Silent in the Sanctuary

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Father wagged a finger. “Enough. The fault is indeed ours, Brisbane. If we meant to keep everyone here, we ought to have seen to it before we went haring off to London.”

  Brisbane’s only reply was to take another deep draught of his whiskey. I turned to Father.

  “Where is the inspector? I thought he would return with you.”

  Father smiled thinly. “He is warming his bottom by his own hearthside, my dear. He was pleased enough to take the body and the villain into custody and to take our word for which was which.”

  “That cannot possibly be right. He ought to have come here, investigated properly, taken statements, asked questions,” I trailed off, too indignant to finish.

  “Yes, he ought,” Father agreed, draining the last of his whiskey. “But he did not. He is content to accept what Brisbane and I told him and leave matters at that. Ludlow confessed again, this time to the inspector. Our involvement is not required. The boy will swing for it at his own request.”

  I said nothing. Father was pleased because it meant there would be little in the way of repercussion as far as the family were concerned. But it seemed deeply unsatisfying to me that it should all end thus. Ludlow was a murderer and deserved to be punished to be sure, but to be dispatched with so much haste and so little concern for his motives struck me as unjust. I could not like that Lucy had escaped so easily from bearing the consequences of her role in this tragedy. Then I thought of her life with Cedric and realised the consequences to her could hardly be worse.

  I left them then with their black moods and whiskey. They would be drunk as lords by dinner, I thought, and appropriately so. I turned the corner toward the staircase and nearly collided with Aquinas. He was coming from the direction of the kitchens, holding a festively wrapped box in his hands.

  “What have you there?” I teased. “My Christmas present?”

  He smiled. “No, my lady. It is a Christmas pudding. When Mrs. King stirred up the puddings for the family, she made one for each member of the house party, including herself. Before she left she asked Cook to send hers on.”

  I felt a prickle along the back of my neck. It could not be so simple. “Why did she not take it with her?”

  “Mrs. King took only her portmanteau. She asked that her trunk be sent directly to her hotel and told Cook to tuck the pudding into her trunk before it was sent on. I have her direction. The maid has nearly finished packing her trunk. I meant to dispatch it today.”

  I took the parcel from him, pricking my finger on the little sprig of holly Cook had tied neatly to the top. I ripped through ribbons and brown paper until I reached the pudding itself, firm and glistening, a masterpiece of the confectionary arts. The smell of fruit and spices rose from it, perfuming the air with Christmas.

  I took a deep breath and plunged my hand into the pudding. Nothing. I pushed further. My heart gave a great lurch when I pulled out a trinket, but it was only a coin, stirred in for luck and prosperity in the coming year. I pushed my fingers into the sticky mess one more time, willing it to be there.

  Aquinas said nothing through all of this. He merely stood, serenely, behaving as though it were the most natural thing in the world for his mistress to destroy Christmas puddings.

  I pulled out my hand.

  “My lady?” he asked. “Did you find what you sought?”

  I turned my hand over and opened my fingers. There on my palm lay the largest diamond I had ever seen, winking up at me through spiced crumbs and bits of currant.

  “I have indeed, Aquinas. May I introduce the Tear of Jaipur?”

  Had I a better sense of the theatrical, I would have cleaned the jewel carefully and presented it to Brisbane with a flourish and a fanfare. But I knew time was of the essence. No sooner had I shown it to Aquinas than I gathered my skirts in my sticky free hand and dashed down the hall, cursing my corset as I ran, Aquinas hard on my heels. I flung open the door to the study.

  “I have it!” I cried. “And her direction as well.”

  Father stared owlishly at me over his spectacles, but Brisbane surged from his chair, at my side in a heartbeat. He took the diamond, rubbing at the traces of pudding with his thumb. He sniffed at it, then poked a tentative tongue at the mess.

  “Pudding? She had it cooked in a Christmas pudding?” he asked. Emotions warred on his face, disbelief, elation, and a deeply felt satisfaction, I think. Father rose and came to look at the stone, clucking under his tongue.

  “It is a very fine thing, when it isn’t covered in muck,” he observed.

