Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

“I do hope I didn’t interrupt your interlude with Count Fornacci,” Brisbane said nastily.

  “Lower your candle, you’ve half-blinded me.”

  He placed it on a table, and I could just make out his face, inscrutable in its fitful light. There were times I understood him better than most, I liked to think. Other occasions, I found him as difficult to comprehend as ancient Greek.

  “If you mean Alessandro, I can only say you are being absurd. He is a boy.”

  Brisbane arched a brow at me. “You are ungenerous. I would have called him a man fully grown.”

  I tapped the toe of my slipper on the carpet. “I will not quarrel with you, Brisbane. Besides, we are meant to be playing sardines, and I have not yet begun to hunt properly.”

  “Do not bother with the dining room. I have already been there.”

  “How kind of you to share your intelligence with me. Now, if you do not mind—”

  Brisbane turned, maneuvering me down the hall toward the nave. “I thought we should try the billiard room.”

  “We are not supposed to work together,” I reminded him.

  He ignored me, and it occurred to me then that he had some ulterior purpose in seeking me out. For an instant, I thought of Alessandro’s declaration and wondered if Brisbane had something similar in mind. Immediately, I rejected the notion and cursed myself for a fool. He was betrothed to Charlotte King, and although I was certain the engagement would come to nothing, he insisted upon maintaining the fiction of their relationship. No, Brisbane wanted me with him for some other reason, but I could not yet work out what it might be.

  Grumbling, I allowed him to lead me to the billiard room. We searched the shadows, and I found it curious how the near-darkness heightened my senses. I could hear my pearls click softly in the silence and the hushed rustle of my taffeta petticoats. I was conscious too of Brisbane, never more than a few feet from me. I caught the scent of him, his shaving lotion—something herbal, with a hint of spice, and something else, something indefinable but essentially Brisbane. It was a distinctive scent, and had I been blindfolded and asked to choose him out of a thousand men, I should have done so without hesitation.

  I shook myself from my fancies and moved away to look behind the heavy draperies at the window, but Brisbane followed me. He was casual about it, lazy as a panther stalking a deer, but just as effective.

  “There is no one here,” I said finally. “I mean to try Father’s study.”

  “A fair idea,” he said smoothly, opening the door for me. He had taken it as understood I would not question his accompanying me again, and it is a credit to how well he knew me that I did not. He could be silent as a tomb when he chose, and nothing would pry him open.

  I preceded him to the study, and after a lengthy conversation with Grim, we searched it, turning up nothing. My gaze lingered on the box where Father kept the newspapers, the ones that told of the vicious riot in Trafalgar Square. Questions trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I did not ask them. We were at last forced to admit defeat and moved on, closing the door softly behind us.

  A few shadows flickered in the nave, a few glimmers of light glowed from under closed doors, but there was no one about. I had just begun to wonder if we were entirely alone in this part of the Abbey when the silence was shattered by a broken scream.

  It faltered, then started again, over and over, until I thought I should run mad from it.

  “The chapel,” Brisbane muttered. He grabbed my hand, crushing it in his, and began to run. I dropped my candle along the way, glancing back only once to make certain the flame had not sparked the carpet.

  I dropped the candlestick and pressed my free hand to where a pain stabbed my side. “Brisbane, I am tightly laced. I cannot run so quickly.”

  If he heard me, he did not care. He did not slow his pace until we reached the great oaken doors of the chapel. One was closed; one stood open a scant few inches. Light spilled across the carpet of the hall, and yet I was as reluctant to enter the chapel as I would have been to cross the very threshold of hell.

  The screams had stopped, and there was only a tense, expectant silence as Brisbane pushed open the door and we stepped inside. The scene before us was like something out of a nightmare.

  Lucian Snow was lying on the cold stone floor just in front of the altar, his neck twisted so that he faced us, his eyes wide open and staring.

  And above him stood Lucy, clutching an iron candelabrum that dripped slow, heavy drops of crimson blood onto the floor.

