Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Now he opened and closed it, rhythmically, like a metronome keeping time. I suspected it helped him to think. He finally snapped it closed and sat up in his chair, rather more energetic than I had seen him since Snow’s broken body had been discovered the night before.

  “I know you suspect Cedric, Julia. But I wonder, a girl like that, on the verge of marriage to a man so much her elder. She has seen nothing of the world, had no experience. I must wonder if she decided to indulge in a liaison before she married.”

  “I did wonder,” I admitted, “but it seemed so diabolical. Suppose she did decide to take a younger lover. Could it have been Snow? Cedric might have murdered him in revenge,” I mused.

  “I think his lordship is thinking more abstractly,” Brisbane put in. Father regarded him coldly, doubtless resenting Brisbane for speaking on his behalf. I smothered a sigh. There were enough currents and eddies of tension within the household without the two of them at each other’s throats. Brisbane continued, oblivious to Father’s annoyance. “Cedric is the obvious choice for the murderer if Snow was her lover. But what if Snow discovered her affair with another and demanded a price for his silence? That would make him a blackmailer, and there is already evidence he was.”

  I blinked at him in wonder. “Aunt Hermia’s jewels?”

  He nodded. “It seems possible, but not likely to me he would have stolen them himself. It would have been dangerous for a gentleman guest to be discovered in the ladies’ wing. Far safer for him to have pilfered something from another gentleman or from the public rooms. But if a lady were to try to lay hands on something small and valuable to meet the demands of a blackmailer, what better place to look than the bedchamber of an absent hostess?”

  I sat back, marvelling at the twisted little tangle of ideas he had just presented. “And if Lucy were engaging in an affaire du coeur, she might well cover the crimes of her lover by claiming sanctuary for a murder done by his hand.”

  “In which case she is in no danger, but still ought to be kept under watch so as to keep her near at hand,” Brisbane put in.

  “But she has been attacked, with malice prepense,” I pointed out.

  “Has she? What did the footman see but a sheet-draped figure drifting through the hall? You yourself pointed out the proximity of the vestry to the chapel. What if the footman nodded off and Miss Lucy or Miss Emma played the ghost? The footman went haring off after it, just as the miscreant planned. When he returned to his post, the brandy was there, supposedly by the hand of the phantom. The idiot footman passes it to them and they drink. It does not take much medical knowledge to know how much laudanum is fatal. And they might both have been pretending to be sicker than they were. We must keep them under guard for their possible culpability as well as their safety.”

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. It was a fantastic story, and the most fantastic part of all was that it might very possibly be true.

  “Surely you do not think they would try to escape? To begin with, it would be impossible. The Abbey is entirely cut off from the outside,” I argued.

  “Not entirely.” His tone was bland, but Father took his meaning at once.

  “The passage from the priory vault to the family crypt in the churchyard,” Father murmured, shaking his head. “So that is how you got the old fright out of here last night, is it not?”

  Brisbane picked an imaginary bit of fluff from his sling. “It is, and though the mechanism was coming over rather thickly with ice by the time I returned, I imagine it would still function with a little persuasion.”

  I cursed my own stupidity. I had thought enough about hidden passageways in the last few days. I ought to have remembered that one. As children we had never been permitted to play there, but we had heard it spoken of from time to time. Originally built to provide dry, easy passage to the village for the monks, it had been just as useful as a means of egress for mischief-minded Marches for centuries. My grandfather had locked the passage during Father’s boyhood, claiming it was unsafe for the children. But Aunt Dorcas would remember it well from her own youth; doubtless she even recalled that the key had been thrown into a great Chinese pot on the mantel of the dining room. It would have been a child’s trick to find it. Why she had left the Abbey, and why Brisbane had seen to her passage were puzzles I burned to solve. But the murder of Lucian Snow was more pressing.

  I turned to Brisbane.

