The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (66 page)

Hortense, freed from the constraints of dancing attendance on Aunt Dorcas, exerted herself to charm Sir Cedric, chatting amiably with him in spite of his gruff, monosyllabic replies. Lysander and Violante were speaking in low tones, but I caught a few snatches of their conversation and it was not a happy one. They were carping again, about what I could not determine. Alessandro was seated on Portia’s other side, and my sister did a masterful job of diverting him from his sulky mood. Once or twice I heard him laugh aloud, and I was able to savour my tea without fretting over him.

For my part, I nibbled at a scone and dripped butter on my skirts and sipped a scalding cup of tea. Ludlow had taken a chair next to mine and we talked in a desultory fashion, neither of us caring very much about the subjects, but both of us enjoying it thoroughly, I believe. We had just moved from the relative merits of Bach versus Haydn when I happened to look across the tea table. I do not know why the scene should have caught my attention, but it did, and for the merest moment everything froze as if in tableau.

Portia was pouring another cup for Alessandro, giving him an excellent view of her décolletage as she reached for his cup. Hortense was facing Sir Cedric, regaling him with
some merry tale as he buttered his scone. And Sir Cedric was deftly wielding a butter knife, in his left hand.

Instantly I turned to Henry Ludlow. “Do you know, something has just struck me. Is your cousin left-handed?”

Ludlow finished chewing his faery cake and swallowed, nodding. “Yes. As am I. It does tend to run in families, you know. The mighty Kerr clan of Scotland boasts a great number of left-handed members. That is why the staircases in their castles are built to spiral counter-clockwise, so that a swordsman who carries his weapon in his left hand may fight unimpeded.”

He reached for another faery cake, making the appropriate noises of delight, but I scarcely heard him. I had been so certain of Sir Cedric’s villainy. It seemed a pity to discard him now, but it was impossible to reconcile his guilt with the evidence. If there was one thing I had learned under Brisbane’s tuition, it was that the evidence, however improbable, does not lie.

Blast, I thought irritably. It seemed a terrible waste to have such a lovely villain right in front of me and not be able to connect him to the murder. I could not think of a man in the Abbey more suited to murderous pursuits than Sir Cedric.

But as I sipped at my tea and made polite faces at Ludlow, I realised it was much more than a pity. If Ludlow and Sir Cedric must be eliminated, then that left only the members of my own family as suspects. Members of my own family, I thought, lifting my gaze to the man at Portia’s side, and Alessandro.

Just then he raised his head and returned my stare. I gave him a tentative smile, but he simply looked at me in return with the same detachment one might offer any stranger in the street. It was oddly chilling, and after a moment I dropped my eyes.

“My lady,” Ludlow asked suddenly. “Is everything quite all right?”

I rallied and gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile. “Perfectly, thank you. I was merely woolgathering.”

Ludlow smiled in return. “I think I have bored you with my talk of music. We must speak of something else, something that interests you.”

“Not at all. I am very fond of music. Tell me more of the recital at Covent Garden,” I encouraged, grateful I had collected at least that little snippet from his conversation.

He obliged, and with a few artful questions I was able to pass the rest of the tea hour peacefully, my thoughts running away with themselves while Ludlow talked on, his voice a gentle monotone in the background.

When the teapots were emptied at last and all that remained on the plates were buttery crumbs and puddles of cream, the party slowly broke up. We left to follow our own pursuits, some to rest, others to read. I had correspondence to answer, some of it long overdue, but I knew my letters would have to wait another day. I had laid plans for later that night, and a nap was just the thing to ensure I remained wakeful.

As I left the drawing room, Charlotte fell into step beside me, and if it was intentional it was skillfully done. She
seemed pleased to have me alone and wasted not a moment in speaking her piece.

“Lady Julia, forgive my presumption, but I must wonder if you are angry with me?”

I kept walking but turned to look at her, taking in her widely innocent eyes, the powdered freshness of her complexion. “Whyever should I be?”

She spread her hands and looked demurely away. “I know you are friends with Lord Wargrave. And I believe you must know by now our betrothal is at an end.”

“Oh, that.” I waved a hand in dismissal. “Think nothing of it, my dear. I assure you I have not.”

