The Virgin and the Unicorn

by Joan Smith

  They gossiped as they worked. It was the custom for Boxer to bring Lady Hersham tea in mid-morning, as he did on that occasion. It was while she was pouring the tea that Miranda saw Louise in the park. Before the comtesse had walked ten yards, Laurent was rushing out after her. They strolled toward the pavilion, situated on the top of a rolling hill to give a view of the sea beyond.

  Miranda glanced out again a moment later and saw Laurent struggling to pull Louise into his arms. A little tussle ensued, before Louise allowed him to embrace her in what Miranda considered a shocking manner. Miranda looked away hastily, embarrassed.

  That kiss brought back vivid memories of Rotham’s attack in the study. She was trying very hard to forget it, but it came to her at odd moments, always causing a heat to invade her. She was happy that Lady Hersham had not seen Louise and Laurent. It was indiscreet of them to choose such a prominent spot for their tryst. The pavilion was visible from a dozen windows. Anyone might see them.

  After a morning spent sitting down, Miranda agreed to go for a ride with Pavel in the afternoon. They rode through the park and spinney, down to the seashore. Andy Macpherson’s ship was just setting out for France. She wondered if Rotham had taken Castlereagh’s brandy to him, or if he had ever been asked to take it. They dismounted to walk along the shingle beach, with the cold wind blowing in off the sea. It snatched at her skirt and blew little balls of foam up onto the shingle, disturbing the horses.

  “What have you been doing all day?” Miranda asked, in a desultory manner.

  “I have been keeping an eye on the comings and goings in Rotham’s room. I am a bit worried, after that drugged tea Slack was served. I notice Ma’m’selle Chêne takes her meals in the kitchen. It would be easy enough for her to slip a bit of powder into the teapot. I had a word with Cook. Rotham had already warned her to be on the qui vive.”

  “Louise and Laurent are leaving tomorrow for Brighton.”

  “That would explain why Laurent was in the attic.”

  “Yes, Boxer was to bring Louise’s trunks down. Very likely she sent her slave up to tell Boxer which trunks are hers. They were kissing in the park.”

  “She is not quite the thing, when you come down to it. Pretty as can stare, but too fast by half. I say, you ain’t going to spend the evening in the Tapestry Room, I hope? I have got a dandy new word game for us to play. You make up little cardboard squares of all the letters, and each gets seven cards.”

  Miranda let him rattle on. The visit had become very flat since Rotham’s departure. When they returned to the house, Berthier was belowstairs in the Blue Saloon, talking to Lord Hersham. This was not a major excitement. Berthier and Slack took turns guarding the trunk. In fact, Berthier usually took his meals with the family. He and Lord Hersham had struck up an unlikely friendship, based on their common interest in sheep.

  Miranda assumed the book they were poring over was a farmer’s almanac, until Berthier said, “Oh, quite! The stitchery is exactly—”

  As she glanced at the book, Hersham snapped it shut and set a newspaper over it. “Ah, back from your ride. Where did you go?” he asked in a strained way.

  Pavel told him, which left Miranda’s mind free to consider what they had been looking at. It was a picture of men in pointy hats, like those on the embroidered linen in the black trunk.

  “Why do you not get Sissie a glass of wine, Pavel?” Lord Hersham said. Then he rose, taking the book with him, and said to Berthier, “If you have a moment free, Berthier, I wish you will come into my study. I would like to ask your opinion about a pair of rambouillets Lord Melcher is trying to sell me. Excellent wool. He brought them from France, but they were bred from Spanish merinos.”

  Berthier rose and bowed to Miranda before leaving.

  As soon as they were gone, she said, “They were looking at a picture of the old linen embroidery.”

  “Eh? Where did they get it?” he said, handing her a glass of wine.

  “It was in that book your papa took away.”

  “Rubbish. There has not been time to get it painted and into a book. Rotham only brought it home a few days ago.”

  “But it was the same one. I am sure of it. You remember all those men in pointy hats. And they had circles on their clothing, too. The thing must be famous if it is in a book.”

