The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (57 page)

“While you’re about it, assure her the body will be removed as soon as possible. And tell Aquinas to make certain the staff are given black armbands to wear as a token of respect for Mr. Snow.”

Portia put her hands on her hips, giving a perfect impression of one of the maids in a pet. “Any more instructions, missus?”

“Do make certain the linen cupboard door is kept shut. I shouldn’t like Florence to get a taste for kittens.”

She put out her tongue at me and moved to turn away.

“One last thing, dearest. Do you know where Aunt Hermia keeps that funny little jade monkey Uncle Leonato brought her from China?”

Portia threw up her hands in exasperation. “Really, Julia, of all the impossibly stupid things to wonder about.” She paused and thought, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Oh, very well. The last time I saw it, she kept it on her night table.”

“And the amber beads from Russia?”

“In a box next to the monkey.” She started to tap her toe on the carpet.

“And the coral bracelet from the Java Sea?” I pressed.

“In her knickers.”

I gave her a sour look. “You might be a little more helpful, Portia.”

“Well, honestly. She isn’t even here. Why you would ask about her little trinkets is beyond me. If you are so keen on
them, have a look for yourself. You know she would not mind. Now, I really must go and find something for my head.”

“Ask Brisbane,” I called after her sweetly. “He has a new cure I think would suit you perfectly.”

In the end, I had no time and little stomach for breakfast. I had thought to make a dash into the dining room for a bit of toast, but the notion of Lucian Snow, lying cold and possibly bloated in the game larder put me firmly off the idea.

The game larder itself had been fashioned into a crude sort of laboratory. A stone counter ran the length of the room. On it, propped against the walls, was a quantity of mirrors, from tiny things fit for a lady’s reticule to enormous looking-glasses taken from the dressing rooms. In front of these were as many lamps as the counter could hold. The effect was dazzling, so bright I blinked as I entered the room.

Brisbane was already there, dressed in shirtsleeves and making an adjustment to one of the lamps. He grunted when I came in but did not look up. I turned my gaze firmly away from the sheet-draped figure on the table. I noticed a small table had been brought in and laid with a clean white cloth. Brisbane’s leather case was there, and a book with a mouldy green cover. A few instruments such as tweezers and scissors had been arranged neatly on the cloth. I did not look further to see what else might lurk there.

“There are aprons on the hook behind the door,” Brisbane said finally. “Put yours on and bring the other for me.”

I put out my tongue behind his back and went to the door. The aprons were not the dainty pinafores the maids
wore, but the thick white canvas affairs the footmen donned for the most menial chores. It was not until I was halfway back, aprons in hand, that I realised what he had said.

“Brisbane, surely I do not need an apron. I mean, I won’t be—”

He turned, raising a brow coolly at me. “Of course you will. I have one good hand and his lordship is not at liberty to assist.”

He put out his hand for the apron.

“What do you mean Father is not here? What else could he have to do?”

Brisbane’s nostrils flared in impatience. “He was speaking with Miss Lucy and Miss Emma. I rose early this morning and told him about the drugged brandy. But now I believe he is searching for Lady Dorcas. The upstairs maid says she has disappeared.”

I stared at him, clutching the aprons in nerveless fingers.

“Disappeared? Are you quite serious?”

“As the grave. My apron?” He put out his hand again and I thrust it at him, my mind whirling.

“Where could she have gone? The gates are frozen shut and the moat is covered in ice. She cannot have gone far.”

“Then she is probably quite safe.”

Brisbane whipped a quick knot into the strings at the neck of the apron, then looped it over his head, mussing a lock of hair onto his brow. He reached his good arm behind his back, then gestured for me to help him. I crossed behind him, reaching around him for the strings. For such a large man, his waist was narrow, and I crossed
the strings, moving in front of him to tie them securely. He said nothing, but I glanced up to see the hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.

“Brisbane, how can you be so calm? She is an elderly lady, and that was a killing storm. She might be frozen in a snowdrift for all we know.”

