Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I assume Mr. Brisbane has given you the particulars of Sir Edward’s death?”

  Doctor Bent nodded. “He has. I must say that the ability to make a diagnosis with any certainty after this length of time, and with no postmortem, is greatly compromised. You do understand that?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but I feel very strongly that this was a case of murder. So does Mr. Brisbane.”

  Doctor Bent went quite still. “Intuition, perhaps?”

  This last seemed directed at Mr. Brisbane, but I could not imagine why. Indeed, Brisbane did not reply, but kept his eyes averted, toward the shadowy corner of the room.

  “I suppose you could call it that, but we do have evidence that someone was threatening my husband before his death. And Edward’s collapse was so sudden.”

  “But not entirely unexpected, I think,” Doctor Bent said gently. “I do not think so illustrious a physician as William Griggs would have certified his death as natural if there was not at least a probability that it was.”

  “My husband was murdered,” I said stubbornly. “I know that it will be difficult to prove. I do not ask that you prove it. I am simply asking that you employ your expertise to helping us direct our inquiries to the proper channels.”

  “I told you so, Mordecai” came Brisbane’s voice, rasping through the shadows.

  Doctor Bent smiled. “You did indeed, Nicholas.” He turned to me. “He told me you are a woman of great strength of purpose, my lady. I will be happy to help you in any way I can. Now, tell me exactly what happened that night….”

  I talked for a long time. Mordecai Bent was a very good listener—the sort of person who listens with his entire body and not just his ears. He interrupted me only a few times to ask questions about Edward’s collapse.

  “And what about his general health before his death? I know it was not good—a history of heart trouble, I believe?”

  I nodded. “Yes. His father and his grandfather both suffered from it as well. Doctor Griggs says that it is a congenital weakness, an hereditary one. Edward’s cousin, Sir Simon, suffers from it as well.”

  “And what symptoms does it manifest?”

  I closed my eyes, thinking hard. “Edward always had spells. He had them as a boy, I remember.” I opened my eyes, noting Brisbane still sitting silently, his gaze unfocused.

  “Spells?” Doctor Bent leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.

  “Yes. They always came on suddenly, sometimes when he was exerting himself, sometimes when he was quiet. He would have trouble breathing and often his complexion would turn a peculiar shade of blue.”

  Doctor Bent nodded thoughtfully. “Go on, please.”

  I shrugged. “As I said, he always had these spells. Some worse than others. Often, he could sit quietly and they would pass. Other times he would take to his bed for a few days.”

  “Had these spells grown worse in the months before he died?”

  “Oh, much,” I said emphatically. “There were times in which he was not at all himself. He was thinner, visibly so, and had developed a cough.”

  Doctor Bent’s eyes were shining, like a hound’s will during a course. “You said he was not himself. How so?”

  I spread my hands. “He was usually quite easygoing, very amiable. But in the months before his death he became sharp-tempered, moody. He was very angry at times, but at nothing in particular. He could be perfectly gentle, and then something would trigger his temper.”

  “Was he ever violent?”

  The question was asked without judgment, but I hesitated to answer it. Doctor Bent, sympathetic eyes and gentle manner notwithstanding, was a stranger to me. And some things were too humiliating to tell—or remember.

  I was aware of Brisbane watching me then, sharply. I lifted my chin.

  “He struck the boot boy, and his valet, I believe.”

  I flicked Brisbane a glance, daring him to contradict me. Besides, he did not know for certain. He could not know, I told myself firmly.

  Doctor Bent was nodding. “This is a very interesting puzzle, my lady. I must do some research before I can offer you anything definitive, and I am quite busy just now at the hospital,” he said apologetically.

  I rose, extending my hand. “Of course. Thank you so much for your efforts on my behalf.”

  He shook my hand quite cordially and I turned to leave.

  Brisbane rose and took a step toward the door. He got as far as the table next to his chair, then paused, and I watched as the colour simply drained out of his face.

