Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  In the end, I had no time and little stomach for breakfast. I had thought to make a dash into the dining room for a bit of toast, but the notion of Lucian Snow, lying cold and possibly bloated in the game larder put me firmly off the idea.

  The game larder itself had been fashioned into a crude sort of laboratory. A stone counter ran the length of the room. On it, propped against the walls, was a quantity of mirrors, from tiny things fit for a lady’s reticule to enormous looking-glasses taken from the dressing rooms. In front of these were as many lamps as the counter could hold. The effect was dazzling, so bright I blinked as I entered the room.

  Brisbane was already there, dressed in shirtsleeves and making an adjustment to one of the lamps. He grunted when I came in but did not look up. I turned my gaze firmly away from the sheet-draped figure on the table. I noticed a small table had been brought in and laid with a clean white cloth. Brisbane’s leather case was there, and a book with a mouldy green cover. A few instruments such as tweezers and scissors had been arranged neatly on the cloth. I did not look further to see what else might lurk there.

  “There are aprons on the hook behind the door,” Brisbane said finally. “Put yours on and bring the other for me.”

  I put out my tongue behind his back and went to the door. The aprons were not the dainty pinafores the maids wore, but the thick white canvas affairs the footmen donned for the most menial chores. It was not until I was halfway back, aprons in hand, that I realised what he had said.

  “Brisbane, surely I do not need an apron. I mean, I won’t be—”

  He turned, raising a brow coolly at me. “Of course you will. I have one good hand and his lordship is not at liberty to assist.”

  He put out his hand for the apron.

  “What do you mean Father is not here? What else could he have to do?”

  Brisbane’s nostrils flared in impatience. “He was speaking with Miss Lucy and Miss Emma. I rose early this morning and told him about the drugged brandy. But now I believe he is searching for Lady Dorcas. The upstairs maid says she has disappeared.”

  I stared at him, clutching the aprons in nerveless fingers.

  “Disappeared? Are you quite serious?”

  “As the grave. My apron?” He put out his hand again and I thrust it at him, my mind whirling.

  “Where could she have gone? The gates are frozen shut and the moat is covered in ice. She cannot have gone far.”

  “Then she is probably quite safe.”

  Brisbane whipped a quick knot into the strings at the neck of the apron, then looped it over his head, mussing a lock of hair onto his brow. He reached his good arm behind his back, then gestured for me to help him. I crossed behind him, reaching around him for the strings. For such a large man, his waist was narrow, and I crossed the strings, moving in front of him to tie them securely. He said nothing, but I glanced up to see the hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.

  “Brisbane, how can you be so calm? She is an elderly lady, and that was a killing storm. She might be frozen in a snowdrift for all we know.”

  Brisbane moved to the little table and opened the book. “Put on your apron. This might prove a little unpleasant and that is a very nice gown.”

  I obeyed him, my fingers stiff with cold and dread. When the apron was secure, I went to his side, peering over his shoulder at the book. I was instantly sorry.

  “I haven’t given up on the subject of Aunt Dorcas,” I warned him. “But this is a more immediate problem,” I said, waving a hand from the hideous plates in the book to the motionless figure on the table. “I do not think I can do this.”

  Brisbane looked at me severely. “Did you not insist to me just last evening that you would have your part in this investigation?”

  I clamped my lips together against the faint smell emanating from the body. I nodded.

  “Very well. This is part of an investigation. That body may hold information for us, and if it does, I mean to find it.”

  I swallowed hard, terribly grateful I had eschewed breakfast. “But you cannot possibly, that is to say, those pictures are quite specific and very, erm, thorough. I really think only a trained physician should make such an extensive examination. And don’t you think the authorities will notice if you cut him like that?”

  Brisbane looked back at the book. After a moment he nodded, reluctantly, I fancied. “They might at that. Very well. I shall not perform a proper post-mortem. But I will do everything else. Now, you must be my hands.”

