Silent In The Grave (4 page)

In the end, there was nothing to fear. No great tragedies. Just the small troubles, the little tragedies that can dull a marriage and cause it to fray. We had no child, Edward’s health began to fail, we began to follow our own pursuits and spent less and less time together. Edward was pernickety, something I had noted before, but never considered in the context of our life together. It meant that things must be just so for him to be happy. The decoration of the house, the cut of my clothes, the folding of the towels, the laying of the table. I laughed at first and tried to jolly him out of it, but he grew stubborn, and after a while I realized it was easier to let him have his way. The house was kept the way he liked it, my clothes were ordered from his dead mother’s dressmaker, in colours he favored that I knew suited me not at all. But it made him happy, and I cared so little. It was easy to convince myself that these things did not matter. We had been married a few years by the time I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass and realized I did not know my own reflection. I was losing myself a bit at a time, and I did not know how to get it back. My only refuge was my study, where I kept my favorite books and furniture discarded from my father’s homes. In that room I wore an old dressing gown that Edward detested. He learned not to come there, and I learned to lock myself in when I needed to feel like Julia March again, if only for a little while. It was my little den, my nest of comforts for when I felt unruly and savage and found myself itching to rebel against the normality I had thought I wanted. I went there and calmed myself and found peace in letting him have his way yet again. I was always afraid that if I stood my ground, if I argued for scarlet gowns or purple velvet draperies, I would slip too far down the path toward the very thing I was trying to avoid. There was too much colour in being a March, and Edward, with my willing assistance, did all that he could to paint my life beige.

I think, too, that perhaps I gave way so often because I knew that he would not live long. There was always a sense of waiting in our house, watching for the final attack, for a worsening of his symptoms, for the time when the doctor must be called and preparations made. It had made for an uneasy life, and I dreaded the idea that I should have to live it all again with Simon. True, he was not my husband, but I did love him dearly, like another brother, and to know that his time would be so short was almost more than I could bear. A year at most, the doctor had said. And so little to be done for him in the meanwhile.

But what of afterward? I wondered as I sat in my study, contemplating my mourning. What would become of me then? The life I had fashioned for myself as Edward’s wife seemed intolerably small now. And in spite of its size, Grey House suffocated me. The air was dead as a tomb, and the rooms full of memories that I did not wish to preserve. How then to break free of them?

The Ghoul could be persuaded to leave in search of more intimately connected bereavements. Val could simply be told to take rooms for himself or return to Father’s. Grey House would be empty, those enormous rooms echoing coldly. It was big, far too big for a childless widow. I could sell it and purchase a much smaller house, something still near to the park, but on a quieter street. Something elegant and discreet, with a tiny staff, perhaps only Aquinas and Morag, with Cook and a pair of maids and Diggory, the coachman. The battalion of maids that it took to run Grey House could be gotten new places. The footmen were a useless extravagance, they too could be given good characters and let go.

The more I considered the idea, the more excited I became. I found myself walking the rooms of Grey House mentally cataloging what pieces I would take with me and which I would send to the auction house, or perhaps sell with the house itself. There was little I wanted. Almost every painting or piece of furniture carried Edward’s stamp. I wanted to start afresh, with new things I had chosen for myself. It would take a while to settle matters, I realized. Grey House had so many rooms, all fitted with costly furnishings. To arrange for it all to be sold and to fit out a new house could take months. Months I might spend more profitably abroad, I decided. I could shop for new pieces in Paris and Italy, taking a leisurely tour of the Continent as I went. I had been to Paris before, but never beyond, and the notion of Europe tantalized me. So many shops and museums, so much culture and beauty. Opera, paintings, books, concerts, the ideas spun me around and dizzied me. I could take as long as I liked. And to make matters simpler, my brothers Ly and Plum were still traveling in Italy, having discovered that two could live as cheaply there as one could in London. They were artists, one a poet and composer, the other a painter. They would provide me with companionship, sympathy, laughter. And when I needed to be alone, I could simply move on—Perugia, Rome, Capri, Florence—the possibilities were endless. I need not even plan my return, but simply take things as they came, wandering idly from city to city as my fancy took me. The very idea was more intoxicating than any spirit I had ever drunk.

Stealthily, I raided Edward’s library for every book I could find on Italy. I pored over maps, plotting out a dozen different itineraries. I read lives of saints and politicians and princesses and made endless lists of verbs to memorize and temples to visit. Within a few days, I was drunk with Italy and starting to recover quite nicely from the shock of Edward’s death. I knew that I had not come to terms with the vastness of it yet, but I also knew that grief takes its own time. I would distract myself with plans and projects, and would pass my first year of mourning with purposeful occupation. And at the end of it, I believed I would be able to think of Edward with something like fondness, perhaps even nostalgia.

Of course, nothing like that happened, but I do not entirely blame myself. I think I might have pottered along quite civilly had Nicholas Brisbane not come to call. It was a week after the funeral and I was in my study, valiantly trying to twist my tongue and pen around an irregular verb, when Aquinas scratched at the door.

I bade him enter and he did, bearing a salver with a caller’s card. I glanced at it and felt myself flush with guilt. I had meant to write to Mr. Brisbane and thank him for his prompt resourcefulness during Edward’s collapse. At first I simply put it off, dreading the task. After that I had forgotten, enchanted as I was with my paper Italy.

I told Aquinas to show him in at once. I dashed the pen into its holder and thrust my untidy papers into the book of Italian grammar. I was just scrabbling the last stray lock of hair into my snood when Aquinas reappeared with Mr. Brisbane.

I rose, moving around the desk to bid him welcome. I was conscious then of the plainness of the room, its tattered edges that seemed even shabbier when compared to his impeccable tailoring. He was dressed in a town suit that had been cut by a master’s hand; his black leather boots were highly polished, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane, its silver head resting in the hollow of his hand.

