She dropped the pestle with a loud crack. Stoker stood beside her, his manner gentle. “Mertensia, I am certain it was nothing—” he began.
She shied away from his hand, looking at him with sudden suspicion. “Is that how the two of you play at it? She hurls accusations and you settle the ruffled feathers?”
Stoker did not look at me. “I know it must seem that way—”
“Seem! You are her creature,” she spat. “Dancing to her tune, pretending to be kind when all the time you are waiting, like a spider.”
“You did not answer the question,” I said sharply, calling her attention back to me.
She returned to her work, taking up the pestle with shaking fingers. “Yes, we quarreled. Rosamund decided to show her true colors at last.”
“How?”
The fight seemed to have gone out of her. She ground her herbs as she spoke, her eyes never quite meeting mine, her back half-turned to Stoker. “She told me that things would be different after she married Malcolm. She said she had plans—for the village, for the household. I told her I did not mind if she wanted to make changes in the castle. It was her right as mistress. As long as I had my garden, I would be happy.”
Her voice faltered and I saw her knuckles whiten as she pressed the leaves to powder. “She wanted your garden, didn’t she?”
“All those years of work and she meant to tear it out. She wanted roses and peonies,” Mertensia said, fairly spitting the words. “She meant to pull down the whole poison garden, have the entire thing planted with flowers, pretty things, she said, instead of all those nasty poisonous plants she didn’t like.”
Stoker held himself quite still, but his voice was warm. “That must have felt like a betrayal,” he said.
“It was,” she admitted. She looked at him then, reluctantly, it seemed. “I thought I was going to have a sister of sorts. I’ve never had the knack of making friends easily, but Rosamund attached herself to me at school and for the few short months I was there, we were never apart. But the summer she came to stay here was different to what I expected.”
“How?” I asked gently.
“Difficult. Tiberius and Malcolm were always making such a fuss of her, dancing and riding and rowing. She monopolized them, but I was not surprised. Tiberius and Malcolm had always had a healthy rivalry. It was just the pair of them showing off. When Tiberius left, everything was quieter. I saw almost nothing of Malcolm, but I still never believed anything would come of it. He is just so proud of the island and she was interested in everything.”
She looked down at the dirty green powder in her mortar. “I have ruined this lot,” she said in a dull voice. She threw the powder into the fire and began again with a fresh bunch of leaves. “Then they announced their engagement, and for a few weeks Rosamund seemed different, quieter. I would come upon her at odd moments and she was always just sitting, lost in thought. When she was with Malcolm, her spirits were high. There was a recklessness about her, a sort of devil-may-care gleam in her eye that I could not understand. I would have thought she would have been serene. She had everything she ever wanted. But Rosamund was never serene. There was only brooding silence or that hectic gaiety. Nothing in between. No real happiness, no real love for Malcolm. I finally confronted her the night before they were married. That is when she told me that I needn’t bother myself about her. She had everything planned.”
Mertensia’s hands stilled as she spoke, her voice dreamy, her eyes fixed upon a point in the distance. “She talked for hours, it seemed. She told me all that she wanted to do, every way she meant to take charge of things. I never realized, you see, how much she had resented me when we were at school together. I thought we were equals, miserable little girls bound by our unhappiness. But Rosamund saw things differently. There was a watchfulness to her I had never seen, a brittleness. It created a strange atmosphere that summer. The air was heavy, as if waiting for a storm to break. And then I discovered that she had been taking my place.”
“In what way?” Stoker asked, his voice low and coaxing.
