The Dead Travel Fast

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “And they will simply accept your word for the fact that she is mad? They would lock her up on your recommendation alone?” I asked.

  For a moment, the familiar hauteur settled over his features. “I am the Count Dragulescu. They will do as I say.”

  “And must she be kept in the garderobe until she is taken away?” I asked. “It is so cold there, and it is where Aurelia died.”

  The air of command did not alter. “She will remain there until she is taken. It is the scene of her crime, and it will not harm her to meditate upon her villainy.”

  But as soon as the haughtiness descended, it fled and his tone was gentler. “There is nowhere else that I can keep her to ensure our safety. I have sent a mattress for her comfort, and she will be given hot food whenever she wishes. It is the only way.” He searched my face with tender and imploring eyes. “Will you forgive me?” he asked. “I could say I had no choice in how I brought the matter to light, but I did. I was ruthless, deliberately so. I used you to force a reaction from Cosmina, and I nearly destroyed you in the process.”

  “You did what you must,” I said slowly. “But if you suspected her, why did you not confront her yourself?”

  He paused a moment, as if searching for the proper words, and failing to find them, plunged on, taking honesty as his watchword. “Because I doubted you. I have known her tricks and lies and rages since she was a child. That is the truth of why I refused to marry her. Always there was something not quite human in her, although I never dared speak of it to anyone. But I did not know how deeply rooted the madness was. I too searched her room, when I left you in the garden. I found the letter and the carving fork and the rosary, and I saw how neatly it might all have been done.”

  “You found them—and still you did not expose her?” I made to pull away, but he held me fast.

  “Because I know her, I have always known her. She is capable of turning any circumstance, no matter how black, to her advantage. The objects alone were no proof, particularly since she would only say you had put them there yourself. And God help me, I doubted you. I had to know the truth.”

  I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, and snapped it closed. Had I not doubted him for the duration of our acquaintance? I owed him a just response.

  “I suppose I understand,” I said slowly. “But my goading her into a rage has accomplished nothing. She confessed to theft, nothing more. She will never admit to killing Aurelia or to attempting to harm you. Even your own mother does not believe her guilty.”

  “But I do,” he said with a grim note of satisfaction. “And I have the power to send her away.”

  “What of the evidence itself? Dr. Frankopan took it from me. If only we can find him.” But even as I said the words, I realised the futility of it all. Dr. Frankopan would die sooner than see his only child swing from a hangman’s noose. Doubtless the evidence against Cosmina had been destroyed, dropped into the river perhaps, to be swept away to the sea.

  “He is missing and no one knows where he is bound,” the count told me. “Without evidence, we cannot go to the authorities. It is for me to mete justice to Cosmina, regardless of what my mother believes.”

  We both fell silent again, and the strong sturdy rhythm of his heartbeat under my cheek comforted me.

  “How did you know to send them for me?” I asked. “How did you know what Dr. Frankopan meant to do?”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “I knew nothing. At first, we only knew you had disappeared from your room, that the door was locked and still you had escaped. To me, this meant either you feared someone in the castle or you were fleeing to escape your own misdeeds. Dr. Frankopan was the only person you knew outside the castle and he too had been missed. And then I remembered that before the accident, I had sent word to Dr. Frankopan that I believed I knew who was behind the villainy in the castle. I wanted to consult him about whether Cosmina could have struck the precise blow that killed Aurelia. I knew they often discussed medical matters, and she often helped to nurse the folk in the village under his direction. He would have known if she were knowledgeable enough to effect such a murder.”

  He touched the row of stitches in his face absently, and I wondered if they pained him. “But he never came. He sent word he was at a confinement, and that was the night I fell from the observatory.”

  “Fell or were pushed?” I asked gently.

  “I do not know. I saw no one and I remember nothing, only the sensation of falling and the desperate lunge to catch myself. But as I lay in bed, thinking about you and the possibility that you had done this to me, I thought of my doubts about Cosmina, and I realised Dr. Frankopan was far likelier to play the comrade to her than to you. He has always shown partiality to her, and it did not escape me that my accident happened just a few hours after I gave him reason to fear for Cosmina. And I began to think if I had been deliberately pushed, then perhaps you were in danger as well. I sent out Florian and Charles and told them to take a piece of your clothing and Tycho. He found you, thank God,” the count added fervently. “They carried you first to Frankopan’s cottage, where they discovered the empty bottle of sedative with the tea things and guessed at what he had done. From there they brought you to the castle, hoping that with time the sedative would run its course and you would waken. You must rest now,” he told me. “You have been through a terrible ordeal, and we will speak again later. There is much to discuss.”

  I obeyed, but when he left me and I settled into bed, I found I could not sleep. I thought of Dr. Frankopan, so casually capable of leaving me to die, torn apart by wolves. And I thought of Cosmina, savaged by the rage she carried. And the countess, who even now believed that some monstrous revenant stalked her castle. I hated and pitied them all, and I do not know which emotion surprised me the more.

