Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He pulled the pipe out of my hands. “That is enough. I shall not be responsible for your corruption.”

  I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he waved me to silence.

  “Now,” he began, more briskly than I had expected, “let us theorise for a moment on why anyone else would wish to harm Lucy and Emma.”

  “Because they saw or know something they oughtn’t,” I said promptly.

  “And who would wish to do that?”

  I shrugged. “Poisoning is a woman’s method. We must look to the ladies of the house.”

  “Not necessarily,” he began to argue.

  I persisted. “I think it was a woman. Moreover, I think she masquerades as a ghost.” I paused, then took a deep breath. “I saw a phantom last night, at the end of the ladies’ wing in the dorter. It was at least a head shorter than six feet, and the draperies were filmy stuff, wispy, like fingers of fog.”

  To his credit, Brisbane did not doubt me.

  “What did it do?”

  “It did nothing. It seemed to look at me, then it vanished.”

  He looked at me severely. “I would thank you to save the nursery stories for Charlotte. What did it do?”

  “I simply mean it was there one moment, and not the next. It slipped behind a tapestry concealing a hidden passage. That particular passage leads to the lumber rooms in the scriptoria, and from there, one might go anywhere in the Abbey. The ghost might have been about some nefarious business. We have, after all, had a murder and two attempted murders since it appeared.”

  Brisbane shook his head slowly. “It is too early to theorise. We must know more. When the ladies have awakened tomorrow, they must be questioned, and the footman as well. And there is still a corpse to examine and the Reverend Twickham to call upon with the news of his curate’s murder.”

  I gave him a smug smile. “That ghost is somehow connected to this ghastly business. And you will have to admit that I am right.”

  Brisbane said nothing, but resumed his pipe. The smoke curled around his head, thick and sweet. I felt suddenly light as a feather.

  “Brisbane, honestly. I do not see how you can stand the smell of it. It makes me feel quite queer.”

  He gave me an enigmatic smile and regarded me through half-lidded eyes.

  “‘You’ll get used to it in time.’”

  THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

  Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

  —Hamlet

  For the remainder of the night—what little there was of it—I slept as one dead. I do not know if it was due to the effects of Brisbane’s exotic smoke, or simply fatigue from a broken night’s rest, but I rose with a slight headache and heavy-lidded eyes. My first thought was of Aunt Hermia’s jewels. I had hidden the lumpy little bundle under my pillow for safekeeping. I felt a stab of guilt when I realised I had forgotten to show them to Brisbane. Then I remembered his occasionally high-handed behaviour and smothered it. It would give me great pleasure to present him with the jewels and a reason for their presence among Snow’s belongings.

  I rose slowly, stretching and yawning widely enough to crack my jaws. Florence was lethargic as well, barely opening her eyes when Morag brought my morning tea. I waved scraps of buttered toast under the dog’s nose, but she turned away, burrowing into the fur tippet with a sad little moan.

  “Morag, I think Florence is ailing. Ask Cook for some beef tea. If she drinks that, then an egg, softly cooked, or a bit of chicken and potato.”

  Morag grumbled at the extra work, but dressed me quickly in a thick gown of black merino edged in velvet ribbon. When she turned back to the wardrobe, I tucked the bundle of Aunt Hermia’s jewels into my pocket.

  “And my boots. I may step out after breakfast,” I told her, making up my mind then that I would accompany Brisbane when he called upon Uncle Fly to break the news of Snow’s death.

  “You’ll not stir a foot outside,” Morag said roundly. She went to the draperies and flung them back, rattling the rings on the pole. I went to her side and gasped.

  “Heavens, it must have snowed all night.”

  “As near as. The moat is iced, but not solid enough to walk upon, and the gates are frozen shut. We’ll none of us be leaving the Abbey today, not even poor Mr. Snow,” she said, her expression mournful.

