Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I had just begun burrowing about for a bit of lip salve when his nerve broke. “All right, I know it must be something fairly awful. You might as well tell me now.”

  “I’m not entirely certain that I can. How do you know it is awful?” I asked mildly.

  “You’ve fidgeted so violently that you have managed to rip the cording of your reticule completely off. Tell me.”

  “Very well, but you must look out of the window.”

  I sensed his eyes rolling in exasperation, but I would not turn my head.

  “I beg your pardon?” His voice was even—quite a good effort, I thought, given how annoyed he must have been at this point.

  “I simply cannot say it if you are looking. I know that we are supposed to be quite grown-up about such things, but I cannot help it.”

  “About what such things?” he asked with deliberate patience.

  “You are still looking at me.”

  This time the eyes definitely rolled, punctuated with an audible sigh. But he turned, edging his broad shoulders toward me, his gaze clearly fixed out of the window.

  “I am not looking now, nor shall I.”

  I cleared my throat. “Very well. Mrs. Birch said that when she washed Edward she noticed that there was some discoloration—some rather violent discoloration.”

  “What sort of discoloration?”

  My cheeks were warm and I fanned my face with my hand.

  “How explicit must I be? Something was not the colour it should have been. It was discoloured.”

  “I am conversant with the meaning of the word, my lady. I am inquiring as to the location and the extent of the discoloration,” he said coldly. “In plain words, what part of his body and in what manner discoloured?”

  “Oh, you are beastly. Very well, if you must know, it was his—his manly apparatus.”

  Brisbane gave a little choking noise. I do not like to think that it might have been a laugh.

  “His what?”

  “His penis, Mr. Brisbane. His stem of fertility, his manly root.”

  By this time his shoulders were definitely shaking, but to his credit, there was not a trace of amusement in his voice.

  “She is quite certain? I mean, it is quite customary for the, er—manly apparatus to be of a different coloration than the rest of a gentleman’s skin.”

  “Is it quite customary for it to be the colour of a vintage Bordeaux?” I asked venomously. “Mrs. Birch has washed more bodies than you or I have had hot meals. I take her opinion as the valuation of an expert.”

  “No doubt,” he said gravely. He fell silent, ruminating as I recovered my composure. My cheeks felt marginally cooler, and by the time he straightened in his seat, gripping the head of his walking stick, I was almost myself. His face was lit, his expression rapturous, like St. Paul’s on the road to Damascus, I imagined.

  “What? What are you thinking?”

  He was fairly quivering. The hound had once more picked up the trail.

  “That was how the poison was introduced.”

  I stared at him, not bothering to conceal my scorn.

  “You are barking mad. How could someone possibly introduce poison to a man’s…well, his…person without his knowledge?”

  He gave me a slit-eyed stare. “Perhaps it was with his knowledge.”

  “Are you saying it was suicide? That I find very hard to believe, and I must warn you that if you intend to pursue that particular line of investigation, I will stop this hansom right now and leave you here before I will have my husband’s good name—”

  He grabbed at my hand, squeezing hard, then dropped it suddenly, as if remembering himself. “I am suggesting nothing of the sort. I believe Sir Edward was murdered by a person with whom he was intimately connected.”

  “Oh, God, you think I did this!” I sagged against the seat, regretting with every atom of my being the day I had engaged him on this case.

  “You will have to learn not to take such flying leaps of imagination if you ever hope to make an investigator, my lady,” he said, rubbing at his temples. “I believe it must have been someone who knew his most intimate habits. It is the only way it all makes sense. He must have used a contraceptive machine—a sheath. A condom.”

  I was finally beginning to grasp what he was saying.

  “And this sheath was poisoned? On the inside?”

  “Precisely. It would account for the discoloration of his genitals, while no other part of his body bore traces of poison.”

  “What sort of person would do such a thing? Could do such a thing?” I murmured.

  Brisbane shrugged. “Someone who hated him, that much is obvious. Someone who knew he would possibly use a prophylactic device during his amours. His valet, possibly, but far more likely it was a lover.”