“But I would not have you think ill of me for breaking our engagement,” she persisted. “Particularly in light of recent developments.”

“You mean your flirtation with my brother?”

She gasped. “My lady, such a common term! I would never have thought to phrase it thus. Mr. Eglamour is a good friend, an amiable gentleman whose many kindnesses have been a balm to my wounded spirit in these dark hours.”

I snorted and coughed behind my hand to cover it. “Yes, Plum is famous in the family for his balmlike qualities. We have often told him so.”

Charlotte lowered her chin, looking at me from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, her lower lip thrust ever so delicately outward. “You mock me, my lady. And I cannot even fault you for it. I know my own conduct has been grossly unladylike. My dearest mama would spin in her
grave could she but see what a mockery I have made of the womanly virtues she tried so desperately to instill within me.”

I paused and turned to her. “My dear Charlotte, I have very little interest in virtues, particularly those of the womanly variety. Marry Brisbane, do not marry him, it is of no consequence to me. But since you pay me the compliment of your confidence, I will offer you this piece of advice—do not look to my brother to play Galahad to your distressed damsel. He has told a hundred ladies he loved them, and never once did he mean it. Plum is a lovely boy, and I am delighted he is my brother. But do not put your hope in him. He is altogether too fragile a vessel.”

With that I left her gaping after me. I was perfectly aware my words would be of no consequence to her if she really harboured a
tendresse
for him. But the chance that a bit of plain speaking might dampen her ardour was not to be missed. I knew Plum well enough to know when he was merely playing at being a lover. His romantic imagination had been roused by Charlotte’s plight, and her chocolate-box prettiness had only heightened the effect. Plum, however, was not the sort of man to be captured for long by a pretty face with a penchant for ruffles and bonbons. He craved exoticism, mystery, the unknown. Charlotte was a departure for him simply because he had travelled so long abroad, sating his appetite for dusky
signorinas
. He would tire of her as soon as he realised she was uneducated and uninteresting, precisely the sort of bland Englishwoman he
had scorned for so long. I only hoped he realised his mistake before they married and I was made an aunt again.

Morag was out when I reached my bedchamber, but Florence was fully awake, inspecting the room and wreaking destruction. She had savaged a cushion and a book, eaten the better part of a candle, and was trotting about with a slipper clamped firmly between her tiny jaws when I found her.

“You are a vile little monster,” I told her, wrestling the slipper out of her mouth. She growled and retreated to her basket to sulk. I looked at the ruined slipper in my hand, not entirely surprised to find its mate, damp and missing half its embroidery, already tucked in her basket.

“Go on then,” I told her. “Keep them both. But no more or I will give you to the cats for a plaything.”

She turned her back to me and settled down with her new slippers. I lay on my bed, fully dressed, and read for a while. At some point I must have slept, for I know I dreamed. I was moving through the hidden passages of the Abbey, up the winding stair to the lumber rooms. But they were not lumber rooms. They were scriptoria again, as they had been so long ago. Robed and sandaled monks sat at their small desks, dipping their quills into bottles of ink, frozen with the cold. They blew clouds of breath at me, breath that smelled of hashish until I fled to the darkened priory vault and down into the stone-strewn passage to the churchyard. I was running as fast as I could, one hand holding a candle aloft. By the inexplicable alchemy of dreams, it did not gutter but shone brightly, lighting the way ahead.

And as I ran I heard the echo of my own footsteps, and those of another. I turned, many times, raising the candle to peer behind me. But I saw nothing and still I ran, the passageways much longer than I remembered, and narrower, twisting and tightening until I became stuck fast and screamed for help. I heard a deep metallic sound, like the striking of the sanctuary bell. Then, horrified, I heard the second set of footsteps approaching and a quick, sharp exhalation of breath as someone blew out my candle.

I woke trembling then, to find my limbs twisted in the bedclothes. I must not have cried out, for Florence still slept peacefully in her basket. I heard the bell strike again, and I realised then it was the signal to dress for dinner. I looked at the clock, surprised to find how long I had slept.