  I stared out at the sullen winter landscape. I did not recognise the view at all. Rather than the sweep of lawns from the moat’s edge to the formal gardens and woods, and then to the rolling Downs beyond, there was only softly billowing white, like a great pale ermine mantle draped over the landscape. The distinctive architectural features of the grounds—the statues and staircases, gates and urns—were shapeless white lumps. Beyond the formal gardens, the trees were black against the bleak grey sky, their bare branches encased in ice, like so many gnarled skeleton fingers. Just below my window, the waters of the moat moved black and fathomless beneath a paper-thin sheet of ice. Morag was unfortunately and entirely correct. We were housebound at Bellmont Abbey.

  And Morag, who loved nothing better than a good disaster, smiled.

  As soon as I left Morag, I made my way to Hortense’s chamber. Mindful of Brisbane’s instructions not to speak of Emma and Lucy’s ordeal, I went to her only for comfort. Hortense’s presence was a balm to the most wounded spirit, and I had neglected her terribly since I had returned home. She had been given the Empire Room, perhaps as a compliment to her native country. It was elegant in its simplicity and perfectly suited to set off Hortense’s serene beauty. The walls were hung with lily-strewn striped silk, pink and white, and the floor was warmed with an Aubusson, a relic from Madame de Pompadour’s apartment at Versailles, if legend was to be believed.

  Hortense opened the door at once, her lovely face wreathed in smiles.

  “Julia! How lovely to see you. I was just having my morning chocolate. You must have a cup.” She was dressed in a morning gown of lilac velvet with a little frill of silver lace at the neck. She resumed her seat and patted the sofa beside her. I sank onto it gratefully.

  “We have had so little time to speak, my dear,” she chided gently. She poured a cup of thick, frothy chocolate and I sipped at it, feeling the warmth of it clear through to my bones.

  “I know. I have missed you as well. And you have been an angel to take on Aunt Dorcas. She is the most terrible old fright, and you are a guest. You should not have to sit with her and pretend to enjoy it.”

  Hortense did not settle back into the sofa as I had. Even at sixty her posture was exquisite. She perched on the edge, her spine straight as a dancer’s. When she reached for her cup, it was like something out of a ballet.

  “My dear, it is nothing. She is not such an ogre, you know. She still has some scandalous gossip, though how she manages, living in such isolation, I cannot imagine.”

  “Well, you are a better woman than I.”

  We fell quiet a moment, companionable in silence as we sipped at our chocolate.

  “I do hope you’ve given Aquinas your receipt. This is divine,” I told her finally.

  “I shall do so before I leave, I promise you. And now I know what to give you for Christmas. I’ve far too many chocolate pots and some of them are very pretty. You must choose your favourite.”

  I did not insult her by protesting. Although she lived like a lady of means, in truth Hortense’s funds were rather thinly stretched. A number of her former lovers, Brisbane included, provided her with annuities, but the sums were not great, and she performed little economies from time to time, such as passing along a treasured possession rather than shopping in the costly establishments on Bond Street. As her things were invariably expensive and her taste was exquisite, I did not mind.

  “He is looking well,” Hortense said softly. I wondered if thinking of Brisbane had conjured the idea of him.

  “Absolutely. Pity about his shoulder, but I am sure he will be perfectly recovered soon enough.”

  “I was very surprised to hear of his
elevation.”

  I shrugged. “It is not so uncommon. It is the Prime Minister who decides such things. If Brisbane was useful enough in diverting some scandal or righting some wrong, he would wish to show his gratitude.”

  Hortense was pensive, but even in thought, she was careful not to furrow her brow. Years of strict discipline had kept her face unlined and smooth as a girl’s. I tried once to copy her. For an entire day I neither smiled nor frowned. By teatime, I had a vicious headache and resigned myself to wrinkles.

  “Still, Nicholas is not so very highly born.”

  “Not on his mother’s side, no. But his father is the grandson of a duke, and his great-uncle, the present duke, still has considerable influence. If he decided to press for the honours, the Prime Minister might well oblige him.”

  “Perhaps. Your cup is empty, chérie. May I pour for you again?”

