He paused and I smelled something withheld. “What else is there?”
He looked like a man emerging from the confessional, all of his secrets and sins drained away. “Plum. I told you that I used him as an operative. He has not been pursuing Miss Thorne. It was simply a screen for his real actions. He has been going to the monastery and gambling. I had to make sure that Black Jack was up to his old tricks, and naturally I could not go myself.”
“Did Plum know Black Jack was your father?”
“Yes.”
The word sliced between us, severing the tenuous bonds of partnership as professionals working together. That he had not told me was something I could have endured; that he had confided in my brother I could not. Something rose up within me then, and the anger and fear of the past hour burned clean away, leaving only bleakness and desolation behind.
“You were right to bring me here,” I told him. “I do now see what I married.” I put out my hand for the book and he surrendered it without comment. I turned on my heel and left him, standing alone on the road.
I locked myself in my room when I reached the Peacocks, but I need not have bothered. Brisbane did not attempt to seek me out, and I threw myself into a fine fit of sulking that lasted the better part of the day. So enraged was I that I did not even think to look at the book until late in the evening. The gentlemen had been engaged to dine with Dr. Llewellyn, whom I now thought of with a mixture of pity and revulsion, and we ladies had been a subdued bunch. Lucy had returned to Pine Cottage, insisting she was ready to face the emptiness of the little house, and Miss Cavendish seemed exhausted by the events of the past few days. She had been a friend to Emma, and the loss, though not unexpected, was painful. She ate her food, but it seemed done with deliberation, as if she managed to eat simply because she must and took no pleasure in it. Portia took her meal on a tray with Jane, and I was Miss Cavendish’s only company, and poor company at that. I said little, picking at my fish until Jolly finally carried the plate away. We both of us seemed rather relieved when I excused myself early and retreated to my room, and I hoped the burden of entertaining was not proving too taxing for Miss Cavendish. She was not a young woman, I reminded myself, and four houseguests might be an encumbrance to her.
I dismissed Morag after she undressed me, settling in to bed with a novel until I remembered the book Black Jack had given me. I retrieved it and got into bed again. I had finished perusing it and had fallen into reverie when Brisbane arrived. I was rolling the emerald ring in my palm, watching the play of light within the stone itself.
He approached the bed, clearly preparing himself for another conversation of some import, but I stayed him with an upraised hand. I brandished the ring.
“Is it genuine, do you think?”
He did not touch it. “Black Jack never deals in paste jewels. Gems are his preferred means of currency. He always keeps a few shockingly valuable pieces upon his person should he need to fund an escape.”
“It is a curious jewel,” I mused. “How much do you think it is worth?”
“That particular ring is priceless,” he told me coolly.
I blinked at him. “How can you know? You haven’t even touched it, much less inspected it with a loupe.”
“Because that is the Isabella emerald, given from Queen Isabella of Spain to the Borgia pope, Alexander VI. He in turn gave it to his daughter, Lucrezia, upon her marriage. She had it set with a lock of her own hair and returned to him as a pledge of her loyalty.”
“You are joking,” I said, almost dropping the ring.
Brisbane shrugged. “Look inside.” I turned it over to find the underside of the setting had been fitted with a piece of crystal. Embedded behind it was a lock of silken blond hair and around the setting of the crystal was incised a Latin inscription, faint, but still legible.
“Heavens,” I breathed. “Where did he get it?”
“I’ve no idea, although I can promise you he did not buy it from a tidy little jeweller in Bond Street. It was stolen from the Vatican centuries ago. It would be impossible to trace at this point.”
“But it belongs to the pope,” I clarified.
“Do you mean to wrap it in brown paper and return it to his Holiness?” Brisbane asked pointedly. “Besides, the ring was ordered buried with Lucrezia. Technically, it was not Vatican property any longer because the pope instructed it be interred. One might just as easily argue that it belongs to her descendants.”
“What would happen if I did attempt to return it?”
He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “It would sit in the Italian courts for the next hundred years, most likely with the Vatican, Borgia descendants, and you battling out your claims.”
“Me?” I stared at him in shock. “Why would I have a claim?”
He gave me a wicked smile. “Because possession, my love, is nine parts out of ten under the law. And the statutes which govern the return of stolen property are so vague as to be almost indecipherable. Depending upon the jurisdiction and how the piece changed hands, the original owners would have lost all claim to it. In fact, they would have lost claim simply because of how much time has passed. No, if the Vatican wanted it returned, they would have had to make a claim long before now.”
“So it is mine?” I breathed.
“If you want it,” he said, his voice cool and dispassionate. “Consider it a wedding gift from your father-in-law.”
“A most generous gift,” I observed.
Brisbane gave a short, sharp laugh and there was no mirth in it. “Doubtless he cursed it first. Make no mistake. The emerald was a gesture of the most theatrical sort, designed to both distract and confuse.”
“Will you go back to the monastery?”
“There would be no purpose to it, I assure you. He did not spend half a minute behind those walls once he vanished. He has a gift for disappearing,” he said, his handsome mouth twisted a little with bitterness.