  He seemed to have forgotten entirely that I had been Edward’s wife. We were colleagues now, and I was not certain if I minded this or not. “His amours. That is quite a leap, is it not? You assume that he had mistresses, but you have no proof. Your entire theory hangs on the question of my husband’s fidelity.”

  Brisbane turned to me, his eyes cool and pitiless. “I do not suppose it, my lady. I have proof. I have had ever since you gave me the inventory of his rooms.”

  I returned the cool stare. “Of what are you speaking, Mr. Brisbane?”

  “The inventory listed one object that proved your husband had carnal relations with other women.”

  “Impossible. What object could possibly reveal that?”

  A smile crossed his lips. It was feline, almost cruel, and I knew he was thinking of the case and not of me at all.

  “There was a small porcelain box, painted with the image of Pandora, opening her own legendary box, the gift of the gods.”

  My lips went dry. “What of it?”

  “If it is the one I suspect, I know those boxes. They are made to order for one of London’s most notorious brothels. And they are only given to the most illustrious and profitable of patrons.”

  I said nothing. He settled back against the cushion, basking a little in his brilliant deduction. I felt my upper lip begin to grow moist. I blotted it discreetly with my gloved finger and waited for what I knew must come next.

  “All we need do now is retrieve Sir Edward’s box from Grey House, and I will use it as entrée to the brothel, where I shall discreetly question the inmates.”

  I swallowed hard and steeled my nerve. “Except that the box is not at Grey House.”

  He went very still. “Where is it?”

  “I gave it to Magda. I knew she did not kill Edward, the very idea was ludicrous, and yet I feared you meant to hang her. I sent her away.”

  “With the box.” His even, measured tone was far worse than any shout would have been. He reminded me of a cat that Cook had kept at Bellmont Abbey when I was a child. It would sit for hours, quite still, quite harmless-looking, but always watching with ravenous eyes. The poor, doomed mice never even saw the pounce. I licked my lips.

  “And a pair of Sèvres candlesticks. I did not have any cash to hand and I knew she would need money.”

  “So,” he said in a dangerous, silky voice, “your Gypsy laundress has taken our single best clue and pawned it, somewhere in a city of five million people.”

  I gave him my most abjectly sorry look. “I do apologize. I see that I have made rather a muck of things. But you must understand, I only did it to save Magda. I knew she was innocent, but I heard the way she spoke to you, the way she taunted you. I feared that you would be less than impartial.”

  “You mean that you did not trust me,” he said flatly.

  I lifted my chin. “No, I did not. But it cannot matter that much. You believe that you know the source of the box. Surely you do not require the box itself.”

  “That box is evidence, and I will have it.”

  “I cannot think how,” I pointed out reasonably. “After all, London is a rather large haystack, and Magda such a small needle.” I gave him a feeble smile, which
he quite rightly ignored.

  He did not speak until we drew up in front of Grey House. He alighted and held the door, but just as I made to exit the cab, he pounced, thrusting his arm across the opening, barring my path.

  “That needle has, I imagine, hidden herself in a very small, very specific part of the haystack,” he said, his voice low. “Do not underestimate me, my lady. I will have that box.”

  He had not taken his eyes from mine, and I understood from that unflinching gaze that we were no longer partners in this endeavor. He would know exactly where to find Magda, of that I had no doubt. What I did doubt was his ability to recover the box with his limbs intact.

  He stepped back sharply, dropping his arm.

  “Good day, my lady.”

  I gathered up my skirts and my dignity and swept past him and into Grey House. It was not until I had gained the privacy of my own home that I picked my skirts up into my hands and began to run.

  Through some miracle that I still cannot credit, Valerius was at home. I found him in his room, his nose buried in a book, idly feeding the raven titbits from the tip of a pencil. I burst in without apology.

  “Val, you must help me. He’s going to the Gypsy encampment on Hampstead Heath. He’ll be killed, I know it.”

  Val rose, sending the raven scuttling off irritably to the bedpost, where it glared down at us, muttering. Val put an arm around me, leading me to a chair. I did not sit.

  “Julia, calm yourself. Who is going to the Gypsy camp?”

  I took a deep breath, pressing my hand to my corset. “Mr. Brisbane.”

