The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (60 page)

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.

“I hope you have had a pleasant walk,” I said, my eyes
lingering on a hairpin dangling just above her ear, the curl above it threatening to escape.

She did not flush, but I noticed her lips were pinkly moist and a little swollen. She licked them before she replied.

“Very pleasant, thank you.”

I dared not let my gaze slide past her shoulder for fear she would turn. I detained her for a moment, asking inane questions about her comfort—Had she enough to eat at luncheon? Was her bedchamber warm enough?—keeping my eyes firmly fixed on her face. She replied that she was quite comfortable, and we exchanged pleasantries.

A few minutes’ worth of imbecilic conversation was all the situation required, I decided, and I was just about to take my leave of her when she laid a hand on my sleeve. Her expression, sweetly placid before, had taken on an anxious cast. Her eyes darted about, as if she feared to speak freely.

“My lady, I wonder…” She broke off, worrying her lip with her tiny, pearly teeth.

“Yes?” I prodded. The great irony of Charlotte King’s character was that when one craved silence, she chattered like a monkey, but when one wished her to speak, she was silent as an oyster. I gave her an encouraging smile, determined to pry her open.

She twisted her hands together. “I feel a vile creature for even suggesting such a thing, but I did wonder—the death of the curate, the disappearance of Lady Dorcas, the theft of the Grey Pearls—these terrible events might possibly be connected.”

I resisted the urge to pinch her for pointing out the
obvious. It was unfair to expect her to handle these developments with any sort of equanimity. Those of us born into the March family enjoyed a long and illustrious heritage of drama and disaster. I endeavoured to explain this to Charlotte.

“My dear, of course they are connected. They all happened here, in our family home. But you must realise such things have been happening to us for more than three hundred years, and for four centuries before that prior to our taking up residence in the Abbey. One has only to read a history of the March family to see that we are an unprincipled, unpredictable lot. There have been beheadings and elopements, abductions and accidents. We are rather too accustomed to such things, I suppose.”

Charlotte shook her head, the loosened lock of silky primrose-yellow hair falling free over her shoulder. “You misunderstand, my lady. I do not refer to the past history of the March family. I speak only of the present.” She leaned closer, and I smelled fennel seed on her breath. “I speak of your present connections.”

I held my breath for the space of a heartbeat. Surely she could not mean Brisbane?

“The Gypsies,” she whispered, her voice urgent.

I laughed. It was impolite, but I could not stop myself. She was so earnest, so determined to help.

“My dear, it is not possible.”

She tightened her grip on my sleeve. “Are you quite certain? Think on it, my lady. Mr. Snow was adamant in his condemnation of them. He proposed taking their children away and putting them into orphanages. They
might well have heard of his views and took steps to ensure he could not see them to fruition.”

“Mr. Snow revisited those thoughts after we called upon their camp,” I protested.

She shook her head, dropping her lashes to fan her cheeks. It was a lovely, sorrowful expression and I rather thought Plum ought to paint her thus. He could title it
Beauty Grieves.

“He did not change his mind, not truly,” she told me. “If you thought so, it was because he believed it prudent to be polite to his hosts. He admitted as much last evening before dinner. We spoke of it, just before we withdrew to the dining room.”

I said nothing, and she pressed her advantage. “And what of the pearls? Surely so great a treasure would be an impossible temptation to those already accustomed to thieving?”

“And Lady Dorcas?” I asked, not bothering to blunt the edge to my voice. “Even if you could persuade me the Gypsies had reason to slay Mr. Snow and to purloin my jewels, you cannot possibly conceive any reason they would trouble themselves to
steal
a portly old woman.”

Charlotte shrugged. “They would if she had seen what she ought not. And who else would be so cunning as to send a message that the lady is well? Lord March would not question such tidings from them. And all the while she may be among them, in distress, in need of our aid, never realising
it will not come.
”

I gaped at her. “Are you seriously suggesting the Romanies trespassed into the Abbey, murdered Mr. Snow,
hid themselves for some time, then crept upstairs and stole the pearls from my dressing table, unseen by anyone except Aunt Dorcas? And then to cover their crimes, they abducted their only witness, into the snow, over a distance of
miles,
without leaving a single track outside the Abbey?”

She raised her chin, summoning her dignity. “I think it a likely solution, yes. And if you are not afraid of them, I am not ashamed to say I am. They are a ruthless, vicious people, and I for one will be glad when I am gone from this place and away from them.”

She tipped her nose into the air and took her leave, banging her door behind her. I stood for a moment, lip caught between my teeth as I worried the notion like a dog at a bone. That the Roma were capable of less than impeccable behaviour, I was fully aware. I had seen examples of their cunning and their duplicity with my own eyes.

But I had never seen them behave maliciously. They could be terrible foes if they decided to revenge a wrong, but they were peaceable to those who treated them with courtesy, and my father had been a patron of sorts to them for many years. It was the grossest violation of the Roma code to betray the goodwill of one’s host, and murder was an unspeakable crime to them. Neither would they steal from me. As the daughter of my father and a friend to them, I was always treated with respect. And the notion that Aunt Dorcas would have been stolen away to preserve her silence as a witness was laughable. She was old, but age had done nothing to impair her volume. She was capable of shouting down the rooftops if she wished, and if anyone laid hands
on her, I had little doubt the villagers down in Blessingstoke would have been roused from their peaceful slumbers.

