Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

  The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself for what he is, and steal out of your company.

  —Much Ado About Nothing

  At dinner I was mightily put out to find Brisbane absent. The pheasant was delicious, but the dish was hotly peppered with my pique. He might have been in a bit of pain from the bout of fencing, but it had been his own notion to engage Alessandro, and he had only himself to blame. He had a responsibility to Father, to this investigation, to me, to follow through with his inquiries. And as I sat at table, glancing surreptitiously at my companions, it occurred to me our time together was drawing to a close. This grim thought was borne out by Father, who rose after dessert and addressed the company.

  “I thought it appropriate to take this opportunity to speak to you all. This chance may not come again. A westerly wind has blown in, and the snow is nearly melted. I am assured by tomorrow morning the roads will be muddy and slow, but passable. If that is indeed the case, Lord Wargrave will leave us then to bring a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. If the telegraph is still inoperable, he will travel up to London personally and then the investigation into the death of Mr. Snow will be taken out of my hands, and what has transpired here will be known to all.” He paused here for dramatic effect. It was a gesture I had seen often enough when he played Lear in our amateur theatricals, but it was highly effective. He looked slowly from one face to another, giving nothing away. Some squirmed a little under his scrutiny, some dropped their eyes, and some met his gaze squarely with their own.

  “I should also make you aware of a murderous attack perpetrated upon my nieces, Emma and Lucy, last night,” he said, his voice ringing out in tones a thespian would have envied. Sir Cedric made to rise, but Father waved him back to his chair. I bit back a groan. Brisbane had specifically instructed him to tell no one of the attack. He would take Father apart with his bare hands when he heard what he had done. The rest of the company sat in mute horror as Father continued.

  “Thanks to timely intervention, they are both quite well, but I have ordered them kept under watch of my own staff in the ladies’ wing. This matter will also be given over to the detective inspector. But as this place has proven dangerous for members of my own family, so it may be so for the rest of us. Therefore, when you rise from table, you will go directly to your rooms and remain there until morning.”

  He paused again, pitching his voice lower for effect.

  “I think tonight would best be spent in contemplation. If you are the sort of person given to prayer, then do so. Pray for us all, pray for the soul of Lucian Snow, and pray for the murderer who walks among us.”

  Charlotte gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands, but the rest of the company made no reaction. For my part, I thought it a masterful bit of rhetoric on Father’s part. I had never heard him speak of prayer before, for he was not a religious man. He believed in the repose of one’s mind, of solitude taken in regular doses to quiet the spirit. But in this place, this Abbey once consecrated to the service of God, the very stones still echoed with the chants of holy men.

  Perhaps he hoped it would be enough to prick the conscience of the guilty to confession. Or perhaps he simply wanted an evening free of all of us. If the latter, his aim was true. We left the chilly dining room then—dinner had been a frigid affair, marked with the mewling of infant cats and an occasional hiss from their irritated mother—and went our separate ways, bidding one another good-night in subdued voices. Portia and I made our way slowly upstairs, and I noticed anew the marks of fatigue upon her lovely face.

  “I am glad Father has banished us to our rooms tonight,” I told her. “You look a fright.”

  “I feel one as well. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to entertain properly when there is a dead man in the game larder.”

  I patted her shoulder. “I am sorry for it. Rest is what you need now. Take a nice, dull book to bed and you will be asleep before you know it.”

  “I must look in on Brisbane first. He sent his regrets for dinner by way of Aquinas, but I would like to make certain he is quite all right.”

  That Brisbane was perfectly fine, I had no doubt. He was simply being mysterious, holed up in his room like a wintering bear, nursing at his hookah pipe and cogitating, instead of actively investigating as he ought to be.

  “I am sure he is entirely well,” I told her acidly. “I think you need not bother.”

  She waved an airy hand. “Oh, I do not mind. Besides, I wish to speak with him about another matter we have been discussing. A bit of business between friends,” she finished with a maddening air of vagueness.

  Portia had the nasty habit common to all elder sisters of sometimes pretending to knowledge I did not have in order to provoke me to irritation. I would not be provoked. Instead I lifted my chin, gave her a sweetly sticky smile, and simply replied, “Then I will leave you here. Good-night, dearest.”

  She continued on to Brisbane’s room, leaving me seething with annoyance. “A bit of business between friends,” I muttered. “Bit of business indeed. And what friends? They hardly know one another.”

  I continued on in this fashion until I reached my room where Morag was dozing over her knitting. I poked her with a finger.

  “Get up and go to bed. I shall not want you this evening.

  And take the dog with you.” My plans did not include Florence. Morag yawned and stretched, an elaborate production that took a few minutes. She made a great show of packing up her knitting and collecting the dog whilst I waited.

  “You needn’t tap your foot at me,” she warned. “I am going as fast as I can.”

  “Feathers. You are slow as treacle because you want to know what I am about. And what I am about is none of your business.”

  “Oooh, you are in a right nasty mood, you are. Come, Florence. We’ve no call to be spoken to like that.”