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple…

  —Macbeth

  In an instant Brisbane was beside her, but before he could pry the candelabrum out of her fingers, she dropped it. It made a horrendous clatter on the stones. She flinched and turned her face up to Brisbane’s, her eyes rolling back white. He caught her with his good arm before she could slide to the floor. He looked at me over his shoulder, and I stepped quickly over Snow’s body to retrieve the candelabrum.

  “Put it aside, out of the way,” he instructed me softly. “I shall wish to examine it later.” It was typical of him to worry about the evidence before the girl.

  I carried the candelabrum at arm’s length, mindful not to disturb the blood or other, nastier bits. I tucked it behind the altar and hurried back to help Brisbane lower Lucy carefully to the floor a little distance away. She opened her eyes and Brisbane spoke calmly to her, but she made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on Lucian Snow’s broken head.

  I heard Brisbane tell her she should stay where she was and not move, then he joined me at the body.

  “I suppose it is quite certain he is dead?” I asked faintly.

  “There are bits of him stuck to your shoe,” he remarked, rather unhelpfully. I felt instantly sick, but I swallowed hard, forcing the sensation down. Brisbane was making a quick study of the body, noting its position and the arrangement of the clothes, as well as the scene. I knew better than to interrupt him. Brisbane did not take kindly to distractions whilst he was working. Instead I moved to where Lucy was sitting.

  Her shoulders shook as if she were sobbing, but there were no tears, and not a sound escaped her lips. Impulsively, I put my arm around her.

  “It is all right, Lucy. I am here with you. You are not alone.” If she heard me, she did not give any sign of it. She simply sat, her shoulders shuddering as if with extreme cold. I noticed then that her hands were wet with blood. She held them open in her lap, staring at her red, sticky palms.

  I rose and went to Brisbane. “Your coat. Lucy needs it.”

  His eyes did not leave the corpse. He had thrust his good arm into the sleeve of his fine wool evening coat; the rest of the coat was simply draped over his other shoulder like a cape. He stripped it off without hesitation. “That is good of you,” I whispered as he thrust it into my hands.

  He nodded absently, still scrutinising the body. I turned to Lucy, but before I could reach her, Father appeared in the doorway, Portia just behind, Ludlow hard on her heels.

  “We heard screams. What is wrong?” Father demanded.

  His gaze moved from the broken, bloody body on the floor to Brisbane, to me, to Lucy and her hands wet with blood.

  “Oh, Miss Lucy, what have you done?” Ludlow murmured mournfully. Lucy roused then, looking from Ludlow to Father to Brisbane. Then her eyes lit on the iron ring in the wall, and somewhere in the sluggish depths of her shocked mind, something must have stirred.

  She rose and staggered toward Father. Her face pale as moonlight, her steps unsteady as she held out those gore-stained hands in front of her.

  “My lord! In this holy place, I claim the right of sanctuary!” Her voice was shrill, her eyes burning with emotion. The phrase, the gestures, were the grossest of melodrama, but Father did not laugh. He looked down at her, his expression grave.

  “Child, what have you done that you would invoke sanctuary?”

  The rest of them, Cedric, Charlotte, Pl
um, Ly, and Violante, arrived just in time to see Lucy throw herself to her knees, her white face upturned to my father’s.

  “My lord, I claim sanctuary. You cannot take me for murder. Under the law I am given forty days. You cannot take me,” she repeated. There was a gasp from the doorway, and I glanced up to see that Emma had arrived, pushing past the others to witness her sister’s declaration.

  Father reached out to Lucy, but she drew back in terror, her eyes rimmed in white. Suddenly, she rose and ran to the wall, wrapping her fingers about the hideous iron ring, clutching it like a drowning woman. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and she bore a striking resemblance to another Lucy, the mad, bloodstained Bride of Lammermoor.

  At that moment pandemonium broke loose. Emma fell into a swoon. Cedric caught her, cursing. Violante began to shriek; Plum pushed Ly who supported her and urged her away. Henry Ludlow was deathly pale, but maintained his composure. Charlotte went very white to the lips, and seemed to stagger a little. Plum reached out to steady her, his expression grim.

  I still stood clutching Brisbane’s coat, but I made no move either to return it to him or give it to Lucy. Portia went to Lucy and put her hand on the poor girl’s shoulder, shaking her a little.