Brisbane moved to the little table and opened the book. “Put on your apron. This might prove a little unpleasant and that is a very nice gown.”

I obeyed him, my fingers stiff with cold and dread. When the apron was secure, I went to his side, peering over his shoulder at the book. I was instantly sorry.

“I haven’t given up on the subject of Aunt Dorcas,” I warned him. “But this is a more immediate problem,” I said, waving a hand from the hideous plates in the book to the motionless figure on the table. “I do not think I can do this.”

Brisbane looked at me severely. “Did you not insist to me just last evening that you would have your part in this investigation?”

I clamped my lips together against the faint smell emanating from the body. I nodded.

“Very well. This is part of an investigation. That body may hold information for us, and if it does, I mean to find it.”

I swallowed hard, terribly grateful I had eschewed breakfast. “But you cannot possibly, that is to say, those pictures are quite specific and very, erm, thorough. I really think only a trained physician should make such an extensive examination. And don’t you think the authorities will notice if you cut him like that?”

Brisbane looked back at the book. After a moment he nodded, reluctantly, I fancied. “They might at that. Very well. I shall not perform a proper post-mortem. But I will do everything else. Now, you must be my hands.”

For the next hour I did as I was told. I started by unpinning my sleeves. When I rolled the first above my elbow, Brisbane’s eyes lingered for the briefest moment on the soft white skin at my wrist. I glanced up when I turned back the second, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the book in his hand, and from that moment on his manner toward me was coolly proper.

“Begin by drawing back the sheet,” he instructed quietly. “Fold it down all the way, and mind you don’t disarrange anything further.”

I reached a hand to touch the sheet, then drew it back sharply. “I know it is just a fancy, but I thought it moved.”

Brisbane looked up from the book. “If this is too much for you, I can ask Aquinas.”

I shook my head, forcing myself to take in one slow breath, then release it calmly. “No. If you can do this, so can I.”

I would have expected a tiny spark of admiration in his gaze for that little speech, but his nose was buried in his book again, and I rolled my eyes. This time, I approached the sheet and removed it, as crisply as any housemaid about her chores.

Following his explicit instructions, I loosened Mr. Snow’s clothing, removing his evening jacket, waistcoat and neckcloth. I felt them carefully, but the pockets were empty. I laid them aside and steeled myself for what must come.

“Wait,” Brisbane said, bending swiftly over the body.

“What is it?” I demanded, elbowing Brisbane a little. His expression was grim. “There.”

He pointed to Lucian Snow’s neck. Bruises blossomed around the throat, heavy blackish-purple things, livid against the pale skin. It was clear, even to my amateur’s eyes, that they were finger marks, borne in with great pressure.

“What fools we have been,” Brisbane muttered.

I stared at the bruises, my mind working furiously. “Lucy could not have done that.”

Brisbane rose, stroking his jaw. It was darkly shadowed, as if he had shaved quickly and without particular care that morning. It was oddly attractive.

“No, she could not. And those bruises would not have shown half so violently if he had been strangled after death.” Brisbane took his good right hand and fitted it to the bruises, his own handspan matching the marks nearly perfectly. I could almost see the crime in my mind’s eye, the murderer, facing Lucian Snow, bearing down upon him, crushing the life out of him as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Abruptly, Brisbane moved to Lucian’s head. Before I could look away, he had turned the head and was probing the wound gently. I swallowed hard, refusing the heaving insistence of my stomach. After a moment, Brisbane drew back his hand and shook his head.

“There is a bit of a depression here where the bone was broken, and a fair amount of blood matted in his hair.”

“He was struck down before he was strangled?” I asked.

Brisbane nodded. “A fair hypothesis, I think. Had he been struck after death, there would have been very little blood.”

“To what purpose?” I asked.

“To incapacitate him,” he replied. “A blow there would have rendered Snow unconscious, an easy victim for his killer. And that would explain why there is only one handprint,” Brisbane added. “The murderer did not require both hands to subdue him.”