Slowly, I untangled myself from the bedclothes and rose. I rang for Morag, and for once was glad of her idle chatter as she dressed me. I wore black again out of respect for Mr. Snow—if Portia’s dog must wear mourning, so must we all, I decided sourly—and left off my jewels, except for the pendant Brisbane had given me. I had not expected to wear it again, but the dream had left me badly shaken. It seemed almost a presentiment of something frightening to come, and though I did not stop to think of it then, the little silver coin struck with the head of Medusa had become something of an amulet. I would admit it to no one, but I believed firmly and unaccountably that so long as I wore it, no harm would befall me.

A
t dinner I was mightily put out to find Brisbane absent. The pheasant was delicious, but the dish was hotly peppered with my pique. He might have been in a bit of pain from the bout of fencing, but it had been his own notion to engage Alessandro, and he had only himself to blame. He had a responsibility to Father, to this investigation, to
me,
to follow through with his inquiries. And as I sat at table, glancing surreptitiously at my companions, it occurred to me our time together was drawing to a close. This grim thought was borne out by Father, who rose after dessert and addressed the company.

“I thought it appropriate to take this opportunity to speak to you all. This chance may not come again. A
westerly wind has blown in, and the snow is nearly melted. I am assured by tomorrow morning the roads will be muddy and slow, but passable. If that is indeed the case, Lord Wargrave will leave us then to bring a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. If the telegraph is still inoperable, he will travel up to London personally and then the investigation into the death of Mr. Snow will be taken out of my hands, and what has transpired here will be known to all.” He paused here for dramatic effect. It was a gesture I had seen often enough when he played Lear in our amateur theatricals, but it was highly effective. He looked slowly from one face to another, giving nothing away. Some squirmed a little under his scrutiny, some dropped their eyes, and some met his gaze squarely with their own.

“I should also make you aware of a murderous attack perpetrated upon my nieces, Emma and Lucy, last night,” he said, his voice ringing out in tones a thespian would have envied. Sir Cedric made to rise, but Father waved him back to his chair. I bit back a groan. Brisbane had specifically instructed him to tell no one of the attack. He would take Father apart with his bare hands when he heard what he had done. The rest of the company sat in mute horror as Father continued.

“Thanks to timely intervention, they are both quite well, but I have ordered them kept under watch of my own staff in the ladies’ wing. This matter will also be given over to the detective inspector. But as this place has proven dangerous for members of my own family, so it may be so for the rest of us. Therefore, when you rise from table, you will go directly to your rooms and remain there until morning.”

He paused again, pitching his voice lower for effect.

“I think tonight would best be spent in contemplation. If you are the sort of person given to prayer, then do so. Pray for us all, pray for the soul of Lucian Snow, and pray for the murderer who walks among us.”

Charlotte gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands, but the rest of the company made no reaction. For my part, I thought it a masterful bit of rhetoric on Father’s part. I had never heard him speak of prayer before, for he was not a religious man. He believed in the repose of one’s mind, of solitude taken in regular doses to quiet the spirit. But in this place, this Abbey once consecrated to the service of God, the very stones still echoed with the chants of holy men.

Perhaps he hoped it would be enough to prick the conscience of the guilty to confession. Or perhaps he simply wanted an evening free of all of us. If the latter, his aim was true. We left the chilly dining room then—dinner had been a frigid affair, marked with the mewling of infant cats and an occasional hiss from their irritated mother—and went our separate ways, bidding one another good-night in subdued voices. Portia and I made our way slowly upstairs, and I noticed anew the marks of fatigue upon her lovely face.

“I am glad Father has banished us to our rooms tonight,” I told her. “You look a fright.”

“I feel one as well. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to entertain properly when there is a dead man in the game larder.”

I patted her shoulder. “I am sorry for it. Rest is what you
need now. Take a nice, dull book to bed and you will be asleep before you know it.”

“I must look in on Brisbane first. He sent his regrets for dinner by way of Aquinas, but I would like to make certain he is quite all right.”

That Brisbane was perfectly fine, I had no doubt. He was simply being mysterious, holed up in his room like a wintering bear, nursing at his hookah pipe and cogitating, instead of actively investigating as he ought to be.

“I am sure he is entirely well,” I told her acidly. “I think you need not bother.”

She waved an airy hand. “Oh, I do not mind. Besides, I wish to speak with him about another matter we have been discussing. A bit of business between friends,” she finished with a maddening air of vagueness.

