Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  She returned to the bed, and when Emma had tucked the coverlets firmly about her, Lucy clutched at my hand, pressing it to her hot face. “Oh, Julia, I do not know what happened. All I remember is leaving the drawing room to play sardines, then a great blackness. There is simply nothing there until I came to when you found me, standing there…” She broke off, her voice catching, but with a great effort of will she mastered it. “I have thought and thought, but I cannot retrieve any memory of the time between. I only know that I saw him there, broken, and I knew I had struck him. I knew that I must have done something unspeakable.”

  I thought of the Easter holidays Lucy and Emma had spent with us as children, of the little nothings that sometimes went missing, children’s trinkets, but usually something of sentimental value. I thought of how Lucy’s nose always itched when she lied about whether she had seen them. Always, that telltale little twitch, giving her away. I watched her now, pressing the handkerchief hard against the tip of her nose.

  “Did you see anyone when you were playing sardines?”

  Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. I have no memory of it.” She scrubbed at her nose. “It is so cold here,” she said apologetically, not quite meeting my eyes.

  We talked for a long time. Emma said nothing. Perhaps she knew how important it was for the questions to be asked, and answered. I questioned Lucy by every possible method, but her answers were always the same. She had quit the lesser drawing room alone. From the time she left until the time Brisbane and I had discovered her with the candelabrum, she had no memory whatsoever—not of sound or sight, nor even scent. After awhile she began to droop, and I took pity on her.

  I rose and Emma threw me a grateful look. “Lucy, you must eat something. You also, Emma. It’s very important to keep up your strength. I promise you, we will discover the truth.”

  Emma smiled her thanks, but Lucy was not looking at me. She was staring at the ceiling again, her eyes fixed once more on the slender web of hammerbeams that hung above her head.

  Luncheon was an understandably solemn affair. Father had said nothing about Aunt Dorcas, but to my astonishment, he seemed angry rather than worried. Violante sulked openly while Lysander chewed his fingernails and did not even pretend to eat. Plum pushed the food around his plate as he shot significant glances at Charlotte King. That worried me a trifle. Plum was subject to occasional fancies, not the least of which was a penchant for the role of Galahad. He loved nothing better than to rescue damsels in distress, and Charlotte bore all the hallmarks of a lady in need of a knight. She was a comely, vivacious widow whose engagement was likely at an end, marooned in the middle of Sussex with a houseful of people she scarcely knew and a murderer. Even more worrisome, she did nothing to discourage Plum. Instead she alternated hurt, puzzled looks at Brisbane with gazes of mute longing toward my brother. With such a performance, it was a wonder she was able to eat at all, but I noticed she managed to tuck away three helpings of the curried lamb. If she was not careful, she would soon have to let out her stays, I thought spitefully.

  For his part, Brisbane was entirely indifferent. He too ate three helpings of the lamb, as well as a sizeable portion of roast potatoes and an enormous plate of cherry tarts with almond cream. Father managed a bit of everything, but he seemed distracted, putting mustard on his peas and salt on his dessert. He ate it anyway, and I noticed Hortense doing her best to amuse him. From time to time he smiled wearily at her, and I looked away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. It was apparent to me now that he needed her, and I was pleased to find that I was comfortable with the notion. I turned to Alessandro then, sorry to find him quiet and withdrawn. The murder had upset him terribly, and from the hollow look about his eyes, I thought it entirely possible he had not slept at all the previous night. I did my best to entice him into conversation, but his replies were succinct to the point of backwardness, and after a few minutes I gave up.

  Understandably, Sir Cedric and Henry were quiet, eating stolidly, without contribution to the conversation or any apparent pleasure in their food. I had not yet had a chance to speak with Sir Cedric about Lucy, and he spent most of the luncheon hour shooting me significant glances. I tried giving him a reassuring nod, but he simply redoubled his efforts. I ignored them and toyed with my food, too often putting my fork down still laden; the image of Snow’s cold corpse was yet too vivid and too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind. Portia heroically took on the chore of steering the conversation, butterflying from subject to subject, skillfully avoiding any topics which might be awkward. I suppose that is how we arrived at the subject of Christmas again, and Charlotte’s role in the stirring up of the puddings.

