Her eyes were long and thickly lashed, the startling blue of a pansy. The expression in them was utterly sincere, and I realized that her attraction was not just her actual prettiness. It was this sincerity, this gift of making a person believe they were utterly necessary to her happiness. I wondered if the dustman felt this way when she looked at him.
But that was a cynical thought. By her reputation, Madame de Bellefleur had set herself beyond the boundaries of most of polite society. Gentlemen would call often, ladies almost never. I found myself wondering if I was the first, and I felt a little stab of pity for this charming and perhaps slightly lonely woman.
She threw open a door and gestured for me to enter. My first impression was one of serenity. The colours were soft, as were the lights, and it occurred to me only later that these were the most flattering for an aging beauty.
But for now they served to soothe Brisbane’s eyes, I realized as he rose slowly to greet me, still wearing his smoked spectacles. I would have waved him back, but there was something ferocious about the set of his jaw that stayed me. He was still struggling with the notion of his own weakness and I was not surprised. I loathed being ill. How much more must a strong, otherwise healthy man hate his infirmity?
I smiled at him and offered my hand. “Mr. Brisbane. I am so glad to see you up and about. I hope you are well on the way to recovery.”
I was rather proud of that little speech. I did try to make it sound casual, but the truth was, I had rehearsed it in the carriage all the way from Grey House to Primrose Hill.
He resumed his seat after I had taken mine, a lovely little Empire piece upholstered in pale blue bee-embroidered silk. He did not look as bad as I had feared. He had shaved and his hair was orderly, though still untrimmed. Other than his pallor and the darkened lenses and a few lines still bracketing his mouth, there was little trace of his ordeal. It seemed incredible that a man could recover so thoroughly from the wreck that Brisbane had been a mere week before. I made up my mind to ferret into a few of Val’s medical texts when I returned home to learn more about Brisbane’s condition.
“My lady?” he said archly. I jumped, realizing with a dart of embarrassment that I had been staring.
“I am sorry. Building castles in Spain, as my grandmother used to say,” I told him with a fatuous smile.
His mouth turned down slightly at the corners. He seemed guarded, although whether because of his condition or Madame de Bellefleur’s hovering silken presence I could not tell.
“I am recovering,” he said at last. “Thank you for the basket of fruit. It was kindly done.”
I started, thinking of the last place I had seen that basket, tumbled on the floor with cherries spilling out, crushed juicily underfoot as Brisbane leaned into me, his arm laced about my waist. Deliberately, I pushed the thought away.
“Think nothing of it, I beg you.” I hesitated, a bit reluctant to produce the Psalter in Madame de Bellefleur’s presence. As if reading my thoughts, Brisbane lifted his eyes to the lady.
“Fleur, I think Lady Julia would like a cup of tea. Do you think that Therese—”
“Of course! I shall go and supervise her myself.” She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Therese is old and very set in the French way of doing things. Sometimes her tea is not to Brisbane’s liking. His taste in coffee is that of a Turk, but he is a proper Scotsman about his tea. Have yourselves a pleasant tête-à-tête and I will return in a little while with refreshment.”
She withdrew and I watched Brisbane watch her leave. His eyes lingered, but not hotly, and I found myself wondering again the precise nature of their connection.
“I appreciate your willingness to come here, my lady,” he said, his voice pitched too low for her to hear through the closed door. “Not every lady would feel comfortable calling at so notorious a house.”
“Is it notorious?” I asked him with a nonchalance that fooled neither of us. “I had no idea. I had only heard Madame de Bellefleur spoken of as a great beauty, and I am glad of the chance to make her acquaintance.”
His lips lifted very slightly, almost but not quite a smile. “You are a better liar than I would have thought. But thank you for that.”
I inclined my head. It would be pointless and stupid to contradict him. I knew that I was in fact playing fast and loose with my reputation by coming to the Bellefleur home, but then I was beginning to realize that I was not altogether comfortable with my reputation in the first place.
