Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  His grip tightened. “I am not in the mood for jokes, my lady. I meant precisely what I said. If at any time I think there is even the merest possibility of danger, I will have you out of here if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out on my back.”

  The image was a delicious one, but I pushed it aside. I could feel the warmth of his palm even through the heavy satin of my sleeve. “But we were partners together—we solved a murder between us, or had you forgotten?”

  “I have forgotten nothing,” he ground out. His eyes dropped for an instant to my lips, and I knew he was thinking of that reckless kiss on Hampstead Heath. He dragged his gaze back to mine, his eyes suddenly cool and pitiless. “Most particularly, I have not forgotten that I bungled that investigation so badly you nearly died.”

  I paused. It was true the investigation had ended badly. But that had been due as much to my own foolhardiness as anything else. In fact, Brisbane’s timely intervention had saved my life. I could not believe he thought otherwise.

  I shook my head slowly. “No,” I whispered, “all those months in Italy—not a word from you. It was not because of that. Not even you could be so willfully, blindly stupid. You saved my life.”

  “I nearly cost it,” he countered. I searched his face, but it was implacable, cold and white-lipped as marble.

  He dropped my arm, and I stepped back. His fury was almost tangible as it crackled in the air between us.

  I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to evenness. “I have as much right to investigate this murder as you. This is my home, my family, and it is my father who has lent his authority to my involvement. So do not think that I mean to step aside simply because you click your fingers at me. We are partners again, whether it pleases you or not. Besides,” I finished with a malicious smile, “someone will have to make inquiries while you settle matters with Charlotte. I rather think your engagement is at an end.”

  I hurried down the corridor to my room. I hazarded a glance behind me as I gained my room, and was not surprised to find Brisbane staring after me with a baleful expression.

  As I undressed, I realised my hands were shaking, an inconvenience without Morag to assist me. But eventually I fought my way out of the gown and went to stand in front of the looking-glass. Where Brisbane had grasped my arm there were bruises rising, faintly violet in the candlelight. The sleeve itself was crushed, and no amount of sponging would salvage it. I thrust the gown into the wardrobe and closed the door. I would not wear it again.

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  Who dares not stir by day must walk by night.

  —King John

  In spite of the evening’s events, I drifted off to sleep rather quickly. I had thought the image of Lucian Snow’s shattered head would stay with me, but even that horror was not able to blunt the dullness of the volume of Plutarch I had taken to bed. I fell asleep with it draped over my chest and woke some time later to find the candle guttered and the fire nearly burned down to ash. It was chilly in my room despite the tapestries and thick carpets, and I rose to poke at the fire, wrapping myself in a coverlet from the bed. Florence was slumbering away in her basket, only her nose poking out from the fur tippet.

  I jabbed at the fire a bit and tossed a shovelful of coal onto the grate. It caught, and I sat for some minutes, warming myself and thinking of Lucian Snow. He had been an attractive and charming man and a confirmed flirt, that much was certain. But what about him had driven Lucy to murder? Had he flirted with her, then scorned her? The notion was laughable. I had a suspicion Lucian Snow reserved his attentions for wealthy, unattached ladies of good family. Lucy was betrothed, decidedly not wealthy, and though she was a March, the connection was a slender one. Of course, he was younger and much more personable than Cedric, and there was always the possibility he might have seduced Lucy away from her bridegroom. She was young and impulsive to the point of recklessness at times. It would not be difficult for a persuasive and passionate man to open her eyes and awaken her sensuality, I mused.

  But no, Lucian had seemed to have more of an eye to the main chance than that. I thought of our conversations, his warm eyes and lingering fingers. He had been laying the groundwork for a courtship, I was certain of it. He had nocked his arrow toward something more profitable than an impoverished virgin.

  But if he had no interest in Lucy, then what was her interest in him? He was worldly and whimsical and no doubt irreligious, all qualities to be deplored in a curate, but who among us had not met a dozen such like him before? Fortune was not always kind to second and third sons. With no solid expectations, the church was often the only means of a comfortable living. More than one churchman had been made of a dissolute rogue. Clearly, this had been Lucian’s lot, but how did it touch Lucy?

