Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  But as we winnowed the garments down to the few items she deemed acceptable, I remembered Aunt Ursula’s remarks about widowhood and considered carefully a life spent in that suffocating black. I thought of the queen, a walking effigy in her widow’s weeds, and I thought of the Hindu widows with their funeral pyres. There seemed little to choose between the two.

  “Leave me the new silk, as well as that heap there,” I told Morag, pointing to a pathetically modest pile on my bed. “You may have the rest to sell or make over for yourself.”

  She stared at me suspiciously. “Are you feeling quite well, my lady?”

  “Quite,” I returned briskly. “Pack the rest of these up and remove them. I shall need the space for my new things.”

  She bobbed her head and set to work, still throwing the odd glance at me over her shoulder. I did not care. While she packed away my mourning, I went to my writing table and dashed off a letter containing very specific instructions to Portia’s dressmakers, the brothers Riche. In a very few minutes I finished the letter and dispatched it with a footman, feeling absurdly pleased with myself.

  That mood lasted until I read the letter from Doctor Griggs. It was a thorough disappointment, from start to finish.

  My dear Lady Julia,

  I cannot tell you how very distressed I was to receive your letter. It has been my privilege to act as physician to the Grey family for these many years. During this time, I have diagnosed and treated Sir Sylvius Grey, his son Sir Edward, and now his nephew, Sir Simon. It has ever been apparent to me that the men of this family suffer from an illness that is of an hereditary and most vicious bent. I had hoped Sir Edward would escape this curse, but I realized in his youth that this was not to be. This weakness of the heart and lungs was said to be present in Sir Sylvius’ father and grandfather, as well. It is for this reason that I say it is a mercy Sir Edward left no issue. Such a weakness in the constitution of such otherwise fine and noble gentlemen is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude, but it is not to be helped by modern medicine. I did all that any man could for Sir Edward and Sir Sylvius, just as I do now for Sir Simon.

  As for your ladyship’s own difficulties, I should prescribe a sleeping draught of poppy to provide a good night’s sleep and all its healthful benefits. Should this not prove efficacious, I would further prescribe an interview with the vicar to offer some spiritual comfort.

  I remain your very faithful servant,

  William Griggs

  Pooh, I thought, tossing the letter to the desk. Not a scrap of useful information. He had taken me for an addle-witted, superstitious ninny.

  Or he had poisoned Edward himself and deliberately put me off the scent. I straightened, feeling quite startled by the notion. It seemed absurd on the surface, but it was entirely possible. Who better to help a sick man along to the hereafter than his own doctor?

  I rose quickly. It took only a matter of minutes to slip upstairs for my things and make my way out of the house unnoticed. Between Brisbane’s lectures on discretion and Valerius’ stolen Crown property, I was very certain I did not wish Brisbane to call at Grey House. I walked a little distance down Curzon Street and hailed a cab near the Park. We made quite good time to Brisbane’s rooms, where the plump little housekeeper admitted me promptly this time, waving me up the stairs with a smile.

  I rapped sharply and was greeted by Monk, looking somewhat strained.

  “We did not expect your ladyship,” he began.

  “I know, but I have something to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. Business,” I said, brandishing the letter. He stepped back, reluctantly, I fancied, and admitted me to the room.

  “If you will wait, my lady. I will tell him that you are here.”

  I nodded absently and made myself comfortable. I removed my gloves and hat and coat, piling them on a chair in the corner. There was a copy of Punch on the table. I ignored it for several minutes, but as the time ticked past and I remained alone, I grew restless. I was more than halfway through the issue when Brisbane appeared.

  “My lady, please forgive my tardiness,” he said. I almost did not hear him, I was so surprised by his appearance. He was deathly pale under his usually swarthy colour, and there were faint new lines etched on his brow and on either side of his mouth. His eyes, usually so bright and watchful, were dull and sunken in his face.