I looked at Brisbane’s left arm, firmly strapped to his chest and blinked. He marked the glance.

“Yes, my lady, I am the obvious suspect,” he said, a trifle acidly. “Is my word good enough, or would you care for an alibi? I seem to remember I was with
you
when Snow was murdered.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. I ducked my head to hide my blushes.

“The question is, if the girl could not have killed him by strangulation, and the blow struck with the candelabrum was landed
before
he died, what did she see?”

I began to pace the room, putting a little distance between myself and the gruesome relic on the table.

“Either Lucy was an accomplice, perhaps striking the blow with the candelabrum herself, remaining behind when her partner fled…” I began.

That mesmerizing pair of eyes fixed on me intently. “Or she did not touch him, but is taking the blame upon herself for another’s crime,” I finished.

I could not imagine Lucy creeping up on a man and striking him viciously with a candelabrum. Of course, until the previous night, I would have thought her incapable of
any violence at all. I was rapidly revising my opinion of her. My first investigation had taught me the unlikeliest of suspects may be the most culpable.

“It may have all happened quite quickly,” Brisbane said. “The murderer strikes Lucian Snow with the candelabrum, then finishes him off with a carefully placed hand to the throat. He is free to leave, perhaps without a spot of blood upon him. He might have slipped past Lucy in the darkness, or if he heard her coming, he had only to duck into one of the empty rooms along the nave and wait until the hue and cry was raised when the body was discovered. In the meantime, Lucy could have entered the chapel, found the body and, with a striking lack of good sense, picked up the candelabrum and implicated herself in a murder.”

“Or,” I said slowly, “Lucy might have been there all along. She may have seen the strangler at work, and stayed behind to make certain the deed was finished with a savage blow of the candelabrum once the murderer departed.”

I looked up to find Brisbane regarding me with a curious mixture of distaste and admiration.

“That is the most gruesome notion yet. And it took a woman to think of it. No, it will not signify. I still maintain the blow with the candelabrum was struck before he died. The coroner may have a different opinion on the matter, but I am convinced.”

The rest of the examination was swiftly carried out. I obeyed Brisbane’s instructions dispassionately, as though I was comfortable handling lifeless things. To my everlasting relief, Brisbane at least observed the propriety of not
having me strip the body completely. He asked me only to remove Snow’s shirt. I busied myself tidying Snow’s things while Brisbane examined the torso beneath the flannel undergarment. It was over more quickly than I had expected, and the conclusions were inescapable: Lucian Snow had been, to all appearances, a healthy man, killed in his prime by strangulation.

Brisbane’s eyes were alight with an enthusiasm I knew well. Rather than a straightforward murder, this crime was something more puzzling. There was a challenge here, and Brisbane loved nothing more than a knotty problem to untangle.

“I suppose the first order of business is to speak with Lucy and Emma,” I said at length.

“Indeed,” Brisbane said, “although I suspect they will not have much to contribute. Still, there may be something useful there. I will take the footman.”

“You mean you do not object to my questioning Lucy and Emma?” I asked, astonished.

He gave me the slow, lazy stare one might give to a backward child. “I cannot. They are unmarried ladies confined to their bedchamber.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that my undressing a dead man could hardly be considered proper, but I did not. It was enough that he had acknowledged the necessity of my role in the investigation. In truth, I felt a little deflated. He had capitulated so easily. I had girded myself for a fight.

I looked at Brisbane. He was gazing down at the body
of Lucian Snow rather thoughtfully. Then he reached out and twitched the sheet over the still, white face.

He turned to me, his eyes quite black in the magnified light of the mirror-lit larder. “You must find out everything that they might try to conceal. Be ruthless. Leave them no secrets to cling to, use whatever tactics you must. No man deserves that fate,” he finished with a flicker of his gaze toward the shrouded form.

I glanced from Lucian Snow’s remains to Brisbane’s implacable face. “I will not fail,” I told him firmly.