  “If Lucy even knows of that passage,” I countered. “I had entirely forgotten it myself. It has not been used in years. Grandfather had it locked ages ago. I can’t imagine it has been opened since.”

  “It has not, insomuch as I could determine,” Brisbane confirmed, his handsome upper lip curling in distaste. “A fair bit of it has collapsed, and I saw distinct evidence of rats.”

  I shuddered. “How in the name of heaven did you persuade Aunt Dorcas through that passage?”

  Brisbane gave me a deliciously wicked look. “My dear lady, I did not coax. I was led. Lady Dorcas was thoroughly acquainted with the passage and showed no hesitation in scrambling over broken stones and splashing through puddles.”

  “The maid said she took no coat. She must have been freezing,” I remarked.

  “Not at all. She sent me to the lumber rooms for some furs and was warm as toast.”

  Father and I were silent a moment. I was having a difficult time imagining Aunt Dorcas, wrapped in furs, leading the charge down the rock-strewn, rat-infested passage. I suspected Father was as well.

  “And you say she is in good health?” Father asked finally.

  Brisbane gave a short nod. “Quite. Now, on to other matters. I discovered nothing of interest in Sir Cedric’s room,” Brisbane reported. “There was a good deal of correspondence from his agent in London, but nothing unusual. The letters confirm he is what he presents himself to be—a successful man of industry. I took the opportunity of searching Henry Ludlow’s room, as well as that of Alessandro Fornacci,” he finished smoothly.

  “Tell me you did not,” I said, levelling my gaze at him.

  He returned my stare with a coolly appraising look of his own. “Oh, but I did. Fornacci is the only other gentleman of the party not connected with this family. That fact makes him suspect. Am I to infer you did not search his trunk?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then snapped my teeth together. “Blast,” I muttered between them.

  “From that delicate expression I will conclude you put sentiment aside and searched it. I will further presume you found nothing to incriminate him. You will be pleased to hear I found nothing in his room pertaining to this investigation.”

  Father raised a hand. “No sparring, I beg you. Now, what will you be about, Brisbane?”

  “I have other matters to attend to at present. When Lady Julia has something relevant to report, I will listen.”

  He rose, nodded sharply once to Father and once to me. He clicked his fingers at Grim, who responded with a happy quork and a flap of glossy black wings. I waited until the door had closed behind him before turning to Father.

  “If the passage to the churchyard is navigable, why can we not remove Mr. Snow now?”

  Father flicked the snuffbox open, then snapped it shut again. “You heard Brisbane. It is collapsed in places. Fallen stone, icy puddles, rats. It would be madness to attempt it.”

  “Surely not. If Aunt Dorcas could manage it, I daresay a few footmen could maneuver Mr. Snow quite handily.”

  Flick. Snap. It was rather hypnotic, the slow, even movements of his fingers on the snuffbox. Father scorned modern instruments, but played the lute quite beautifully. He had taken it up as part of his homage to Shakespeare. I had not heard him play in years, but there was still a musician’s suppleness to his reflexes.

  “It is a trifle unseemly, don’t you think? One ought to treat the dead with dignity.”

  Still his hands moved, and as I watched them, it did not seem entirely fanciful to imagine them laced about Snow’s throat, closing tighter and tighter, ch
oking the life out of him.

  “Julia.”

  I jumped in my chair. “Yes, Father?”

  He laid the snuffbox onto the desk and gave me an apologetic smile. “Your aunt deplores my little habit as well. I shall endeavour not to fidget.”

  His eyes were warm over his little half-moon spectacles and I felt instantly flooded with shame. How could I have suspected, even for a moment, my beloved parent had had any role in Snow’s murder?

  But the greatest danger of evil is that it is insidious. It had crept into my home on cloven feet, and would not leave until the murderer was brought to justice. Until then I knew I would be doomed to view every man around me, even my father, my brothers—Plum with his broad palms calloused from chiselling marble, Lysander with hands stronger than a labourer’s from spanning a violin and keyboard for hours every day—as potential murderers. I stiffened my resolve to unmask the villain and put an end to this hateful charade. I rose to leave then, but one last thought intruded.

