I cudgeled up whatever details I could recall. “I seem to remember him as quite a handsome boy, with a forelock of dark red hair that always spilled over his brow and loads of charm.”
“As a man grown he was just the same. He could have charmed the garters off the queen’s knees,” Portia added bitterly. “He ended up terribly in debt and when his grandfather fell ill in India, he thought he would go back and take up residence at the tea plantation and make a go of things.”
We fell silent then, and I glanced at Plum. “And how did you come to attach yourself to this expedition?” I asked lightly.
“Attach myself?” His handsome face settled into sulkiness. “Surely you do not imagine I did this willingly? It was Father, of course. He could not let Portia travel out to India alone, so he recalled me from Ireland and ordered me to pack up my sola topee and here I am,” he finished bitterly. He waved the waiter over to refill his wineglass and I made a mental note to keep a keen eye upon his drinking. As I had often observed, a bored Plum was a dangerous Plum, but a drunken one would be even worse.
I returned my attention to my sister. “If Father wanted you to have an escort so badly, why didn’t he come himself? He is always rabbiting on about wanting to travel to exotic places.”
Portia pulled a face. “He would have but he was too busy quarrelling with his hermit.”
I blinked at her and Brisbane snorted, covering it quickly with a cough. “His what?”
“His hermit. He has engaged a hermit. He thought it might be an interesting addition to the garden.”
“Has he gone stark staring mad? Who ever heard of a hermit in Sussex?” I demanded, although I was not entirely surprised. Father loved nothing better than tinkering with his country estate, although his devotion to the place was such that he refused to modernise the Abbey with anything approaching suitable plumbing or electricity.
Portia sipped placidly at her soup. “Oh, no. The hermit isn’t in Sussex. Father has put him in the garden of March House.”
“In London? In the back garden of a townhouse?” I pounced on Plum. “Did no one try to talk him out of it? He’ll be a laughingstock!”
Plum waved an airy hand. “As if that were something new for this family,” he said lightly.
I ignored my husband who was having a difficult time controlling his mirth and turned again to my sister. “Where does the hermit live?”
“Father built him a pretty little hermitage. He could not be expected to live wild,” she added reasonably.
“It isn’t very well wild if it is in the middle of Mayfair, now is it?” I countered, my voice rising. I took a sip of my wine and counted to twenty. “So Father has built this hermitage in the back garden of March House. And installed a hermit. With whom he doesn’t get on.”
“Correct,” Plum said. He reached for my plate and when I offered no resistance, helped himself to the remains of my fish.
“How does one even find a hermit these days? I thought they all became extinct after Capability Brown.”
“He advertised,” Plum said through a mouthful of trout grenobloise. “In the newspaper. Received quite a few responses, actually. Seems many men fancy the life of a hermit—and a few women. But Father settled on this fellow from the Hebrides, Auld Lachy. He thought having a Hebridean hermit would add a bit of glamour to the place.”
“There are no words,” Brisbane murmured.
“They started to quarrel about the hermitage,” Portia elaborated. “Auld Lachy thinks there should be a proper water closet instead of a chamber pot. And he doesn’t fancy a peat fire or a straw bed. He wants good coal and a featherbed.”
“He is a hermit. He is supposed to live on weeds and things he finds in the ground,” I pointed out.
“Well, that is a matter for debate. In fact, he and Father have entered into negotiations, but things were at such a delicate stage, he simply could not leave. And the rest of our brothers are otherwise engaged. Only dearest Plum was sitting idly by,” Portia said with a crocodile’s smile at our brother.
“Sitting idly by?” He shoved the fish aside. “I was painting, as you well know. Masterpieces,” he insisted. “The best work of my career.”
“Then why did you agree to come?” I asked.
“Why did I ever agree to do anything?” he asked bitterly.
“Ah, the purse strings,” I said quietly. It was Father’s favourite method of manipulation. The mathematics of the situation were simple. A wealthy father plus a pack of children with expensive tastes and little money of their own equalled a man who more often than not got his way. It was a curious fact in our family that the five daughters had all achieved some measure of financial independence while the five sons relied almost entirely upon Father for their livelihoods in some fashion or other. They were dilettantes, most of them. Plum dabbled in art, fancying himself a great painter, when in fact, he had only mediocre skill with a brush. But his sketches were very often extraordinary, and he was a gifted sculptor although he seldom finished a sculpture on the grounds that he did not much care for clay as it soiled his clothes.
“If I might recall us to the matter at hand,” Brisbane put in smoothly, “I should like to know more about Jane’s situation. If it were simply a matter of bringing her back to England, you could very well do that between the two of you. You require something more.”
Portia toyed with her soup. “I thought it might be possible for you to do a bit of detective work whilst we are there. I should like to know the disposition of the estate. If Jane is going to require assistance, legal or otherwise, I should like to know it before the moment is at hand. Forewarned is forearmed,” she finished, not quite meeting his eyes.