  I made to rise. “Mr. Brisbane, are you quite well? If I have called at an inopportune time—”

  He waved me back to my seat. “Not at all. A trifling indisposition, I assure you.”

  But I was not assured. He moved slowly, without his usual grace, and I wondered what ailed him. Embarrassed at having pushed in at such a time, I thrust the letter at him.

  “This is the reply from Doctor Griggs. It is disappointing, I am sure you will agree.”

  He read it over, his brow furrowing tightly as he looked at the paper. He held it for several minutes as if he were having trouble making out the words. At length he returned it.

  “Disappointing, indeed.”

  “I wondered if perhaps he might be concealing something.”

  Brisbane passed a hand over his eyes. “Such as?”

  “Perhaps he poisoned Edward. He had as good an opportunity as anyone, and the advantage of being in a position to certify the death as natural.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, but what motive? What profit to him to murder one of his most illustrious patients?”

  I blushed wretchedly. Not only had I disturbed him at a time when he was clearly not fit for company, I had done so without having rationally appraised my sudden notion of Griggs’ duplicity. “I had not thought that out. I came simply on impulse. I am sorry.”

  He tugged gently at his collar. “It makes no difference. There could be a hundred motives we have not yet discovered.” He paused, as if gathering strength, then went on, his voice marginally less thready. “I have a friend, a surgeon. If we describe the symptoms of Sir Edward’s collapse to him, I daresay he could come up with something useful.”

  “Excellent! Will you write to him?”

  He blinked a few times, very slowly. “Yes. I will arrange an interview. We should both be present. I imagine he will have questions about Sir Edward’s general health that I could not—”

  He broke off then, his eyes fixed upon the fire, his shoulders tightly knotted, his jaw working furiously.

  “Mr. Brisbane,” I said softly.

  He jerked his eyes toward me, seeming almost startled to see me there.

  “I think it an excellent idea. Perhaps tomorrow—” I stopped as I watched him lift a hand to his temple.

  “Mr. Brisbane, are you unwell?”

  I made to rise, to help him, but he waved me off angrily.

  “I will be fine. Go now. Send Monk to me.” His voice was raspy now, as if the simple act of speaking was a tremendous effort.

  I stood uncertainly. Both of his hands were fisted against his temples, grinding into his head. His brow was deeply creased, his mouth white and twisted in pain.

  “Mr. Brisbane,” I began.

  “I said go—now!” This last was a full-throated bellow, ragged with pain and rage.

  I will admit to cowardice. I snatched up my things and fled, throwing open the door to find Monk already hurrying to him. He was carrying a flask and some other paraphernalia I could not identify.

  I did not stay to see what aid he administered. Instead, I hurried outside, never looking behind me. I walked quickly back to Grey House, making straight for the study. Once there, I poured out a glass of whiskey and took a deep swallow. It burned all the way to my belly, warming me through, but for the better part of an hour I trembled in spite of it.

  THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

  Within himself the danger lies…

  —John Milton

  Paradise Lost

  For the rest of that day, I could not settle to anything. I meant to go over the household accounts with Aquinas, but after he had to explain the wine bill for the third time, he closed the
grey leather ledger.

  “I think your ladyship is much distracted,” he said kindly. “Too much so to bother with the wine merchant. I will inform him that the port was charged twice to your account and that the last bottle of champagne he sent was unacceptably dry. Leave it with me, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Aquinas,” I said with some embarrassment. “I will be more myself later. Was there anything else?”

  “No, my lady. Nothing that cannot wait.”

  He bowed and left me alone with my thoughts, most of them unpleasant. Brisbane was unwell, which was unfortunate both for him personally and for the investigation. Simon had had a bad turn in the night, and Valerius was in possession of a stolen raven. The queen’s stolen raven.

