A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  The rest of the company was silent, expressions varying from numb horror (Helen Romilly) to acute boredom (Mertensia). Only Tiberius was smiling, a small, cruel smile.

  I looked to our host. “Who is Rosamund?”

  He did not look at me, staring instead at one of the striped roses. Unlike the others, this one must have been imperfectly arranged, for it drooped away from the epergne, brushing wilting petals against the tablecloth.

  “She was my wife, Miss Speedwell. At least, she was my bride,” he corrected in a still, small voice.

  “She disappeared on their wedding day,” Mertensia supplied bluntly. “It’s been three years and no one has seen or heard from her since.”

  Stoker turned to her, his brow furrowed. “You do not know what has become of her?”

  Mertensia’s laugh was brittle. “You don’t know the story?” She glanced from Stoker to me and back again. “Goodness, where have the pair of you been? On the moon? It was the most shocking scandal of 1885.”

  “In 1885, my brother was fighting for his life in the jungles of Amazonia,” Tiberius told her with a quiet sternness I had not expected.

  “And I was somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas,” I added. “I am still not entirely certain of the exact location. The maps of that region are imprecise at best.”

  Mertensia was not cowed. “Still, newspapers do exist,” she replied. “And poor Malcolm was on the front page of every one. It isn’t every day an English gentleman misplaces his bride.”

  “That will do, Mertensia,” her brother murmured.

  “I should say so,” Helen Romilly put in. “This entire conversation is in very poor taste.”

  “I’m surprised you should think it in poor taste to speak of the dead,” Mertensia riposted.

  A delicate flush touched Helen’s cheeks as she looked unhappily at her plate. Whatever Mertensia had meant by the barb, it had clearly struck home, and I found myself intrigued by the relationship between the two.

  “I say,” Caspian said, stirring himself to his mother’s defense. “That isn’t entirely fair, Aunt M—”

  Helen made a gesture of restraint at her son, and Mertensia bridled. “Do not call me that. The very notion of being an aunt is lowering. Aunts should be withered old women of seventy with spaniels called Trevor who lie at their feet as they knit antimacassars.”

  “We have wandered a little far from the subject,” Tiberius put in, giving a thoughtful look in Malcolm’s direction.

  Malcolm dragged his eyes from the wilting rose. “Yes. Thank you, Tiberius.” He forced a smile. “My dear guests, it has been a long day for everyone who has traveled so far to get here, and I think a good night’s sleep is in order. We will retire directly. But first, raise your glasses once more, if you will. To the woman I loved, to my bride. To Rosamund.”

  “To Rosamund,” came the various murmurs around the table. Malcolm Romilly finished off his wine, drinking deeply while the rest of the company sipped politely. We made noises of good night and sleep well, and in the dispersal of the group to bed, no one but I noticed that Tiberius put his glass down untouched.

  * * *

  • • •

  I am an excellent sleeper but that night I tossed and turned as if on a bed of nails.

  “Blast the man,” I muttered as I thrust my bedclothes away. I meant Stoker, of course. I had traveled to a fascinating place in the company of an intriguing aristocrat who was wildly skilled in the flirtatious arts. There were diverting undercurrents of tension and mysterious things afoot. Best of all, the prospect of my own colony of glasswings danced in my head. I ought to have been held fast in the arms of Morpheus, slumbering sweetly as I dreamt of butterflies and blue seas. Instead, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw only him.

  With a few elegant curses, I wrapped my dressing gown about me and made my way up the staircase that wound, tight as a snail’s shell, to Stoker’s room. I did not bother to knock and he did not look surprised to see me. He was sitting in the embrasure, looking into the black night. I sat beside him, noticing the spangle of stars and the bright pearl gleam of the moon as it hung, full and low.

  “I suppose you think I owe you an explanation,” I began ungraciously.

  He did not turn to face me. “You owe me nothing,” he said, his voice a little weary. “It is the nature of whatever is between us that we make no demands upon each other.”