Brisbane signalled the waiter for more wine and we paused while the game course was carried in with the usual ceremony. Brisbane took a moment to make certain his duck was cooked to his liking before he responded.
“A solicitor could be of better use to you than I,” he pointed out.
“Than we,” I corrected.
Again he raised a brow in my direction, but before we could rise to battle over the question of my involvement in his work, Portia cut in sharply.
“Yes, of course. But I thought it would make such a lovely end to your honeymoon. Jane’s letters are quite rapturous on the beauties of the Peacocks.”
“The Peacocks?” My ears twitched at the sound of it. Already I was being lured by the exoticism of the place, and I suspected my husband was already halfway to India in his imagination.
“The Peacocks is the name of the estate, a tea garden on the border of Sikkim, outside of Darjeeling, right up in the foothills of the Himalayas.”
“The rooftop of the world,” I said quietly. Brisbane flicked his fathomless black gaze to me and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. “Of course we will go, Portia,” I assured her.
Her shoulders sagged a little in relief, and I noticed the lines of care and age beginning to etch themselves upon her face. “We will make arrangements to leave as soon as possible,” I said briskly. “We will go to India and settle the question of the estate, and we will bring Jane home where she belongs.”
But of course, nothing that touches my family is ever so simple.
The Second Chapter
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
—On the Seashore
Rabindranath Tagore
It was not until we were almost halfway to India that I manoeuvred enough time alone with Portia to pry the truth from her. Plum was busily occupied sketching a pretty and penniless young miss bound for India to marry an officer, and Brisbane was closeted with the ship’s captain, both of them behaving mysteriously and pretending not to. Portia had evaded me neatly during our preparations for leaving Egypt, but I knew her well enough to know she had not made a clean breast of matters at the dinner table at Shepheard’s, and I meant to winkle the truth from her once and for all.
She settled herself upon the small private deck attached to my ca
bin where I had lured her with the promise of a luscious tea en famille. She glanced about. “Where are the menfolk?” she asked, her voice touched by the merest shade of anxiety.
“Plum is flattering an affianced bride and Brisbane is very likely doing something which will result in our quarrelling later.”
“I thought we were taking tea together,” she commented, watching me closely.
I narrowed my eyes. “No, we are quite alone.”
She made to rise.
“Sit down, Portia. And tell me everything.”
Portia subsided into the chair and gave a sigh. “I ought to have known you would find me out.”
“I have every right to be furious with you. I know you have intrigued to get us to India under false pretenses, but you might at least have told me why. I presume it does have to do with Jane?”
She nodded. “That much is true, I promise you. And I am worried about the estate. Nothing I told you in Egypt was a lie,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Yes, but I suspect you left out the most important bits,” I protested.
She clamped her lips together, then burst out, “I think Freddie Cavendish was murdered.” She buried her face in her hands and did not look at me.
I swallowed hard against my rising temper and strove to speak gently. “What makes you believe Freddie was murdered?”
She lifted her head, spreading her hands. “I do not know. It is a feeling, nothing more. But Jane’s letters have been so miserable. She felt so wretched after Freddie died, so low that she felt compelled to write to me even though she feared I would not reply.” Her expression softened. “As if I could refuse her anything. After the first few months, she began to feel a little better, but there was always a sadness to her letters, a sort of melancholia I had never seen in her before.”
“Of course she is melancholy,” I burst out in exasperation. “Her husband is dead! She is all alone in a strange land with people whom I suspect would just as soon not see her safely delivered of her child.”
Portia shook her head slowly. “I could not pry too deeply. I did not want to raise fears in her that she might not have, but the more I read, the more troubled I became. She does not feel safe there, nor happy. And if there is a chance that Freddie was murdered, it is most likely he was killed for the inheritance.”
“And if Freddie was killed for the inheritance,” I began.
“Do not say it,” she ordered, her green eyes cold with fear.
“Then his child may be in danger,” I finished. “I think you may ease your mind upon one point. Jane is in no immediate peril.”
She bristled. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Think, dearest. Murder is a tricky business. One tiny detail missed, one vital clue dropped, and it’s the gallows. No, a clever murderer would only strike when absolutely necessary. With Freddie out of the way, there is no need to harm Jane. She might well be carrying a daughter, in which case, whoever meant to put Freddie out of the way need only wait and let time and nature and the law take their proper course. But if the child is a boy, well, killing an infant seems vastly easier than killing a grown person. One need only smother the child in its cradle and everyone would put it to natural causes. Even if the worst has been done and Freddie was murdered, there is no call for any harm to come to Jane. It is only the child, and then only a male child, who might be in danger,” I reassured her.
Portia shook her head slowly. “I cannot be convinced. Let us presume for a moment that Freddie was murdered. What if his killer grows impatient? What you say is logical, but murderers are by nature impetuous. What if he grows tired of waiting and decides to settle matters now? No, Julia, I cannot be at ease about Jane, not until I have seen her for myself. I mean to be on hand when Jane delivers her child, and I mean to protect the pair of them,” she said fiercely.
