Silent In The Grave (8 page)

“My safety! Why on earth should I take precautions on that score in coming here? You are my agent.”

Brisbane swallowed and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.

“No, I am not. I was your husband’s agent, and he is dead. I have not taken a farthing from you. And as for your safety, you have acted with the most appalling disregard for your own life because you failed to consider one thing, one thing that is staring you squarely in the face.”

“And what is that?” I demanded hotly. My temper was entirely frayed by now. I had had enough of his cryptic manner and ghoulish games.

He leaned forward, clamping both hands onto the arms of my chair. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he loomed over me, and I knew if I spoke it would come out as a feeble squeak. His face was inches from mine, his voice harsh and low.

“Did you never once ask yourself, my lady, if
I
might have murdered your husband?”

towel, perhaps—”

“No, thank you,” he said, his tone still acid.

“I’m afraid it’s going to raise an awful lump,” I put in helpfully. That much was a guess. Brisbane had not lifted the leg of his trousers, nor would I have expected him to. Our relationship was quite unorthodox enough without the sight of his bare leg adding to the mix. “Oh, do stop scowling at me like that. It really was your own fault, you know, frightening me like that. Of course I never thought you murdered Edward. Why should I?”

“That was precisely the point,” he replied through gritted teeth. “You must consider every possibility. You must realize that no one is above suspicion. You must be willing to scrutinize every person who knew your husband and consider at least the possibility that they were responsible for his death. If you cannot do that, you cannot continue with this investigation.”

“But why would you want to murder Edward? You barely knew him.”

Brisbane continued to grind his teeth, but I think it was more out of frustration than pain. “I barely knew him according to…”

He paused, waiting for me to catch up. “According to—oh, I do see now. According to you. And if you were the murderer, that makes your information rather suspect.”

“Quite,” he said grimly.

“Well, did you murder him?”

Brisbane looked at me, fairly goggle-eyed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you murder him? It is a simple question, Mr. Brisbane. Kindly answer it.”

“Of course I didn’t! Of all the bloody—”

“You needn’t swear at me. You said I must consider the possibility that you killed him, and I have. I asked you, you said no, and I believe you.”

He shook his head, his expression staggered. “You cannot do this. You cannot simply
ask
people if they killed your husband. Sooner or later, you will ask the wrong person. You will be killed in a week, you must know that.”

I strove for patience. “Mr. Brisbane, I am not entirely stupid. But circumstances and my own fairly dependable judgment have convinced me that you were not responsible for his death. I promise you that I would not be daft enough to ask anyone I actually suspected.”

His look was doubtful. “There are a hundred different ways you could get hurt—badly. You must be very certain what you are about to embark upon. This is no detective story, my lady. There is no guarantee we will unmask this murderer. He could slip through our fingers quite easily. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Our murderer, if in fact there is one, is comfortable by now. He has had almost a year of freedom, without even a whisper of murder to disturb him. If he thinks that is about to change, he might well panic, become desperate, even. He might tip his hand.”

“How?” I took a sip of tea, cool now, but still refreshing.

“He might try to attack you, for instance.”

I blinked at him and he went on, blandly. “I have been assaulted several times in the course of my work. If you were to take an active role in this investigation, you put yourself at risk of harm, even death. I cannot prevent it, you must know that. A clever murderer, one who is determined, desperate, could dispatch you before either of us even realized you were in danger. You must think of that,” he finished.

“But you said he is comfortable,” I pointed out. “So long as we do nothing to alert him, he would remain so and there would be no danger.”

Brisbane shook his head. “Unlikely, at best. Most of the criminals I have encountered have a dog’s nose for trouble. They sense when they are about to be found out. And they usually take steps to avoid it. Sometimes they flee, but other times…” His voice broke off and his eyes were distant, as though seeing gruesome conclusions to his other cases.

“That does not frighten me,” I said boldly.

Brisbane’s gaze dropped to mine. “It should. If you are not afraid, you will not take the proper precautions. That sort of stupidity could get you killed. Or at best, jeopardize the investigation so badly we never catch him. And there are other dangers as well.”

“Such as?” I asked with a sigh. I was beginning to feel less than welcome.

“Investigations are rather like snake hunts. Rocks are overturned, hidden places are prodded, and what turns up is often rotten, poisonous and better left undisturbed. Sometimes it is an evil that has nothing to do with the investigation, just something dark and vicious that should never have seen the light of day. But lives are changed, my lady.”

“You are being cryptic again, Mr. Brisbane. I have no secrets.” Of course, as soon as I said the words, I wished them back. Everyone has a secret or two, however innocent.

He focused those hypnotic black eyes on me for a long moment. “Very well,” he said, his voice light. “Perhaps you would like to try a little experiment.”

His expression was guarded, but there was anticipation there, something almost gleeful. It made me nervous. “What sort of experiment?”

“Oh, nothing painful. In fact, quite the reverse.” He smiled suddenly. “If you wish to be a part of this investigation, you must first provide me with information about Sir Edward, your household, your family. I shall simply ask you a series of questions. Nothing too frightening about that, is there?”

There was the faintest tone of mockery in his voice. I had taunted his courage before, now he was taunting mine.

“Nothing at all,” I said roundly. “When do we begin?”

He smiled again, that serpentine smile that Eve must have seen in the Garden. “No time like the present.”