  “Don’t,” I ordered, my hands curling into fists in my lap. “Don’t be understanding and accommodating. It is upsetting.”

  He turned his head, a small smile playing about his lips. “I haven’t been, if it consoles you. I sulked for the better part of the time you were in Madeira. No, I lie. I raged for the first few months, then I moved on to sulking.”

  “Is that why you did not write? To punish me?”

  “I did not write because you told me not to,” he reminded me gently.

  “Since when do you do as you’re told?” I demanded.

  He gave me a long look. “You are angry with me. What a novel experience. I’ve been on the receiving end of your annoyance, your impatience, your frustration. But never your anger. It’s colder than I would have expected.”

  “It can be colder still,” I warned him. “But I am come to make amends.”

  “For what?” he asked, arching a brow in a perfect imitation of Tiberius. “For dashing off to Madeira? For running away with my brother? You seem to have made a habit of fleeing, Veronica.”

  “For a woman bent upon taking to her heels, I seem not to have got very far. I am right here,” I said.

  By way of reply, he canted his head and deepened the arch of the brow. It was an inquiry and it was a measure of our understanding that I knew what he was asking.

  “I have no wish to discuss particulars with you,” I told him firmly. “But neither do I wish to be at odds. So let us have it clearly understood. At the end of our last adventure, I may have permitted myself to indulge in rather warmer feelings than I am comfortable owning, feelings to which I very nearly gave voice. Were it not for Tiberius’ timely arrival in the glasshouse that day, I might have said things I would now regret.”

  He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. “I am glad Tiberius came, and I am glad I never said what I might have that day. And I am glad I went to Madeira. We needed time, the both of us, and I think we still do.”

  “Time?”

  “Time,” I repeated firmly. “For the duration of our acquaintance, I have understood that Caroline de Morgan was some sort of evil influence upon your life, a malign presence that very nearly destroyed you. It is a credit to the resilience of your character that you survived her the first time, and it is a further credit to you that you survived a second. But I think neither encounter came without scars.” I flicked a glance to the long, silver line that marked his face. It might have been dealt at the claws of a jaguar, but Caroline de Morgan was every bit as responsible for the damage as the jungle creature that had flayed him.

  His expression was inscrutable, and I went on, calmly. “We have, both of us, acknowledged that our bond is unlike any we have shared with another on this earth. This friendship, this strange alchemy that knits us together, it is too fine a thing to let it be tarnished with whatever corrosion she has left behind. I think there can be nothing more between us until and unless all ghosts from the past have been exorcised.”

  He looked as if he wanted to protest, but instead he turned his face to the moon, watching the silver-white light play upon the black waves. “What do you propose?”

  “Nothing,” I told him simply. “I propose we do nothing at all. We simply carry on as we have in the past, friends and colleagues, nothing more. Not until you have fully recovered from the damage she has inflicted.”

  His hands tightened on the sill of the window. “I have recovered,” he told me flatly. “Caroline is nothing to me.�
�

  “Your knuckles have gone white at the mention of her name,” I pointed out.

  With visible effort, he loosened his grip, turning to me, his voice low and dangerous. “Veronica, it is entirely natural that I should harbor some ill will towards a woman who has done everything in her power to destroy me. She married me under false pretenses. She committed adultery with my best friend and abandoned me to die in a foreign country. She dragged my name through the mud and the muck not out of necessity but with real delight. She is everything that is vile and tainted in the world, and if you don’t think I deserve to want to take her apart bone by bone with my bare hands—”

  He broke off, his breath coming hard. “I will not explain myself further. I thank you for your visit but this conversation has ceased to be productive. I will wish you a good night.”

  I rose and went to the door. He held it open but did not meet my eyes. “You will see that I am right,” I told him. “You have contained your rage for too long and that is a poisonous thing. Let go of it and you will let go of Caroline.”

