"Julia, Father said not to worry. He has had word she is all right. She is probably sitting at the Home Farm, warming herself by the fire and driving Benedick to madness."
I remembered then what Portia had said about Benedick braving the snow to come up to the Abbey and shout news to Father.
"Of course. I am just being silly. I'm sure she is perfectly fine. But about Alessandro—"
He groaned and raised his hands. "Very well. I promise to entertain him properly. But not now. Charlotte is waiting."
A warning trembled on my tongue, but I swallowed it. Plum was a man fully grown. He would not thank me for interfering in his affaires du coeur.
"Thank you, dearest. Mind you include Ly. He is looking frightfully peaky."
Plum rolled his eyes again and left me, and I was glad of it. He had been in a frightfully bad temper for months, and his mood seemed to have darkened since we returned home. I trailed slowly back into the dining room and joined Brisbane at the table. I picked up my cup and put it down again. I had no appetite for cold coffee.
"What did you discover from Lucy?" he asked finally.
I pulled a face. "Nothing. She claims she has no memory whatsoever from the time she left the drawing room, until we found her, standing over Snow's body, clutching the candelabrum." A sudden thought occurred to me. Brisbane had a working knowledge of mesmerism. "Perhaps Lucy had been influenced by someone who knew how to wield the prodigious powers of the mind. Is that possible?"
Brisbane ran a hand over his temple. "Possible, but entirely too convenient for my taste."
"Agreed," I said briskly. "So the question is, whom is she protecting? Sir Cedric is the obvious choice."
"Actually, Emma is the obvious choice," Brisbane countered.
"Yes," I said impatiently, "but we have already established, that is, you have already established, this murder was done by a man."
"True enough," he said, far more amiably than I expected.
"So Sir Cedric is our most obvious candidate for murderer," I finished. "We must search his rooms."
"I will search his rooms," he corrected. "It would be highly inappropriate for you to do so."
I felt a little thrill of pleasure at this demonstration of his regard for me. "You mean because a lady should not be present in an unmarried gentleman's bedchamber," I teased, thinking of the many trips I had made to his own chamber the previous night.
"No," he said slowly, his eyes warm with amusement. "I mean it must be done properly and by a professional. You, my lady, are still an amateur."
He was still laughing when I left him.
THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER
He who would search for pearls must dive below.
—All for Love, John Dryden
We had not gone five feet outside the dining room before Brisbane struck out on his own without a word. I cleared my throat. He turned, his brows knit with concentration.
"Yes?"
"I thought we were meant to search together," I told him, reaching for the ragged edges of my patience.
His stance was arrogant, legs wide apart and firmly set. He did not even have to speak to expose his stubbornness; I could read it in every line of his body. "I do not see why that should be necessary."
"Because we are investigating this murder together." There was a tart edge to my voice, even to my own ears. Brisbane ignored it.
He shrugged. "I do not require your assistance to search Sir Cedric's room. Go and have a poke around the lumber rooms. Perhaps your pearls will turn up. At the very least, you can have a look through Snow's portmanteau. I presume that is where it was stored."
My hands fisted at my sides. I forced them to relax, and gave Brisbane my sunniest smile.
"What an excellent notion. I shall go there at once."
He turned on his heel and left me then, but not before I saw an expression of relief flicker over his features. He was pleased to be rid of me, but why? I had known as soon as Father instructed us to work together that Brisbane opposed the idea, but this was more than simple obstinacy. Brisbane had some deeper purpose in keeping me at bay, and I knew the only way to discover it was by stealth. He was a complicated riddle of a man, but puzzling him out was a task to which I felt more than equal.
Determined to solve at least one of the mysteries afoot in the Abbey, I made my way up the staircase to the dorter. On impulse, I paused at Emma and Lucy's door. William V nodded at me genially and I tapped.
Emma called for me to enter, and I was pleased to see that she was sitting in a chair by the fire, wrapped in a dressing gown, a luncheon tray balanced on her knees. There were a few little dishes of invalid food, a bit of soup, a blancmange, a compote of softly stewed fruits.