  Pavel took a sip of his wine. “Thing to do—get a peek at the book. I think I have got it figured out now.”

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “The thing was famous before Rotham stole it.”

  “Obviously. But how can we see it? Your papa took it to his study.”

  “Never locks his door. Let us run along and see if he has left it open now. We might hear something.”

  They went into the hallway, around the corner, and down the corridor to Lord Hersham’s study. They could see from the end of the corridor that the door was open. The windows cast a patch of light on the floor by the open door. But when they reached the study, it was empty. They searched the desk for the book; it was not there.

  “Now that is deuced odd!” Pavel exclaimed.

  “Ask Boxer where they went.”

  Boxer had no hesitation to inform Lord Pavel that his lordship had gone abovestairs with Mr. Berthier.

  “They are checking the book against the embroidery!” Miranda exclaimed. “I was right! That was a picture of the embroidery they were looking at. What can it be?”

  “If Papa brings the book down again, I shall keep an eye to see where he hides it. One thing it cannot be is a secret message. I mean to say, if it is old as the hills, it can have nothing to do with Boney.”

  They gnawed over this new aspect of the puzzle until it was time to change for dinner.

  Pavel said out of the side of his mouth as he led Miranda in to dinner, “Papa brought the book down with him. Locked it in his study. I shall take a nip outside after dinner and see if by any chance he left a window open. Not likely. He hates a draft, and that wind is rising.”

  Berthier dined with the family again, but of course, no word was mentioned of the book. The ladies went to the Blue Saloon while the gentlemen had their port. Louise soon excused herself to go and speak to Ma’m’selle Chêne. “My new green gown is proving très difficile” she explained. “I want the fitting to be just right. You will excuse me, madam?” she said to Lady Hersham.

  “Of course, Louise. Miranda can entertain me.”

  She proceeded to entertain herself by falling into a gentle doze by the cozy grate.

  She did not awaken when Pavel darted in to say in a low tone, “Wouldn’t you know it, Papa’s window is closed tight as a drum. He is in his study now. Laurent claimed to have a megrim and went to his room. I believe I shall go and have a word with Papa. What could I use for an excuse?”

  “If he is examining the book, he will only close it. We already know what it contains.”

  “That is true. I shall get a cardboard to make the letters, then.”

  That was how they passed their evening. The only small consolation was that Pavel was such a poor speller that Miranda won two shillings. At eleven Lady Hersham awoke and announced that it was time to retire. Miranda accompanied her upstairs.

  “Tomorrow we shall have another go at the tapestries,” Lady Hersham said.

  The morrow promised to be another dull scald. “That will be nice,” Miranda said dutifully. She would go home tomorrow. Sukey’s spots must be gone by now. But Wildwood would be dull, too, without Rotham. Perhaps Trudie would invite her to visit. She had spoken of finding a parti for Miranda.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda usually slept soundly, but that night she was restless. It was not only the strange bed and the mysterious doings at Ashmead that troubled her rest. She felt some deeper discontent that she did not care to examine, lest she find traces of Trudie’s folly harbored in her own heart.

  When she first heard it, she thought it was only a cat or a mouse. As the scratching persisted, growing louder, she realized it was some
one outside her door. Her heart pounded. Was it a spy? Was someone going to kill her? She leapt out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown around her without saying a word.

  A whispering hiss sounded at her door. “Sissie, it’s me!”

  Pavel! Her tense shoulders relaxed. She opened the door, and he slid in. “Light a lamp,” he said. “I have got news!”

  Her fingers shook as she lit the bedside lamp. “What is it?” she demanded. “You frightened me to death.”

  “Berthier has been murdered!” Pavel said, in a strange, strangled voice.

  “What! Pavel, if this is some joke—”

  “No, it is true.” She noticed then that he was pale and trembling. “I went to check out the Green Room before retiring. Best to be sure, after what happened last night. All was quiet, but I decided I would stay there to stand guard and keep an eye on Slack and Berthier. Eventually I dozed off. It is nearly morning after all. I am not an owl. When I awoke, I decided to go to my own bed. As soon as I went into the hallway, I saw Rotham’s door was ajar. Berthier’s body was there on the floor, covered in blood.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I woke Slack, then I came here to tell you,” he said, in a dazed voice.

