Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “You wish to search Grey House, my lady,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. Like all good butlers, Aquinas would never dream of offering an overt criticism.

  “That is correct.”

  “For the purpose of discovering evidence of some wrongdoing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Perhaps I might offer a suggestion or two that would be of assistance.”

  “I rather hoped you might.”

  “If your ladyship could possibly postpone the proposed search until tomorrow, I think it would be immeasurably easier to arrange.”

  I blinked at him. “Why?”

  “Tomorrow is the Sabbath, my lady,” he said, without a trace of impatience.

  “Oh, very good. How many of them go to church?”

  “All, my lady. And afterward they have the afternoon free to avail themselves of the pleasures of town, such as they are.” Aquinas had been in service in Paris and was always bitter about the solemnity of a British Sunday, even in London.

  I stared at him. “Really, how very extraordinary. I never noticed. But I always have luncheon on Sunday, the fires are always tended to.”

  “I do not attend services myself, my lady. It is my privilege to stay behind and make certain that you are taken care of.”

  I did not know what to say. Aquinas had always shown such deft, quiet concern for me that I was not surprised that he should have given up his own Sunday so that I should not be inconvenienced. What surprised, and saddened me, was my own blindness to his devotion.

  “Thank you, Aquinas. You are most diligent.”

  He bowed from the neck. He never sat in my presence, with the result that our conversations were always slightly awkward, and I usually finished them with a crick in my neck. But I respected his insistence on decorum.

  “Now, I have undertaken to solve a problem with the assistance of Mr. Nicholas Brisbane. Perhaps you will remember that he has called here?”

  “I remember all callers, my lady.” A lesser servant would have noted my callers in a book. Aquinas, I was certain, simply filed them in his head.

  “Yes, well, Mr. Brisbane has suggested that I search the premises for our culprit. I may tell you the wrongdoing in question was a peccadillo itself—one of the books in my study was vandalized and the snipped passages were fashioned into anonymous notes. Mr. Brisbane’s intention is to prove that one of the staff here at Grey House was responsible, but I intend to prove him wrong. Unfortunately, the only method for doing so is to search the house for any clue, however trivial, that might point to the guilty party.”

  Aquinas nodded thoughtfully. “Might I suggest that your ladyship pay particularly close attention to the public rooms? I do not think one of the staff, if he is a clever villain, would leave evidence of his guilt in his own rooms.”

  “Good Lord, Aquinas! You, too? Mr. Brisbane said much the same thing. I thought it indicated he had a criminal mind.”

  Aquinas said nothing, but his colour deepened, staining his neck a ferocious scarlet.

  “Oh, really, not you as well!”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?” he asked innocently.

  “Nothing, Aquinas. I do not wish to know,” I said firmly, and I meant it. In spite of Brisbane’s allusions, I trusted Aquinas more than anyone else in Grey House. I did not care what youthful escapades might have brought him to the wrong side of the law. All that mattered to me was that he was on the proper side of it now.

  “Naturally your ladyship will wish to search my room as well,” he said smoothly. “It will be at your disposal whenever you wish.”

  “Oh, no, really, I could not—”

  For the first time I could remember, Aquinas interrupted me. “You must. I would not like there to be a shadow of suspicion clouding my name, my lady. I value your good opinion too highly.”

  I said nothing, but I could hear Brisbane’s voice, insidious as a snake. Well, of course he would say that, wouldn’t he? Especially if he has already hidden the evidence.

  Resolutely, I put Brisbane’s nasty voice from my mind, but it came creeping back when I opened the door to Aquinas’ room the next morning. The bells had already summoned the faithful to church and I was surprised at how quickly the house fell silent. Renard, usually kept on duty to look after Simon on Sundays, was given one day free per month. Usually, he took it in the middle of the month, but Aquinas had made some excuse for requesting that he take it this first Sunday, and Renard had been too eager to question it. The Ghoul had left on her customary Sunday tour of the churchyards. She left quite early each Sunday morning, swathed in mourning veils and crepe, and did not return until late in the evening, quite as rested and relaxed as if she had just taken a holiday.

  Even Magda had gone, although I knew better than to expect her to have gone to worship. She would pay a visit to her own people, no doubt, catching up with the aunts and sisters who had opposed her leaving, and who continually pressed their menfolk for her return. The others would likely go to the parks, meeting up with friends and would-be lovers. From my post in the study, I had listened to them, chattering happily as they crowded down the backstairs, liberated for the better part of the day. It seemed a little insulting really, that they should be so glad to be quit of Grey House, and of me. But I tried to imagine myself in their places and I knew I would have been the first one down the stairs. Even poor Desmond, recovering from a cold, had managed to rub enough camphor on his chest to make an outing worth his while. I could still smell him, along with the cheap perfume the maids had splashed on when I crept out into the hall, feeling for all the world like an intruder in my own house.