  “So very kind of you to lend a hand,” Portia finished brightly.

  I speared a bit of potato and pushed it around the plate.

  “My dearest mama always taught me, ‘One must lend a hand wherever one can,’” Charlotte put in earnestly.

  I threw Brisbane a hateful look. I still could not quite believe he had taken the trouble to propose marriage to her. She was ridiculous, with her cloying sweetness and her silly platitudes. She could not have held his attention for the duration of a fish course, much less the rest of their lives.

  Lysander roused himself then. “Who is expected for Christmas? I am rather surprised we have not seen Benedick and his brood yet.”

  Benedick, perhaps the favourite of my brothers, lived on the Home Farm, the other side of the Abbey from Blessingstoke. He had been conspicuously absent of late. I missed him, and his delightful wife. My nieces and nephews were another matter altogether. They were like very good, aged cognac: delicious, but only in very small doses.

  “Benedick’s lot are in quarantine,” Portia advised him. “Measles. They look to be recovered by Christmas, but if they come, Olivia and her family will not.”

  I blinked at her. It was not like Benedick to be at odds with any of our siblings. Most of us quarrelled with one another from time to time, but Benedick was usually the only one on speaking terms with everybody.

  “Olivia’s children infected his with measles,” Portia explained. “Benedick made some remark about the stupidity of taking one’s children visiting when they’ve come out in spots, and she took it rather badly.”

  “I see,” I said, poking at a piece of lamb. “What of the rest of them?”

  Portia laid down her fork and began to tick them off on her fingers.

  “Bellmont is in London for the little season. He has parliamentary duties and cannot get away. Olivia and Benedick we have spoken of. Nerissa is unwell,” she said with a lift of the brows. I took her meaning instantly. Unlike most of our sisters, Nerissa did not bear children easily. For every healthy living child, there had been a handful of miscarriages. She had adopted the habit of taking to her bed during each pregnancy, and if she was breeding again, we would not see her again until the child was christened.

  “Lysander, Plum, you, and I are here, Julia,” she said, nodding at me and continuing to tick off her fingers. “Beatrice is being set upon by all of her husband’s family. They are descending to Cornwall en masse for the holiday, and there is no chance of her escaping them. That leaves only Valerius, and he has not yet made up his mind whether to spend Christmas in the bosom of his family or dosing the lower orders in Whitehall.”

  “So many Marches,” Violante murmured.

  “Indeed,” Father replied. I did not know if Lysander had informed him yet of Violante’s expectations, but from the kindly way Father was regarding her, I suspected he had. Father adored grandchildren, and the only thing that made him happier than being covered in them was escaping them and spending an afternoon locked in his study while they overran the Abbey like savages.

  At least that was one family matter settled, I thought as I stared irritably at my peas. I could not imagine why I should feel so twitchy, so bad-tempered. I could have cheerfully thrown my cutlery at someone’s head, and it was only when the dessert dishes were being cleared that
I realised it was because I was frustrated. Luncheon, a lengthy family affair, had interrupted my burgeoning investigation, and what I wanted most, what I craved, was time alone to puzzle over the pieces I had collected and fit them together.

  The coffee was replenished, and I had just made up my mind to excuse myself when Aquinas entered, Morag hard on his heels. Aquinas’ expression was as carefully schooled as ever, but his wiry grey hair was ever so slightly dishevelled, and his cuffs were not shot. Morag looked faintly deranged.

  Aquinas made straight for my father, bent to his ear, and whispered. Father listened, then murmured, half to himself, “Good God, not this too.”

  He waved a hand. “Tell Lady Julia. Something ought to be done to recover them.” He covered his face with a hand.