  The next day a flurry of letters came and went, and I saw little of Charles or the count, for without the use of his writing arm, the count depended upon Charles as his amanuensis, and Charles spent long hours at the count’s side, penning the letters that would settle Cosmina’s fate. Messengers came and went, village lads who brought letters and gossip, and by the second day, everything had been settled. I had been given strict instructions to rest and saw no one, although my thoughts turned often to Cosmina, biding her time in the garderobe below me.

  Early on the second morning, she was summoned to the great hall where the count stood, Tycho at his side, looking for all the world like a feudal prince. The rest of the household had gathered as well, and a quiet and tractable Cosmina was brought to the hall. The countess was pale, but resplendently dressed in a gown stiff with jet embroidery, her chin held very high as she stared directly ahead. A strange gentleman stood at the count’s side, and when Cosmina entered, he regarded her with a cool and professional curiosity. Her gown was creased where she had slept in it, and her hair was untidy, but she did not seem to notice, and her eyes darted strangely, as if the time she had spent in the garderobe had turned her wits entirely, as if the thin thread that had bound her to sanity had snapped once and for all.

  “Cosmina, this is Herr Engel. He keeps a private rest home in Hermannstadt. He would like to take you there for a rest,” the count said gently, but I was not deceived. He watched Cosmina as a dog will watch a viper, and she returned the look, cold and calculating.

  “I am to be sent away?”

  “For a little while,” Herr Engel soothed. “Just until you have recovered your nerves, my dear.”

  It was a lie of course, and Cosmina smelled the untruth of it upon him. She laughed, a sharp and bitter sound that shattered the quiet of the great, vaulted room. “I am going away.” She turned to collect us with her look. “I am going away and you all will stay. You will write to me, won’t you?” And then she laughed again until she fell silent, and somehow her silence was worse than anything she could say. No matter how kindly Herr Engel put a question to her, she refused to reply, perhaps as a means to holding the reins of the situation.

  At last he s
hrugged his shoulders and nodded towards the count. The count gestured towards Florian, who opened the doors to the courtyard where a group of village men had gathered. For an instant, it seemed as if a mob had come, and Cosmina’s courage failed her. She staggered a little, but Herr Engel offered his arm in a very gentlemanly fashion, and she took it, raising her chin in a gesture of noble dignity very reminiscent of the countess.

  At the doors they paused and Cosmina looked at him. “What about my things? Shall they be sent on? I should like my things.” Her tone was anxious, and Herr Engel was quick to reassure her.

  “We have all that you could require. And if there is something of importance, we will send for it,” he soothed.

  Mollified, Cosmina walked out with him, never turning back, never saying goodbye. I heard later that the party of villagers divided and seven strong men walked in front of her and seven behind, guarding lest she attempt to flee. The villagers noted the strangeness of the doctor’s carriage, for it was a curious thing, with barred windows and heavy leather shades. And when Cosmina and her escort reached the carriage, he instructed his driver to lock them in together until they reached Hermannstadt.

  The villagers had other things to spice the meat of their gossip, for Dr. Frankopan had not been found, but Teodor Popa had returned home, wearing a bright red coat that looked familiar to many. It had been badly slashed, and there were stains upon it that were dark and rusty, but Madame Popa was an excellent housekeeper, and it was not long before the fabric was clean and the rents mended and the brass buttons polished, and when Teodor Popa wore his coat in the village, no one dared to ask him where he had found it. The cottage in the woods remained shuttered and dark, and Madame Popa found employment with the innkeeper, whose wife was carrying again and could no longer manage her duties.

  I saw little of the countess, for she did not seem willing to relent in her opinion of me, and every glance she threw my way carried condemnation for Cosmina’s departure. She bore no such ill will towards her son, but I was not surprised. A mother’s indulgence is a powerful thing, and she would not blame the count for his resolution to the situation, but rather I must bear the burden of guilt for bringing Cosmina’s crimes to light.

  For his part, Florian’s sadness seemed permanently etched upon his face, and when he sought me out the afternoon before Charles and I planned to leave, I did not know what I should say to him.

  We walked to the piggery together, for I craved fresh air and in spite of the cold of the drawing in of autumn, it was bracing and exhilarating. We did not speak until we reached the piggery, and even then Florian seemed to struggle for his words.

  “I must ask forgiveness, for this is the Christian thing to do, and I have seen too much of the Devil in this place,” he said suddenly, his face flushing painfully.

  “Yes, there is too much of the Devil here,” I agreed. “But what have I to forgive you for?”

  He hesitated a long moment, watching a fat porker root in the ground for something tasty. When he spoke, he did not look at me. “I liked you, very much, when first you came here. But then Miss Cosmina says things, terrible things, and I began to hate you. She says them to my mother as well, and my mother, she tells me I must not speak with you. I told her I would speak with you, for you were a kindly person. My mother was angry with you because of this, and soon I believe the things that Miss Cosmina said of you.”

  It was a long speech for Florian, and I had no doubt, a painful one. I wanted to put a hand to his arm to console him, but it seemed an intrusion. “I understand, Florian. Either Cosmina or I must have been living a lie, and it is difficult to doubt the one you love.”

  He turned swiftly to me to deny it, but I raised a hand. “Let us be truthful in goodbye. I know you loved her. I did as well. There is nothing shameful in your regard for her, Florian. We do not choose where we will love.”