  I was scarcely over the threshold before he slammed the door behind me. Then, as if he knew I was still there, he slowly and deliberately threw the bolt, barring me from returning.

  * * *

  • • •

  Wakeful and unhappy, I sat up for a while writing a letter of some length to Lady Wellie. I was a little troubled at leaving her so abruptly and hoped a deceptively jolly account of my travels and the unique setting of St. Maddern’s would amuse her. I took great pains over describing the people I had met and the little I had glimpsed of the castle.

  I wrote:

  It is a curiously homely place for a castle. The structure itself is of great antiquity but the interior has been redecorated several times. From Tudor galleries to the Jacobean dining room, it is exactly what one would most like a castle to be. I am told the views are spectacular, but have seen nothing yet as we arrived in darkness and it seems the weather is prone to change as often as a dandy’s underlinen. A storm has risen, howling like the proverbial banshee around my turret room, and I am thankful I am not of a nervous disposition else I would be cowering under the coverlet with only my eyes peeping over the top as I wait for morning.

  I dropped my pen, making a note to finish the letter the following day.

  A storm was fully howling as I blew out my candle, and somewhere in the depths of my dreams I noted the clashing of thunder, the cymbals of the gods, but still I slumbered on. I woke later than was my custom. I had no work, no Stoker clamoring for attention, no dogs or correspondence or obligations. I rose, stretching, and went to the window, flinging the casement wide.

  Before me, the sea spread like jeweled skirts, shimmering in the morning sun. In the distance, three rocks punctuated the horizon, strung like beads on a chain, but apart from this, there was nothing at all for the eye to see except the blues of sea and sky stretching to the end of eternity. Strong winds whipped the water into white-capped waves and the scent of the brisk sea air was intoxicating. I had not realized exactly how high we had climbed into the darkness, but I felt on top of the world, as if I could reach out and touch the toe of heaven. After scribbling a quick postscript to Lady Wellie about the stunning views, I washed and dressed and made my way down to breakfast with my letter tucked in my pocket. There was no sound from the room above me, indicating that Stoker was either sleeping in or already abroad. Tiberius’ door was firmly closed but I did not knock.

  I helped myself to a full plate of eggs and bacon and tomatoes from the hot chafing dishes on the sideboard. As I took my chair at the table, Mrs. Trengrouse glided in with a fresh pot of tea and a rack of toast.

  “Good morning, Miss Speedwell. I hope you slept well in spite of the storm?”

  A tiny furrow appeared between her silvering dark brows. She took her responsibilities seriously as housekeeper, I reflected. With no wife for Malcolm Romilly, and Mertensia clearly uninterested in domesticity, the running of the household would fall upon her shoulders. She did not seem to mind the responsibility. In fact, I would venture to say that she throve upon it. Her chatelaine was as brightly polished as the previous day, but her collar and cuffs had been changed for crisp white linen. Belgian, I guessed.

  “Entirely,” I assured her. She placed the teapot and toast rack within easy reach of me and rearranged various dishes of jams and butter and honey until I had everything I could possibly desire.

  “I shall be fat as a Michaelmas goose by the time I leave,” I mused. “I am dreadfully hungry and everything is so delicious.”

  She beamed. “We take great pride in our kitchens, and the sea air has that effect upon everyone.”

  “I seem to be the only one about. Where are the others?”

  She made her way down the sideboard, peering into each chafing dish and arranging the contents more attractively. “Mrs. Romilly takes breakfast in her room. The gentlemen—Mr. Romilly, Mr. Caspian, his lordship, and Mr. Templeton-Vane—ate earlier and are on a ramble about the island. Visiting the threshing floors and the fishing boats. And Miss Mertensia never breakfasts. She stuffs a roll into her pocket and eats while she works in the garden,” she said in a tone of fond exasperation. She drew back the draperies to let in the strong morning sunlight. “Rain later, I’m afraid, so if you want exercise, you might care to walk in the gardens this morning,” she advised.

