A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I rather wondered if I might do something for you,” I began. “Anything that affects the family must affect the rest of you who live here. And the burden of keeping everything running smoothly falls upon your shoulders.”

  “That is true, I suppose,” she told me in a low voice. “I have the devil’s own time keeping the maids from losing their wits. They are silly girls, every last one of them.”

  “Naturally they are influenced by such a tragic story.”

  “The tragedy is that he fell in love with her at all,” she said suddenly.

  I canted my head. “Is it?”

  She spread her hands, sturdy, capable hands that were no doubt more accustomed to keys and chatelaines than handkerchiefs and vinaigrettes. “I should not have spoken,” she began.

  I put an impulsive hand to her arm, the black bombazine rustling under my touch.

  “Were they ill suited, do you think?”

  “What difference does it make now?” she returned sadly, her tone one of resignation.

  “I thought her relationship with Mr. Malcolm might shed a little light upon why she might have run away. You must admit, it is unusual for a bride to flee her own wedding.”

  She hesitated, then beckoned me into the dining room. She poured us each a tiny measure of brandy and handed me a glass. “I think we might be excused a medicinal dose,” she told me. I smothered a grin, wondering how often the allegedly teetotal housekeeper indulged in such a remedy. She tossed off the drink, putting a hand to her mouth when she was finished. I sipped mine and waited for her to speak. She busied herself a moment, locking the brandy away again in the tantalus before turning back. She plunged ahead as if she had made up her mind to speak hard truths and wanted the task done as quickly as possible. “I would never say a word against Miss Rosamund,” she told me sternly. “But she and Mr. Malcolm were as different as chalk and cheese.”

  “Some say opposites attract,” I reminded her.

  She leveled a glance at me. “I know a thing or two, Miss Speedwell, and I recognize a lady with experience of the world when I see one. Have you ever found that opposites attract?”

  “No,” I admitted. Emboldened by her frankness, I pushed further. “In what ways were they not suited?”

  Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head. “It is difficult to explain if you haven’t known Miss Rosamund. She was unlike any woman I have ever met.”

  “How so?”

  “She was a lovely creature, perhaps the loveliest I have ever seen, all dark hair and eyes like sloes. But there was something more, an expression I cannot quite describe. As if she were in on some great joke the rest of us didn’t know. I used to wonder sometimes if she were laughing at us, but I think it was something different. She was a world apart, quiet sometimes, watchful. I never quite knew what she was thinking.”

  “That sounds uncomfortable,” I mused.

  “Oh, now, miss, don’t take it like that,” she begged. “I’m not saying a word against her. But I wondered sometimes if she were the right one for Mr. Malcolm. She was so very clever, and he and Miss Mertensia, well, they’re simple folk. My little lambs, I called them when they were small. Under nurserymaid I was, when they were small. Their mother was poorly after she had her babes, every one. She would take a dark turn, staring out the windows for months on end, never holding her littles or taking an interest in them. It was left to Nanny and me to care for them.”

  “Childbed takes some women that way,” I observed with a shudder. All the more reason never to engage in the practice of reproducing, I decided.

  “That it does,” she agreed. “And after Miss Mertensia were born, the mistress never quite recovered. Just black moods and melancholy. So I played with them and sang them songs and made them rhymes and taught them their letters. And in time I moved up in the household. Nanny left to live with her sister on the mainland and I was put in charge of the nursery. When the old master died and the housekeeper gave notice, Mr. Malcolm couldn’t bear to think of having anyone else in charge of things. ‘You know us better than anyone, Trenny,’ he told me. ‘You must take the helm,’ and so I did.” She had changed, her cool propriety giving way to a casual Cornish warmth as her accent broadened and her choice of words became more colloquial.

  “They are lucky to have you,” I told her.

  She looked pleased. “Very kind of you to say.” Her expression turned a little sly. “I remember your man, his lordship, from a long year back. He first came when he and Mr. Malcolm were schoolboys together. A charmer he was, even then. I could see he would be a handsome gentleman when Mother Nature finished with him.”

  “Yes, his lordship is very attractive,” I agreed.

  “And jealous of what belongs to him I should think,” she added, her expression perfectly neutral.

  I realized then that Stoker and I had indeed been seen together upon the little shingle of beach, him brazenly unclothed and me entirely unconcerned.

  Before I could speak, she leant close and I smelt the sharp spiciness of good lavender on her clothes and the merest hint of brandy upon her breath. “It isn’t my place, miss. God knows it isn’t,” she said fervently. She gripped my arm suddenly, and all semblance of the gentle housekeeper was gone. Her eyes were pleading, tears dampening the lashes. “But if you don’t wish to marry his lordship, break it off. Miss Rosamund didn’t and look where it has got us.”

  “You think she ought to have broken her betrothal?”

  “Aye,” she said, her fingers tightening on my arm. “If she had her doubts, she might just have left him, might have saved him years of misery and wondering what became of her. Why could she not have called off the wedding?” she demanded. “She might have saved him so much torment if only she had taken her courage in her own two hands and refused to go through with it.”

  “Then you think she ran away,” I ventured. She blinked furiously, seeming to recollect herself. She dropped my arm and took a handkerchief from her pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose lavishly.