He began to make a few alterations in the room. The tea things were dispatched to a far table, jostling a small clock, a set of nautical instruments and a tortoiseshell. In their place he put a single candle, a thick, creamy taper that he lit with a spill from the fireplace.

Then he reached for a lacquered box on the mantel. Out of it he scooped a handful of something that rustled, dried flowers or leaves, perhaps. These he hurled into the fireplace. The change was immediate. There was a fragrance, subtle and soothing, and the flames burned bright green for a moment. He turned to me then, brisk and businesslike.

“Remove your jacket, my lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” I clutched the lapels of my jacket together like a trembling virgin. He sighed patiently.

“My lady, I am no Viking bent on pillage, I assure you. You will understand what I am about in a moment. Take off your jacket.”

I complied, feeling like an idiot. If Portia had not made it very clear to me that Brisbane would never think of me as a woman, he certainly had. I struggled out of the jacket, regretting that I had instructed Morag to put out the new silk. It was tight and I knew I must look like a wriggling caterpillar trying to get it off. Finally I was free of it and Brisbane took it, tossing it onto a chair. Then, before I could remonstrate with him over the expense of the silk he was creasing, he grasped my ankles and swung them to the sofa.

“Mr. Brisbane!” I began, but he silenced me with an exasperated gesture.

He released my ankles then, but I could still feel the pressure of his hands through skirts, petticoats, boots, and stockings. He thrust a pillow behind my head, causing me to lie back in a posture I had most certainly never adopted in front of an acquaintance before.

“Comfortable?” he inquired, resuming his seat.

“Rather like Cleopatra,” I returned tartly. “What exactly is the point to all of this?”

“I told you, it is the beginning of our investigation.”

He busied himself taking a notebook and pencil from the drawer of the table beside him. “I know it seems unorthodox, but I need information from you, and I believe that the more relaxed a person is, the more information he or she will relate.”

“You believe. Is this your normal practice? Do you do this to all of your clients?”

“No, because most of my clients would not consent to it.”

“What makes you think that I will?”

“You already have, my lady. Besides, you are a rather special case.”

I felt a warm flush of pleasure. “I am?”

“Yes,” he replied absently. “Most of my clients are far more conscious of their dignity to permit such an experiment.”

The flush ended abruptly. “Oh.”

“But I have great hopes for you, my lady,” he continued. The flush began again, a tiny, creeping wave this time, but at least I did not feel quite so low. “I have read a great deal about the techniques used by the police and by those who practice psychology. Some of them seem quite suitable for use in my own work. It is just a theory at this point, but I have had some success in the past.”

Of that I was certain. I wondered how many other ladies’ ankles he had handled, and promptly dismissed the thought as unworthy of me.

“Begin then, before my neck takes a cramp,” I ordered him crossly.

He opened his notebook and made a few comments before he began his questions. When he spoke, his voice had gone soft and mellow, like sun-warmed clover honey. I wondered if he was conscious of it.

“My lady, I need a bit of background information from you. We need a place to begin. So, I am going to take you through some of what Sir Edward told me, and I need you to confirm or correct it.”

I nodded, feeling a little sleepy and as relaxed as if I had just had a glass of Aunt Hermia’s blackberry cordial.

“Sir Edward told me last year that he had been married to you for five years. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I murmured.

“How did you meet?”

“His father bought the estate next to my father’s in Sussex. We knew each other from childhood.”

“Was the marriage a happy one?”

I fidgeted a little. My body felt restless, but my limbs were languid, almost too heavy to move. “Happy enough. We were friends.”

“There were no children?” he asked, his voice mellower still.

I shook my head sleepily. “Not from me. I could not have them.”

“Did he have children by anyone else? Natural children?”

I tried to shake my head again, but now it felt too weighty.

“Just lie back against the cushion, my lady,” he instructed from far away. I did as I was told, perfectly content to lie there forever.

He made a few notes while I drowsed against the cushions, thinking of Odysseus and the Lotus-eaters. I felt very thirsty, but it seemed far too much trouble to reach out my hand for my teacup. Then I remembered that he had moved it across the room and decided I would wait until he had finished.

“Sir Edward had little family left by the time of his death,” he commented.

“Only his first cousin, Simon. He inherited the baronetcy from Edward.”

“And you,” Brisbane prodded gently.

“I was not Edward’s family,” I replied. “I was his wife.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“I have quite a lot of that,” I said, feeling a ridiculous and inappropriate urge to giggle. With a great effort, I suppressed it. “My mother died when I was a child. I have nine brothers and sisters. Father is in town just now, at March House in Hanover Square. He lives with Aunt Hermia.”

“Indeed. Do any of the other members of your family live with them?”

“None. Most of them live in the country. My eldest brother, Viscount Bellmont, has his residence in London. So does my sister Portia, Lady Bettiscombe.”

“Did Lord Bellmont get on well with Sir Edward? Were there problems between them?”

“Only about politics. Monty is a Tory. Edward was apathetic. Used to call each other names. It meant nothing.”

“What of Lady Bettiscombe? Did she get on well with Sir Edward?”

“Well enough. Portia does not like many men. She lives with her lover, Jane.”

There was a long pause, but Brisbane made no comment.

“And who else lives in London?”

“Valerius, my youngest brother. Lives with me.”

Even through the lassitude, I could feel him prickle with interest.

“Tell me about Valerius.”

“Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”

“The what?”

I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.

“Who else lives at Grey House?”

“Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”

“Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”

“Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”

“What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”

I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.

“Your staff,” he prodded gently.