  “Father, I understand you do not wish to remove Mr. Snow until it can be done in a dignified fashion,” I began, tactfully ignoring the fact that the poor man was laid out in the game larder. One can hardly imagine a more undignified place of repose. “But I wondered if you had sent a note to Uncle Fly yet. He will know how to find Mr. Snow’s family. They ought to know.”

  Father took in a great breath, then expelled it slowly in a soft, sorrowful sigh. “When a member of the family passes we stop the clocks, to show that time itself has stood still. We do not observe this custom for Lucian Snow, but so long as the Abbey remains snowbound, time does stand still. Out there, life carries on its usual pace. No one knows what transpires here, we are an island unto ourselves. For this little time, there is nothing for anyone to know. When the snow melts and the ice runs to water, then we must tell the world what has happened.”

  This was a mood I recognised well. Whenever he felt particularly gloomy, he was inclined to talk like Prospero. It was an affectation, of course, but a harmless one, and I looked past his words to the sentiment behind them. So long as we were housebound, no one knew of Snow’s murder, and no one could speculate about the crime or its author. Once word of the murder spread, nothing would be quite the same. The newspapers, ravenous for scandal, would use this story to slake their appetite. From Dover to Orkney, our names would be bandied in every household. It was enough to make me long for Italy and anonymity. It would be so easy to pack my bags and board the first steamer across the Channel.

  But for Father there would be no escape. His name was already well-known for his radical politics, the antics of his scampish youth, his charming eccentricities. And when folks tired of gossiping about him, they would cheerfully savage the rest of us. I shuddered to think what my brother Bellmont would make of this. Elected as a Tory, Bellmont was frightfully conservative, and more mindful of his dignity than the queen. As soon as the merest scrap of this reached the papers, he would descend upon us with all the wrath of a Biblical plague, blaming us for dragging the family name into disgrace once again. When he discovered my husband had been murdered, he had stopped speaking to me for two months. It was actually something of a relief, but I did not like to be at cross purposes with any of my family, no matter how maddening they could be.

  “I have made a terrible mistake, I fear,” he said softly. “I ought to have left you in Italy. You were happy there.”

  “You sent for us because Lysander married without permission. It had nothing to do with me,” I reminded him.

  He waved a hand. “Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than meddle in my children’s romantic entanglements? It’s a fool’s game, and one never wins.”

  He was pensive, fretting now, talking more to the fire than to me.

  “Then why did you send for us if not for Lysander’s sake?”

  He hesitated, as if weighing his words. “I knew Brisbane would be here. For weeks. I thought if I brought you home, he might declare himself.”

  “Oh, Father.” His expression was apologetic, and a little of the spirit seemed to have gone out of him. “You just said you do not meddle in your children’s romantic entanglements.”

  He beetled his heavy white brows at me. “I also said it was a fool’s game and I am nothing if not a fool. A very great fool.”

  I started to rise, then sat back down, thinking swiftly. “Brisbane was betrothed to Charlotte. Why would you expect him to declare himself to me?”

  “Bah. That engagement was a farce. It is you he loves.”

  My heart lurched a little. “He does not love me,” I said flatly, remembering Brisbane’s insistence on never taking a wealthy wife.

  “He is far enough down the path, my dear,” Father returned sharply, “and when he gets there, it will be the devil to pay. I ought to have left you in Italy,” he repeated. “If only I had seen him for what he was.”

  I stared at him, my fingers tight around the arms of the chair. “What is he?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “A buccaneer,” Father said harshly, “of the worst sort. He will think nothing of you, only himself and what serves his investigations.”

  I relaxed my grip on the chair and blew out a sigh of frustration.