“Mr. Brisbane—” I began, but he raised a gloved hand.

“You must permit me to apologize before anything else,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “I know full well the indelicacy of calling upon so new a widow, and you must believe that I would not intrude upon your grief were the matter not one of extreme importance.”

My eyes flew to the desk, stacked high with traveling books, and I felt myself grow warm. “Of course, Mr. Brisbane. I must apologize for my own incivility.” I waved him to the chair and perched myself on the edge of the sofa. He seated himself as a cat will, lightly, with an air of suspended motion that seemed to indicate wariness and an ability to move quite quickly if circumstances demanded. His hat and gloves rested in his lap. He kept the walking stick in his hand, rolling the head in his palm.

I rushed to speak. “I neglected to write to you, to thank you for your dispatch and your resourcefulness the night my husband—” I paused, searching for a word that was neither too vague nor too indelicate “—collapsed,” I finished. It was a weak sort of word, one I would not have chosen had I been speaking to anyone else.

But something about Nicholas Brisbane intimidated me. It was ridiculous that this man, about whom I knew nothing, whose birth and circumstances were likely inferior to my own, should cause me to be so unsettled. Without thinking, I smoothed my skirts over my lap, conscious of the careless creases. He was watching me, coolly, as if looking through a microscope at a mildly distasteful specimen. I lifted my chin, attempting aloofness, but I am certain I did not manage it.

“Do not think of it, I beg you,” he said finally, settling back more comfortably in his chair. “I was gratified to have been of some small service to Sir Edward in his time of need.”

I could hear Aquinas, thumping things about in the hall. Like all good butlers, he was usually cat-footed about his work. His noises were a signal to me that he was within earshot if I needed him.

“Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Brisbane? Tea?”

He waved a lazy hand. His gestures were indolent ones, but affectedly so. He might wear the mantle of the idle London gentleman, but I had seen with my own eyes that he could move quickly enough if the situation warranted action. I found it curious, though, that he adopted a pose of sorts.

Without the prospect of tea to look forward to, I was at a loss. I knew it was my responsibility to introduce a topic of respectable conversation, but in that interminable moment, my breeding failed me. The only event we had in common was the one of which we had already spoken and could not possibly speak of again. Mr. Brisbane seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was not. It reminded me of the endless chess games I used to play with my father when one or the other of us invariably forgot it was our turn and we sat, ossifying, until we realized that we were actually supposed to move.

In fact, the more I studied Mr. Brisbane, the more he resembled a chess king. Polished and hard, with a certain implacable dignity. He was darker than any man I knew, with storm-black eyes and a head of thick, waving hair to match that would have made Byron prickle with jealousy.

But my scrutiny did not amuse him. He arched a brow at me, imperious as an emperor. I was mightily impressed. He did it much better than Aunt Hermia.

“My lady, are you quite well?”

“Quite,” I managed feebly, trying to think of a convincing lie. “I have not been sleeping very well.”

“Understandable, I am sure,” he offered. He paused, then sat forward in his chair with the air of a man who has just made up his mind to do something unpleasant, but necessary.

“My lady, I have not come solely to offer my condolences. I have come to deliver news that I feel will certainly be unwelcome, but must be related nonetheless.”

My stomach began to ache and I regretted missing luncheon. Whatever Mr. Brisbane had to tell me, I was quite certain I did not want to hear it.

“My lady, what do you know of me?”

The question caught me unawares. I struggled a moment, trying to reconcile gossip with decorum. What I had heard, and what I could repeat, were not always the same thing.

“I believe you are a detective of sorts. A private inquiry agent. I have heard that you solve problems.”

His mouth twisted, but I could not tell if it was meant to be a smile or a grimace. “Among other things. I returned to London two years ago. Since then, I have enjoyed some success in disposing of matters of a delicate nature for people who do not care to share their difficulties with the Metropolitan Police. Last year, I decided to set myself up in business formally. I have no offices as such, nor is there a sign proclaiming my profession at my rooms in Chapel Street. There are simply discreet referrals from clients who have availed themselves of my services and been pleased with the result.”

I nodded, understanding almost nothing of what he said. The words made sense, but I could not imagine what they had to do with me.

“The reason I am here today, my lady, is because one of those clients was your late husband, Sir Edward Grey.”

I took his meaning at once. I bit my lip, mortified.

“Oh, I am so sorry. My husband’s solicitors are handling the disposition of his accounts. If you will apply to Mr. Teasdale, he will be only too happy to settle—”

“I do not require money from you, my lady, only answers.” He cast a glance toward the open door. Aquinas was careful to leave no shadow across the threshold, but I fancied he was not far away. Mr. Brisbane must have sensed it as well, for when he spoke, his voice was a harsh whisper.

“Have you considered the possibility that your husband was murdered?”

I sat, still as a frightened rabbit. “You have a cruel sense of humour, Mr. Brisbane,” I said through stiff lips. I thought again of Aquinas lingering in the hall. I had only to call him and he would remove Mr. Brisbane from my house. He was no match for Mr. Brisbane’s inches, but he could enlist the footmen to throw him bodily out the door.

“It is no jest, my lady, I assure you. Sir Edward came to me, a fortnight or so before he died. He was anxious, fearful even.”

“Fearful of what?”

“Death. He was in mortal fear for his life. He believed that someone intended to murder him.”

I shook my head. “Impossible. Edward had no enemies.”

Brisbane’s cool expression did not waver. “He had at least one, my lady. An enemy who sent him threatening letters through the post.”

I swallowed thickly. “That is untrue. Edward would have told me.”

He remained silent, giving me the time to work it out for myself. I did finally, and it was horrible.