  Asking her directly was out of the question. She was in a state, and I had no doubt it would take all of Father’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to abandon sanctuary and give herself over to the authorities. I had little confidence she would stand up to their questions; I was not prepared to subject her to mine.

  But I knew I would not sleep again without attempting to find some answers. I rose from my seat by the fire and found my slippers and a heavy velvet dressing gown. I relit my chamberstick from the fire and fixed it firmly into its holder. Silently, I slipped from my room and made my way down the gallery of the dorter, across the landing, and down another corridor until I reached the turning I wanted.

  I peeped around the corner, scanning the bachelors’ wing for any sign of activity. Formerly the lay brothers’ dormitory, the bachelors’ wing was comprised of a broad corridor with windows overlooking the central cloister spanning the length on one side, and a chain of bedchambers on the other. The wing ended at the door to the guest room in the Galilee Tower. In that room a tiny spiral stair rose to the bell tower itself where the great bell rested in silence. I thought of Lucy grasping the sanctuary ring with blood-slicked hands and shivered. The bell ought to have rung for her, but it had remained silent, perhaps rusted mute after centuries of disuse. Deliberately, I pushed aside such morbid thoughts and tugged my dressing gown about me more tightly as I moved into the bachelors’ wing.

  The clock had just struck two, and all was perfectly still in that part of the Abbey. A faint moon, very nearly full, shed its pale silver light through the bank of graceful leaded windows. Hastily, I blew out the chamberstick. The moonlight was just enough illumination for my purpose.

  Holding my breath, I crept along the corridor, careful to keep to the middle of the way where the stone floor was thickly carpeted. The bars of dull silver moonlight gave just enough light to read the cards slotted by each door. I squinted at the names. The Honourable Eglamour March, Plum, as he was known in the family. He was sleeping in the Highland Room, a smallish bedroom, charmingly furnished with tartans and antlers. The door was closed, and though I paused a moment I heard nothing. Beyond lay the Maze Room—so named for its perfectly framed view of the Tudor maze in the garden—and Alessandro. All was silence there as well.

  I moved on. Sir Cedric Eastley. Aquinas had put him in the Yellow Room, the best of the bachelor rooms with its primrose taffeta hangings and a pair of Gainsboroughs flanking the bed. Strictly speaking, the room ought to have gone to Brisbane as the ranking bachelor, but Aunt Hermia had probably devised the sleeping arrangements before she left for London. She never did manage to work out such details properly.

  I had passed Sir Cedric’s door and had almost reached the Tower Room when I felt a rush of air against my face. I opened my mouth to exclaim, but before I could do so, a strong hand clamped about my wrist and dragged me into the room. The door was closed behind me and I was pushed up against it, the hand now firmly pressed over my mouth.

  I shoved it away. “Brisbane,” I hissed, “what do you think you are about? If you wanted to speak to me—”

  “Do shut up,” he whispered harshly. I shivered as his lips grazed the curves of my ear. “You are not the only person about.�
��

  I pushed his hand aside and caught my breath. “Who?”

  “I do not know yet. I was just about to find out when you came blundering along.”

  “I do not blunder,” I began, but a single firm finger laid over my lips silenced me. I was acutely conscious then of my state of relative undress, and his. He was still wearing his evening trousers and a fine, heavy white linen shirt, but this last garment had been casually opened almost to the waist, and topping the ensemble was a long robe of handsome dark red silk, flung over his injured shoulder to dashing effect. His hair was a trifle more unruly than usual, and the faint smell of sweet Spanish tobacco clung to the finger that still touched my lips.

  His strong form pressed me to the door, and I began to be aware of a somewhat breathless sensation, quite like the one I had experienced during my trip to Florence upon first seeing Michelangelo’s excellent rendering of David. I had spent rather a long time admiring the perfect symmetry of the statue’s musculature, the way the breadth of his shoulders and the arrogant stance of his legs had countered the elegance of his profile and the sleekness of his flanks. It occurred to me, pressed as I was between Brisbane and the door, that Brisbane himself seemed to have almost precisely the same proportions as that exquisite work of art.