"I am glad to see you eating," I remarked, taking a chair beside her.
She gave me a gentle smile. "I cannot manage much, but I must recover my strength. Lucy will need me," she added, glancing at the bed. Lucy still slept, bundled in coverlets, her hair spilling across the pillow.
I turned back to Emma. Her eyes were still resting upon her sister's sleeping form. Her face puckered, and for a moment I thought she was going to weep. But her eyes remained dry, and I took the opportunity to study her. The horrors of the night were clearly marked upon her face. Her eyes, usually her best feature, were sunk and darkly rimmed. A few threads of grey I had not seen before wove through her dull hair. Her thin face was pale, and her hands trembled a little as she dipped a spoon into the blancmange. She brought it to her lips, then laid it down untasted, her expression apologetic.
"It is difficult to manage anything. I just kept thinking of where we were, what awful thing Lucy had confessed to. And then the brandy. It seemed quite unreal."
"I know," I told her, my voice warm with sympathy. "But there is hope."
Her eyes lit with the fervour of a mystic saint. "What hope? Julia, you must tell me. If there is any chance, however remote, that my dearest sister may be saved, comfort me with it."
I patted her arm. "I cannot speak of it, but know this—the evidence clears her name. What other troubles she may still face, I cannot say, but of murder she is innocent."
Emma's eyes closed and her head drooped on her slender neck, as a flower nodding on a stem. When she looked up, tears sparkled on her lashes, lending a sudden brilliance to her eyes.
"Bless you. I cannot tell you what this means to me." She hesitated, then rushed on, the words spilling out of her quickly. "The maid who brought the tray said Aunt Dorcas has gone missing. Is this true?"
I nodded. "I am sorry to say it is. But everything that may be thought of to recover her is being done."
"That poor old woman," she murmured.
I hastened to reassure her. "Do not worry, I beg you. She cannot have gone far. There are no tracks in the snow, so she must be here in the Abbey somewhere."
Emma clutched at the neck of her dressing gown. "I never spoke of this, but I am sorry to say she is prey to odd turns from time to time."
"Odd turns? Of what sort?"
"When Lucy and I lived with her, occasionally she wandered off, sometimes even overnight. It used to frighten us terribly, but always she was found, wandering and confused." Emma paused, as if steeling herself, then hurried on, perhaps hoping to confide before her courage deserted her. "Often, when we found her, there would be a trinket, sometimes a jewel, in her pocket. We never spoke of it, of course. Oh, Julia, you mustn't tell anyone what I have said. She always recovered quickly enough once she was home again. She would be furious if she knew I told anyone. But to think of her, so old, so vulnerable—" She broke off, fresh tears coursing down her cheeks. She dashed them away quickly with the back of her hand.
"We have only to find her. A rather sizeable needle in a fairly small haystack," I finished with an attempt at jollity. "Besides, Father says he has had word and she is quite safe. Just off for a bit of an adventure."
She shook her head. "I cannot bear to think of it. She could be stern, you know. I cannot say that I eve
r liked her. But she did her duty by us. She took us in when we were motherless. I will pray for her, and Lucy will as well."
"I am certain your prayers will be effective," I said, almost meaning it. Personally, I preferred more immediate action than petitioning the Almighty, but I tried very hard not to think less of those who believed differently.
We parted then, and I made my way up the tiny, twisting stair, the soles of my shoes scraping lightly the stones that so many sandaled monks had trod before me. The lumber rooms, formerly the scriptoria where manuscripts were copied, were every bit as cold and miserable as I had expected. Frost rimed the tiny windows under the eaves of the larger of the two rooms, permitting only the faintest light to penetrate the shadowy corners. I scurried around, lighting lamps and banishing the gloom, and gathering quite a collection of cobwebs with my hems. Hoots never allowed the maids entrée to the lumber rooms, preferring to dust them himself. He claimed it was because there were too many objects of value tucked away up here, but everyone knew better. Hoots had made himself a rather cosy nest, far away from his butler's pantry and bedchamber. Furnished with a cast-off velvet recamier and a few excellent bottles of Bordeaux, the little corner under the eaves was a perfect bolthole. Father never minded—the Bordeaux was his traditional Christmas present to Hoots—and Aunt Hermia always said Hoots worked harder than twelve men and deserved whatever rest he could snatch.