  “Mr. Brisbane, are you quite all right?” I asked, but by the time I got the words out, it was very apparent that he was not.

  While I watched, he put out his hand to the table, blindly, dashing aside a decanter of whiskey.

  “Nicholas!” cried Doctor Bent, bounding past me.

  He reached Brisbane just in time to catch him as he crumpled, cushioning his fall with his own body. Brisbane was senseless, his hair tumbling over his brow, completely unaware of his mournful friend, the splintered glass, or the whiskey slowly dripping into the carpet below.

  THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;

  I know not where I am, nor what I do.

  —William Shakespeare

  Henry VI, Part 1

  For the next three days I heard nothing of Brisbane—either of his health or the investigation. I planned menus with Cook, read to Simon, hounded Val about getting rid of the illicit raven and snapped at Morag. It seemed there were a hundred little domestic problems that needed to be handled—one of the maids quit, one of the footmen was malingering, a stray cat had had kittens in the butler’s pantry—but resolving them proved unsatisfying. It was too tempting to wave a hand at Aquinas and delegate. But then I was left with my unruly thoughts and my twitching nerves and that was no better.

  I thought many times about visiting Brisbane. Not to actually see him, of course. Just a polite call to offer a token of my concern for Monk to deliver. Surely a little gift to speed his convalescence would not be amiss, I told myself. I could leave it with his man and perhaps glean a few details about Brisbane’s condition.

  He had recovered swiftly from his swoon. Doctor Bent had applied a little sal volatile and Brisbane had come round quickly enough. But he was still weak and haggard and Doctor Bent had insisted upon putting him to bed—after escorting me firmly but respectfully to the door. I did not blame him. It must have been disconcerting enough to deal with Brisbane in his condition without my gawking like a tourist at the sight.

  But I was curious, I could not deny it. To the eye, Brisbane was a healthy-looking specimen—robust, even. I was wildly interested in what sort of malady could fell so vibrant a person. And the thought that Doctor Bent might have sent along some sort of report about Edward that Brisbane was too indisposed to forward to me gnawed at me terribly. I toyed for a while with the idea of a basket of Cook’s choicest pastries and a bottle of the best wine in the cellar, selected by Aquinas, but in the end my better instincts took over. Better instincts, or perhaps my cowardice. Twice now I had seen him in the throes of his infirmity, and twice I had fled back to Grey House without a backward glance. There was something quite disturbing about seeing a man like Brisbane in such a state. Inquisitive as I was, I could not quite bring myself to call upon him simply to satisfy my own curiosity.

  Instead, I applied myself to the clearing out of my study—a room long overdue for a good turn out. I swept up heaps of unfinished knitting and incomplete watercolour books, bundling them into a cupboard and promising myself that as soon as the investigation was finished, I would bring my little projects to completion. For now, it seemed like a bit of an accomplishment just to get them out of sight.

  I moved on to the bookshelves, pulling out piles of unread newspapers and putting them aside for Aquinas to deal with. I straightened the books, flicked a duster over them, and made up my mind to let the maids into the room in future. I was certainly not keeping it tid
y, much less clean. The dust was appalling, and I kept sneezing as I burrowed down into stacks of books I had not seen in ages. There were volumes I had brought to my marriage—books of my childhood, much-loved editions with worn covers and jam stains from sticky fingers. I turned over the leaves, spotting the brown rings from teacups and the occasional pale mark where I had used a leaf as a bookmark. There was my Psalter as well, a gift from the Princess of Wales upon my confirmation. It was marked with the three Wales feathers and her initials in gilt on the leather cover, and inscribed in her own hand on the flyleaf. I turned it over, delighted to see it again. She had been Princess of Wales for only seven years when I was confirmed, and I had been completely in awe of her. She was utterly lovely, and I had been thrilled to own something she had touched with her own pretty hands.