“She is your friend, Mr. Brisbane. I trust that if she were a truly objectionable person, you would not bring us together in this fashion.”
“No, rather the opposite. For some reason, I have always thought that you and Fleur would get on rather well. You have one or two qualities in common that most women lack.”
I edged forward, wildly interested in what those qualities might be, but he disappointed me. He chose that moment to cough a little and reach for the tumbler of water that sat on the table near his elbow. By the time he had swallowed a good part of it and caught his breath, he had lost his train of thought or abandoned it on purpose. Instead, he stared at me through those strange smoky lenses, scrutinizing my face until I could bear it no longer.
“What is it, Mr. Brisbane? Have I left the house with my hat on backward?” I asked, smiling to relieve the touch of asperity in my voice.
He passed a hand over his brow. “Forgive me. I have a strange sense that I have seen you, quite recently, but I cannot place it. A dream, I think.”
My heart began to drum so loudly that I thought he certainly must hear it. I was grateful then for the high collar that hid the pulse at my throat.
“It must have been. Perhaps you took some medicine while you were ill. They can often provoke strange dreams.”
His eyes fell briefly to my mouth, his fingers twitched, and I wondered if he was smelling ripe cherries, remembering the feel of a supple glove against his finger.
“Yes, they can,” he said finally. I dared to breathe then. Apparently he had convinced himself that I had been an apparition, conjured by his drugged fever. Would God he always thought it so, I prayed fervently. The thought of prayer caused my hand to move to my reticule.
“Mr. Brisbane, while you were indisposed, I discovered something—something rather remarkable.”
I drew out the Psalter and handed it to him. He took it, and to my surprise, did not open it at once. He inspected the cover closely, running those sensitive fingers over the binding, the edges, the stamped crest and Prince of Wales feathers. He even lifted it to his nose to sniff lightly. Curiously, he closed his eyes, pressing the book to his brow. I thought for a moment that he might have relapsed into migraine, so intently still did he become.
After a few seconds the spell seemed to pass, and he opened his eyes. He paged through the Psalter, pausing to read the inscription in the princess’ hand and my own childish scrawl beneath it. He thumbed on, stopping at the page I had marked with the splitting silk ribbon, the page defiled by the sender of Edward’s notes. He leafed through it slowly, taking note of each neatly scissored hole.
When he reached the end, he rifled through it slowly again backward, but found nothing new. He sniffed it again, carefully, but either detected nothing of interest, or did not see fit to share it.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did you find it?”
“In my study. It was tucked into a stack of books that I have not looked at for years.”
“Was it dusty?”
I hesitated to admit the slatternly state of my bookshelves, but I knew that it might be important.
“Yes. That is, the top book was dusty, those below it, including the Psalter, less so.”
“Could the stack have been disturbed recently?”
I closed my eyes, picturing the pile of crumbling volumes. “No, I do not think so. The maids never clean there, they are forbidden. And I’m afraid that I haven’t done it myself for quite some time. There were a few newspapers in there as well, old ones, quite cre
ased, but only folded once. I think they might have been creased more if the pile was disturbed.”
“Not necessarily, not if our villain was quite careful. And I think he must have been.”
My ears pricked unexpectedly. “He? You think it definitely a man, then?”
Brisbane was examining the book again. “No, I simply grow tired of multiple pronouns. You may take it as given that I do not know the gender of the perpetrator.”
Prickly, indeed! I pursed my lips in displeasure at his tone, but I might have been a potted cactus for all the notice he took of me. He was too busy comparing the holes and measuring them with his fingers.
“Seven passages of the Psalms, all cut at the same time, then the book was returned to your study—but why?”
“How can you be certain they were cut at the same time?” I interrupted. His tone had been thoughtful, as if he had been posing his question more to himself than to me, but I did not care. I had found the clue, after all, and I deserved to know what he had deduced from it.