  I began with Aquinas’ room, for no other reason than guilt. I was ashamed at having to do it while he was in the house, but he had tactfully taken himself upstairs to tend to Simon. I made a quick but thorough search of his effects. I learned that he was a lapsed Roman Catholic, which I had always suspected, and that he was a widower, which I had not. I found a bit of newspaper in an envelope in his washstand drawer, its edges soft with age, detailing the acrobatic exploits of the Amazing Aquinas and his beautiful wife, Gabriella, of the Gioberti troupe of Milan. There was a sketch below it, crude but recognizable, of Aquinas balanced atop a wire with Gabriella perched on his shoulder. There was a second clipping as well, this one almost too painful to read—a gust of wind, a bit of ribbon snagged onto the wire.

  I thrust it back into the envelope, sorry I had seen it. I had known that he had trained as a circus acrobat, but I had always thought it amusing. I had believed it a youthful escapade, given up for a secure job in service that would see him taken care of in his dotage. I had never imagined the circumstances that drove him to leave the vagabond life. I thought of the countless times I had plagued him to tell me stories of the circus, and how he had always put me off, saying they were dull. I should have known better.

  But those were the only surprises in his room. He was neat and tidy to the point of obsession, his effects few and beautifully kept. Of course, Aquinas was far too clever to keep any scraps of his crimes hanging about if he were the villain, but I preferred to think him innocent instead.

  I moved to the top of the house, and collected Aquinas to help me search the maids’ dormitory and the footmen’s room. I had told him of the notes, but not of the poison. He would help me search for anything suspicious, but I kept my own lookout for small boxes or vials that might yet hold the means of Edward’s murder. He showed me the way to the staff quarters as I had never ventured there before. The maids shared a largish room that overlooked the garden; the footmen were in a slightly smaller room that faced the street. Both were nastier than I had imagined. Between Betty’s sodden heap of used and crumpled handkerchiefs and Desmond’s collection of drippy patent medicines, I felt rather queasy. The maids’ dormitory revealed nothing of interest, though, besides a rather childish attachment to cheap mementos and fairings. They each had bags of ginger nuts and little fair dolls dressed in gaily coloured scraps. They were old enough t
o earn a living in service, but none of them was more than nineteen, children really, in so many ways. There was a single pot of rouge, cracked and almost empty, that I fancied they shared between them on their days out, and a large bottle of very cheap perfume that was nearly empty. The entire room smelled of it, heavy and sweet, and I was glad to move on to the austere quarters shared by Desmond and Henry. The air was little better than in the maid’s room. Here it smelled of camphor and liquorice and a few other medicinal things I could not identify.

  Aquinas raised a brow at the collection of bottles arrayed on the windowsill next to Desmond’s bed.

  “He is homesick, my lady. He pines for the country.”

  “Then what is he doing in London?” I asked, exasperated, although I knew well the answer. “There are no jobs in the country, I know, Aquinas. You needn’t look so repressive. But really, one would think something could be done for him. I know—I shall ask Father to send him down to the Abbey. A spell in Sussex should put him right, what do you think?”

  “I should think the country would be exactly what he requires, my lady. He is a capable young man, diligent and amiable in discharging his duties. I think he would prove most satisfactory to his lordship. You might suggest something with dogs, my lady.”

  “Dogs?” I was moving on to the chest at the foot of Henry’s bed.

  “Yes, my lady. He is very fond of them.”

  I heaved back the lid and began to poke the untidy contents with my finger.

  “Well, Father is always looking for someone he can trust with his mastiffs. Especially now that poor old Crab is finally about to throw a litter. Good God!”

  I had found an album, bound in cheap leather and tied with a black cord. I opened it, expecting the usual postcards from seaside resorts. What I found was something entirely different.

  Aquinas looked discreetly over my shoulder and coughed.

  “French, I should think, my lady.”

  “How can you tell?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “The caption around the edge.”

  “Well done, Aquinas. I had not even noticed there was a caption.” This was because I had been too occupied with the photograph of the young woman in a provocative state of undress. She was staring at the camera with a saucy expression, apparently oblivious to the young man touching her.

  I flipped through the album hurriedly. There were more of the postcards, dozens of them, all featuring subjects of a prurient nature. But toward the back, there was something different. The first postcards had been cheeky, almost funny. Most of the young women were draped, exposing only their bosoms. The young men in the pictures were entirely clothed. One could imagine small boys tittering over them in groups behind the privy.

  But the others—I stared at them, feeling faintly sick to my stomach. These were not photographs. They were drawings printed on heavy paper, the edges raw as though they had been bound once and torn free. They were thoroughly obscene, not because they were sexual, but because they were violent. They depicted things I had never imagined, never wanted to imagine could happen. I stared at them until Aquinas lifted the album gently from my hands.

  “Some things are best left unseen,” he remarked, his voice cold with anger.