  “I rather thought Miss Mertensia discouraged that sort of thing.”

  She looked shocked. “Heavens no, Miss Speedwell! She is merely protective of her gardens. You would be most welcome, I am sure.” She beckoned me to the window. “You see the walled garden here? That is a little pleasaunce planted four centuries ago for the ladies of the house to take the air and sun. Now, through the west gate is the kitchen garden, which is tidy and productive, but hardly of any interest to the casual visitor. Far better, in my opinion, is the east gate,” she instructed, pointing to a large wooden door set in an arch of the stone wall. “It isn’t locked, just pass through and you will be in the flower gardens and herbaceous borders. Beyond is another wall dividing the formal gardens from the orchards with a little yew walk at the end. At the far reach of the yew walk is a strong black gate with a skull and crossbones, you cannot miss it.”

  “A skull and crossbones! Are there pirates about?” I teased.

  “No, but it is a warning just the same. That is Miss Mertensia’s poison garden, and you mustn’t enter without Miss Mertensia to guide you,” she said severely. “The plants there have been collected over many years and some of them are quite dangerous indeed. Even brushing up against them can be lethal, to say nothing of breathing in the air around them.”

  “Goodness, is she not afraid of the danger to herself?”

  “Miss Mertensia knows more about plants than half the Western world,” she told me with an unmistakable note of pride. “She has been consulted by any number of expert horticulturists on the subject. She receives many requests to visit the garden, but guests are permitted at her invitation only.”

  “I shall certainly wait for mine,” I assured her. She inclined her head and I finished my breakfast, pausing only to collect my hat before striking out for my walk. I followed her advice, making my way through the formal gardens and into the orchard, the branches of the fruit trees heavy with dark purple damsons and the air thick with the odor of ripeness.

  What Mrs. Trengrouse had not told me was that each of the gardens was set upon its own terrace, divided by stout stone walls and accessed by staircases hewn into the living rock of the island. Once I had descended to the bottom of the orchard, I turned back to look at the castle. It stood proudly upon its clifftop, the stone burnished to dark gold in the strong morning light. Banished was the forbidding black fortress that had loomed above us in the darkening night. It was as if a faery had cast a spell of enchantment over the place, gilding it to splendor. Set within the lush gardens, it harmon
ized perfectly with the landscape that had borne it. Overhead, gulls wheeled and screamed, reminding me that this place was set within a sparkling sea.

  A bench had been placed within the orchard—no doubt for just such meditations—but I carried on, descending around the walled poison garden towards a lower terrace. Through the forbidding gates, I had just seen the bobbing figure of Mertensia Romilly, heavily gloved, with a protective hat and veil, her clothes covered by a sturdy canvas apron as she worked amongst her perilous plants. I waved a greeting to her and she slipped out of the gate, throwing back her veil and pulling her hands free of the stout leather gauntlets, which covered her to the elbow. She carried a trug looped in the crook of her elbow, the ruffled crimson petticoats of cut poppies just peeping over the edge.

  “Good morning, Miss Speedwell,” she said, giving me a short nod. Most young ladies who made a pretense of gardening were content to do no more than cut roses and carry around a pretty basket in a picturesque pose. Not Mertensia. She had a spade in her other hand and her sleeves were rolled up to bare forearms scratched from thorns and nettles. Her skirts were streaked with mud, and perspiration pearled her hairline, but she looked entirely happy.

  I took in the long view down towards the village nestled at the foot of the mount. “The gardens are extensive,” I observed. “Surely you don’t manage them entirely on your own.”

  “Old Trevellan is still about to advise. He was gardener in my grandfather’s day. His grandsons help with some of the pruning and digging, particularly the vegetables, but I like to manage the flowers and herbs myself. And no one touches the poison garden but me,” she said with a nod towards the tall iron gates behind her. They rose some ten feet in the air, fastened with a stout iron chain and a notice strictly forbidding entry.

  “I suppose that is to keep out the curious,” I remarked.