  For the next hour I did as I was told. I started by unpinning my sleeves. When I rolled the first above my elbow, Brisbane’s eyes lingered for the briefest moment on the soft white skin at my wrist. I glanced up when I turned back the second, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the book in his hand, and from that moment on his manner toward me was coolly proper.

  “Begin by drawing back the sheet,” he instructed quietly. “Fold it down all the way, and mind you don’t disarrange anything further.”

  I reached a hand to touch the sheet, then drew it back sharply. “I know it is just a fancy, but I thought it moved.”

  Brisbane looked up from the book. “If this is too much for you, I can ask Aquinas.”

  I shook my head, forcing myself to take in one slow breath, then release it calmly. “No. If you can do this, so can I.”

  I would have expected a tiny spark of admiration in his gaze for that little speech, but his nose was buried in his book again, and I rolled my eyes. This time, I approached the sheet and removed it, as crisply as any housemaid about her chores.

  Following his explicit instructions, I loosened Mr. Snow’s clothing, removing his evening jacket, waistcoat and neckcloth. I felt them carefully, but the pockets were empty. I laid them aside and steeled myself for what must come.

  “Wait,” Brisbane said, bending swiftly over the body.

  “What is it?” I demanded, elbowing Brisbane a little. His expression was grim. “There.”

  He pointed to Lucian Snow’s neck. Bruises blossomed around the throat, heavy blackish-purple things, livid against the pale skin. It was clear, even to my amateur’s eyes, that they were finger marks, borne in with great pressure.

  “What fools we have been,” Brisbane muttered.

  I stared at the bruises, my mind working furiously. “Lucy could not have done that.”

  Brisbane rose, stroking his jaw. It was darkly shadowed, as if he had shaved quickly and without particular care that morning. It was oddly attractive.

  “No, she could not. And those bruises would not have shown half so violently if he had been strangled after death.” Brisbane took his good right hand and fitted it to the bruises, his own handspan matching the marks nearly perfectly. I could almost see the crime in my mind’s eye, the murderer, facing Lucian Snow, bearing down upon him, crushing the life out of him as they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Abruptly, Brisbane moved to Lucian’s head. Before I could look away, he had turned the head and was probing the wound gently. I swallowed hard, refusing the heaving insistence of my stomach. After a moment, Brisbane drew back his hand and shook his head.

  “There is a bit of a depression here where the bone was broken, and a fair amount of blood matted in his hair.”

  “He was struck down before he was strangled?” I asked.

  Brisbane nodded. “A fair hypothesis, I think. Had he been struck after death, there would have been very little blood.”

  “To what purpose?” I asked.

  “To incapacitate him,” he replied. “A blow there would have rendered Snow unconscious, an easy victim for his killer. And that would explain why there is only one handprint,” Brisbane added. “The murderer did not require both hands to subdue him.”

  I looked at Brisbane’s left arm, firmly strapped to his chest and blinked. He marked the glance.

  “Yes, my lady, I am the obvious suspect,” he said, a trifle acidly. “Is my word good enough, or would you care for an alibi? I seem to remember I was wi
th you when Snow was murdered.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I ducked my head to hide my blushes.

  “The question is, if the girl could not have killed him by strangulation, and the blow struck with the candelabrum was landed before he died, what did she see?”

  I began to pace the room, putting a little distance between myself and the gruesome relic on the table.

  “Either Lucy was an accomplice, perhaps striking the blow with the candelabrum herself, remaining behind when her partner fled…” I began.

  That mesmerizing pair of eyes fixed on me intently. “Or she did not touch him, but is taking the blame upon herself for another’s crime,” I finished.

  I could not imagine Lucy creeping up on a man and striking him viciously with a candelabrum. Of course, until the previous night, I would have thought her incapable of any violence at all. I was rapidly revising my opinion of her. My first investigation had taught me the unlikeliest of suspects may be the most culpable.

