. “Ah, that would be Mr. Brisbane, my lady. I did require a bit of persuasion to give up the Crown Jewels.”

  “Of course you did,” I said faintly. “Of course you did.”

  Accompanied by a rather conspicuous Pigeon, Morag, Swan and I went to pay a call upon my sister, collecting a fresh newspaper along the way. In spite of my admonitions to Brisbane about leaving Madame’s death well-enough alone, I wanted to see what the more sensationalist newspapers might have to say upon the subject. Brisbane always read the Times, but I wanted something a little more colourful, so I instructed Pigeon to purchase a copy of the Illustrated Daily News. It described the inquest of Madame in lurid detail, complete with some rather fine sketches of the affair. Unlike the Times, this periodical featured a great deal of speculation, including some unsavoury information about Madame’s work as a medium and her penchant for well-placed lovers.

  “Blast,” I muttered as I perused the article. To read the Times, one would suppose the business over and done with, but the journalist—if one could call him such—from this paper clearly wished to prolong the affair. I skipped to the byline, noting the name—Peter Sullivan—and put the newspaper aside. Doubtless Mr. Sullivan and his proprietors hoped to sell newspapers and were sensationalising the situation for profit, but I hoped they would find bigger game to hunt and quickly, for Bellmont’s sake.

  I discarded the newspaper before I reached Portia’s, but I might have known she would have already read the full account for herself. I had not seen her since I had left her house the night of the séance. I was a trifle put out with her for giving me up to Brisbane so easily, so I had not called upon her. I had merely sent word to her that I had followed Brisbane as far as the Spirit Club and learned nothing of importance regarding either my husband or our brother. Whether she believed that or not was another matter. She fairly pounced as soon as I arrived, pausing only to blink in astonishment at my footmen before whisking me off to her morning room for a private tête-à-tête.

  “I shan’t even ask where you found those two. You look as if you are trailing about town with the remnants of a circus. Now, I haven’t seen you for far too long. Tell me everything you discovered about Bellmont,” she instructed.

  I folded my hands in my lap and adopted a guileless expression. “No mystery at all, I’m afraid,” I said smoothly. “Bellmont’s call at Brisbane’s consulting rooms was simply by way of being a family visit. Brisbane wanted to install a telephone at our house and meant for it to be a surprise. That is why he lied about Bellmont calling at his rooms in Chapel Street.”

  Portia pulled a face. “I call that distinctly disappointing. And Bellmont was not involved in the matter at the Spirit Club at all?”

  “Apparently not. Brisbane was there to unmask Madame Séraphine as a charlatan, but she died before he had the chance. So, no great revelations to be had.”

  “Oh, that is disappointing! I should love to think of Bellmont entangled in some bit of naughtiness,” Portia said, falling into gales of laughter.

  If my own laughter was subdued, she did not seem to notice. I was immensely relieved at having put her off the scent, and to ensure that she stayed off it, I offered up another tasty morsel of family gossip and related to her the facts of Plum’s burgeoning attachment to Felicity Mortlake.

  Portia was agog, and we spent a companionable visit chattering about our various friends and relations, and by the time I had left, I resolved to put the mysteries of the Spirit Club entirely behind us.

  And so the matter of Madame Séraphine’s mysterious death seemed to fade away. Over the next week, I busied myself with my new photographic equipment, establishing a proper studio in the attics at Chapel Street, and spending nearly every waking moment intent upon the craft. I was enthralled by the process, which perfectly married the scientific and the artistic, particularly as I had never thought of myself as an artist before. My sole attempt at sculpture had ended in tears, and all of my watercolours resembled muddy bogs. But behind the lens, something dynamic came to the fore and I felt as if I were really seeing the world for the first time. I was at home in that studio, whether suffocating under the heavy drape behind the camera or working with the nasty chemicals required to fix and develop t
he images. There were noxious smells from the solutions and draughts from the windows left open to ventilate them, but I did not mind.

  I experimented with light and shadow, learning how the merest shift from one to the other can highlight a face or throw it into relief. I took endless photographs of Plum and Monk and Morag, and even Mrs. Lawson was upon occasion persuaded to sit for me. At first I had costumed my subjects as many lady photographers did. The fashion was to present classical subjects from literature or mythology, to illustrate ancient tales with modern faces. But I found I preferred nothing so much as the naked emotion of a sitter’s true feelings revealed upon the features. Perhaps it was a disastrous sitting with Morag garbed as Boadicea that persuaded me, but in the end, I put aside the costumes and the props and began to photograph people as I saw them—not as I wanted them to be, not as they wanted themselves to be, but as they were.

  To Mrs. Lawson’s outrage, I began to photograph all sorts of people whose paths crossed mine, from duchesses to coster boys directly from the gutter. I made no effort to clean them up. I wanted them as they were, gritty and real, London come to life in a thousand faces. I photographed Pigeon and Swan. I photographed my sister with her babe, and I even photographed Auld Lachy, the irritable Scottish hermit living in Father’s garden. On one memorable occasion, I heard the muffin bell and ran downstairs to persuade the muffin man to sit for me, promising to buy all of his wares if he would oblige me.

  For this last, Mrs. Lawson lodged a formal complaint with Brisbane, threatening to turn us out of the house entirely. Brisbane offered Mrs. Lawson a substantial bonus, and I continued happily in my newest endeavour. I plagued Brisbane only marginally less to let me partipate in his investigations, and upon one or two occasions, provided him some assistance in photographing evidence he wished to preserve. Matters between us settled to an easy routine, and I found myself relaxing into marriage. Each afternoon I descended from my studio to take tea with Brisbane, as cosy and companionable as any married couple, and I did not fail to notice that Brisbane himself seemed easier. He consulted me upon cases without prompting, and I offered my perspective without pushing myself forward to share in the physical dangers of his work. It became more of a partnership, I thought, a refuge for both of us, and I allowed myself to be happy.