“It has always been the family’s responsibility to take care of the villagers. My mother did it, and before I was old enough, after her death, Trenny used to make the calls. She taught me how to pack the baskets, what to choose to give the most comfort—a broth with wine and egg yolks for a nursing mother, a calf’s-foot jelly for a broken leg, just as I did today. There is not a hearthside on this island beside which I have not sat, warming soup and knitting socks. One day I brewed up a bit of cat’s-claw tonic for old Mrs. Polglase. She has rheumatism quite badly and cat’s-claw is the best remedy. I used to take her a bottle quite regularly, but that summer there was so much to do, I had left it. I felt bad when I realized how long it had been. I took the tonic and went to the Polglase cottage, but when I got there, Rosamund was already there, reading to Mrs. Polglase. She had taken the last bottle of tonic I brewed and brought it with her. They were having a great laugh when I arrived, and it was only the first of many such times. I eventually forbade her from coming into the stillroom to take my remedies, but it did not stop her. She merely smiled like a cat with a cream pot and went about her business. She persuaded Cook to bottle up soup for her and she knitted shawls and carried books with her. People started to talk about how thoughtful she was, how considerate. She even took to arranging flowers in the church, taking my best roses before I had a chance. Everywhere I went, she had got there first. It was as if I were being erased. You saw what it was like with Mrs. Polglase. The villagers adored her. I began to see what it would be like for me once she married Malcolm. There would simply be no place for me here.”
Stoker’s gaze flicked to mine. Mertensia seemed entirely unaware that she had just confessed to a powerful motive for murder. I gave an almost imperceptible nod and he moved forward slightly, careful not to touch her, pitching his voice to a soft, honeyed tone that had always sent shivers down my spine.
“She must have broken your heart,” he said. “You could not leave St. Maddern’s. You are as much a part of this place as the sea itself.”
She gave a slow nod, the pestle slipping once more from her hand. Tears stood in her eyes and she turned, almost against her will, it seemed, burying her face in his shirt. Stoker embraced her, settling those muscled arms firmly about her as one large hand cradled her head. He murmured something soothing, I could not hear what. The words were for her only. She sobbed for a long while; then her shoulders stilled and she relaxed into his grasp.
“I am sorry,” she said brokenly, trying to regain her composure.
But Stoker kept one arm securely about her as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, one of his enormous affairs of scarlet linen. She took it with a grateful, watery smile. “I am sorry I was so rude to you,” she said. “I do not really believe you are her creature.” She did not even look at me as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed adoringly on Stoker.
“I am very much my own man,” he assured her.
I tasted sourness and said nothing.
“Did you ever confront her? Tell her how you felt?” Stoker asked.
She nodded. “Precious little good it did. She merely laughed and said I was being ridiculous, and then she made some casual remark about things changing for the better on St. Maddern’s. And I went off to have a good cry in the garden. Helen found me there and I told her what had happened. She took me along to Trenny, who gave me warm milk and put me to bed. She said it was all a tempest in a teapot and everything would seem better with a good night’s sleep.”
“Excellent advice,” Stoker told her.
The feeble smile deepened. “I suppose. The wedding was fairly miserable for me, pretending to be happy for them. But then she disappeared and it was so much worse! I thought the most difficult thing would be for Rosamund to live here, but that was nothing compared to the suspicion, the whispers, the newspapers. The not knowing was diabolical.”
<
br /> “It seems to have affected Malcolm quite badly,” Stoker offered.
At the mention of her brother, her face shuttered. She pushed gently out of Stoker’s embrace and picked up her pestle. “I am certain Veronica has better things to do than listen to me moan about my family,” she said with a forced smile.
“Not at all,” I replied. “I am persuaded that Malcolm’s disappearance is connected to Rosamund’s. If we discover the truth about her whereabouts, no doubt we can do the same for him.”
“I hope you are right,” she said. She said nothing more and that seemed our cue to leave. As we made our way from the stillroom, I saw the corner of the scarlet handkerchief peeping from her pocket. Her finger reached out to stroke it as we closed the door behind us.
* * *
• • •
“Well, that might have gone better,” I said in some irritation.
Stoker shrugged. “We learnt a little of Rosamund’s ability to manipulate thanks to that scrap of letter. And we confirmed there was a quarrel. Whether Mertensia is telling the truth about the fact that it ended remains to be seen, but I am inclined to believe her. She is a simple, forthright woman. I think she has no talent for deceit.”