  And I had gotten nothing useful from Doctor Griggs. What sort of detective would I make if I could not elicit information from someone I had known all of my life? I fretted for a while, then decided it was no use worrying about the investigation until Brisbane was feeling himself again. I took my supper tray into Simon’s room, pleased to see him feeling a little stronger. He rallied enough from his bad night to take a portion of my lamb and a glass of wine. We even managed half a game of chess before he sent me away, rather to my relief. I had been losing badly.

  It was later than I had thought when I left Simon, nearly half past ten. Val was out for the evening, hopefully making some arrangement about the raven, and I was feeling unmoored and wide awake. I poked about downstairs, picking up unfinished knitting, then a book of poetry, but putting them down again only a moment later. Finally, I settled into my study to attempt the accounts again. I applied myself, and this time actually managed to make a bit of progress. I made a few notes on matters I meant to discuss with Cook—she was paying entirely too much to the fishmonger, to begin with. And the amount of butter this household used in a month’s time was nothing short of scandalous. I worked on, almost peacefully, relaxing a bit as the numbers spun out of the end of my pen. I could hear Aquinas moving about in the front hall, dousing lamps, when the bell rang. A moment later he came to the study door.

  “My lady, a visitor. Mr. Nicholas Brisbane, if you will see him. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour.”

  I sprang up, upsetting the pot of ink onto a pile of magazines.

  Aquinas whipped a snowy cloth from his pocket and wiped at the mess.

  “Send him in, Aquinas. The ink has only ruined the magazines. The ledger is quite untouched.”

  He inclined his head, too correct to question my sudden attack of nerves. He swept the magazines up into a tidy pile and took them away along with his soiled dust cloth.

  By the time Brisbane entered the study, I had managed to tidy myself, but I need not have bothered. He was looking rather less than dapper himself.

  As always, his clothes were impeccable, but his face was still pale and drawn. He carried his walking stick, the same handsome ebony affair I had seen him carry before. But it seemed to me that he leaned on it rather more heavily now, and the silver head remained clutched in his white-fingered grasp. He was wearing a pair of smoky tinted spectacles that he did not remove as he greeted me. He surveyed the room for a moment, then seated himself with his back to the desk. I could not imagine why he should choose that chair—it was small and badly in need of fresh upholstery.

  But as I took my seat, I realized that by choosing that particular chair he kept the bright lamp of the desk behind his shoulder, where it would not cast a glare into his eyes.

  I looked at him, apprehensive, but he anticipated my question.

  “I took the precaution of loitering until I was certain there was no one about to see me call,” he said, his voice thin and brittle.

  I smiled my thanks at his discretion.

  “Would you care for tea, Mr. Brisbane?” I asked with a glance at the bellpull.

  “No, thank you. But a whiskey would not go amiss.”

  I poured one from the table by the door and took one myself. He drank half of it off quickly, then sat back, his head resting on the back of the chair.

  “I am glad to see that your indisposition was short-lived.”

  His lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile on someone else. “It was not. I daresay I am keeping it at bay—but not for long, I fear. In fact, I may not be available to you for some days’ time.”

  “Indeed?” I took a sip of my whiskey ignoring the little thorn of annoyance that I felt. I had thought we were compatriots in this together. I had not expected he would leave me to get on with it myself.

  A spasm of pain seemed to shake him then. He closed his eyes, his breath coming rather quickly.

  After a minute, it slowed and the spasm passed. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the low light of the room. “I have contacted my friend, the surgeon. He is very busy at present, but he should be able to meet with us in Chapel Street in a few days,” he said.

  That hardly seemed likely, given Brisbane’s obvious ill health. I felt ashamed of my annoyance. He gave every indication of a man who was truly suffering, and I had pushed myself and my investigation upon him with no regard for his own trials.

  “Mr. Brisbane, your indisposition—”

  He waved a hand. “Nothing for you to be concerned with. It is an old adversary. As I said, I will be unavailable to you for a few days. I will not write, but I shall send word through Monk when I am ready to resume the investigation. In the meanwhile, I must caution you not to play the sleuth hound. It could well be dangerous.”