He regarded me impatiently. “What villain in his right mind would take the book seven times, and risk apprehension each time he retrieved it and put it back?”
I bit my lip again, now thoroughly chagrined. How stupid I was! No wonder he treated me like a slow-witted child.
“Besides,” he added, his tone somewhat milder, “the passages all appear to have been cut with the same scissor—a short one, perhaps a nail scissor. In the longer passages there is an overlap where the blade was moved.”
He opened the book for my inspection and I saw that he was correct.
“So the question is, who had access to the book, and more important, access to replace it, a year ago?” he mused.
I spread my hands. “Anyone! The Psalter has been there since Edward and I moved into Grey House. We entertained frequently—it could have been taken by anyone and returned at any time and we would not have noticed.”
“But would just anyone know that?” he asked softly.
It was my turn for exasperation. “What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, his long fingers tapping the cover of the Psalter. “Many people use the books given at their confirmation for spiritual comfort. One would think a volume given by the Princess of Wales would be even more prized. Most people,” he went on, “have the downstairs maid clean their bookshelves, on a regular if not a daily basis. Now, who among your circle would know that not only did you not use this Psalter, but that in fact, you never even permitted your staff to clean the study where it was kept?”
I stared at him blankly. “Brisbane, what are you on about? If you are criticizing my housekeeping skills, I will admit I have been less than—”
“I do not give a damn about your housekeeping,” he said sharply. “I am talking about someone in your own house who just might be the villain.”
“You are quite mad,” I said evenly. It was unthinkable that he could be right.
“Am I? Think about it,” he said, not bothering to be kind. His tone was harsh, his words unutterably painful. “The person who took that Psalter had to know that you did not open it often, or he risked detection. It must have been someone with little access to another such book—this points either to someone who has little money or whose time is not their own. They needed your Psalter because it was handy and would not implicate them, but also because it was unlikely to be discovered. And if it was, whom would it implicate? No one except the lady of the house. So, whom does that suggest to you, my lady? Someone inside Grey House with little time and little money to call their own. Whom does that suggest?”
I saw what he was saying and I hated him for it.
“One of my staff.”
He nodded slowly, then pushed the book toward me. I snatched it from him.
“You cannot honestly believe that one of my own staff has done this. Think about what you are saying.”
He leaned forward swiftly. “No, you must think about what you are denying. What I have just given you is the only explanation that makes sense. And it means that you could be at risk if you continue this investigation. Someone in that house hated your husband, perhaps enough to kill him. If you try to unmask him now, he might kill again, and this time it will be you.”
I shook my head angrily. “I cannot believe that. I know them—”
“Do you? What do you know of Aquinas? You may have had references for him, but what about his life before that? Before he came into service? What of Morag? What of the footmen, the maids, Diggory? What do you know of any of them? Think of it the next time one of them brings you a pot of tea or lights the fire or scrubs the floor or laces your corset. One of them might be responsible for murdering your husband. And they might simply be waiting for their next chance….”
I rose then, icily calm, stuffing the Psalter into my reticule. “I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Brisbane, when you are so clearly still in the throes of your indisposition. We can discuss this again when you are more clearheaded.”
He muttered something under his breath, something faintly obscene, so I pretended not to hear it. He did not rise as I left, and as I closed the door behind me I heard the high, splintering sound of breaking glass.
Madame de Bellefleur met me at the door, her face anxious.
“My lady, must you leave so soon? But we have not had tea.”
Her tone was pleading and I felt chagrined. She had been very hospitable, and I was behaving badly by running away. Impulsively, I put a hand to her arm.
“It is as you said, Madame de Bellefleur. Mr. Brisbane is in a nasty temper. Too nasty to do business with, I am afraid. But if you would invite me again, just the two of us, I would be delighted to take tea with you. Or,” I added recklessly, “perhaps you would care to come to Grey House.”
Her face suffused with light. “How lovely you are! Yes, that would be very nice. Come, I will walk you out.”