  “What else could it be, miss?”

  I did not like to speak of murder to Mrs. Trengrouse. It was all so sordid and out of keeping with her tidy ways. In her world, mess and disorder were things to be mended. I knew from my own careful taxonomies that there was a tranquility to be found in order. My solace was the pinning of specimens and the lettering of Latin labels—not so very different to the starching of sheets and the roasting of ducks. To defile the housekeeper’s serenity seemed somehow unkind and so I temporized.

  “I am sure she had her reasons,” I told her. “For marrying Mr. Malcolm and for leaving.”

  Mrs. Trengrouse’s expression was doubtful. “Perhaps it is as you say, miss.”

  She dried her eyes again and pocketed her handkerchief, her manner once more brisk.

  “I shall not ask your pardon for my intemperate speech,” she said formally, her Cornish accent smoothing into something more mannered. “But I would never have unburdened myself to a guest were the situation not so—”

  I would have touched her arm once more, but it was clear the moment for such intimacy was past. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Trengrouse. People often forget that staff are as deeply affected by the goings-on in a house as the family themselves.”

  She paused, then nodded slowly, the candlelight sparkling off the silver threads in her dark hair. “Most people never think of such a thing. You are a most singular person, Miss Speedwell.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trengrouse. I shall take that as a compliment.”

  * * *

  • • •

  They say that curiosity killed the cat, but I am no cringing feline. I waited until the castle slept, the only sound the roaring of the wind about the tower, then rose and put on a dressing gown. I omitted to wear slippers, preferring chilled feet to the noise of soles scraping upon the stones. I stepped out onto the landing of the turret
stair, groping carefully rather than lighting a candle and risk alerting Tiberius—or anyone else—to my presence. There was no sound from Stoker’s room above, and no light shone down the stairs. I put my foot to the first step and ran headlong into a broad chest. Strong arms came about me, and a hand clamped over my mouth.

  Warm breath that smelt of peppermint humbugs stirred the air next to my ear and there was the softest brush of lips as he whispered.

  “Not a sound. Tiberius is wakeful.”

  I gave a nod and Stoker withdrew his hand from my mouth but his arms were still firmly clasped about my person. “I presume you mean to investigate the music room?”

  I nodded again and the arms relaxed as the lips brushed my ear again. “Then I am coming with you.”

  It was just as well that I should not speak. The unexpected proximity of him had set off a most interesting and violent reaction within me. I felt warm—very warm indeed—where his body made contact with mine, and unbearably cold where we did not touch. I attributed the sensation to the chill of the stone stair upon which I stood and the thinness of my night attire.

  With a purposeful gesture, I pushed him away, fancying I detected a glint of something like amusement in his expression. It must have been a trick of the fitful moonlight slanting through the open arrow slit of the tower, I decided, following him silently down the winding stair. We crept past Tiberius’ closed door, and I paused, detecting no sound from within.

  At the foot, a nightlight burned in a glass chimney set upon a stone plinth, casting feeble light towards the end of the wide passage. Keeping to the shadows, we made our way to the music room, slipping like wraiths through the half-closed door. Stoker shut it softly behind us as a precaution before lighting a single candle from one of the music stands. The sudden flare of light nearly blinded me, but I bent hastily to the task at hand. I inspected the harpsichord thoroughly, from its lacquered case to the strings that formed its innards, running my hands over the ivory and black keys, careful to draw no sound from them.

  “What precisely are you looking for?” Stoker inquired. He had made no move to help me, merely stood with his back to the door, arms folded over his chest as he watched me.

  “I will know it when I see it,” I pronounced.

  He grinned. “You don’t know, do you?”

  I pulled a face. “I am not mechanically minded,” I admitted. “Have you any suggestion?”

  He came forward, standing very close behind as he reached over my shoulder to point. “The likeliest way to accomplish a trick like this is to fashion a clockwork mechanism to create the effect of an instrument playing itself. It would have to be housed just here,” he added, his arm brushing mine as he reached.

  I peered closely into the lacquered cabinet of the harpsichord, but I saw nothing amiss, no devices or contraption that might have accounted for the instrument playing by itself.

  I stepped back, frustrated. “How could it have been done, then?”

  Stoker shrugged. “It cannot. Not with this instrument. Someone had to actually touch the keys in order to make the music.” He trailed his forefinger along the edge. “A handsome piece,” he said, “and an expensive one, if a little gaudy for my taste.”

  He was not wrong. Each panel of the instrument’s case was painted with a different allegorical scene of passion—Venus and Adonis, Jupiter and Europa. They had sprung from the brush of a master, I realized, rendered with uncommon skill and delicacy.

  “The artist has put in little jokes,” I told him. I bent to show him a goat with a wreath of laurel tipped drunkenly over one horn, a puppy stealing a beribboned slipper.

  “Clever,” he murmured, peering closely. “He has managed to give the animals almost human expressions.” His shoulder was pressed companionably to mine, and if I turned my head, even the slightest, my mouth would brush his cheek. I straightened at once, brushing in my haste against the rack above the keyboard, sending sheets of music tumbling to the floor, a single harsh note ringing out in the silence.