  “This is not about me. This is about you, resenting the fact that you brought him here and he has acted as lord and master in your home,” I told him waspishly. “You thought you could put the bit between his teeth and guide him where you liked, and it nettles you that he cannot be mastered. He is not like your sons, Father. He doesn’t give a tuppence for your great house or your lofty titles. He accepts you as an equal, but you will not do the same for him. You are a terrible snob, do you know that?”

  Father’s lips went very thin. “I am no such thing.”

  “Yes, you are.” I rose, smoothing my skirts. “You always taught us that we should value a man according to his merit, his competence. Do you know a man more competent than Brisbane?”

  He said nothing, his mouth set mulishly.

  “I thought so. You are behaving very badly, Father. Very badly indeed.”

  I reached out and took up the little cache of Aunt Hermia’s jewels, pocketing the bundle. “That is why you would not let him take these. You simply wanted to prove you could impose your will. He would never do anything to harm this family, Father.”

  Father lowered his head, peering peevishly at me over his spectacles. “I think I may know better than you what that man is capable of, child. There are depths there you cannot begin to plumb.”

  I smiled maliciously. “I seem to remember a time when you thought a dalliance with him might be advisable. Have you changed your opinion of him so much then?”

  He did not reply to that, and I knew better than to push him further.

  “I shall take Grim with me for a bit of exercise,” I told him. If he heard me, he gave no sign of it. He simply reached for his snuffbox again and flicked it open as I left him to his thoughts.

  THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

  O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.

  —As You Like It

  I found Sir Cedric in the smoking room, alone with his thoughts and a thoroughly vile cigar. He rose when I entered and made to crush it out, but I stopped him.

  “You must not on my account. I do love a good cigar,” I told him with a smile. It was not entirely a lie. I did love the scent of Brisbane’s thin Spanish cigars. The aroma of them clung to his fingers and clothes, cloaking him in mystery and a bit of a glamoury, conjuring thoughts of smoky campfires and the sharp-blooded dances of Andalusia. Sir Cedric’s cigar, an enormous fat sausage of a thing, smelled of mould and old dog.

  I took the chair opposite and he resumed his, watching me with an appraising glance. Grim had wandered off in the direction of a rather fine bust of Caesar, quorking softly to himself.

  “An interesting pet, my lady,” Sir Cedric commented.

  “He is, rather. Some people find him too mo
rbid, but I am very fond of him.” I sat a little forward in my chair, hands clasped on my lap, smiling at him winsomely. “Sir Cedric, I believe you must know by now we are an unconventional family. We observe society’s customs when it suits us, and cast them to the winds when it does not.”

  “I had noticed,” he replied acidly. He flicked a bit of ash into a china dish at his elbow, and I noticed his mouth had settled into lines of discontent. As well they might, I thought. His beloved fiancée enmeshed in a terrible crime, his temper worn to the thinnest edge. He had not as yet been told of the attack upon Lucy and her sister, but I thought it would take very little to push him to the brink of violence. I realised, repressing a little shudder, that he might well have already done violence. I thought of poor Mr. Snow, lying broken and bloody on the floor of the chapel, and the memory of it stiffened my resolve. I would use whatever means I held at my disposal to unmask his murderer, even if it was the man before me.

  And the strongest weapon in my arsenal was surprise. I pitched my voice low and gentle. “I am worried for Lucy, and it is this cousinly concern that prompts me to speak freely to you. She has confessed to a terrible crime, which I believe she did not commit. I will ask you, sir, if my cousin is proved innocent, as I believe she must be, will you marry her still?”

  His teeth ground together as he crushed out the glowing tip of the cigar, with rage or some other emotion I could not decide. He rose, looming over me in a fashion I could not help but find a little threatening.

  “I cannot see that it is any business of yours. Your father ought to find you another husband, one who will mend your meddlesome ways.” He turned to go, and for what happened next I can only credit instinct. I reached out to him, laying a gentle hand on his sleeve, and when I spoke, it was with a kindliness I feigned.