  I looked at Brisbane. “She told Cook to make certain it was packed in her trunk and sent on to her. Aquinas has the direction. She will not move without the Tear.”

  “Unless she feels cornered,” Brisbane said, taking out a handkerchief and carefully pocketing the diamond. “Aquinas?”

  Aquinas retrieved a slip of paper from the pocket of his coat. “A hotel in Southampton, my lord.”

  “Southampton!” I exclaimed. “She has taken a page from Sir Cedric’s book. She must mean to quit the country as soon as she has the jewel.”

  “She will not have the chance,” Brisbane said grimly.

  “I will summon the carriage, although I believe the last train to Southampton has already left Blessingstoke station, my lord,” Aquinas put in.

  “I need a train to London,” Brisbane corrected. “I must return the jewel for safekeeping before I pursue her.”

  I shuddered at his tone. There was a grim determination there I had not seen in him before, and I felt suddenly rather sorry for Charlotte King.

  “Ah, in that case, if we make haste, it should just be possible,” Aquinas said, withdrawing quickly to make the arrangements.

  “I shall go with you as far as the station,” Father offered. “I must pay a call upon Fly in any event. He will want to know what Scotland Yard has said about the murder of Mr. Snow.” His expression was doleful as he left us.

  When we were alone, Brisbane turned to me, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Well done,” he said softly.

  The words were simple enough, but in that moment I was acutely aware of his physical presence.

  “Yes, well, if I hadn’t happened to fairly run Aquinas down in the hall, I might never have discovered the jewel,” I told him.

  He said nothing for a long moment. He merely stared at me, his dark gaze roving restlessly over my face as if memorising every feature. Time stretched out between us, and everything else, the sounds of the Abbey, the urgent knowledge that he must hurry to leave, all of it fell away. I felt stripped somehow. The moment was far more intimate than any of the kisses we had yet shared. I dropped my eyes, breaking the spell.

  He stepped closer. “I must go,” he murmured. “I do not know when I will return.”

  He was mere inches from me, so close I caught the scent of his skin.

  “Of course,” I replied. With every word we moved closer to one another, not quite touching, but with only a breath between us. I stared at the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “Thank you,” I said faintly.

  He bent his head toward mine, brushing his cheek against my hair. I heard him inhale deeply. “For what?”

  “Saving Father in Trafalgar Square.”

  I knew in this moment he would not deny it. After a moment I felt him nod. I ran a finger along the silk of his sling. “I promise I shall not ask it again if you tell me the truth. Will you be quite all right?”

  “The shot was a clean one,” he replied, his voice muffled by my hair. “Another month and I will be right as rain.”

  “Thank God for that,” I murmured.

  The noises in the hall grew more frantic and I heard a footman announce to Aquinas that the carriage was drawing around to the door. Brisbane stepped back sharply. Once again he had assumed the unfathomable mask I knew so well. The moment between us, whatever it might have been, whatever might have been said, was lost.

  I sighed and moved aside to let him pass. “Godspeed, Brisbane. I hope
you find her.”

  He nodded and moved to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “You are wrong, you know.”

  I raised a brow. “About what?”

  That fathomless black gaze held mine. “I think you are more my equal than any woman I have ever known.”

  And before I could reply he was gone.

  I dressed for dinner that night with the deepest apathy. With Brisbane gone I felt oddly flat and out of sorts. I did not like to think I cared more for him than he did for me. I did not like to think I cared for him at all, truth be told. He was enigmatic and difficult, tricky as a cat and twice as sly. But care I did, I admitted, slipping his pendant into the décolletage of my gown. And I did not know when, if ever, I would see him again.

  But if I was sulky at dinner, I was in better spirits than half the company. Father was preoccupied, grieved after his visit with Uncle Fly, who had been badly shaken by Snow’s murder. Alessandro was quiet for reasons I did not like to think about. Ly and Violante had quarrelled again and were locked in silence, both of them pushing food around their plates and shooting each other nasty looks. And Plum looked pensive. He forgot to eat for long stretches, and more than once I glanced up to see him looking at a bit of food on his fork in bewilderment, as if wondering how it came to be there. Only Hortense and Portia made any pretense at normal conversation, and I was not entirely surprised when the subject turned to Charlotte.