“And with only herself and the missing Rosamund to witness it, we shall never know.”
His expression was reproving. “Can you find no charity in your heart for her? Mertensia is a sterling character.”
I made no reply to this. I started off down the corridor, the tiny heels of my slippers ringing irritably on the stones. Stoker caught up to me, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. “Where are we going now?”
“To find Mrs. Trengrouse,” I told him. “She saw Mertensia after the quarrel with Rosamund. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”
“Excellent,” he said, patting his flat belly. “I could do with a bite of something.”
“If you’re hungry, you needn’t have come with me,” I told him irritably. “Go and stuff yourself like a Michaelmas goose for all I care.”
“Because you can do this all on your own,” he replied, stopping short in the corridor.
I turned to face him.
“Forgive me. I quite forgot your refusal to accept anyone else’s help, your insistence upon never needing anyone, ever, for any purpose. Very well. I have a few things to investigate on my own.”
“Such as?” I demanded.
“Do not concern yourself about it,” he instructed, the muscle of his jaw tight as he ground the words through clenched teeth. “But I think it is time we held my brother’s elegant feet to the fire.”
With that, he turned smartly on his heel and left me staring after. “Whatever has got into him?” I muttered.
Just then Daisy turned the corner, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets, smelling—one thanked the Almighty—not at all of chicken manure. “Oh, I beg pardon, miss. Was there something you needed?”
“I was looking for Mrs. Trengrouse,” I told her. “I had a question about Miss Rosamund.”
“She is about somewhere, no doubt,” Daisy assured me. “Probably looking in on the dinner preparations.” She paused, giving me a close look. “I hear as you went to the village proper today, miss, besides Polglase cottage. And had your palm read.”
“How did you—” I broke off, suddenly seeing the resemblance to the village witch and remembering how she had scolded young Peter with an air of familiarity. “You are related to Mother Nance. Granddaughter?”
“Great-niece,” she said with a grin.
“And I suppose that is how she gets her intelligence of everything that happens at the castle? You keep your ear to the ground and feed her information so when the Romilly guests come, she seems omniscient?”
“Aw, ’tis just a bit of fun, miss! She earns a little extra coin and she always sends a few coppers my way for it.”
Her look was puckish and I could not hold a grudge against this enterprising pair. “You told her that Mrs. Helen was afraid of ghosts, didn’t you? And that’s how she knew to offer her a protection charm?”
She grinned. “It weren’t no protection charm, miss. Just a bit of old coin Mother Nance has had banging around since God were in leading strings. But Mrs. Helen feels ever so much better for having it, don’t she?”
I thought of Helen’s desperate clutching of the charm. “I suppose so.” I glanced down the corridor, making certain we were alone. “Daisy, did you ever tell Mother Nance anything about Miss Rosamund? Was there anything you observed about the lady that you found curious?”
Her mouth tightened. “I don’t like to say, miss. ’Tisn’t fit for proper ladies to speak of.”
“I am no proper lady,” I assured her. “Now, tell me. Your master’s life may depend upon it.”
Her eyes rounded. “The master? I can’t see how that may be, but all right, miss. Yes. I did note something.” She glanced down at the pristine sheets in her arms. “I changed her sheets every day, I did. I washed all her linen myself, bath and personal. And in the three months that she were here, she only had her monthlies once.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Her monthlies, miss. She bled the first month she came, but never after that.”
“Rosamund was going to have a child,” I concluded.
“Yes, miss. She were sick a time or two in the morning. Nothing half so bad as I’ve seen with my sisters,” Daisy advised. “But sick nonetheless. I cleaned it all up and she gave me a shilling to keep quiet about it. And quiet I was,” she added firmly. “I never told Mother Nance, although she might have made a few shillings herself out of childbirth charms. But it made it all the more tragic when she disappeared, miss. It weren’t just her that vanished, it was the master’s child,” Daisy said, shaking her head sorrowfully.
But I had a different thought entirely.