  I ran my fingers over the cover, mourning the state of the book. I should have taken better care of it. It had been the most elegant thing I owned for many years. Now the morocco cover was dry and cracking and the gilt cipher flaking. I opened it, almost afraid to look at the silk ribbon, which was certain to be splitting. Really, I did not deserve to own nice things if I could not take better care of them, I chided myself. I leafed through the pages, then bent swiftly over some damage I had not expected. The ribbon was indeed splitting, but it was the hole in the page that was most disconcerting. What sort of worm or moth had done that?

  But I knew as soon as the question had formed in my mind that no insect had done this damage. The Psalter had been damaged by human hands—hands with very sharp scissors.

  I looked at the book for a long moment, feeling a rush of excitement, I am ashamed to say. For I held in my hands our first genuine clue. The verse that had been scissored from my Psalter was not the one glued to the note I had discovered in the desk, but I had no doubt it had been affixed to one of those that Brisbane had seen. I could not remember how many notes Edward had received altogether—I could not even remember if Brisbane had ever told me. But I was bone certain that they all began with this harmless little book.

  I paged through it carefully, almost at arm’s length now. It was distasteful, really. Someone else had used this personal volume and it felt polluted. But it was necessary to scrutinize it for more clues and I did so with enthusiasm. There were six holes altogether.

  I sat back on my heels, considering. The person who had threatened Edward had taken my Psalter and carefully excised the passages he wanted, then replaced it. This argued that the person had kept it for some time—a person with access to my house, at least twice—once to take the book and once to return it. The implications were faintly horrifying, and I knew exactly what I must do.

  I rose and went to the desk in search of a bit of brown paper in which to wrap the book. When it was a neat parcel, I slipped it into my pocket and rang for Aquinas to prepare a basket of fruit. It was time to see Brisbane, indisposition or not.

  THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER

  Mistress, both man and master is possess’d;

  I know it by their pale and deadly looks:

  They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

  —William Shakespeare

  The Comedy of Errors

  I alighted from a hansom in front of the house in Chapel Street scarcely half an hour later. The fruit basket was a thrown-together affair, less the tasteful, elegant display that I had imagined, and more a wickerwork coster barrow heaped with fruit that was either not quite ready or just past ripeness and oozing juice. But I had given Aquinas little notice, and for all its shortcomings, the basket was rather pretty. He had instructed the gardener, Whittle, to find a few flowers as well, so here and there a few bright-petaled faces of early roses peered out from behind bunches of cherries or clusters of currants. The Psalter, in its sturdy brown wrappings, was tucked deep into my pocket, bumping lightly against my thigh as I walked.

  I rang the bell and it was answered almost immediately, not by Mrs. Lawson, but by a boy of perhaps nine or ten.

  I pushed past the child, an easy enough task with an armful of fruit. “Do not mind me. I am expected,” I called over my shoulder. Not entirely true, but not entirely untrue, either. Brisbane should have known that I would call if I discovered a clue, shouldn’t he? In fact, I distinctly remembered him telling me to do so.

  I knocked awkwardly, from under the basket, and waited quite a long time before I heard noise from behind the door.

  It opened, a bare crack, and I saw Monk’s eye, wary and dull, peering out at me.

  “Your ladyship,” he began.

  “Good afternoon, Monk,” I replied, nudging the door open with my boot. “I have come on an errand of mercy.” I smiled widely, indicating the fruit.

  He hesitated, casting a glance behind him. “I suppose I could admit you for a moment, my lady. But I fear Mr. Brisbane is quite unwell. If you would leave the basket with me, I assure you—”

  I edged in through the tiny opening he had left me.

  “Actually, I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. It is rather urgent,” I said, pushing on into the room.

  The door to the inner chamber, Brisbane’s study, I presumed, was slightly ajar, the room itself unlit. Long, dark shadows spilled from its doorway across the carpet where I walked. The main room was brighter and very warm, stuffy even, and in place of the usual scents of leather and tobacco and herbs that usually pervaded the air, was an odour that I had not smelled before and could not place.