  Val’s eyes widened, in fear, I thought. “Nicholas Brisbane? You know him?”

  “Yes,” I said, throwing off his arm impatiently. “He was here the night that Edward died. Father met him. He is investigating a matter for me. I stupidly gave a piece of evidence to Magda and now he means to get it back. She’s gone to her people, and if he goes there and tries to take it from her, or to make trouble—”

  I did not have to finish. Val knew the Roma as well as I did. Any infringement of their freedom by the English was met with hostility at the very least. More than once we had witnessed exchanges of some violence when they had been interfered with by villagers who should have known better. We had left them largely alone and they had been good to us. But I had always suspected that if we pushed them too far they would turn on us as well. Their friendship was like the good will of any wild thing—a gift not to be taken lightly.

  “We must go, Val. It will not be dark for a little while yet, but we must hurry.”

  I was tugging at his coat, but he held my hands fast.

  “You cannot go like that,” he pointed out, taking in my extravagant costume with a glance. He was right, of course. No one with a scrap of sense flaunted their wealth in a Gypsy camp. To do so was to invite robbery—or worse. Smart visitors dressed discreetly and did not wager large amounts at their games. If we meant to blend in, we would have to do the same. I think the idea occurred to us both in the same instant, for no sooner had I looked at him than he was rummaging in his wardrobe, tossing out garments that might serve.

  Within moments I had gathered them up and disappeared behind the screen to transform myself. It took me ages to wriggle out of my clothes, but in the end I managed, tearing only a few of the costly ruby buttons off in the process. I retrieved them, taking a few precious seconds to tuck them into my pocket. It would have gone much faster with Morag, but I dared not take her into my confidence. She would have insisted on coming along, and I was dubious enough about accepting Val’s help.

  A few moments more and I stepped out, rigged as a boy, from proper tweed trousers to choking necktie. Val had slipped into my room and fetched my own boots and a hard black hat. He gave me his wide woolen scarf to wind about my chin and stepped back to appraise the effect.

  “At least you have a crop, so we do not have to worry about your hair giving you away,” he said finally.

  I scrutinized myself in his glass, rubbing at Fleur’s rosy salve with my handkerchief. “Passable, I think. With any luck it will be full dark by the time we arrive. Get some money, will you?”

  He scooped up his notecase and gloves and we departed, slipping down the stairs and out the study door, into the back garden. In a very few minutes we were through the gate and into the mews. I was breathing a little easier then, wondering if we might actually get away with our deception. We scurried around the corner and into the street where Val hailed a hackney. I muttered a little, wishing he had found a speedier hansom, but there was no help for it.

  “Where would you and the lady like to go, sir?” the driver inquired amiably.

  “Damnation!” I said softly. “What gave it away?”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, love, it’s the walk. All hips and bum, nothing like a bloke at all. Where to?”

  “Hampstead Heath, the foot of Parliament Hill,” I muttered, and subsided into a sulky silence. All during the lengthy, creaking drive I tried to imagine how I was supposed to walk without using my “hips and bum,” but at length I gave up. Darkness had fallen and we were climbing, almost to the Heath, when Val spoke.

  “Julia, I wish you would confide. What is this all about?”

  I looked at my hands, fisted against my unfamiliar, tweedy lap.

  “Why should I? You have not confided in me,” I said simply. “There was another bloody shirt in the laundry. Not another fight in front of the opera this time, I think.”

  “Oh.” That was all he said. I knew that I should collar him about Magda, as well, demand an explanation for the despoiling of Carolina’s grave, but I did not. I realized how close Magda had come to destroying him. I could not have borne that. He was my flesh, and I loved him for all his faults, for all his misdeeds. I would protect him, in the end. But for now I did not want to know.

  The cab alighted at the fringe of the Roma camp. There were a few private carriages, a fair number of horses, and another cab or two standing or tethered. Val gave the driver an extortionate amount of money to wait for us. I doubted our ability to find another cab so far out. Besides, although I did not like to think about it, there was the chance we might have need of a quick escape.

  Mindful of the cabman’s criticisms, I pulled my hat low and made a concentrated effort to walk flatly, my hips held firmly in check.