  “You must tell Lord Hersham.”

  “Yes, I must,” he agreed. Sharing the horror with someone had helped him to recover. “Papa will wonder how I know. I mean to say—not that there is anything wrong in my standing guard. I was only trying to help.”

  “Tell him, at once! Are you sure Berthier is dead? Might he be drugged, as Slack was?”

  They ran together down the hall to Lord Hersham’s bedroom.

  “He is covered in blood,” Pavel said. “And Slack slept through the whole thing. He felt pretty foolish I can tell you, lying there sawing logs while Berthier was done in. He said he did not hear a sound, not so much as a shout, and he is a light sleeper. Someone convinced Berthier to open that door and ran a knife through his ribs before the poor bleater could utter a word. We know one thing now. Berthier is not the culprit.”

  Miranda remained outside the chamber while Pavel went in and jiggled his papa awake. Unlike Slack, Hersham was a heavy sleeper. Miranda could hear his stertorous snores through the door. She heard him exclaim, “Pavel! What the devil! It is still dark out. Is Ashmead burning down?”

  “It is Berthier, Papa. Someone has killed him.”

  “Good God! Did they get the tapestry?”

  Tapestry? He obviously meant the linen embroidery. Miranda would not have called it a tapestry.

  “I don’t know,” Pavel said, on a curious note.

  Fancy his not thinking to check the black trunk. But then a bleeding body would be a great distraction, she allowed. Within seconds Hersham came pelting out of the bedroom, wearing a pair of blue knitted slippers and pulling a burgundy silk dressing gown around him. He was wearing a makeshift nightcap formed by knotting four corners of a handkerchief. And he still managed to look daunting.

  “Sissie?” he said, in a bewildered way when he saw her, but he did not wait to question why she was there.

  They all three hastened along to Rotham’s chamber. Slack stood at the open doorway, wearing a fearful face.

  “I am sorry, your lordship,” he said. “It was Berthier’s shift. I did not hear a thing.”

  “Is it gone?” Hersham demanded.

  Slack turned and looked at the trunk. Its lid was raised, showing a faded paper lining, and nothing else. “He got away with it,” Slack said.

  “When did it happen?”

  “I was to take over at five. Pavel woke me at four-thirty, and I discovered . . .” He looked at Berthier’s body.

  Miranda just glanced at the empty trunk, then espied Berthier. Slack had drawn his body a few feet into the room. The stains covering his waistcoat might have been molasses; they looked dark and sticky. The knife was not left behind. She saw a pistol on the floor beside him, but obviously he had not had time to use it.

  Hersham rushed forward and began examining Berthier. “He is still breathing,” he said. “Pavel, run for the doctor. We might manage to save him. He is our only hope of discovering who did this.”

  Pavel darted off. Hersham was so upset he still did not question Miranda’s presence. He and Slack discussed what could be done for Berthier.

  “Best not to move him any more,” Slack said. “I had to move him a little to get the door closed.”

  “Put a blanket over him at least. You don’t think we might get a spoon of brandy into him?”

  “I tried that. He is too far gone. I am sorry, milord.”

  “It is not your fault, Slack. You did your best. This is my son’s doing,” he said grimly. Then he looked and really noticed Miranda for the first time.

  While Slack got a blanket and wrapped it tenderly around Berthier, Hersham frowned in confusion at Miranda. Before he could speak, she said apologetically, “Pavel woke me.”

  “Demmed idiot. What did he want to bring a lady into this gruesome business for? What was he doing up in the middle of the night himself, come to that?”

  “He was trying to help. He was watching from the Green Room across the hall.”

  Hersham’s eyes lit up at this. “Did he see—”

  “He fell asleep,” she said in a small voice.