  “Lucy, what are you saying? You could not have killed Mr. Snow.”

  Father flicked his eyes toward Brisbane. Lucy shook off Portia’s hand and tightened her grasp on the sanctuary ring. “I invoke the right of sanctuary. I cannot be compelled to leave this place, by force or persuasion. I am protected by God and the law.”

  Brisbane looked incredulous, but to my amazement, Father held up his hand. “You have my word, Lucy. You have invoked sanctuary and sanctuary you shall have. We shall not remove you.”

  I could hear Brisbane’s jaw grinding from where I stood, but he did not speak. Sanctuary laws had been repealed under the Stuarts. The law had every authority to remove her from the chapel and interrogate her given the circumstances. But Father clearly had his own reasons for acquiescing to Lucy’s bizarre request, reasons to which none of us would be privy until Father had a mind to tell us. In the meantime, there was much to be done.

  First, Father ordered Sir Cedric to take Emma and Charlotte to the lesser drawing room. Ly had already removed Violante, probably to the drawing room as well. Emma had revived from her swoon, but she was frightfully pale. Charlotte had recovered herself and stood a trifle closer to Plum than propriety permitted. His hand hovered at her elbow, ready to support her should she have need of him. Sir Cedric, his ruddy face drained of colour, looked back for a long, lingering moment at Lucy, his expression anguished. Then he seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders sagging as he turned and left the chapel, his mouth working furiously though he said nothing. Father gave Portia a significant glance, and she accompanied them. I had no doubt by the time everyone was settled in the drawing room, she would have poked up the fire and rung for brandy. Portia was not a particularly nurturing sort of person, but she was very efficient in a crisis.

  Wordlessly, Brisbane took his coat out of my hands and draped it around Lucy’s shoulders. She slumped against the cold stone wall, but in spite of Father’s reassurances, she would not relinquish her hold on the ring.

  Brisbane and Father went to study the body, and I stepped near, shielding Lucy from the sight of it.

  “We must remove the body, my lord,” Brisbane said sotto voce. “If you mean to keep her here—”

  “I know you do not approve, my boy. But you will simply have to trust me. I must have a care here.”

  The tension in Brisbane did not ease, but he relented. “If you wish, my lord,” he said finally, the syllables clipped. “But the body must be attended to. And the candelabrum.”

  Father’s brows rose a little. “Ah. Is that what it was? I suppose you have put the weapon aside for safekeeping?”

  “Just behind the altar,” I whispered. “I took care not to disturb the, erm, matter on the base of it.”

  Father nodded. “Julia, my dear, will you fetch Aquinas? Tell him what has happened here and that Brisbane and I will require his assistance. I want him to prepare a suitable resting place in one of the offices.” He brightened a little. “The vegetable larder, you think?”

  I felt a lurch in my stomach and I suddenly regretted the second serving of duck I had eaten at dinner. “I hardly think so, Father. The food…”

  “Ah, quite right. Any room without a fire will suffice. They are all cold enough to serve our purpose. Tell him to use his best judgement. And we shall require a footman, I suppose, to help us shift the body.”

  Brisbane was regarding my father with an approving glance. His eyes moved to Lucy, and Father, taking his meaning, nodded. “Someone must sit with Lucy. She should not be left here alone. And tell Aquinas we will require a sturdy footman to keep watch outside the door.

  I would not have her try to leave us. Also, a sheet for poor Mr. Snow, I think. We may give him that dignity at least.”

  “What of Uncle Fly? He must be told, and it would be horrid for him to learn of this from the servants. You know how they gossip.”

  Father stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I will send a note. Best wait until morning. No point in rousing his entire household this time of night.”

  To my surprise, Brisbane spoke up. “I will go myself, if you like.”

  Under other circumstances, I might have thought it curious Brisbane had volunteered to deliver the note instead of asking a footman, but I knew him better than that. He wanted a chance to play the sleuthhound around before news of the murder spread. Snow had boarded with Uncle Fly, and it was entirely possible his staff could shed some light on why my cousin would have found it necessary to murder him. Lucy herself seemed in no condition to speak of it. She kept her grip on the ring, eyes closed, keening softly.