  “What is the matter with you?” Val hissed.

  “I am walking like a boy,” I explained, pitching my voice as low as I could.

  “No, you are walking like a perfect imbecile. For God’s sake, Julia, you’re clumping.”

  I straightened my knees a bit. “Is that better?”

  “A bit.”

  “You had best call me something else. Julian, I suppose. And get your hand away from my back. God only knows what people might think.”

  Val shied violently but kept his hands to himself. Without thinking, he had reverted to his inbred courtesy and been guiding me with a hand to the back. A mistake like that could be lethal in these surroundings.

  For a while we simply skirted the camp, keeping half in shadow as we ambled along. The ground was dry and hard, well-packed from the wheels of the Gypsy caravans and the hooves of their horses. The wind carried the sharp smoke of their wood fires, laced with the fragrant spice of the cook pots. Over it all lay the thick odour of horse, the pungent smell of money to the Roma. There was music as well, lively and bold, and threading through it all the strange, exotic lilt of their language, drawing us along. A half-naked girl tried to pick Val’s pocket and failed, running back to her mother. The woman cuffed her lightly, smiling and scolding her gently in Romany. I had no doubt she was being reprimanded—not for the attempt, but for its failure. The woman leaned over her cook fire, stirring an iron pot, and I smelled something rich and spicy, a stew of some sort, I supposed. My stomach gave a rumble of protest.

  “Blast.”

  “What is it, Julian?”

  “I should have thought to bring food. Did you dine?
”

  He shook his head. “No. Even a few sandwiches would have served.”

  “Never mind. I’ll stand you to dinner at Simpson’s when all this is done. Roast beef with all the trimmings.”

  “Splendid. Only promise me you will wear a dress. This masquerade is playing hell with my nerves.”

  “Done.”

  We slipped in and out of the jostling crowds, sometimes following groups or pairs as a new bit of entertainment would lure them on, sometimes holding back and peering into the shadows near the caravans. There were fortune-tellers, scrying with crystal balls and cards and palms. There were dancers with tiny, high-arched feet, stamping and yelling to the rhythms scraped out by the violins and guitars. And there were the men, beguiling the English to wager on a roll of the dice or perhaps the purchase of a new horse. There were smiles and shouts and groans, all well-lubricated with money and liquor. I might have enjoyed myself had it not been for the coil of fear knotted in my stomach.

  Val had no such scruples. I caught him ogling a dancer, her wide skirts flaring up to reveal a ripe brown thigh as she turned. She winked at him, doubtless in hope of a generous coin, which he was quick to throw. She blew him a kiss then and I tugged at his sleeve as he so often used to do to mine, urging him on toward a little group gathered around the blind old man who told lengthy tales in Romany with great, theatrical gestures.

  “I was looking for Mr. Brisbane,” he protested.

  “He is not under that dancer’s skirt, I can assure you,” I returned sharply. “In fact, I do not see him here at all. Or any of Magda’s people. Where have we not looked?”

  Val scanned the encampment. “The caravans.”

  I shook my head. “Too dangerous. We might edge near if we were to have our fortunes told, but if they caught us skulking about…”

  He nodded grimly. “They are dealing horses that way,” he said, inclining his head behind me. “And there is a boxing tent as well. Perhaps he is watching a match.”

  We decided to try the horse ring first, then the boxing tent, but before I could move, I heard the Gypsy storyteller’s voice rise and fall and I stood, captivated by the sound of it. It was a beautiful language, with an Italianate, musical quality to it. It was an expressive tongue, a perfect vehicle for the richness of the Roma emotions. It was a language contrived to woo or to lament, to seduce or revile. I, of course, knew none of it. For all Magda’s affection for me, she had never permitted me to speak a single word of her language. I had gleaned a few bits here and there, contextually, but never more than a handful of words, and I had forgotten them along with so many other scraps of childhood. I had never been allowed to ask if I even understood them properly. The one time I had ventured to use the Romany word for Englishman, gorgio, Magda had turned her back on me and walked silently away. Later she relented, but only enough to explain her anger.