Portia had the nasty habit common to all elder sisters of sometimes pretending to knowledge I did not have in order to provoke me to irritation. I would not be provoked. Instead I lifted my chin, gave her a sweetly sticky smile, and simply replied, “Then I will leave you here. Good-night, dearest.”

She continued on to Brisbane’s room, leaving me seething with annoyance. “A bit of business between friends,” I muttered. “Bit of business indeed. And what friends? They hardly know one another.”

I continued on in this fashion until I reached my room where Morag was dozing over her knitting. I poked her with a finger.

“Get up and go to bed. I shall not want you this evening.
And take the dog with you.” My plans did not include Florence. Morag yawned and stretched, an elaborate production that took a few minutes. She made a great show of packing up her knitting and collecting the dog whilst I waited.

“You needn’t tap your foot at me,” she warned. “I am going as fast as I can.”

“Feathers. You are slow as treacle because you want to know what I am about. And what I am about is none of your business.”

“Oooh, you are in a right nasty mood, you are. Come, Florence. We’ve no call to be spoken to like that.”

Nose in the air, she stuffed the dog under one arm, the knitting under the other, and retreated to her room. I paced the room after she left, working off my impatience. I was anxious about the night to come, worried my plan would work, and terrified it would not. Restless, I picked things up and put them down again, tried to read for a while, and even attempted to answer a few letters with little success.

At last the clock struck midnight, the earliest hour at which I thought my plan might be put into play. I rose from my chair and threw a black dressing gown over my clothes, changing my evening shoes for a pair of slippers with soft felt soles. If I were seen, I could easily claim I was wakeful and in need of a book or some refreshment. But I did not mean to be seen.

I crept from my room, careful to keep to the interior wall. The gallery was flooded with shifting moonlight. The moon had waxed full, shedding soft pearly light through the great windows. The light shifted as ragged
bits of clouds, torn by the warm west wind, dragged over the moon’s face like bits of veiling. I made no sound as I slipped behind the tapestry and depressed the mechanism. I had brought no candle with me. I could not risk being betrayed by the feeble light, and I knew the passage well enough to traverse it by feel. If I climbed slowly and kept my hands in front of me, I should be quite all right, I reasoned. But I will admit to heaving a great sigh of relief when I gained the lumber rooms. Though the moonlight was even brighter here, it took me some minutes to arrange a place of concealment. Finally, I hauled a small trunk onto a larger one and topped them both with a hat form, tucking myself neatly behind. And then I waited.

It was bitterly cold in the lumber rooms, even with my dressing gown over my clothes, and I wished more than once I had been clever enough to have dragged out a few of the moth-eaten old furs to line my little den. I dozed in spite of the cold, but jerked myself awake, occasionally resorting to little pinches and pokes to keep alert. I waited, thinking of all the things I would rather be doing at that moment. I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I heard a softly muttered curse. Carefully, I stretched my stiffened limbs and dared a peek over the trunk.

A woman was standing with her back to me, scarcely a dozen feet away. She must have been there a few minutes at least for she had nearly finished assuming her costume. Her hair was obscured by the thick white veiling, and she was already dressed in the ghost’s attire, completely con
cealing her identity. She was fumbling at her feet, doubtless attaching the pattens to her shoes.

“Blast,” I mouthed silently. She must have entered whilst I was asleep and I had nearly missed her altogether. It was little wonder Brisbane’s faith in my abilities as a detective was so feeble.

The woman straightened then, and I had to admit, even at so close a distance, the moonlight lent an eerie effect. I had just watched a mortal woman dress herself in these bits of theatrical garb, and yet I could not suppress a shiver as she glided toward the door, seeming to float above the stone floor like a phantom in a Gothic tale.

I counted slowly to fifty after she left, then eased from my hiding place. Since I had seen her make use of the hidden stair before, it seemed reasonable she would do so again. I followed, straining my eyes for a glimpse of her flowing white draperies, careful to keep myself in the shadows.