  “Stop wriggling,” he growled, his breath warm on my neck.

  I cannot recall precisely what happened next. I must have said or—rather more likely—done something which conveyed the direction of my thoughts, for the next thing I knew, he was kissing me with thoroughness and enthusiasm. It was highly gratifying.

  I had just begun to apply myself to a response with complete abandon when a faint noise distracted me. It took some seconds to place the sound, and several more to get Brisbane’s attention. His focus was quite masterful. In the end, I was obliged to use rather forceful measures.

  He swore and broke off, rather short of breath and rubbing his shin. “You kicked me! What the devil was that for? For the love of God, Julia, if you did not want me to kiss you, you should never have—”

  I broke in swiftly, untwining my fingers from his hair. “I heard a noise, a door closing in the corridor.” It only occurred to me later I should not have interrupted him. It might have been highly useful to know what action on my part had prompted such an uninhibited response.

  Brisbane’s eyes glittered in the feeble moonlight and he swore again, which I must admit rather pleased me. I too was rather regretting the end of our interlude. But the investigation must necessarily take precedence, and I primly removed his good hand from my person. He stepped back, and I patted my garments into place, giving a little sigh of impatience.

  “Brisbane, you have ripped my favourite nightdress.”

  He showed not the slightest remorse. “I will buy you another,” he muttered, pushing me aside and kneeling to peer out the keyhole.

  “You most certainly will not. Of all the wildly inappropriate—” I let my voice trail off as I glanced around the room. It was round, as all tower rooms should be, the narrow lancet windows fitted with stained glass depicting the March hares. The draperies and bedclothes were bottle-green velvet edged in gold, enhancing the medieval atmosphere. I was not surprised to see that Brisbane had already put his stamp upon the place. He did not so much stay in a room as inhabit it. A pair of boots stood upon the hearth and a stack of books teetered on the bedside table, each of them marked with a playing card to hold his place. A telescope perched on slender legs at one of the windows, a chart of the stars unfurled beside it. His discarded silk neckcloth was draped carelessly over his pillow, doubtless where he had tugged it off as he began to disrobe. I looked hastily away, noting the half-empty glass of whiskey and the nearly full decanter on a little inlaid table that stood beside the velvet armchair by the fire. There was a cushion squashed into the depths of the chair and his black greatcoat shrouded the back of it, a comfortable place to while away a cold winter’s evening with a good book. Toilet articles—combs, clothes brushes, and a wickedly sharp razor—were neatly arranged on the washstand, and I wondered how he managed his ablutions with his injury.

  “Brisbane,” I whispered. “How do you shave yourself? You’ve only the one good arm. I should think it frightfully awkward to manage.”

  “It did not seem to hamper me a moment ago,” he returned mildly.

  Whether he was making reference to his abduction of me or to what followed, I could not say. Before I could speak, he had sprung to his feet and was easing the door open.

  The corridor was empty.

  I prodded Brisbane. “If you heard something, we must investigate.”

  “I know that,” he said through clenched teeth. “Would you kindly remove your finger from between my ribs?”

  I obliged him and we slid out into the corridor, moving swiftly as we dared. When we reached the end of the corridor, Brisbane flung out his arm, pressing me flat against the stone wall and knocking the breath out of me.

  “Ooof,” I said, gasping a little. He shook his head, frowning at me. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I thought of his methods, but by that time he was edging his head around the corner to determine if the staircase was clear. He gave a little exhalation of disgust and dropped his arm. I took this as a sign I was free to move and stepped around him into an empty gallery. There were perhaps a dozen doors that led off of it, and at the end the main staircase, leading to the other floors and a hundred other rooms.

  I stepped back. “If there was indeed a phantom, we have lost him. He might have gone anywhere, and if we attempt to follow him now, we shall doubtless rouse the entire household. Shall we search Mr. Snow’s room instead?”

  Brisbane gave me a piercing look. “Why?”