  Nose in the air, she stuffed the dog under one arm, the knitting under the other, and retreated to her room. I paced the room after she left, working off my impatience. I was anxious about the night to come, worried my plan would work, and terrified it would not. Restless, I picked things up and put them down again, tried to read for a while, and even attempted to answer a few letters with little success.

  At last the clock struck midnight, the earliest hour at which I thought my plan might be put into play. I rose from my chair and threw a black dressing gown over my clothes, changing my evening shoes for a pair of slippers with soft felt soles. If I were seen, I could easily claim I was wakeful and in need of a book or some refreshment. But I did not mean to be seen.

  I crept from my room, careful to keep to the interior wall. The gallery was flooded with shifting moonlight. The moon had waxed full, shedding soft pearly light through the great windows. The light shifted as ragged bits of clouds, torn by the warm west wind, dragged over the moon’s face like bits of veiling. I made no sound as I slipped behind the tapestry and depressed the mechanism. I had brought no candle with me. I could not risk being betrayed by the feeble light, and I knew the passage well enough to traverse it by feel. If I climbed slowly and kept my hands in front of me, I should be quite all right, I reasoned. But I will admit to heaving a great sigh of relief when I gained the lumber rooms. Though the moonlight was even brighter here, it took me some minutes to arrange a place of concealment. Finally, I hauled a small trunk onto a larger one and topped them both with a hat form, tucking myself neatly behind. And then I waited.

  It was bitterly cold in the lumber rooms, even with my dressing gown over my clothes, and I wished more than once I had been clever enough to have dragged out a few of the moth-eaten old furs to line my little den. I dozed in spite of the cold, but jerked myself awake, occasionally resorting to little pinches and pokes to keep alert. I waited, thinking of all the things I would rather be doing at that moment. I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I heard a softly muttered curse. Carefully, I stretch
ed my stiffened limbs and dared a peek over the trunk.

  A woman was standing with her back to me, scarcely a dozen feet away. She must have been there a few minutes at least for she had nearly finished assuming her costume. Her hair was obscured by the thick white veiling, and she was already dressed in the ghost’s attire, completely concealing her identity. She was fumbling at her feet, doubtless attaching the pattens to her shoes.

  “Blast,” I mouthed silently. She must have entered whilst I was asleep and I had nearly missed her altogether. It was little wonder Brisbane’s faith in my abilities as a detective was so feeble.

  The woman straightened then, and I had to admit, even at so close a distance, the moonlight lent an eerie effect. I had just watched a mortal woman dress herself in these bits of theatrical garb, and yet I could not suppress a shiver as she glided toward the door, seeming to float above the stone floor like a phantom in a Gothic tale.

  I counted slowly to fifty after she left, then eased from my hiding place. Since I had seen her make use of the hidden stair before, it seemed reasonable she would do so again. I followed, straining my eyes for a glimpse of her flowing white draperies, careful to keep myself in the shadows.

  There was no trace of her on the hidden stair, but when I emerged into the gallery of the ladies’ wing, I saw her at the far end, hovering above the floor, moving slowly toward the staircase. I moved at a pace faster than a walk, but not quite a run, concealing myself behind statues and potted palms. I dashed from one to another, always pausing to make certain she was still within my sights. I followed her from the ladies’ wing and onto the landing. I had a great fright then, for just as I reached the landing she turned back and I was forced to dart behind a suit of armour. I counted to fifty again and dared a peek. She had disappeared, and I had a bad moment or two until I realised she must be on the staircase. There was no possible way to descend while she was still on the stairs, so I waited, marking which way she turned at the bottom, then flying down as fast as silence would permit.

  She had just reached the end of the transept corridor and turned right toward the drawing room. I followed her progress mentally. If I did not see her when I reached the bottom of the stairs, she must have gone into the great drawing room, in which case the little alcove behind Maurice the bear would make a splendid vantage point to watch for her return. And if she was still gliding down the corridor, Maurice would also be an excellent place from which to monitor her progress.

  At least, that was my plan. Over what happened next, I would like very much to draw a veil. It was not my finest moment.

  Just as I turned to the left I saw the ghost, stock still, squarely in the middle of the corridor, and not five feet from me. For an instant I forgot the trick of the black veiling and saw only a faceless phantom, floating above the floor. It lifted its featureless head and raised a spectral hand, pointing at my heart. It gave a low, anguished moan of despair, and with that tormented sound, the illusion was complete.

  I gave a scream, a very little one, and stumbled backward, stepping hard on the hem of my dressing gown. Just as I fell to the floor, a shadow vaulted over me. It was Brisbane, moving like something out of myth. The moonlight sharpened the angry planes of his face, lending him the aspect of an avenging angel. I sat up just in time to see him rush headlong into the ghost, knocking her soundly to the floor. I struggled to my feet, remembering the candle always kept burning in this corridor at night. The ghost must have blown it out to show herself to best advantage in the gloom. It took but a moment to light it again, and by the time the little flame flared up, illuminating the scene, Brisbane had hauled the ghost to her feet, her black veiling dangling free.

  “Charlotte!” I cried.