I
was surprised to find Sir Cedric standing outside Lucy and Emma’s door, shouting at the footman who barred his way. Sir Cedric was clearly in a temper, his usually ruddy complexion dark red at the ears and nose. The footman, William V, I think it was, looked at me with something like desperation.

“Good morning, Sir Cedric,” I greeted. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He looked from the footman to me with narrowed eyes, silent for a moment as if he were trying to place an unfamiliar face. Tiny flecks of saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, and I felt a little rush of pity for Lucy.

“Lady Julia. I have a mind to see my fiancée, but this buffoon will not open the door to me.”

I cleared my throat gently. “Well, it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances.”

His complexion darkened further still and I began to fear he would have an apoplexy, an eventuality too gruesome to consider. To begin with, there would be no place to store another body.

“The circumstances are, my fiancée is ill, and no one will give me news of her and she will not see me.”

I gave him my most winsome smile. “How terribly frustrating for you. Why don’t you go and have a cup of coffee, or perhaps a nice cigar? I will speak with Lucy and bring you news of her straightaway.”

The narrow eyes relaxed a little. “Will you? Straightaway?”

I patted his arm, drawing him away from the door. The footman seemed to sag a little in relief. “I promise. Sometimes ladies do have these little indispositions. I am sure it is nothing for you to concern yourself about.”

“She better not have taken a chill in that chapel last night. I warned March not to leave her there, and if she falls ill from it, I shall know who to blame,” he warned me.

I smiled again. “Lucy has suffered a very great shock, and we all want what is best for her. Now, you go and make yourself quite comfortable and I will do what I can.”

He thanked me grudgingly and took his leave, glancing back once or twice darkly at the footman. When he had rounded the corner of the dorter, the boy leaned against the door.

“Oh, thank you, my lady. I could not make him understand that Lord March said to admit no one except yourself
or a maid. I thought I would have to hit him, and I do not think his lordship would have approved of that.”

I smiled at his earnestness. “You might be surprised, William. Has anyone else attempted to see the Misses Phipps?”

He thought for a moment. “No, my lady. The maid brought them a tray for breakfast, and Lord March was here very early to look in on the ladies.”

“Very good. And how long have you been here?”

“Mr. Aquinas fetched me out of bed a few hours before dawn to keep watch and let no one past. He said it was on Lord Wargrave’s orders, and when Lord March came he said that Lord Wargrave had been quite right.”

I nodded. “Excellent. You were perfectly right to refuse Sir Cedric.”

He blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, my lady.” He stepped aside smartly and opened the door for me.

The room was warm and quiet, and I moved inside, motioning for William V to close the door softly behind me.

“Julia,” came a feeble voice from the bed. I approached, surprised to find Emma awake. Lucy slumbered on, curled as tightly as a puppy against her sister. Emma held out her hand to me and I took it. It was cool and light as a bird.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her in a whisper. Lucy stirred but did not wake.

Emma gave a short shake of the head. “As well as one may expect. Uncle March was here earlier. He explained about the laudanum in the brandy.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and I tightened my hand over hers. She smiled mistily at me.

“Julia, I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to us.”

I hesitated. I did not like to pose such a question, but it must be asked. “Then you did not…” My voice trailed off.

She shook her head, almost angrily. “Of course not. How could I do such a thing to my Lucy?” She turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister nestled against her.

“I am sorry, Emma. It was a possibility, you know.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.” We sat in silence so long I began to think she had drifted into sleep. But then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

“That would have been the coward’s way, and I am no coward,” she said, more to herself than to me.

Before I could reply, Lucy stirred and raised herself a little. “Lie down, dearest,” Emma told her. “You must not tire yourself.”

Lucy obeyed, and I moved around to her side of the bed. She turned, giving me a sad, sleepy smile. “Hullo, Julia.”

I moved straight to the heart of the matter. “Lucy, I know this has been a terrible shock for you, but you must know that your family stand with you. We know you did not do this thing.”

She laid the back of her arm to her brow, staring up at the ceiling. She made no reply, and I went on. “Lucian Snow was not killed by your hand. We know this for a fact. The evidence says he died of strangulation, by a hand much larger and stronger than yours.”