  “She was really a jewel thief?” Hortense asked. “I cannot believe it. She seemed so gauche, so unsophisticated, with her chattering and her silly mannerisms.”

  Plum flicked an irritated glance at her, but she did not notice. Portia shrugged. “She was thief enough to take Julia’s pearls. They still have not been recovered, although how she would have gotten them past Morag, I do not like to imagine. Brisbane has gone after her, but she may have sold them by the time he reaches her. And that lot could get her halfway round the world and keep her in style for quite a long time,” Portia finished.

  I laid down my fork. The joint of pork that had been so delectable only a moment before sat like ashes in my mouth. Had Brisbane gone after her for my sake? He had been engaged to recover the Tear of Jaipur. He had the jewel; the princess and the prime minister would be happy. The letters patent would be published and he would have his title and his estate. Why then pursue Charlotte except for the pearls? I had seen him at work often enough to know he did not go beyond the terms set upon his employment. If he was asked to retrieve incriminating letters from a blackmailer, he did so. He did not destroy them, nor did he turn the evidence over to Scotland Yard. His clients invariably came from the cream of society, those who were desperate to avoid scandal. He investigated future husbands, restored runaway children, retrieved stolen property. But I had never once known him to embark on a chase once his objectives were satisfied. When his obligation to the client was fulfilled, the case was closed, whether the villain had been locked away or not. His business was justice, not retribution, and I nearly wept into my napkin to think of him, hounding Charlotte until she turned over my pearls. And I had not even asked him to do it.

  Just then, a commotion arose from the hall. Servants yelling, dogs barking and, above it all, the high, penetrating voice of Aunt Dorcas. Before we could rise, the door was thrown back and Aunt Dorcas entered, flanked by two men. All three of them were garbed in Gypsy clothes, from the gold coins glittering at their belts to the scarves tied around their heads. Aunt Dorcas, who had stated loudly and with vigour her hatred of the race, linked her arms with those of her companions and raised her chin, her Roma finery clinking as she tossed her head and addressed Father.

  “March! Bring food for my friends and wine as well. I am come home!”

  In fact, the Gypsies did not sit down to table with us. In spite of Aunt Dorcas’ insistence and Father’s courteous invitation, they demurred, but agreed to take with them a hamper of hastily packed delicacies. Portia herded Aunt Dorcas upstairs for a bath and a change of clothes while the rest of us finished our meal in stunned silence. As soon as dessert was cleared I excused myself and made my way to Aunt Dorcas’ room. I knocked and waited until she called for me to enter.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Good. I rather thought it was that fool Portia again. Can you believe she’s put me to bed? I am no invalid, but she was most resolute and unnaturally strong for so slight a woman.”

  I smiled and closed the door behind me. The room was a comfortable one, small, so the heat from the fireplace warmed it through. It was done in pinks and reds, with a cheerful view past the gardens to the village of Blessingstoke in the distance. The raspberry taffeta draperies were drawn now, but had they been open, she might have been just able to make out the campfires of her new friends.

  But she had shed her Gypsy glamoury and was once more the quarrelsome old lady of my youth. Her nightdress, snugly buttoned at the throat, was edged in tasteful ruffles of lace to match the cap set tidily on her head. She looked up to see me eyeing it and snorted.

  “I look like a muffin, do not deny it.” I motioned for her to sit forward and I plumped a few of her pillows, smoothing the bedclothes when I was done.

  “Do not fuss, Julia. Sit there and talk with me, but do not fuss.”

  I sat obediently, taking the chair she had indicated. It was a pretty thing, but the seat was hard and slippery.

  “And do not fidget,” she scolded. “I do not trust a fidgeter.”

  We sat for some minutes in silence. I looked about the room, memorising the paintings and mentally moving the shepherdess from the landscape into the still life of apples and cheese.

  “Julia, do not furrow your brow like that. It will give wrinkles and it makes you look simple.”

  I widened my eyes. “I am sorry, Aunt Dorcas. Would you like for me to read to you?”

  I reached for a book on the night table, but she flapped an irritable hand at me, shooing me away.

  “I am in no mood for reading,” she said.