  “It may have all happened quite quickly,” Brisbane said. “The murderer strikes Lucian Snow with the candelabrum, then finishes him off with a carefully placed hand to the throat. He is free to leave, perhaps without a spot of blood upon him. He might have slipped past Lucy in the darkness, or if he heard her coming, he had only to duck into one of the empty rooms along the nave and wait until the hue and cry was raised when the body was discovered. In the meantime, Lucy could have entered the chapel, found the body and, with a striking lack of good sense, picked up the candelabrum and implicated herself in a murder.”

  “Or,” I said slowly, “Lucy might have been there all along. She may have seen the strangler at work, and stayed behind to make certain the deed was finished with a savage blow of the candelabrum once the murderer departed.”

  I looked up to find Brisbane regarding me with a curious mixture of distaste and admiration.

  “That is the most gruesome notion yet. And it took a woman to think of it. No, it will not signify. I still maintain the blow with the candelabrum was struck before he died. The coroner may have a different opinion on the matter, but I am convinced.”

  The rest of the examination was swiftly carried out. I obeyed Brisbane’s instructions dispassionately, as though I was comfortable handling lifeless things. To my everlasting relief, Brisbane at least observed the propriety of not having me strip the body completely. He asked me only to remove Snow’s shirt. I busied myself tidying Snow’s things while Brisbane examined the torso beneath the flannel undergarment. It was over more quickly than I had expected, and the conclusions were inescapable: Lucian Snow had been, to all appearances, a healthy man, killed in his prime by strangulation.

  Brisbane’s eyes were alight with an enthusiasm I knew well. Rather than a straightforward murder, this crime was something more puzzling. There was a challenge here, and Brisbane loved nothing more than a knotty problem to untangle.

  “I suppose the first order of business is to speak with Lucy and Emma,” I said at length.

  “Indeed,” Brisbane said, “although I suspect they will not have much to contribute. Still, there may be something useful there. I will take the footman.”

  “You mean you do not object to my questioning Lucy and Emma?” I asked, astonished.

  He gave me the slow, lazy stare one might give to a backward child. “I cannot. They are unmarried ladies confined to their bedchamber.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that my undressing a dead man could hardly be considered proper, but I did not. It was enough that he had acknowledged the necessity of my role in the investigation. In truth, I felt a little deflated. He had capitulated so easily. I had girded myself for a fight.

  I looked at Brisbane. He was gazing down at the body of Lucian Snow rather thoughtfully. Then he reached out and twitched the sheet over the still, white face.

  He turned to me, his eyes quite black in the magnified light of the mirror-lit larder. “You must find out everything that they might try to conceal. Be ruthless. Leave them no secrets to cling to, use whatever tactics you must. No man deserves that fate,” he finished with a flicker of his gaze toward the shrouded form.

  I glanced from Lucian Snow’s remains to Brisbane’s implacable face. “I will not fail,” I told him firmly.

  THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

  Truth will come to sight, murder cannot be long hid.

  —The Merchant of Venice

  I was surprised to find Sir Cedric standing outside Lucy and Emma’s door, shouting at the footman who barred his way. Sir Cedric was clearly in a temper, his usually ruddy complexion dark red at the ears and nose. The footman, William V, I think it was, looked at me with something like desperation.

  “Good morning, Sir Cedric,” I greeted. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  He looked from the footman to me with narrowed eyes, silent for a moment as if he were trying to place an unfamiliar face. Tiny flecks of saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, and I felt a little rush of pity for Lucy.

  “Lady Julia. I have a mind to see my fiancée, but this buffoon will not open the door to me.”

  I cleared my throat gently. “Well, it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  His complexion darkened further still and I began to fear he would have an apoplexy, an eventuality too gruesome to consider. To begin with, there would be no place to store another body.

  “The circumstances are, my fiancée is ill, and no one will give me news of her and she will not see me.”