Without preamble, a sob erupted from her, tearing from her throat. She folded in half, her face to her knees, keening. Emma started for her, but I put an arm about Lucy’s shoulder.

“I do not know why you claimed you did this, but we know you did not. And we will make certain the authorities know it as well.”

Suddenly, Lucy stumbled from the bed to the washstand and began to retch. She had eaten nothing, but she doubled over, heaving until the spell passed. Emma went to her and stroked her back, murmuring soothing things until she finished. Then I handed her my handkerchief to mop her face. When she was done, she looked a great deal more lucid than she had since we had discovered her bending over Lucian’s body.

She returned to the bed, and when Emma had tucked the coverlets firmly about her, Lucy clutched at my hand, pressing it to her hot face. “Oh, Julia, I do not know what happened. All I remember is leaving the drawing room to play sardines, then a great blackness. There is simply nothing there until I came to when you found me, standing there…” She broke off, her voice catching, but with a great effort of will she mastered it. “I have thought and thought, but I cannot retrieve any memory of the time between. I only know that I saw him there, broken, and I knew I had struck him. I knew that I must have done something unspeakable.”

I thought of the Easter holidays Lucy and Emma had spent with us as children, of the little nothings that sometimes went missing, children’s trinkets, but usually some
thing of sentimental value. I thought of how Lucy’s nose always itched when she lied about whether she had seen them. Always, that telltale little twitch, giving her away. I watched her now, pressing the handkerchief hard against the tip of her nose.

“Did you see anyone when you were playing sardines?”

Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. I have no memory of it.” She scrubbed at her nose. “It is so cold here,” she said apologetically, not quite meeting my eyes.

We talked for a long time. Emma said nothing. Perhaps she knew how important it was for the questions to be asked, and answered. I questioned Lucy by every possible method, but her answers were always the same. She had quit the lesser drawing room alone. From the time she left until the time Brisbane and I had discovered her with the candelabrum, she had no memory whatsoever—not of sound or sight, nor even scent. After awhile she began to droop, and I took pity on her.

I rose and Emma threw me a grateful look. “Lucy, you must eat something. You also, Emma. It’s very important to keep up your strength. I promise you, we will discover the truth.”

Emma smiled her thanks, but Lucy was not looking at me. She was staring at the ceiling again, her eyes fixed once more on the slender web of hammerbeams that hung above her head.

Luncheon was an understandably solemn affair. Father had said nothing about Aunt Dorcas, but to my astonishment, he seemed angry rather than worried. Violante sulked openly while Lysander chewed his fingernails and
did not even pretend to eat. Plum pushed the food around his plate as he shot significant glances at Charlotte King. That worried me a trifle. Plum was subject to occasional fancies, not the least of which was a penchant for the role of Galahad. He loved nothing better than to rescue damsels in distress, and Charlotte bore all the hallmarks of a lady in need of a knight. She was a comely, vivacious widow whose engagement was likely at an end, marooned in the middle of Sussex with a houseful of people she scarcely knew and a murderer. Even more worrisome, she did nothing to discourage Plum. Instead she alternated hurt, puzzled looks at Brisbane with gazes of mute longing toward my brother. With such a performance, it was a wonder she was able to eat at all, but I noticed she managed to tuck away three helpings of the curried lamb. If she was not careful, she would soon have to let out her stays, I thought spitefully.

For his part, Brisbane was entirely indifferent. He too ate three helpings of the lamb, as well as a sizeable portion of roast potatoes and an enormous plate of cherry tarts with almond cream. Father managed a bit of everything, but he seemed distracted, putting mustard on his peas and salt on his dessert. He ate it anyway, and I noticed Hortense doing her best to amuse him. From time to time he smiled wearily at her, and I looked away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. It was apparent to me now that he needed her, and I was pleased to find that I was comfortable with the notion. I turned to Alessandro then, sorry to find him quiet and withdrawn. The murder had upset him terribly,
and from the hollow look about his eyes, I thought it entirely possible he had not slept at all the previous night. I did my best to entice him into conversation, but his replies were succinct to the point of backwardness, and after a few minutes I gave up.