  “How clumsy of me!” I exclaimed, diving beneath the harpsichord to retrieve the sheets.

  As I went to replace them, I noticed another picture I had not yet seen, one that had been concealed behind the display of sheet music and positioned just where a musician might see it when playing by heart. Situated above the keyboard, this image was the most beautiful of all, an exquisite depiction of Jupiter and Leda. The god was in the midst of his transformation from swan to man, his form beautifully sculpted and entirely human, but his arms still broad and powerful wings, stretching to embrace his beloved. She was crowned in roses, her face turned into the strong column of Jupiter’s neck. He was in profile, but something about his posture caught my eye. I leant near, holding the candle close to the painted face. It was small, the entire figure of the god no bigger than my finger, and I had to stand quite near to see it clearly.

  “How lovely!” I breathed. I pointed and Stoker came to stand behind me, looking at the god and his ladylove in the throes of their erotic embrace.

  “Rather gives one ideas,” he murmured. I swallowed hard and darted a glance at him, but he did not look at me. Rather, his gaze was fixed upon the little painting. He bent swiftly and gave a sudden exclamation.

  “You unspeakable bastard,” he muttered. He turned to me. “Look.”

  “I did. It’s lovely,” I began.

  “No,” he instructed, taking my shoulders firmly in his grasp and forcing me to bend closer to the painting. “Look.”

  For a moment I was conscious only of his hands gripping me through the thin fabric of my nightdress. I could feel the warm clasp of each finger just at my collarbones, and the thumbs, pressing either side of my spine, stroking gently as he pushed me. I bit back an involuntary moan as my eyes fell upon the image of the god and I saw for myself what he meant.

  “But—”

  “Exactly,” he said with grim satisfaction.

  “But that means—”

  “Not now,” he cautioned. “We can discuss it when we have finished here. For now, we ought to conclude our investigation in this room and make good our escape before we are discovered.”

  “I meant only to search the instrument,” I told him truthfully. “What else should we examine?”

  He thought a moment, his eyes gleaming in the low light.

  “Unless Helen actually conjured the dead—a possibility I refuse to countenance,” he said resolutely, “or a clockwork mechanism which we have not discovered was used, then some human took the opportunity to play the specter, picking out that melody on the harpsichord.”

  “Impossible,” I told him. “How could anyone elude us so swiftly? There had been a matter of mere seconds between the playing of the last note and our arrival into the empty room, insufficient time for anyone to have escaped past us and down the corridor without notice.”

  He gave me a coolly superior look. “I cannot fault your logic, Veronica, but you fail to take it to its natural conclusion. Obviously, the phantom must have found another means of egress.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but there was no point. He was right, and I chafed at my own shoddy logic. I could not account for it—the conclusion was so patently obvious—but I was deeply aware of a certain mental confusion stemming from my disordered feelings for Stoker.

  A whole minute never passed that he did not touch me in some fashion—putting a hand to steady himself when he squatted to examine the base of the linenfold paneling or brushing my arm as he reached for a candle. I moved away with a decisive gesture, putting several feet between us. He gave me a quizzical look, but I ignored him until he stretched up to feel a panel some distance above his head, his shirt pulling high over his taut, muscular belly. His trousers slid a little, revealing a sharply cut iliac furrow which my fingers twitched to explore.

  “Nothing there,” he said cheerfully.

  I growl
ed by way of response and bent to the panel in front of me, kicking it in my frustration. To my astonishment, it leapt open at the blow, revealing a narrow passageway behind.

  “You’ve done it!” he praised, coming up behind me and putting a hand once more to my shoulder. The passage was dark and smelt of cold stone, and I was suddenly grateful for his presence.

  I paused to examine the hinges, not surprised to see them gleaming with oil.

  “Someone has attended to these recently,” I pointed out.

  “No doubt planning their exit from the music room much as a conjurer might plot out a trick,” he agreed, coming forward to sniff the oil.

  Stoker retrieved a lit candle and gestured for me to precede him into the passage. I gathered my courage along with the skirts of my nightdress. “If I am going first, I ought to take the light,” I said, taking charge of the situation. He acquiesced, handing it over and following me as obediently as a lamb as we made our way down the passage.

  I was conscious of him behind me, too close for my own peace of mind, I reflected darkly, and I wrenched my attention to the task at hand—investigating the passageway.

  Running the length of an interior wall, the little corridor had no doubt at one time been a means of moving from one part of the house to another. I had to push hard at the other end to force open the door. I emerged into the library, just behind a high-backed porter’s chair. The door here was neatly concealed by a narrow map case.

  “Useful to have a passage such as this if the Romillys were hiding recusant priests,” Stoker said as he emerged into the library. It would have helped to move someone quietly from one part of the castle to another. In extremis, a clever Romilly might have permitted the queen’s soldiers to discover it, gambling that perhaps they would look no further and the rest of the hidden chambers would go undetected.

  Without further discussion, we secured the panel and crept back the way we had come, pausing at the music room. Just as I was about to close the panel, I heard a footstep and Stoker and I turned as one to see that the doorknob was turning.