* * *
• • •
After my talk with Daisy, I repaired to my room to wash off any dusty traces of the search, extracting cobwebs from my hair and rubbing a smudge from my cheek. Suitably freshened, I found Tiberius in the billiards room with Stoker. They were not playing but sitting, sunk deep in the leather armchairs, smoking and saying nothing.
I went and sat on the hassock at Tiberius’ feet, ignoring Stoker entirely. I leant forward, placing my hands in Tiberius’. “Did you know?”
His brows quirked up inquisitively. “Did I know?”
I tightened my grip, my gaze never leaving his. “Did you know?”
He did not speak for a long moment, and when he did, he paid me the compliment of the truth. “I did.”
“How? Was it in the telegram she sent you before she married him?”
He gave a slow nod. Stoker stirred but did not interrupt.
“By the time I received the telegram, she was already missing and my child with her,” Tiberius said. Stoker’s eyes were bright with inquiry but I continued to ignore him.
“Tiberius, you have not been forthright with us. Tell us now why you have come here.”
His expression hardened. “Malcolm married the woman I loved and for whatever reason, he failed her—failed her so badly that she fled. Or took her own life. Or was murdered. If someone has hounded Malcolm to death for it, then I would like to know who so that I may take them by the hand and convey my thanks.”
I had never heard him speak so bitterly, and it was a moment before I could form a reply. “You surprise me, my lord,” I said gently. “I hadn’t realized you shared Stoker’s capacity for rage.”
“Share it?” he mocked. “My dear lady, I taught it to him. Now, I should like very much to discover the truth of what has happened to Malcolm.”
“And Rosamund,” Stoker put in steadily.
The brothers squared off in a posture that was no doubt familiar to them from their boyhood days of brawling. “Yes. I do wan
t to know precisely what happened to her.”
“Well, I am glad you are man enough to concede you have an ulterior purpose.”
Tiberius’ handsome mouth curled. “Brother mine, I thought you learnt long ago—even my ulterior purposes have ulterior purposes.”
Stoker returned the smile. “Such as murdering Malcolm Romilly?”
I blinked at him. “Stoker, what on earth—”
“I searched Tiberius’ room when you were talking to Daisy. He has a revolver hidden in his bag. He does not habitually travel with one, and a sleepy isle off the coast of Cornwall is not exactly a thiving hive of dangerous criminal activity. Therefore, why would he choose to arm himself this time, I ask myself. Why come here at all and suffer the tortures of Rosamund’s disappearance resurrected? Unless he decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“Stoker, you cannot—”
“Accuse my own brother of plotting a murder? Of course I can. In fact, I accuse him of carrying it out.”
“You bloody fool,” Tiberius began with a thin smile.
“Am I?” Stoker crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll stake my life on you being up to your lordly neck in this business and take my chances.”
They stood toe-to-toe for a long, breathless minute. There was no sound except the ticking of a particularly ugly mantel clock until at last Tiberius expelled a deep breath and let his shoulders soften. “Very well. I came here to kill Malcolm. Is that enough of a confession for you or shall I write it in my heart’s blood?”
Stoker’s expression barely shifted but I caught the triumphant flicker in his eyes. I hurried to speak before he goaded his brother to further violence. “Tiberius, perhaps you would care to start at the beginning.”
He shrugged. “There is not much to tell. When Rosamund disappeared, no one knew precisely what had happened. Theories abounded, each wilder than the last. It was suggested that she had thrown herself into the sea or that she had gone off in a passing boat. Some said she was murdered, others that she had turned into a dove and flown away on the west wind. That last contribution was from the more superstitious villagers,” he added with a cold smile. “No body was ever recovered, no note or witness ever produced to say one way or another what became of her. Malcolm was advised that he could apply to have her pronounced legally dead if she had not been heard from in seven years. For three years, there has been nothing. Then, quite out of the blue, Malcolm wrote me a fortnight ago. He said he had discovered proof that Rosamund did not leave the island of her own free will and he wanted me to come here because he wanted to discover the truth.”
A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Page 28