Understandably, Sir Cedric and Henry were quiet, eating stolidly, without contribution to the conversation or any apparent pleasure in their food. I had not yet had a chance to speak with Sir Cedric about Lucy, and he spent most of the luncheon hour shooting me significant glances. I tried giving him a reassuring nod, but he simply redoubled his efforts. I ignored them and toyed with my food, too often putting my fork down still laden; the image of Snow’s cold corpse was yet too vivid and too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind. Portia heroically took on the chore of steering the conversation, butterflying from subject to subject, skillfully avoiding any topics which might be awkward. I suppose that is how we arrived at the subject of Christmas again, and Charlotte’s role in the stirring up of the puddings.

“So very kind of you to lend a hand,” Portia finished brightly.

I speared a bit of potato and pushed it around the plate.

“My dearest mama always taught me, ‘One must lend a hand wherever one can,’” Charlotte put in earnestly.

I threw Brisbane a hateful look. I still could not quite believe he had taken the trouble to propose marriage to her. She was ridiculous, with her cloying sweetness and her silly
platitudes. She could not have held his attention for the duration of a fish course, much less the rest of their lives.

Lysander roused himself then. “Who is expected for Christmas? I am rather surprised we have not seen Benedick and his brood yet.”

Benedick, perhaps the favourite of my brothers, lived on the Home Farm, the other side of the Abbey from Blessingstoke. He had been conspicuously absent of late. I missed him, and his delightful wife. My nieces and nephews were another matter altogether. They were like very good, aged cognac: delicious, but only in very small doses.

“Benedick’s lot are in quarantine,” Portia advised him. “Measles. They look to be recovered by Christmas, but if they come, Olivia and her family will not.”

I blinked at her. It was not like Benedick to be at odds with any of our siblings. Most of us quarrelled with one another from time to time, but Benedick was usually the only one on speaking terms with everybody.

“Olivia’s children infected his with measles,” Portia explained. “Benedick made some remark about the stupidity of taking one’s children visiting when they’ve come out in spots, and she took it rather badly.”

“I see,” I said, poking at a piece of lamb. “What of the rest of them?”

Portia laid down her fork and began to tick them off on her fingers.

“Bellmont is in London for the little season. He has parliamentary duties and cannot get away. Olivia and Benedick we have spoken of. Nerissa is unwell,” she said with a lift
of the brows. I took her meaning instantly. Unlike most of our sisters, Nerissa did not bear children easily. For every healthy living child, there had been a handful of miscarriages. She had adopted the habit of taking to her bed during each pregnancy, and if she was breeding again, we would not see her again until the child was christened.

“Lysander, Plum, you, and I are here, Julia,” she said, nodding at me and continuing to tick off her fingers. “Beatrice is being set upon by all of her husband’s family. They are descending to Cornwall
en masse
for the holiday, and there is no chance of her escaping them. That leaves only Valerius, and he has not yet made up his mind whether to spend Christmas in the bosom of his family or dosing the lower orders in Whitehall.”

“So many Marches,” Violante murmured.

“Indeed,” Father replied. I did not know if Lysander had informed him yet of Violante’s expectations, but from the kindly way Father was regarding her, I suspected he had. Father adored grandchildren, and the only thing that made him happier than being covered in them was escaping them and spending an afternoon locked in his study while they overran the Abbey like savages.

At least that was one family matter settled, I thought as I stared irritably at my peas. I could not imagine why I should feel so twitchy, so bad-tempered. I could have cheerfully thrown my cutlery at someone’s head, and it was only when the dessert dishes were being cleared that I realised it was because I was frustrated. Luncheon, a lengthy family affair, had interrupted my burgeoning investigation, and
what I wanted most, what I
craved,
was time alone to puzzle over the pieces I had collected and fit them together.