No, it was a pretty, tidy theory for Charlotte, who liked pretty, tidy things. Unfortunately, it crumbled beneath the smallest scrutiny. I wondered if she had expounded her theory to Plum. With his devotion to the Roma, he would have put such a flea in her ear their budding friendship would have withered on the vine. But the smell of fennel seed on her breath had convinced me they had gotten up to more than conversation. Plum always chewed the vile things, claiming they sweetened his breath. I hated them; their hard striped backs put me too much in mind of little insects. He might have offered her a few from the gilt snuffbox he carried in his pocket, but there was something indefinable about her, some self-satisfaction she carried this afternoon I had not seen in her before that convinced me otherwise. An interesting notion, if it were true. I had always suspected Brisbane’s attentions to her were manufactured, but I also believed he would not break with her until it suited him. I wondered how well he would like it if she threw him over for more amiable company first.

Dismissing Charlotte from my thoughts, I entered my room, closing the door softly. The fire was banked up and Brisbane was seated near the hearth in an armchair, Florence tucked in his lap as he stroked her head. Morag was nowhere to be seen.

“This is a cosy scene,” I commented, drawing up a chair for myself. Florence protested with a growl, but I put out my tongue at her and she laid her head down again on
Brisbane’s thigh, content to let him fondle her ears. He said nothing for a long moment. He simply sat, petting the pup’s silky head in long, supple strokes that never varied in their rhythm.

“You’ve very nearly put her to sleep,” I commented.

He raised his good shoulder in a shrug, careful not to disturb Florence as she dozed. “It would not be difficult. She has been drugged.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lifting her carefully with his good hand, he settled her into her basket and tucked the fur tippet gently about her. She gave a little sound that might have been a purr had she been of another species, and settled in for a nap.

“What do you mean she has been drugged?”

“Some narcotic, perhaps laudanum as well, certainly an opiate. When I ducked in here, Morag mentioned she had trouble rousing the dog. I had a look at her, and when you consider what happened in this room, it is perfectly logical.”

It spoke volumes about the unconventional nature of our relationship that Morag did not question his presence in my room. Fortunately for me, Morag’s penchant for gossip was entirely one-sided. She might carry tales to me, but she was a gorgon when it came to protecting my privacy.

I suddenly realised what Brisbane had just said. “What happened in this room?”

“The theft of your pearls,” he said patiently. “Everyone knows Florence stays in your chamber. Anyone wishing to purloin the pearls would have come prepared to silence her. By the way, rather quick thinking out there with Char
lotte. I was not so careful as I ought to have been,” he finished with a rueful grimace.

“You are welcome. But as I rescued you, I think I am owed a forfeit. Did you speak to William IV this morning?”

He made a moue of disgust. “I did. The boy doesn’t have the intelligence of a sponge. He swears blind he did not leave his post except to follow a ghost.”

I sat up quite straight. “A ghost? Did he describe it? Where did he see it?”

“At the far end of the nave, walking toward the vestry.”

I tipped my head to the side, considering. “Walking? Ghosts don’t walk.”

“This one did. Apparently it had a slow, lumbering gait, and the boy, after several minutes of terrified debate with himself, decided to follow it.”

“And?”

Brisbane shrugged. “It had disappeared. William searched the vestry, the cloister, even the kitchen passage, but it had vanished.”

I could have screamed in exasperation. “The fool! Did he not remember that the vestry has
two
doors, one from the cloister passage and the other directly beside the chapel?”

“No, not even when he returned to his post and discovered a bottle of brandy, with a tag neatly inscribed for Miss Emma and Miss Lucy.”

I groaned. “So close, and he did not have the wit to use the other door. It never occurred to him that the ghost was simply a ruse to lure him from his post?”

Brisbane shook his head. “I think if he had reasoned that
out for himself, he might have been prudent enough not to drink from the bottle. He said he took a sizeable swallow or two, then sealed it up again and took it inside to the ladies. He returned to his post, and sitting down in his chair is the last thing he remembers until he awoke this morning in Aquinas’ bed. That required a bit of explaining as well,” he finished blandly.

I gave a great sigh and slumped back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the arm. “Sir Cedric’s room?”

“Nothing of interest. He has appalling taste in books, but other than that, I can find no crimes to lay at his door.”

“Pity,” I mused. “I think he would make a proper villain.”

Brisbane quirked one glossy black brow at me. “Have you not yet learned that villainy is not written on the face, but the heart?”

I said nothing for a long moment, thinking of my husband’s murderer, and the sweet, gentle face I had loved. At length I cleared my throat and changed the subject.

“What of your expedition to Charlotte’s room? What did you find?”

Brisbane gave me a bland smile. “Nothing.”

“Let me amend that. What did you
hope
to find?”

He paused, then looked at the fire. “I cannot say.” He glanced back at me. “You needn’t grind your teeth at me. I cannot say.”

“So be it. We will simply each of us have our secrets then.”

His eyes narrowed sharply. “Do not think of withholding anything from me. I am in deadly earnest, my lady. You were of use in the first investigation, I do not deny it. And
I am keenly aware that his lordship has ordered your involvement this time. But do not think I mean to make you an equal partner in this. I work best alone.”

I blinked slowly at him, a trick I had learned from Portia. Most men find it devastatingly disarming.

“Have you something in your eye? A cinder perhaps?”

I sighed in disgust. “No. I am perfectly well.”

“And what did you discover in the lumber rooms? Did you search all of the bags?”

“Yes, captain,” I said, larding my voice with sarcasm. “And I found nothing in the other guests’ bags at all. They were empty as the tomb on Easter Sunday.” Quite deliberately I did not mention his bag. But then, he did not ask.