There was no trace of her on the hidden stair, but when I emerged into the gallery of the ladies’ wing, I saw her at the far end, hovering above the floor, moving slowly toward the staircase. I moved at a pace faster than a walk, but not quite a run, concealing myself behind statues and potted palms. I dashed from one to another, always pausing to make certain she was still within my sights. I followed her from the ladies’ wing and onto the landing. I had a great fright then, for just as I reached the landing she turned back and I was forced to dart behind a suit of armour. I counted to fifty again and dared a peek. She had disappeared, and I had a bad moment or two until I realised she
must be on the staircase. There was no possible way to descend while she was still on the stairs, so I waited, marking which way she turned at the bottom, then flying down as fast as silence would permit.

She had just reached the end of the transept corridor and turned right toward the drawing room. I followed her progress mentally. If I did not see her when I reached the bottom of the stairs, she must have gone into the great drawing room, in which case the little alcove behind Maurice the bear would make a splendid vantage point to watch for her return. And if she was still gliding down the corridor, Maurice would also be an excellent place from which to monitor her progress.

At least, that was my plan. Over what happened next, I would like very much to draw a veil. It was not my finest moment.

Just as I turned to the left I saw the ghost, stock still, squarely in the middle of the corridor, and not five feet from me. For an instant I forgot the trick of the black veiling and saw only a faceless phantom, floating above the floor. It lifted its featureless head and raised a spectral hand, pointing at my heart. It gave a low, anguished moan of despair, and with that tormented sound, the illusion was complete.

I gave a scream, a very little one, and stumbled backward, stepping hard on the hem of my dressing gown. Just as I fell to the floor, a shadow vaulted over me. It was Brisbane, moving like something out of myth. The moonlight sharpened the angry planes of his face, lending him the aspect of an avenging angel. I sat up just in time to see
him rush headlong into the ghost, knocking her soundly to the floor. I struggled to my feet, remembering the candle always kept burning in this corridor at night. The ghost must have blown it out to show herself to best advantage in the gloom. It took but a moment to light it again, and by the time the little flame flared up, illuminating the scene, Brisbane had hauled the ghost to her feet, her black veiling dangling free.

“Charlotte!” I cried.

She made to wrench her arm free, but Brisbane held her fast with his good arm. “Charlotte, do not give me a reason to slap you, I beg you,” he said pleasantly.

“Bastard,” she spat.

“What the devil is this about? I want the truth, and I think I deserve it,” I stated, folding my arms over my chest.

“She does deserve that much at least, Brisbane. Let us go into the study and discuss this like rational creatures,” Father said. I whirled to find him standing on the last stair.

“You as well?” I demanded. Father had the grace to look abashed, but he said nothing. He turned to Brisbane in appeal. Brisbane gave him a curt nod and prodded Charlotte toward the study. I hurried after them, and Father followed. We were an unlikely quartet, I thought as Father closed the door carefully behind us and I hurried to light lamps and put a candle to the fire. It blazed up quickly and cheerfully, a counterpoint to our solemn faces. Brisbane was angry, Father was aggrieved, and Charlotte seemed broken, the hot flash of her anger now burnt to resignation. I was frankly bewildered, and after we had taken
chairs and accepted the whiskey Father poured out, I settled back to await an explanation.

“Charlotte King is a jewel thief,” Brisbane said flatly. “A rather exclusive one, to be sure, but a jewel thief nonetheless. I have been engaged to retrieve something she has stolen.”

“I am
not
a thief,” she said quietly.

“Mrs. King, do not speak,” Father advised. “We shall all of us remember what you say, and perhaps we may one day be prevailed upon to repeat it, under oath and to your detriment.”

Charlotte fell silent and sipped at her whiskey, her eyes downcast.

“I presume that was the reason for the fictitious engagement?” I asked Brisbane.

“It was. I needed to spend time with her, to search her place of residence, to follow her to her boltholes and bribe her confederates.”

Charlotte gave a short laugh, nothing like the silly giggle she had affected. Her façade of sweetness cracked, she seemed a dozen years older. “Confederates, my lord? I must remember that.”

Brisbane ignored her, as did I. “Why bring her here? To my father’s house?”

“I had information, from one of her
confederates,
” he said, drawling the word, “that she was planning to leave the country soon. It seemed logical she would take this particular item with her. I had had no success in recovering the jewel, and time was growing short. It was necessary to isolate her in a place without friends or accomplices and
in possession of the stolen property. His lordship volunteered to invite her here.”