  I gave him my most winsome smile. “How terribly frustrating for you. Why don’t you go and have a cup of coffee, or perhaps a nice cigar? I will speak with Lucy and bring you news of her straightaway.”

  The narrow eyes relaxed a little. “Will you? Straightaway?”

  I patted his arm, drawing him away from the door. The footman seemed to sag a little in relief. “I promise. Sometimes ladies do have these little indispositions. I am sure it is nothing for you to concern yourself about.”

  “She better not have taken a chill in that chapel last night. I warned March not to leave her there, and if she falls ill from it, I shall know who to blame,” he warned me.

  I smiled again. “Lucy has suffered a very great shock, and we all want what is best for her. Now, you go and make yourself quite comfortable and I will do what I can.”

  He thanked me grudgingly and took his leave, glancing back once or twice darkly at the footman. When he had rounded the corner of the dorter, the boy leaned against the door.

  “Oh, thank you, my lady. I could not make him understand that Lord March said to admit no one except yourself or a maid. I thought I would have to hit him, and I do not think his lordship would have approved of that.”

  I smiled at his earnestness. “You might be surprised, William. Has anyone else attempted to see the Misses Phipps?”

  He thought for a moment. “No, my lady. The maid brought them a tray for breakfast, and Lord March was here very early to look in on the ladies.”

  “Very good. And how long have you been here?”

  “Mr. Aquinas fetched me out of bed a few hours before dawn to keep watch and let no one past. He said it was on Lord Wargrave’s orders, and when Lord March came he said that Lord Wargrave had been quite right.”

  I nodded. “Excellent. You were perfectly right to refuse Sir Cedric.”

  He blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, my lady.” He stepped aside smartly and opened the door for me.

  The room was warm and quiet, and I moved inside, motioning for William V to close the door softly behind me.

  “Julia,” came a feeble voice from the bed. I approached, surprised to find Emma awake. Lucy slumbered on, curled as tightly as a puppy against her sister. Emma held out her hand to me and I took it. It was cool and light as a bird.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked her in a whisper. Lucy stirred but did not wake.

  Emma gave a short shake of the head. “As well as one may expect. Uncle March was he
re earlier. He explained about the laudanum in the brandy.”

  Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and I tightened my hand over hers. She smiled mistily at me.

  “Julia, I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to us.”

  I hesitated. I did not like to pose such a question, but it must be asked. “Then you did not…” My voice trailed off.

  She shook her head, almost angrily. “Of course not. How could I do such a thing to my Lucy?” She turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister nestled against her.

  “I am sorry, Emma. It was a possibility, you know.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know.” We sat in silence so long I began to think she had drifted into sleep. But then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “That would have been the coward’s way, and I am no coward,” she said, more to herself than to me.

  Before I could reply, Lucy stirred and raised herself a little. “Lie down, dearest,” Emma told her. “You must not tire yourself.”

  Lucy obeyed, and I moved around to her side of the bed. She turned, giving me a sad, sleepy smile. “Hullo, Julia.”

  I moved straight to the heart of the matter. “Lucy, I know this has been a terrible shock for you, but you must know that your family stand with you. We know you did not do this thing.”

  She laid the back of her arm to her brow, staring up at the ceiling. She made no reply, and I went on. “Lucian Snow was not killed by your hand. We know this for a fact. The evidence says he died of strangulation, by a hand much larger and stronger than yours.”

  Without preamble, a sob erupted from her, tearing from her throat. She folded in half, her face to her knees, keening. Emma started for her, but I put an arm about Lucy’s shoulder.

  “I do not know why you claimed you did this, but we know you did not. And we will make certain the authorities know it as well.”

  Suddenly, Lucy stumbled from the bed to the washstand and began to retch. She had eaten nothing, but she doubled over, heaving until the spell passed. Emma went to her and stroked her back, murmuring soothing things until she finished. Then I handed her my handkerchief to mop her face. When she was done, she looked a great deal more lucid than she had since we had discovered her bending over Lucian’s body.