  I took one last look at the battered remains of Lucian Snow and left the chapel.

  I met Aquinas just outside the door and blessed Portia’s efficiency in sending him along.

  “Aquinas, I am afraid the Reverend Mr. Snow has died suddenly.”

  Aquinas was a superior servant; he betrayed little reaction to the news that there was a corpse in the chapel. He merely blinked once, slowly, and then crossed himself.

  “I do hope it was not the duck, my lady.”

  My stomach lurched again. “No, nothing like that. Mr. Snow was murdered. Mr. Brisbane, that is, Lord Wargrave is attending him now. If you could find someplace suitable to er, store Mr. Snow, I think that would be best.”

  “Of course. One of the larders, I expect, will serve nicely.”

  “Father said the same thing. It seems terribly unhygienic, what with the food and all. And I cannot think that Cook will appreciate having a dead man in the larder when she is trying to feed a house party,” I objected.

  “Of course, my lady, but he must be kept in a place sufficiently cool enough to retard decomposition—”

  I held up a hand. “I do not wish to know. Father is expecting you,” I finished, gesturing toward the chapel. He bowed apologetically.

  Leaving him to it, I hurried upstairs to my room, poking Morag awake from where she was dozing by the fire. As quickly as possible, I sketched the evening’s events. She gave a little scream, then shoved her fists into her mouth to stifle it.

  “Murder? Here at the Abbey? We will all be killed in our beds, we will!”

  “Do not be an ass. Now, Lucy must not be left alone in the chapel. She is quite fragile right now, and there is no one else to sit with her. Emma is too distraught at present. Lucy needs someone of sound common sense, and you will do, provided you do not start wittering on about murder.”

  Morag’s eyes were round with terror. “What if she tries to kill me?”

  “Morag,” I said through gritted teeth, “there will be a footman at the door should you have need of him, but you will not. The girl is quite overcome. What she requires now is compassion. Take your needlework and a few coverlets, for you and for Lucy. It is ch
illy in the chapel.”

  “Shall I bring a weapon, just to defend myself in case of murderous attack?”

  “By all means,” I said brutally. “Bring your embroidery scissors. You can cut her hair if she threatens you.”

  Morag obeyed, but sulkily. She took her time gathering her things, and I used the opportunity to remove the pearls. I had a wretched headache from their weight and a sore spot on my neck where the twisted beak had pecked me. It was a relief to be rid of them.

  Morag was still muttering sourly under her breath, and I followed her to the chapel myself to make quite certain she carried out my instructions. The body was gone and a quick glance behind the altar revealed the iron candelabrum had been removed as well. Chairs had been brought, hard, pitiless things from the corridor. Lucy was sitting on one, slow tears dripping down her face. Someone must have brought a basin, for her hands were clean now and faintly pink, as if from hard scrubbing. She had been persuaded to release the sanctuary ring and sat with her hands resting in her lap. She looked very small, and quite vulnerable. At the sight of her, Morag’s demeanour changed.

  “Poor little poppet,” she said softly. She moved the other chair to sit beside Lucy, folding a woollen coverlet over the younger woman’s shoulders. “Now, Miss Lucy, you know me, don’t you? I am Morag, Lady Julia’s maid. I’ve come to sit with you for a bit. You won’t mind that at all, will you?”

  Lucy shook her head and turned, burying her face in Morag’s shoulder. Morag patted her awkwardly, crooning something soothing in Gaelic. She waved me away and I slipped out, closing the heavy doors behind me. A footman had taken up his post outside and he stood up as I passed.

  He was pale and wide-eyed, and I wondered exactly how useful he would be in a crisis.

  I paused by his chair, looking at him closely. He could not have been more than twenty. “Which one are you?” I asked him.

  “William IV, my lady,” he answered immediately. This was one of Father’s little whimsies. Unable to remember the names of the dozens of young men who had served as footmen at the Abbey, he had taken to calling them all William, using numerals to distinguish between them. I gave him a reassuring smile.