  I sipped at my drink, annoyed once more. Brisbane could not help being unwell, but that was no reason for me to sit on my hands.

  And why the air of mystery about his illness? On the whole he seemed perfectly healthy, and yet apparently he suffered from some malady that laid him so low he would not even be able to manage a pen. Of course, he was absolutely correct, it was no concern of mine. So naturally I thought about it—excessively.

  He drank off the last of his whiskey and rose, pausing a moment to gather his strength and his walking stick. I saw now that its silver knob was fashioned into a horse’s head, with ebony eyes and a deeply chased halter. The neck was strongly muscled, as if modeled when the horse was in full gallop. It was an impressive, heavy piece, unlike anything I had ever seen before, and I wondered where he had purchased it. I walked with him as far as the door. He turned to me then, his eyes blazing black behind the smoked lenses of his spectacles.

  “I meant what I said, my lady. You must not endanger yourself. I cannot protect you if you do not follow my instructions.”

  I nodded, although inwardly I was seething with impatience. Now that we had begun this investigation I wanted nothing more than to finish it.

  But I gave him my word and bade him a demure good-night. He looked at me closely, as if he suspected my rebelliousness. I dropped my eyes and offered him my hand. He took it, clasping it hard in his. It was the first time I had felt the skin of his bare hand against mine, and I was surprised at how warm it was. Overly warm—he was starting a fever. Whatever illness he suffered from, it was real, at least.

  “You have given me your word, Lady Julia. Do not disappoint me.”

  My head went up sharply. He had never used my Christian name. I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him against this familiarity, but I did not. He was obviously in great pain, and yet he had roused himself to come to me and warn me that I would be unprotected until he had recovered. Surely that earned him the right to a little impertinence? And even if it did not, what was the purpose in maintaining pointless formalities? We were partners in this investigation, however junior he might see my role. He treated me like an elder brother might treat a younger sister, with indulgence sometimes, with breathtaking rudeness at others. It was a fraternal sort of relationship, I argued with myself, and entitled to a certain informality.

  Brisbane was watching me with interest, no doubt waiting to see if I would protest at this presumption. He was still holding my hand, so I shook his, gravely.


  “I will remember. Take quite good care of yourself,” I told him.

  Just then the door from belowstairs opened and Magda, the laundress, appeared. I was surprised to see her; I had thought her long since abed. I moved to speak to her, but she was not looking at me. Her eyes were fixed upon Brisbane. She came toward us, her bright shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders.

  “Magda? What is it?” She ignored me, coming to stand quite close to Brisbane, peering up through his shadowy lenses. He recoiled from her and I could not blame him. I had warned her about putting on the Gypsy in front of visitors.

  “Who is this posh rat?” she asked. There was humour in her eyes and a bright, snapping malice as well.

  “This gentleman is a guest of mine, and no business of yours,” I said sharply. I turned to Brisbane.

  “I apologize. This is Magda, my laundress. She was just going belowstairs,” I said with a significant jerk of the head to Magda.

  She opened her brown palm to him. “Care to cross my palm with silver? No, I thought not. I will not tell your fortune, though I think I know it well enough.” She gave him a laugh and a little push.

  “Magda! That is quite enough.”

  Aquinas appeared then, frowning. I was profoundly relieved; he was the only one in the household who could control her. He took her firmly by the arm and she went docilely, pausing only to throw a meaningful look at Brisbane.

  “We will talk again, won’t we, little vesh-juk?”

  The belowstairs door closed after them. Before Brisbane could speak, I rushed to apologize.

  “I am so sorry. Magda is usually perfectly well behaved. She can speak the Queen’s English as well as I can, but she likes to earn a little extra money by telling fortunes. She thinks it helps business if she puts on the Gypsy.”

  Brisbane, who had looked perfectly appalled by Magda’s little display, seemed to gather himself. He waved my apology aside. “There is no need to explain. I was merely surprised that you employ a Gypsy woman as your laundress.”