  Hersham turned to Slack. “You must set out for London at once to notify Rotham of this. We have got to get it back.” He gave another frown in Miranda’s direction. “Run along to bed, missie,” he said.

  She was extremely loath to leave. “I might be of some help to Dr. Makepiece, if he requires boiling water or something of that sort,” she suggested.

  “Yes, yes, that is true. Run downstairs and boil us up a kettle. Best not to awaken the servants. What a visit for you, poor girl. You might fetch some bandages and basilicum powder, whatever you think— Never mind. Makepiece will bring that with him. My mind is all at sixes and sevens.”

  Miranda took a lamp and went downstairs into the dark hallway. A tremble seized her as she took her first pace into the gloom. At the back of her mind there hovered the image of Berthier, lying with the blood oozing from his chest. His attacker might be down here, waiting in the shadows....

  Hersham would not want anything to happen to her. She was about to run back upstairs when she heard a key turn in the front door. He was back! Whoever had stabbed Berthier was returning to the scene of his crime. And he would surely kill her next. Her mind told her to run, but her body refused to move. She was frozen to the spot. The lamp shook in her hand. It took all her efforts to blow out the flame. Perhaps he would not see her in the darkness. If she stood very still, she might identify the intruder.

  But it was too late. He had seen the light from her lamp and was coming rapidly toward her. She could see it was a man, tall, walking quickly, right toward her. The fear of imminent death brought her an instant of sanity. She turned and began running upstairs.

  In two strides he had caught up to her. She felt his hands clutch at her dressing gown, pulling her back down. Just as she opened her mouth to scream, a hand was clamped over it. With his other arm, he pulled her roughly against him, her back pressing against his chest.

  “So it is you, after all,” he said in a grim voice. Rotham’s voice! The echo of her heartbeat inside her ears was so loud she could hardly hear him, but she recognized the familiar voice, and a wave of relief washed through her. She tried to turn, but he held her too tightly to move.

  “I am going to remove my hand from your lips now, Comtesse. I doubt you will want to call attention to yourself by shouting. You have some explaining to do.”

  He removed his hand, but still held her from behind. She took a deep breath and said faintly, “It is me, Rotham. Miranda.”

  He turned her around in his arms and peered down into her shadowed face. By the wan ray of moonlight from the window, he discerned that it was indeed Miranda Vale. His mood changed from anger and vigilance to something softer. He thought she looked quite ad
orable, with her raven curls in disarray and her large, dark eyes gazing at him. He could not imagine what she was doing belowstairs at such an hour, but he was heartily glad to see her. He had been thinking of her during the journey and cursing himself for an idiot. Bad enough he had the Trudie affair to overcome, now this tapestry business.

  “Planning to make off with the family silver, were you?” he joked.

  “No, I came to boil water.”

  “As none of the servants is enceinte, it cannot be a birthing that requires boiling water. Excellent. We shall have a tea party, and you shall tell me how much you missed me.”

  How could he joke at a time like this. She wanted to hurt him and said bluntly, “Berthier has been stabbed. The tapestry is gone.”

  He just stared at her, unable to speak. His first reaction was that it was a bad joke, to repay him for frightening her. But as she stared at him, he read the seriousness in her eyes.

  He uttered a low moan. “Oh, God! This is all my fault.”

  “Your papa is with him now. Slack was just preparing to go to London to tell you.”

  Without speaking, he dropped his arms and ran up the stairs two at a time. Miranda followed him. She knew all this was Rotham’s fault, yet she could not find it in her heart to abuse him at this time. He looked so very tired and sorry—and he had looked so happy to see her. She left the father and son alone and went to the sitting room to ask Slack to accompany her belowstairs as she was too shaken to go alone.

  “Rotham has arrived home, so you will not have to go after him,” she explained.

  Slack seemed happy to put off the moment of meeting Rotham and went belowstairs with her.

  The dark rooms did not seem at all frightening, with Slack to keep her company. They lit a few lamps as they progressed toward the kitchen. Slack was so remorseful and so full of apologies that he continued apologizing, even to Miranda.