  I held out my cup, watching her slim, elegant white hands as she poured. I had accused her once of using witchcraft to keep her beauty, and it did not seem an entirely ridiculous notion. She was lovelier at sixty than any woman of my acquaintance half her age. Even her hands bore little trace of her years. They were smooth and unblemished, as fine as the porcelain she held.

  “Do you look for a ring?” she teased.

  “No, of course not,” I lied, taking my cup and drinking deeply to cover my confusion. I scalded my tongue.

  Hortense smiled at me in spite of herself. “I am not betrothed to your father, you know. And I never will be.”

  “Hortense, I am sorry. It is none of my concern.”

  She waved a hand. No jewels sparkled there, but at her wrist she wore a lovely cameo set with diamonds that seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Of course it is, my dear. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be your stepmama. But to do so, I would have to marry your father, and that is something neither of us has a mind to do.”

  I set the cup into the saucer carefully. “Then you’ve spoken of it?”

  She lifted a velvet-clad shoulder. “Naturellement. But I am a woman very much in love with my freedom, and Hector is a man very much in love with his wife.”

  I blinked hard, and when I spoke my voice sounded thick to my own ears. “He still loves Mother?”

  Hortense’s smile was patient as a Botticelli Madonna’s. “He is a very loyal man, your father. He has a great heart, and there is a tiny corner of it for me. That is enough for both of us.”

  I sipped at my chocolate, feeling suddenly very relieved. “You really do not wish to marry him?”

  Hortense’s eyes danced with mischief. “And have to endure his family? Absolutely not. You are all quite mad.”

  She winked at me and laughed her sweet, silvery laugh. When she sobered, she wagged a finger at me.

  “I should be very cross with you. Never once in your letters did you mention the delicious Conte di Fornacci. I think you are the black horse.”

  I blinked at her. “Ah. Dark horse. Yes, I suppose. It was all very simple really. He is a friend to Lysander and Plum. He very kindly showed us all over Florence, and when we moved on to Lombardy, it seemed quite natural to invite him along.”

  “Hmm.” That one little syllable held a world of meaning within it.

  I gave her a severe look. “He is a friend.”

  “And do you mean to return to Italy with this friend?” she asked, drawing out the last word ever so slightly.

  My cheeks were hot again. “I do not know. It was discussed, but circumstances may have changed now,” I replied, thinking of Violante’s new expectations. “He has asked me,” I mumbled into my cup.

  Hortense tipped her head and gave me a long, thoughtful look. “You should take a lover.”

  I choked on my chocolate, and it was a long moment before I regained my composure. “How precisely did we move from you possibly becoming my stepmother to advising me on my amours?”

  She tapped my knee. “I am a woman of the world, chérie. There is nothing I have not seen, and very little I have not done. Think on what I have said.”

  “I imagine I should have trouble forgetting it.”

  Hortense pulled a face. “Now you will be English and proper again. We are not supposed to speak of such things. Very well. I too can be English. We shall talk about the weather. It is cold.”

  In spite of myself I laughed. “You are very silly, Hortense. And very good to care what happens to me.”

  For an instant, the cool mask slipped, and I saw real affection in her eyes. “I like to think if I had ever had a daughter, she might have been something like you.”

  I reached out and took her hand. It was smooth and supple in mine, and smelled of summer roses.

  “Of course, she would dress better. That gown,” she said, clucking her tongue. “So severe, so masculine in the cut.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. “I happen to like this gown. I bought it in Milan. It is very smart.”

  Hortense gave me the gently raised eyebrows that indicated disagreement, then squeezed my hand. “You used to call me Fleur, like my closest friends. You must do so again or I shall think you are cross with me.”

  I rose and dropped a kiss on the top of her beautifully coiffed head. “I could never be cross with you. Now I must fly. I have nearly missed breakfast altogether.”

  I moved to the door, but before my fingers touched the knob, she spoke. “He does not love her, you know. He never did.”