  He considered this a long moment, then turned back to his pigs.

  “Will you remain here, now that she is gone?”

  He shrugged. “To stay, I die. To leave, I die. Here I have memories. They cut me, these memories. But I am content to suffer. So I stay.”

  There seemed no possible reply to this that would not diminish the magnitude of his pain, so I fell silent for a time as well and watched the pigs, sleek and content.

  “The improvements in the village will lighten the burden of your work,” I said hopefully.

  He shrugged again, an Oriental gesture of resignation. “Perhaps. But the villagers carry fear in the heart.”

  “They are fearful? Of what?”

  “The strigoi at the castle,” he replied.

  “They ought not to be. I know the countess still believes that Count Bogdan walks, but no one else does.”

  “Tereza believes,” he rejoined. “And she speaks with a loose tongue. She tells the people Count Andrei flew and Count Bogdan walks undead. The people fear the strigoi is come to them.”

  I did touch his arm then. “Florian, you must help to persuade them that this is nonsense,” I said, feeling the hypocrite even as I said it. If I, an educated and modern woman had thought it possible, how much likelier were unschooled peasants to believe in such things?

  “Is it?” he asked swiftly. He bent towards me. “I am glad you will be leaving. This is not safe, to be here.”

  “Florian, you cannot believe it. The Dragulescus have been patrons and friends to your family for so long. You cannot believe they are monsters,” I told him, my tone sharp.

  “I see the roof where Count Andrei falls. He says he catches himself, but it is not a possible thing.” He paused, his mournful eyes bright with speculation. “I am believing he flew.”

  I felt the anger rising hot and thick within me. What hope did the count hold to banish the rumours if his own steward fed them? “Then I can only say I am surprised you would continue to work for him if you believe it. You should be shamed to take his money.”

  Florian gave me a fatalistic smile. “Folk here say, ‘Better a mouse in the pot than no meat at all.’” His expression softened. “I am being a poor man. I must take any coin, even the Devil’s.”

  I felt a prick of shame myself then, for I had forgot myself and the fact that Florian must work for his meat. I meant to earn my own keep, but I had Anna and Charles and other means of keeping myself from the workhouse. Here, there was not even that dread institution to provide for Florian should he leave the count’s employ.

  “We are neither of us free men, are we, Florian?” I asked finally. And I put out my hand to shake his.

  That afternoon, I took my courage in my hands to go and bid farewell to the countess, for although she deplored my presence, the proprieties must be observed, and it was necessary to take formal leave of her before our departure. I found her in her bedchamber, sitting before the fire and stitching at a piece of tapestry bound tightly within its frame. She was working a scene from Greek mythology, a stretch of golden stitches forming a beach and a swathe of blue and green for sea and sky.

  She waved me to the chair opposite and I took it, rather surprised that she even bothered with the gesture of welcome. I nodded towards the tapestry. “How lovely,” I told her, and she fixed me with her cold grey eyes and gave a sharp little cough.

  “The sacrifice of Iphigenia. Surely you know the story, Miss Lestrange. The eldest daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, sacrificed by her father for a good wind to launch the effort to retrieve Helen of Troy.”

  I realised then that her needle was laden with scarlet thread and she was setting tiny, precise stitches just at the throat of the graceful figure stretched upon a plinth.

  “Yes, I recall it,” I told her, finding the scene distasteful now and unpleasant. “I have come to bid you farewell and to thank you for your hospitality.”

  She pushed the needle into the fabric, setting another tiny stitch into Iphigenia’s throat. “Of course, Miss Lestrange. You have been a most welcome and entertaining guest.” The words were the purest politesse,
but there was no warmth in them.

  Another stitch, this time a drop of blood staining the sand crimson. I looked away, fixing my attention upon the painting of the countess and her sister, the beautiful Tatiana.

  “I am sorry about your sister,” I said impulsively. “Dr. Frankopan explained what became of her. That must have been very difficult for you. I have a sister myself, and I understand the bonds of sisterly affection,” I finished, rather pathetically. The grey eyes lifted to mine and I saw resentment and scorn there. She did not want my pity, and it was presumptuous of me to offer it.

  I rose and turned to leave, but even as I did so, something tugged at my memory.

  “Her inheritance,” I said quietly. I subsided back into my chair, conscious of the countess watching me closely even as she worked. “Tatiana was the elder and it was she who inherited the fortune. It was to have passed to Cosmina upon her marriage or her majority, her twenty-fifth birthday, I suspect. That was why you were so eager to marry her to your son. I could not imagine why any mother would willingly unite her son to a girl who carried the taint of madness in the blood, but I see it now. You have had the control of her money all these years, and if she married your son, you would still have a claim upon it, would you not? But if she inherited in her own right, the entire fortune would be at her disposal. She could do as she pleased, even to taking the money from here and establishing a household elsewhere. And you did not want that.”

  The hand that held the needle stilled, and I realised she was watching me with a predatory amusement.

  “You are enjoying yourself, Miss Lestrange, go on.”

  My mind was working feverishly, dredging up all the bits of gossip I had heard, recollecting the odd looks and the unexplained discrepancies I had noted.