Now the little couch looked forlorn, and the Bordeaux was far too cold to drink with any pleasure. Poor Hoots. He would miss Christmas at the Abbey terribly. I made a note to remind Father to send him a hamper of delicacies, crowned with the best bottle of wine in the cellars. Perhaps his doctors would make an exception and permit him a thimbleful in honour of the season.
I took up one of the lamps and walked slowly around the room. Most of the contents were as familiar to me as my own face. We had played here as children, exploring each trunk and hatbox, prying open crates to peer at the treasures within, dressing ourselves up in shredded velvets and Prince of Wales feathers that had once graced noble brows during Court presentations. Those little attic rooms echoed with our games and silly songs of our own invention. Eventually we outgrew our Cavalier plumes and Regency silks, letting them fall where we tired of them. It was left to Aunt Hermia to pack them tenderly away in tissue and lavender, and the scent of the herb lingered still, stale and sharp in the cold air. Holding the lamp high, I looked carefully at each trunk, touched the crumbling frames of decaying paintings. I traced the spiders' webs and the dust, and noted the lack of footprints and smudges. This lot had not been disturbed. No one had been here since Hoots had last enjoyed his wine, and I was careful to blow out the lamps, taking one with me to light my way to the lesser lumber room.
This room told another tale as soon as I opened the door. While the larger room was used to hold the Abbey's more important unused treasures, the smaller was the repository of more humble items. The castoffs of daily life found their way here. Instead of court trains and Tudor lace, this room held neglected toys and clothes long out of fashion, pieces we had used for our amateur theatricals. There were my brother Bellmont's schoolbooks in a teetering stack in the corner, nibbled by mice and smelling strongly of mould. A crate by the door held a service of china Aunt Hermia had been given as a gift and hated on sight. And on the opposite side were bags, the trunks and portmanteaux of the houseguests, mine included.
The baggage told an interesting story of its own. Portia and I used similar trunks, of excellent make and quiet colour, discreetly marked with our ciphers. Sir Cedric, on the other hand, had an enormous boat of a bag, peacock-blue leather stamped with his monogram in gilt letters six inches high. Ludlow's was a sober affair of brown calf, a small portmanteau barely adequate for a gentleman's wardrobe. It was mute testimony to his poverty, but at least he had a portmanteau at all. Lucy and Emma had nothing here, I realised as I searched. I had seen them thus far in only two dresses each, and it occurred to me then that was likely all they had. Plain, sober colours for evening, and serviceable wool for day. With a pair of stout walking boots each and a pair of evening slippers, this was their wardrobe. I glanced again at Sir Cedric's exotic baggage and shrugged. I could well understand Lucy's attraction to him. He had spent more money on that single trunk than Lucy had seen in her entire life, I would wager, and when she married him, she would command a sizeable part of that fortune. Such a man would wish his wife to be dressed in the first rank of fashion, noticeably, gaudily even. After a lifetime of living in the shadows, dependent upon the charity of others, the prospect of such riches would be heady.
I moved to Charlotte's trunk. It was small and fashioned of pale kidskin and completely empty, as were the others I searched. I even poked through my own and those of the rest of the party who had come from Italy. I had a notion Alessandro would mind terribly if he found out, so I searched his quickly and closed it with a stab of guilt. I could not truly suspect him of any villainy, but that was the difficulty with murder. It took more than a life; it killed trust as well. I now looked more closely at everyone, scrutinising those I had known well, wondering what secrets lay hidden that friendship or family bonds could not penetrate.
And what of other, deeper and more abstruse emotions, I wondered, staring at Brisbane's bag. That he felt some attraction to me, I had no doubt. Neither did I doubt he was fighting it with every weapon at his disposal. He claimed to blame himself for the calamitous end to our first investigation, for the danger to me, but I felt in my bones there was more to his aloofness. I ran a hand over the soft black kidskin, as if touching his possession could teach me about the man himself.