I put my hand to hers. “And in the meanwhile, you want us to find out what happened to Freddie?”
“If Freddie was not murdered, then Jane and her child will be safe,” she said simply. She hesitated. “There is something more.”
I sighed. “I ought to have known there would be.”
“I do not want Jane distressed. If it has not occurred to her that Freddie might have been murdered, I do not want to put thoughts into her head. You must exercise discretion.”
“So I am to investigate a possible murder without actually revealing it to the widow?” I asked, gaping a little.
“Only until I have had a chance to broach the subject gently with her. Give me a little time to determine her state of mind, and then you may involve her, but not before.”
Portia’s expression had turned mulish, and I knew that look well. I threw up my hands. “Very well. I will be as discreet as I am able until you tell me otherwise.”
Portia nodded in satisfaction. “I knew I could depend upon you, dearest.”
We lapsed into silence then, listening to the slap of the waves against the side of the ship. I gave her a look of reproof. “You might have told us the truth. Brisbane and I still would have come.”
She slanted me a curious glance. “Are you so certain? Brisbane is a husband now. He will have lost all common sense.”
I bridled. “He has not,” I began, but even as I said the words, I wondered. Brisbane had been mightily protective of my involvement in his detective work before our marriage. I had little doubt he would prove more difficult now that I was his wife. “You may be right,” I conceded.
Portia rolled her eyes heavenward. “Of course I am right. I did not even dare to tell Plum the truth, and he is only a brother. A husband cannot be trusted to think clearly in any situation that touches his wife’s safety.”
“That may be, but at some point he will notice we are investigating a murder,” I pointed out waspishly. “He is not entirely devoid of the powers of observation.”
“I should hope not. I depend upon him to join the investigation.”
“When did you intend to present him with the real reason for our being in India?”
Portia nibbled her lower lip. “When we have arrived in Calcutta,” she said decisively. “It will be far too late for him to do anything about it at that point.”
Our arrival in the colourful port of Calcutta ought to have been the highlight of our voyage. In fact, it had been ruined by the prickling of my guilty conscience. I had thrilled to the exoticism of the place, but even as I stood next to my husband at the railing of the ship watching the city draw ever closer, I had been consumed with remorse at not telling him what Portia was about as soon as she had made her confession to me. Calcutta smelled of flowers and woodsmoke, and above it all the air simmered with spices, but to me it would always be soured by the bitterness of my own regret.
Of course, Brisbane had done nothing to ease those feelings once I had revealed all to him. Fearing his reaction, I had waited until several days after our arrival in Calcutta to unburden myself, and to my astonishment, his only response had been, “I know.” Where or how he had divined our true purpose, I could not imagine. I only knew I felt monumentally worse. We did not speak of it again, but a slight froideur sprang up between us, imperceptible to others, but almost palpable to us. In company little seemed to have changed. Brisbane was courteous to a fault, and I exerted myself to be charming and winsome. It was only when we were alone that the cracks told. Once the door closed behind us, we said little, and it was only when we put out the light that harmony was once more restored, for our demonstrations of marital affections continued on as satisfying as ever. In fact, though I blush to admit it, they tended to be somewhat more satisfying on account of Brisbane’s mood. His irritation with me prompted him to defer some of the usual preliminaries and proceed with even greater vigour and demand. I do not know if he intended to put me off with his insistent attentions, but he seemed content at my response. Perhaps our concord reassured him—as it did me—that this was simply a short run of troubled waters we should pass safely over in time. I did not like to be
at odds with him, and I did not believe he enjoyed our disagreement any more than I, but I promised myself everything would be set to rights when we reached the Peacocks. Brisbane loved nothing so much as a good mystery to sink his teeth into, and I loved nothing so much as Brisbane.
“What do you mean you are not going?” I demanded of Brisbane. It was the last evening of our stay in Calcutta and our suite was in a state of advanced disarray. Morag had left off packing for our departure to help ready us for a farewell dinner being given in our honour. “Brisbane, you must go. I know the viceroy is a terrible bore, but surely you can think of something to say to him,” I urged. “He’s quite keen on irrigation works. Ask him about that and you won’t have to say another word the whole of the evening.”
I peered at the gown Morag was holding out for my inspection. “No, we are quite late enough. There is no time to heat the pressing irons,” I said, waving away the creased peacock-blue silk. “My pink will suffice.”
She pursed her lips and jerked her head towards the bathroom door. “The master’s bath is ready,” she intoned solemnly.
I puffed out a sigh of impatience. “Morag, I have told you before, there is no need to refer to him as the master. It is positively feudal.”
“I rather like it,” Brisbane put in.
Morag gave him a nod of satisfaction. “You’ll want your shoes shined,” she told him. “The hotel valet’s made a pig’s breakfast of it, and no master of mine will go about in dirty shoes. I will see to that at once.”
Dark Road to Darjeeling Page 2