She escorted me to where Diggory was waiting at the kerb. I settled myself against the grey satin upholstery and asked myself for the thousandth time why Edward would have chosen such an impractical fabric for a carriage seat. Velvet would have been just as opulent, but at least then I would not have had to hang on to the edge of the seat by my fingernails to avoid slipping off of it.
Madame de Bellefleur put her hand into the window to shake mine. “It has been most charming making your acquaintance, my lady. Thank you for coming.”
“You were very kind to invite me. I am only sorry that I have to leave so suddenly. And I fear I have left him rather more difficult than I found him,” I said with a rueful glance toward the house.
Her laugh was merry and light, like the trill of silver bells. It was a Frenchwoman’s trick; I had never known an Englishwoman to laugh like that.
“La, my lady, I have seen him far worse than this. I have ways of handling him, do not fear.”
Of that much I was certain.
THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
Truth is truth
To the end of reckoning.
—William Shakespeare
Measure for Measure
I was depressed that night, as I had not been since Edward’s death. Mindful of Brisbane’s warning, I started every time Aquinas spoke to me. I waved Henry off when he would have lit the fire in the study, and I dismissed Morag as soon as she had unlaced my corset, pleading a headache. The only peace I had had the entire evening was the hour I spent with Simon, chatting and reading the newspapers.
But even that had been tinged with regret. His face had grown thinner still, and his hands, when they held mine, were like twiggy bundles of bones under his skin. I left him, feeling desperately sorry for myself. When he passed and the Ghoul moved on, I would be alone in a mausoleum of a house with a staff I no longer trusted and a brother I never saw. I heard an occasional quork from behind Val’s door, so I knew the raven was still in residence, but I did not have the heart to scold him. I paced a good deal, and found it difficult to get to sleep, the more so because I
now refused the little remedies that Morag was so proficient at concocting. I took to reading, far into the night, until my eyes burned and the words swam on the page. When I did finally sleep, my dreams were ragged and dark and I woke often, cursing Brisbane and wishing I had never found the threatening note in the drawer.
Even as I muttered the words, I knew I did not mean them. However difficult, however impossible, I wanted the truth, even if it meant unmasking one of my own. Yet I could not believe that an inhabitant of Grey House had harmed Edward, was capable of harming me. I firmly believed that the danger had come from outside.
But how? I had tried to convince Brisbane that the house was frequented by guests and family, but he had been disinterested, preferring to focus his accusations upon my own staff. How could I possibly get him to direct his attentions outside Grey House, where the true perpetrator lay?
After a good deal of rumination, it came to me. In order to force Brisbane to look outside Grey House, I had to prove to him that there was nothing of interest in it. I would undertake to prove the innocence of my staff, and in doing so, I would eliminate my own people as potential villains. Then Brisbane, seeing the error of his ways, would be properly abashed, apologize prettily, and we would pursue the true perpetrator.
I liked this plan very much. It was neat, tidy, and above all, it permitted me to score over Brisbane. The only trouble was devising a method of actually proving the innocence of my staff. There was only one means that came to mind, and I did not like it at all.
Unfortunately, Brisbane was quick to point it out to me when I saw him the following day.
“You will have to search Grey House,” Brisbane said flatly. He was watching me closely, waiting for my impassioned refusal. But I surprised him.
I sipped coolly at my tea. “Of course. I had already planned to do so.”
His expression was wary. He had not expected to find me so tractable. And I had not expected to find him so much improved. He was looking so much better, in fact, that if I had not seen him so ill with my own eyes I would never have known he had been unwell. We were on the terrace of Madame de Bellefleur’s villa, taking tea while she busied herself inside, tactfully out of earshot, although neither Brisbane nor I had asked her to leave. Her own natural delicacy dictated her withdrawal while we discussed business. I was rather sorry to see her go. She had greeted me even more warmly than before, and I found myself very glad to see her.
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