I suppose I could justify opening the trunk on the grounds that I meant to search all of the bags in the lumber rooms, but the truth is far simpler: I wanted to know more of him, and I thought there might be the slightest chance some article left behind in the bag could give me some enlightenment. As if a bottle of toilet water or a spare comb could interpret a character as complex as Brisbane, I thought bitterly as I threw back the lid, cursing my own foolishness even as I hoped for some bit of illumination.
What I found was no bottle of toilet water, no broken comb or discarded pair of boots. It was a gown, a white gown of sheerest gossamer laid over silk, trailing fingers of cloudy white like fog on a windy night.
I stared at it for a long moment, scarcely believing my eyes. I reached into the trunk cautiously, as if expecting it to move of its own accord. The silk was cold to the touch, and when I lifted it, it foamed up, springing to life. I jumped back, then approached it again, poking at it with a nervous finger. Something sharp jabbed into my flesh and I jerked it back, staring at the bright bead of blood welling on my fingertip. I wrapped my handkerchief carefully about my finger and inspected the dress more closely. Each layer was fitted with a thin bit of wire at the hem, a wire that could be bent to one's whim. The layers could be made to trail out, even when the wearer was quite still, and the effect would be one of ghostly movement.
I laid it aside and removed the rest of the contents. There was a bit of black veiling, sheer but without sheen or pattern. A headdress of sorts followed, more of the white silk overlaid with gossamer tissue. And below this was the most interesting find of all, a pair of pattens. I had not seen them since I was a girl. They were for country-dwellers, an apparatus to strap over the shoes on muddy days. Put simply, they were soles on high iron rings, lifting the wearer out of the muck. They made a tremendous clanging sound as one walked, but as I inspected the bottoms, I realised these would be perfectly silent. They had been fitted with black felt soles, rendering them noiseless, even on the stone floors of the Abbey.
I sat back, staring at the bizarre collection before me. Individually, the pieces were unusual enough; together they made a ghost, dressed in trailing white draperies, features obscured by a bit of black veiling, pattens to make it seem as if the spectre were floating above the floor.
Somewhat against my will, I was forced to admire the ingenuity
behind the costume. I realised as I looked closely, it had been assembled from bits and pieces found at the Abbey. The white costume was one Aunt Hermia had worn to a midsummer masked ball. Titania, I think she was. The pattens had been long discarded. Old-fashioned and ungainly, they had been decaying in the lumber rooms for years. I remembered them from my childhood. The bits of black veiling and felt were easily explained as well—a mourning bonnet stripped of its veil, a wide hat cut into soles. The whole had been cleverly done, and all of it from here in the smaller lumber room. It would not have taken more than a quarter of an hour to effect the necessary modifications, and hey, presto, a phantom was born.
But who? And why hide the costume in Brisbane's trunk? The latter question was easier to answer. Brisbane was clearly too large to be the ghost. If a white gown was found in his trunk, it might occasion some snickering, but no real danger to him. It was a nasty prank on the part of someone who did not wish him well, but it would not do him any lasting harm.
The greater question was who? And as I packed the costume carefully back into the trunk, I realised there was but one way to find out.
* * *
Feeling pleased with myself in spite of the meagre results of my search—Snow's bag had been empty as well—I hurried down the stairs. I had just crossed the gallery with the intent of meeting up with Brisbane in the bachelors' wing when I happened to glance down the gallery toward the ladies' bedchambers. A flicker of movement caught my eye as Charlotte's door opened and a familiar black head edged out.
Just then, I heard a footstep rising on the stair and leaned over the banister to see who approached.
"Charlotte!" I cried, rather more loudly than necessary. From the tail of my eye I saw the black head disappear and the door to her room close swiftly.
Charlotte nodded at me as she gained the gallery. She looked rosy from her outing on the boundary wall, her hands still tucked into a dainty muff of squirrel fur.
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