  “Then why don’t you tell me about your adventures?” I coaxed. “I think you enjoyed yourself whilst you were away.”

  She fixed me with a cold stare, her bosom quivering with indignation. “I was in fear for my life, and you think I enjoyed myself?”

  I blinked at her. “In fear of your life? From whom?”

  Aunt Dorcas clamped her lips shut and shook her head. “I must say no more,” she murmured, her lips still tightly closed.

  I shrugged. “Very well. I will leave you then. Good night,” I said, rising.

  “It was that boy, Ludlow,” she said, and I turned back, assuming my chair once more.

  “The murderer? Yes, it was. He confessed, more than once, in fact.”

  She took the edge of the sheet in her fingers, worrying the lace like prayer beads. “He did not work alone,” she said, more to herself than to me. “It was her.”

  I froze in my chair, uncertain of how to proceed. She was entirely correct, a woman had been involved. But Ludlow had not chosen to expose Lucy, and the girl was on her way to be married to a man who would make her life agony. Most would say justice had already been satisfied.

  “You need not confirm it,” she said, nodding. “Your face is an eloquent one, Julia. It was always thus, even as a child.”

  “Very well,” I admitted. “He did say he murdered Snow because of a woman. Snow was blackmailing her for some wrongdoing she had committed in her youth.”

  Aunt Dorcas gave a little groan and covered her mouth.

  I half-rose from my chair. “Aunt Dorcas, are you quite all right? Shall I ring for a maid?”

  She shook her head, almost violently. “No, sit. And what we speak of in this room tonight must never be repeated,” she told me, fixing me with those dark toadlike eyes. “Swear it.”

  “I swear.”

  She relaxed a little then, but resumed her twisting of the lace. I heard a tiny rip and made a note to tell Portia to have it mended. Poor Aunt Hermia. Yet another sheet damaged during
this house party. Between the guests and the cats there would be nothing left to put on the beds.

  “Did he tell you why she was being blackmailed?”

  “No. He simply said it was a youthful peccadillo.”

  To my astonishment, she laughed. Not the tiny giggles she often affected, but great, heaving, gulping sobs of laughter that frightened me. After a moment the laughter turned to coughing and I was forced to intervene.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, recovering herself. “But it was not necessary to hit me so forcefully. I think you have bruised my back.”

  She gave me a reproachful look as I resumed my chair again. I said nothing and she paused, her expression faraway and touched with sorrow.

  “This was no youthful peccadillo,” she said finally. “Emma was being blackmailed because she murdered my sister.”

  I stared at her, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly I could not feel my hands. “No, it was Lucy he killed for, Lucy who was being blackmailed by Mr. Snow.”

  Aunt Dorcas looked at me pityingly. “Are you so certain?”

  I rose and paced the room, putting the pieces together again. I went over every word of the conversation with Ludlow and realised with a cold shudder that he had not spoken Lucy’s name. I had assumed it, but what if he had meant Emma? And then she came to me in tears…those had been his words, but he had never said a name. And when I asked him about the discovery of Lucy with the bloody candelabrum in her hand, he had referred to her quite clearly as Miss Lucy.

  “Sit down, you make me quite dizzy,” Aunt Dorcas ordered. I did, marvelling at the wickedness. Snow was blackmailing Emma, and out of his chivalry and his envy, Ludlow had killed the man for her. Then, when her sister had happened on the scene, he had succumbed to the temptation to blame Lucy, if only for a little while, in hopes of breaking her engagement to Sir Cedric. And all the while, Emma had stood silently by, letting Lucy twist in the wind for her villainy.

  And yet, I realised with a shudder, Lucy must have known. Perhaps she had not been able to look squarely at the truth, but somewhere, deep within, she must have known. Whether she saw her sister steal out of the chapel when the deed was done, or whether she merely feared Emma’s involvement, her first instinct had been to call blame down upon herself, to shield the sister who had been a mother to her during their long years of poverty and despair. No one would ever know what they spoke of during those dreary, cold hours in the chapel, or huddled in the bed behind locked doors after the attack upon them. Or whether they spoke of it now. But the murder of Lucian Snow would lie between them for the rest of their days, I was certain of it.