  She made to wrench her arm free, but Brisbane held her fast with his good arm. “Charlotte, do not give me a reason to slap you, I beg you,” he said pleasantly.

  “Bastard,” she spat.

  “What the devil is this about? I want the truth, and I think I deserve it,” I stated, folding my arms over my chest.

  “She does deserve that much at least, Brisbane. Let us go into the study and discuss this like rational creatures,” Father said. I whirled to find him standing on the last stair.

  “You as well?” I demanded. Father had the grace to look abashed, but he said nothing. He turned to Brisbane in appeal. Brisbane gave him a curt nod and prodded Charlotte toward the study. I hurried after them, and Father followed. We were an unlikely quartet, I thought as Father closed the door carefully behind us and I hurried to light lamps and put a candle to the fire. It blazed up quickly and cheerfully, a counterpoint to our solemn faces. Brisbane was angry, Father was aggrieved, and Charlotte seemed broken, the hot flash of her anger now burnt to resignation. I was frankly bewildered, and after we had taken chairs and accepted the whiskey Father poured out, I settled back to await an explanation.

  “Charlotte King is a jewel thief,” Brisbane said flatly. “A rather exclusive one, to be sure, but a jewel thief nonetheless. I have been engaged to retrieve something she has stolen.”

  “I am not a thief,” she said quietly.

  “Mrs. King, do not speak,” Father advised. “We shall all of us remember what you say, and perhaps we may one day be prevailed upon to repeat it, under oath and to your detriment.”

  Charlotte fell silent and sipped at her whiskey, her eyes downcast.

  “I presume that was the reason for the fictitious engagement?” I asked Brisbane.

  “It was. I needed to spend time with her, to search her place of residence, to follow her to her boltholes and bribe her confederates.”

  Charlotte gave a short laugh, nothing like the silly giggle she had affected. Her façade of sweetness cracked, she seemed a dozen years older. “Confederates, my lord? I must remember that.”

  Brisbane ignored her, as did I. “Why bring her here? To my father’s house?”

  “I had information, from one of her confederates,” he said, drawling the word, “that she was planning to leave the country soon. It seemed logical she would take this particular item with her. I had had no success in recovering the jewel, and time was growing short. It was necessary to isolate her in a place without friends or accomplices and in possession of the stolen property. His lordship volunteered to invite her here.”

  “Father?” I gave him a stern look and he nodded, a trifle sheepishly.

  “I did. I owed Brisbane a rather significant favour,” he said shortly. His jaw was set, and I knew he regretted bringing the sordidness of an investigation into his home. I cocked my head, wondering if either of them would admit to Brisbane’s daring deed in Trafalgar Square.

  “What sort of favour?”

  Father’s eyes slid from mine. He was suddenly terribly interested in the state of his blotter.

  “It does not signify,” Brisbane cut in smoothly. “The fact remains, his lordship offered the use of this house party as a suitable setting to apprehend her.”

  Charlotte gave a harsh laugh. The colour had risen in her cheeks, whether from her predicament or the whiskey, I could not say.

  “Apprehend me! And what have you got, my lord? A handful of tatty old rags and a girl out of bed when she oughtn’t be,” she said to Brisbane, her voice shrill, very near to hysteria, I thought.

  “Is that true?” I asked him. “You have no proof of her crimes?”

  Brisbane’s jaw tightened. “I do not. She has been clever enough to secure the item in question somewhere other than her room or her trunk. I had a strong suspicion she was going to move it tonight. I hid myself in the gallery of the ladies’ wing and followed her when she entered the hidden passage. Once I realised she was assuming her disguise, I retraced my steps and resumed my hiding place in the corridor. From there, I knew once she was garbed in her ghostly costume, she would lead me directly to her cache.”

  I felt a cold chill creep over my limbs that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Brisbane was regarding me with an icy stare, and I unders
tood with a thrill of horror what I had just done.

  “You mean I ruined—” I could not bear to finish the thought.

  “You did,” he put in brutally. I had thought him angry with Charlotte. I should have known better. Brisbane was a professional. He did not permit his emotions to become entangled with the criminals he pursued. My interference, however, could be viewed in a very different light.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

  Charlotte laughed again, mirthlessly. “I suppose I ought to thank you, my lady. Brisbane has nothing to charge me with except the wearing of old clothes I found in the lumber room, and there is no crime in that.” Old clothes she had likely discovered when Aunt Hermia had led a party of chattering ladies to the lumber rooms to choose Lucy’s wedding finery. How simple it must have been for Charlotte to mark those few articles, then return later to fashion them into her ghostly garb. Under different circumstances, I might have admired her ingenuity.

  I raised my head. “But clearly you were abroad for some nefarious purpose,” I argued, desperate to salvage this calamity I had wrought.

  Charlotte smiled at me and took a sip of her whiskey. “Or was I creeping around in this disguise to preserve my reputation? Perhaps I was seeking an assignation?”

  There was no malice in her eyes, only the calm certainty of a woman who has taken every precaution in a dangerous game. This was why she had courted Plum’s attentions, then. She had earned herself a stalwart defender should she have need of one, and an alibi as well.