  “I do not understand,” I said stupidly.

  “You would not, my lady, because you have been raised with dignity and with grace.” He ranted softly for a moment in Italian.

  “But why would Henry have these?”

  Aquinas averted his eyes and I flushed painfully.

  “I mean, I can imagine why, but where did he get them?”

  Aquinas shrugged. “There are places…”

  I did not press him, but simply made a note to tell Brisbane of my discovery and pressed on. There was a small viewer, of rather good quality wood, inset with a disk of glass to magnify the cards mounted behind it. It was grouped with a pack of cards, their subject matter much the same as the pictures in the album. I shoved them aside. There was nothing else of interest in the chest, and I was grateful when we moved on, closing the door behind us. The atmosphere in that room at the top of the house had grown close and airless. The hall seemed a little cooler and I breathed deeply for a moment before we moved into Morag’s room.

  If Henry’s things had been a shock, Morag’s were a revelation. The small room was packed with items as a magpie’s nest, some things I had discarded, others bought with her modest wages. I recognized a vase that had been chipped slightly when one of the new maids had handled it carelessly. I had told Aquinas to dispose of it, but Morag had interceded, asking if she might keep it. I had shrugged, sublimely disinterested in what became of it. I saw now that Morag had filled it with dried grasses and placed it almost reverently on a starched mat of Brussels lace that had once been a shawl of mine. She had turned the vase so that the chipped edge did not show and tucked the snagged threads of the shawl out of sight. Everywhere I looked in that room I saw care and thrift and an almost painful determination to make good use of whatever came her way.

  “I think our Morag is the proverbial thrifty Scot,” I said with a smile. “She throws nothing away.”

  Aquinas was studying a framed sketch that I had come across months before. It was a courtyard, thick with fallen leaves and broken statuary. Edward had sketched it himself, before we married. It was well done, but melancholy, I always thought, and we had hung it in a back hallway and forgotten about it. I noticed it one morning, shortly after Edward died and had taken it down. I had been ready to consign it to the dustbin when Morag snatched it, saying she had a frame that needed a picture. I recognized the frame as well. It was a gaudy, heavy, scrolled thing that once belonged to Edward’s mother. I had never liked it, and when the corner had broken off, I had been delighted. Now it hung paired with the sketch, wildly inappropriate for such a humble subject, but Morag must have liked it. It took pride of place over her bed.

  “She came to us with only the clothes on her back and a sewing basket,” Aquinas reminded me.

  I said nothing and busied myself with her chest of drawers, feeling rather abashed. I had known what Morag’s life was like—Aunt Hermia had made certain of that. She had described for me the existence of an East End prostitute in terms that could only be described as brutally frank. I had known that Morag once lived largely on the street, sleeping in a bed only on the nights when she made enough money to pay for a doss. All of her possessions were carried on her person, tucked into pockets and sewn into hems. I had thought it would seem like paradise to her to have her own furnished room at the top of the house.

  But why had I never thought to hang proper pictures on the wall or give her an unbroken vase or frame? Immediately I thought of a dozen things in Edward’s room that I could pass on to her. A few were valuable, but not wildly so, and I did not need the money they would bring. Why not give them to Morag, who would enjoy them? I turned to Aquinas, shrugging to indicate that I had found nothing.

  He nodded. “All I found was a half-empty box of barley sugar sweets, for her sins.”

  I preceded him out of the room, making up my mind to give her a large box of the best candy I could find. In spite of her ragged edges, Morag had been a comfort to me through my widowhood. I should make rather more of an effort to tell her so, I thought.

  Next we ventured into Renard’s room, a task I was not anticipating with any great joy. His room was untidy as a lord’s, strewn with soiled clothing and discarded footwear. There were newspapers and cigar ash underfoot and a plate that had been sitting around long enough for the remains of the food to become truly revolting.

  “I thought the French were supposed to be fastidious,” I complained, waving a handkerchief over my nose.

  “I never thought he was French,” Aquinas replied. He had taken up an umbrella and was using it to tentatively shift the dirty garments.

  “Really?” I whirled to face him, my hands full of magazines.

  “The accent is too affected, too French, if you take my meaning, my lady. I
f you will forgive the observation, he sounds very much like your ladyship’s dressmakers.”

  I laughed, thinking of the Riche brothers and their exaggerated accents, their conspicuous use of simple French words in every conversation. “Of course! Where do you suppose he comes from?”

  Aquinas wrinkled his nose at a particularly malodorous stocking. “Kent. I never trust a Kentish man.”

  “I am sure there is a very good reason why, but I will not ask you now. I suppose his real name must be Fox, and that is why he uses that ridiculous sobriquet,” I mused, flipping quickly through the magazines. They were old ones, Edward’s castoffs. There was nothing more interesting in them than a mildly scandalous article regarding the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Aquinas had given up on the clothes and was poking about under the bed with an umbrella.