  Monk hurried to put himself in my path, but I strode on purposefully, stepping around him and heading for the open door that beckoned. Here the scent grew stronger; it seemed sharp, metallic in the nose and on the back of the tongue. From behind the door came a noise, a rustling, gathering sound that for some reason put me in mind of a bear, thawing itself from hibernation. Or something worse, something darker and more sinister, rising from its hiding place at the scent of blood…

  It is easy to be fanciful now, but I was not so then. I did not brave the lair of the wolf because I was courageous in the face of danger. I went through the open door because I was too stupid to understand that there was danger at all. I do not know, not even now, if I suspected what lay beyond, but I know that I dropped all pretense at good manners. I brushed Monk aside and forced my way into a place where I did not belong. Was it curiosity? Impatience? Something deeper? Still I cannot say what drove me on. There was only that metallic scent that I did not know, and that strange rustling. I know now that it was Brisbane, rousing from his state of semiconsciousness. I do not know what alerted him to my presence. The sound of my voice? Or was it more primitive than that? Did he catch my scent, over the sharp smell of his own medicine?

  I entered the darkened room, heedless of Monk sputtering behind me. I carried the fruit basket in both arms, clutching it gracelessly. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The room was not a study, as I had supposed, nor was it unlit. It was a bedchamber, Brisbane’s bedchamber. There was a tiny fire burning in the hearth, but it was heavily screened. No lamps or candles brightened the corners, and the shadows of the little fire were eerie, atmospheric. There was a small, bare table with a single hard chair and a narrow bed—a campaign bed, probably French, I thought. Brisbane himself sat upon it, wearing only trousers and a shirt open to the waist. The sheets were crumpled damply beneath him as though he had just risen from a restless sleep without bothering to crawl between them.

  His hair, usually orderly in spite of its length, was wildly disarrayed, as though he had been tearing at it. His face was half lit by the feeble fire and he sat watching me, Janus-like, as I hesitated just inside the door.

  His eyes were in shadow and I did not know if he knew me. I caught a glint from them as he turned his head, restless in the gloom. He lifted his head as a hound will do when it catches a scent, and I thought I saw a flash of sharp white teeth between parted lips.

  “What is wrong with him?” I whispered hoarsely to Monk. I had come expecting a fierce headache, a bit of melancholi
a, perhaps. Instead I had found an animal, unleashed from hell.

  “Migraines,” Monk replied in a low voice. “Of an unusually virulent variety. He usually manages to keep them at bay—sometimes for months, but then they return with a vengeance. He felt this one coming for a week. We did everything to allay it, but…” He broke off, his voice rough, and I knew that he suffered as much as his master.

  “It is so dark,” I began.

  “The light is like a lance to his head, my lady. He cannot bear it.”

  “He does not seem to be in pain now.” I watched Brisbane uneasily. He was sitting quietly, but rather than seeming serene, he presented a picture of lightly restrained savagery—a lion waiting by the watering hole for an unsuspecting deer.

  “He has tried conventional methods of relief and found them lacking,” Monk was saying, his tone faintly regretful. “He has resorted to dosing himself with other preparations. Absinthe, for one.”

  “Absinthe!” I had heard of it, and I had heard what it could do. “Does he know that that rubbish can rot his brain? That it could kill him?”

  Monk lowered his eyes. “Better it kills him than he kills himself.”

  I rocked on my heels a little. “Is it that bad?”

  To his credit, Monk did not despise me for the stupidity of the question. “I have to remove knives and glass from his room when he is like this. One of his wrists still bears a scar….”

  I did not want to hear more. I could not believe that this self-possessed man whom I had come to think of as my partner in this investigation had been reduced to trying to destroy himself. I looked down at my silly basket, thinking how stupid I had been to bring hothouse fruit. What would that do to cheer him when he was accustomed to the vicious pleasures of absinthe?