  I sighed. “Because he is the victim. Perhaps among his possessions lurks some clue to why Lucy did this terrible thing. Perhaps even some mitigating factor can be found that might sway the judges to clemency.”

  Brisbane shot a quick look back down the gallery, then took my elbow and led me to Lucian Snow’s room. Father had taken the precaution of having it locked, but such an inconvenience was of no consequence to Brisbane. From the pocket of his dressing gown he extracted two slender steel picks. He handed one to me. “Put this into the lock and hold it steady,” he instructed. He knelt, his thigh brushing my leg, and slid its mate into the lock. He kept his eyes closed, working by touch, and as his hand grazed my fingers, I had the oddest sensation that this was somehow even more intimate than the kiss we had just shared. He had the lock sprung in a brief moment, and we were inside, the door closed behind us.

  The room was gloomy. A cloud had passed over the moon, throwing the room into deep shadow. Brisbane went to the bedside table, swift and sure-footed as a cat, and struck a match to the candle, illuminating the room passably well. I glanced about, not entirely surprised to find that Lucian Snow was not a particularly tidy person. A discarded shirt and neckcloth were draped at the foot of his bed, and the writing table was a litter of books and papers. He had been given the Blue Room, a small but elegant chamber, with dark blue and silver hangings and a rather nice suite of mahogany furniture. There was a bottle of excellent port on the table, as well as a humidor filled with expensive cigars. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale smoke.

  I glanced around, taking quick inventory of his belongings. There was a small toilet case, and a portfolio of fine morocco on the writing table. I searched them both, paying particular attention to the letters in the portfolio. There were only two, pleas from his sisters for money, and nothing of any interest whatsoever in the toilet case. His brushes were not as clean as they might have been, but were exceptionally fine quality, as was the ivory razor slotted neatly into its case.

  “Mr. Snow did appreciate nice things,” I murmured. When Brisbane did not reply, I looked up to find him standing as I had left him, propped against the door. I would have thought him bored with the entire endeavour, save that his expression was one of expectation, as though he were waiti
ng for something.

  “Do you not mean to help?” I demanded.

  He shrugged his good shoulder, the candlelight playing off the planes of his face, throwing the tiny scar on his cheekbone into relief. It was a small, perfect crescent moon and I wondered, not for the first time, on which of his travels he had acquired it. “You seem to have the matter well in hand.”

  “Don’t be obstructionist. We are supposed to be investigating Snow’s death. It seems logical enough to begin here if we mean to understand why Lucy killed him.”

  “She has confessed it. The motive is largely immaterial.”

  I snapped the case closed and straightened, fixing him with a basilisk stare. “You gave Father your word you would investigate. You know perfectly well the courts may grant her leniency should there be cause for it.”

  “Yes, and she is the proper one to supply it. Sniffing through Snow’s things will not tell us what we need to know to save Lucy from the noose.”

  “You are a brute,” I told him. I moved to the wardrobe and eased it open. Snow had been a bit more careful with his clothes than the rest of his things, or at least the footman who had unpacked for him had been. The garments were neatly hung, and his shoes were arranged on the floor of the wardrobe with precision.

  “I do not understand you,” I complained, feeling the pockets of Snow’s clothes for anything unexpected. “Were you not the one who preached to me that stones must never be left unturned in an investigation?”

  “Yes, if one has nothing more pressing.”

  I ducked back out of the wardrobe to look at him. “It is half past two in the morning. What engagement can possibly be more pressing than searching Snow’s rooms?”

  He said nothing, and after a moment, it occurred to me he had not heard me at all. His eyes had a faraway look, and it was apparent he was listening closely to something on the other side of the door.

  I felt a quick, sharp lance of misery. Surely he could not have a liaison planned with Charlotte? She had been icy and aloof when she retired for the evening. She had neither looked at him nor spoken to him after it was revealed that he was an inquiry agent. But what if he meant to cajole her, to soothe her to sweetness, affection even, with an explanation? If any man could do it, it was Brisbane. I had more cause than most to appreciate the devastating effect of his charm when he chose to employ it.