  Around the table, cups and spoons stilled, conversation halted. Every face swivelled to face Aquinas expectantly. He cleared his throat.

  “I regret to inform you,” he began, but Morag interrupted, her bony cheeks hot with indignation.

  “Something of great value is missing in this house!” she announced to the assembled company. She paused, glancing slowly around the table, holding everyone’s gaze in a gesture Sarah Siddons would have envied. When she had circled the entire table, her eyes flashing, she lifted her chin and proclaimed, “The Grey Pearls have been stolen!”

  THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  All that you meet are thieves.

  —Timon of Athens

  To say that pandemonium broke out would be an understatement of the grossest kind. Naturally, I blamed Morag.

  I rose and took her by the elbow, dragging her toward the potted palm in the corner. “What do you mean by coming in here and making an announcement like a character in a melodrama? What must our guests think?”

  She wrenched her elbow from my grasp and folded her arms over her chest. “There is a dead man stinking in the game larder,” she reminded me sourly. “I hardly think a few missing pearls will be the ruin of this house party.”

  “He does not stink,” I told her severely. “At least not much.”

  A mêlée had erupted at the table behind us. Sir Cedric had apparently tired of holding his temper and was shouting at Father, calling him Fagin and asking what sort of house he kept where innocent men were murdered and ladies’ jewels went missing. Father shouted back, calling him a jumped-up boot boy (a barbed reference to the fortune Sir Cedric made in selling cheap shoes to the working classes) while Hortense and Ludlow were busy coaxing them apart. Meanwhile, Violante was scolding Lysander in her native language in extremely colourful terms if Alessandro’s expression was any indication, and Plum had taken advantage of the pandemonium to cover Charlotte’s hand with his own.

  Brisbane left them all to it and joined me. Morag bobbed him a clumsy curtsey, but her expression softened a touch. She would never admit it, but she was fond of Brisbane—for his slight Scottish burr, if nothing else.

  “M’lord,” she murmured.

  “Morag, always a pleasure,” he said as if he meant it. “When did you notice her ladyship’s jewels were missing?”

  “Just now. I went to do her chamber—”

  “You just now went to do my chamber?” I interrupted. As my lady’s maid, it was Morag’s duty to bring my morning tea, help me dress, then tidy the room and prepare my clothes for the afternoon. The fact that she had not touched my room until luncheon was highly unusual.

  “I had to tend the wee doggie,” she informed me loftily. “She would only sip at the beef tea. Three trips I made to the kitchens for food for that animal. And then she had to—” She broke off, colouring slightly as she glanced at Brisbane. “She had to you know, and I took her to the courtyard, only she would not put a paw on the snow. She kept rolling over and staggering until I finally scraped the snow out of one of those great stone boxes and found some greenery. I put her there and she did what nature expects.”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward. “That bit of greenery was Father’s prized hare topiary.”

  “Was it so? It did have a look of a rabbit, now that you mention it,” Morag mused.

  Brisbane cleared his throat. The muscle in his jaw was not yet jumping, but it was twitching ever so slightly.

  “Morag, kindly tell his lordship everything he needs to know about the pearls.”

  The chaos behind us had eased to a mild roar, and it appeared Father and Sir Cedric were organising a truce. Father had stopped shouting and Sir Cedric had resumed his seat, his colour still alarmingly high.

  Morag clucked her tongue, thinking hard. “Well, this morning, after I tended the wee doggie, I realised I had best look sharpish about finishing Lady Julia’s room because luncheon was nearly over. I went in with a bit of under-linen—” she whispered the word “—and that was when I realised the pearls were not on the dressing table.”

  “What do you mean they were not on the dressing table? You did not put them away first thing this morning? They ought to have been locked up as soon as you finished dressing me.”

  She pursed her lips. “And how was I supposed to do that and tend to Florence? You said to take care of the doggie.”

  “Because I thought you understood the pearls were to be taken care of immediately.”

  “But you did not say so,” Morag countered, her expression triumphant.