  I went quite still, my back turned to her. “It is his own affair, Fleur. I am no part of it.”

  “Still, I thought you should know. He has said nothing to me, of course, but I have known him since he was a boy. He has not changed so much that I cannot read him.”

  A flash of memory from the previous night, his lips, his hands, his breath coming hard and ragged after he kissed me. Then I thought of Charlotte and the burden of guilt he still carried from our first investigation.

  Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought of him away and reached for the knob.

  “As I said, it is no affair of mine.”

  She made no reply. I did not blame her. It was a foolish lie. It did not deserve a response.

  As soon as I left Hortense’s room, I met Portia just coming from her room. Outwardly unruffled, her eyes were snapping and the tiny jet drops at her ears trembled violently.

  “Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?”

  We fell into step as we descended the stairs.

  “What isn’t? Aquinas has informed me that none of the staff from the village will be able to make it in today, so we are lacking two footmen, four maids, and a boot boy. Dear brother Benedick trudged from the Home Farm to shout the news that the telegraph line at Blessingstoke has collapsed under the snow, so I cannot send to London for anything we should require. And, no great surprise, Cook is threatening to quit because there is a dead man in the game larder. As an interesting side note, Violante has packed her bags and is demanding to be taken to the station at once and put on the first ship back to Italy.”

  “Pressing problems indeed,” I agreed.

  “And one of the cats has given birth, quite nastily, in the linen cupboard.”

  “How sweet! Which one?”

  She gave me an arch look. “Christopher Sly. Which is all rather odd, as Father was quite certain he was a tom.”

  “Hmm. Well, I suppose the most immediate concern is Violante. Is she still upset?”

  Portia shrugged. “How the devil should I know? I coaxed her back to her room and sent for Lysander to manage her, but she kept babbling on about dead men in the game larder and how such things aren’t done in Italy.”

  I tipped my head, musing. “I wonder where they house their murder victims then? In the scullery? Or perhaps the laundry? No, altogether too hot there, I should think.”

  “There is no cause for flippancy, Julia. I have a headache that has begun at my knees and gone right over the top of my head and back down again. I do not look for improvements as the day goes on.”

  As
we reached the bottom of the stairs, I patted her arm. “I shouldn’t worry about the staff. They will be snug enough in the village, and heaven knows we’ve plenty of hands to keep this place running without them. And don’t mind too much about Violante. I have no doubt it’s her pregnancy making her hysterical.”

  Portia sighed heavily. “I suspected she was breeding. I have never seen anyone eat so many pickled chestnuts. Her fingers were quite shrivelled from them. I suppose I had best go speak to Cook and make certain we’ve plenty more of them.”

  “While you’re about it, assure her the body will be removed as soon as possible. And tell Aquinas to make certain the staff are given black armbands to wear as a token of respect for Mr. Snow.”

  Portia put her hands on her hips, giving a perfect impression of one of the maids in a pet. “Any more instructions, missus?”

  “Do make certain the linen cupboard door is kept shut. I shouldn’t like Florence to get a taste for kittens.”

  She put out her tongue at me and moved to turn away.

  “One last thing, dearest. Do you know where Aunt Hermia keeps that funny little jade monkey Uncle Leonato brought her from China?”

  Portia threw up her hands in exasperation. “Really, Julia, of all the impossibly stupid things to wonder about.” She paused and thought, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Oh, very well. The last time I saw it, she kept it on her night table.”

  “And the amber beads from Russia?”

  “In a box next to the monkey.” She started to tap her toe on the carpet.

  “And the coral bracelet from the Java Sea?” I pressed.

  “In her knickers.”

  I gave her a sour look. “You might be a little more helpful, Portia.”

  “Well, honestly. She isn’t even here. Why you would ask about her little trinkets is beyond me. If you are so keen on them, have a look for yourself. You know she would not mind. Now, I really must go and find something for my head.”

  “Ask Brisbane,” I called after her sweetly. “He has a new cure I think would suit you perfectly.”