  “I did not think I had to,” I said through gritted teeth. “I assumed you knew a parure of pearls worth thousands of pounds would be of a higher priority than ministering to the needs of a dog.”

  “And you are quite certain the pearls were there this morning?” Brisbane cut in smoothly.

  Morag and I paused, staring at one another.

  “Now that you mention it…” she began.

  “Oh, no,” I moaned. I had removed the pearls myself the previous evening, dropping them onto the dressing table when I had collected Morag to take her to the chapel to sit with Lucy. I could not say with certainty I had seen them since.

  Morag shook her head. “No, m’lord. They were gone when I brought the tea things this morning.”

  Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “You are quite certain?”

  She nodded. “I am. I remember now. I did not have to move them aside to put down the tea tray. Lady Julia put them square in the middle of the table last night. If they had been there this morning, they would have been in my way.”

  Brisbane thought for a moment. “That will do for now, Morag.”

  She bobbed another curtsey and fled, giving me one last nasty look over her shoulder.

  “I cannot believe they are gone. So careless,” I fretted.

  “Perhaps not gone. Just mislaid,” Brisbane said, his expression thoughtful. He was staring at the luncheon guests, and in that instant, I knew he suspected someone in particular of having stolen them. But he said nothing.

  Involuntarily, my hand went to my pocket, feeling the outline of the knotted handkerchief with its cache of Aunt Hermia’s humble jewels. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I had discovered in Snow’s room, but as I watched him stare at the assembled company, his expression smugly satisfied, I realised he had no intention of including me in his triumph.

  He turned to me. “My lady?” He looked at me quizzically, inviting me to speak.

  I smoothed my skirts. “Nothing, Brisbane. I am sure the pearls will turn up eventually.”

  One development of that harrowing lunch party was the revelation to the company at large that Aunt Dorcas was missing. Father made the announcement after coffee, rather offhandedly, in my opinion.

  The reaction was predictable. Sir Cedric flew into a rage again, and it took all of Henry Ludlow’s considerable powers of persuasion to settle him down. Portia and Plum fired questions at Father until he raised a hand for silence.

  “A poor choice of words on my part. She is not missing. She is elsewhere, and I am assured she is in perfect health,” he finished smoothly, but there was an edge to his voice and I knew he was not as satisfied with the matter as he pretended.


  The rest of us stared at each other in bewilderment.

  “Such an unusual household,” Charlotte King murmured finally. “First jewels disappearing, now people. I begin to think I am in a faery story of the most fantastic kind.” Her lips trembled a little, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Perhaps we ought to look for her,” she ventured.

  “Unnecessary,” Father cut in sharply. “Amuse yourselves as you will this afternoon. I shall be in my study and I do not wish to be disturbed unless God Almighty himself comes to call.”

  He rose and threw down his napkin, stalking off, Crab and a few of her pups trotting closely behind.

  Charlotte, perhaps chagrined at being dismissed so brutally, bit her lip. Plum leaned near and murmured something that brought a sudden smile to her face. Through it all, Brisbane appeared thoroughly disinterested. He merely sipped at his coffee as though waiting for something to happen.

  For my part, all I could think on was the pearls and what Father had said of Aunt Dorcas’ penchant for pocketing little trinkets she admired. Was it possible she had taken my pearls and then fled with them? But the weather would have made that impossible, I reminded myself.

  “Perhaps then a walk on the battlements of the boundary wall,” Charlotte said. “I should so like some fresh air.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Plum said, his fez fairly quivering with anticipation. They made to depart, and I signalled to my brother.

  “Plum, a word, dear. Mrs. King will want to fetch her warmest things if you mean to venture onto the battlements, and this will only take a moment.” He agreed, with bad grace, and we watched as Violante rose quickly, with Hortense’s gentle support. She had soothed the girl and promised Lysander she would look after her and sit with her while she rested. Lysander gave her thanks, but grudgingly so. In spite of himself, he was beginning to like Father’s inamorata.