I put the jewel aside. “There is something else,” I told my husband.
I handed him the book wordlessly, and it was a long moment before he spoke.
“Good God,” he breathed.
“Yes, that was rather my reaction. You realise that this is evidence that points to one man as the murderer of Freddie Cavendish.”
Brisbane passed the book back to me. “We have no proof of it.”
“What more proof do you require?” I asked, brandishing the book. “Tell me the man who would not kill to protect his family. And this book could destroy those whom he loves.”
Brisbane hesitated and I pressed the point. “You do not wish it to be so because the evidence came from Black Jack. What if it did? He did not manufacture what is between the covers. The source does not taint the evidence itself. Freddie gave this to him because it was the means by which Black Jack could make money if he engaged in a little polite blackmail.”
“I do not like it,” he said simply.
“There are things neither of us have liked in this investigation,” I returned tartly, “but we must learn to live with disappointment.”
The tiny muscle began to jump in his jaw. “Very well. We will return it tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” I agreed. And then I blew out my lamp, leaving him to undress in darkness.
The next day we made a late start owing to a variety of domestic difficulties, not the least of which was Brisbane’s reluctance to go. He invented any number of distractions to keep himself busy until I finally pointed out that as I was in possession of the book, I did not require him to accompany me.
He fixed me with a black look. “You would go alone, wouldn’t you? Even to confront a murderer.”
“Well, it would not be the first time,” I pointed out helpfully.
We arrived shortly after luncheon, a time when we expected to be received with alacrity, and we were. Lalita showed us into the Reverend’s study and he rose, smiling welcome through his spectacles.
“How delightful to see you both! Sit, sit,” he urged,
lifting piles of sermons and books about orchids from the chairs. He shooed away a pretty grey cat and smiled ruefully at the mess. “I am a trifle untidy but, as I say, a bit of mess helps a man to think.”
We seated ourselves, and I saw from Brisbane’s closed expression that he was as uncomfortable with the errand as I.
I decided to come straight to the heart of the matter. I had wrapped the book in brown paper, but now I unfolded it from the parcel and laid it upon the Reverend Pennyfeather’s desk.
“This is Cassandra’s,” he said, touching the cover but not opening the book.
“Do you know what the album contains?” I asked softly.
His smile was gentle. “I believe I do, if this is the album that has gone missing.”
“And do you know where it was?”
“I have my suspicions,” he said, his smile fading. “But they are un-Christian, and I do my best to turn loose of them.”
“It was given to us by the White Rajah,” Brisbane put in. He watched the Reverend with the sharp eyes of a predator, but the astonishment writ on the clergyman’s face was genuine.
“The White Rajah? However did he come by it? One of the maids—”
“It was given to him by someone else, someone who gave it to him with the intention of harming your family.”
The Reverend flushed deeply. “I recognise that the photographs are unorthodox,” he began.
“They are, by most standards, indecent,” I broke in.
He looked at the album as if it had grown poisonous fangs. “Cassandra told me they were life studies of Primrose, some classical nudes.”
“Some are,” I acknowledged. “But there are others.”
He pushed the book aside. “I cannot look. I must not.”
“No, I think it would be best if you did not,” I agreed. “But you must know that there are photographs in that album of Primrose engaged in acts of self-gratification.”
The flush of a moment before ebbed, leaving his complexion waxy and white. “I cannot believe this,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“They are beautifully done,” I hastened to add, “Cassandra is a talented artist. But one cannot escape the fact that they are still photographs of a young woman in a state of dishabille disporting herself in a very intimate fashion.”
“But why would she do such a thing?” he cried, his anguish thick in the little room.
I looked to Brisbane, but he said nothing. It had not been his idea to come, and he clearly did not intend to offer me assistance.
The Reverend covered his face with his hands for a long moment, but when he dropped them, he seemed to have recovered himself. “Cassandra has always had such different notions of what is right and proper. She was brought up to believe in a certain freeness of manner that I have never entirely grasped. She sees things that are natural and thinks that if nature made them so, they must be good. She sees God in all things and tells me my holiness is inferior to hers because God cannot be bound by the laws of man. She is like a child in the ways of morality. She simply does not understand. That is why I brought her here,” he said mournfully. “She sometimes does things that other people do not understand, but still I love her, and because of that she stays with me.”
Questions trembled on my lips, but I had learned through experience that it is best to let a person speak without interruption at such times.
“I can well imagine her taking these photographs and excusing to herself as art. She would not think it a sin. Primrose, however…” His face darkened again. “Primrose knows. She is enough my child to understand the gravity of what she has done, and she is enough Cassandra’s child not to care. She hears her mother’s stories of freedom and easy manners, and she longs for such a life. She knows I had a mind to see her properly married next year, perhaps to a planter out of Darjeeling. Now it cannot be, and I would not be an honest man if I did not say that I believe she did this deliberately to make that impossible.”
He looked up suddenly. “But why would giving this to the White Rajah harm my family?” he asked, seizing upon Brisbane’s earlier remark.
Brisbane stirred himself to answer. “The White Rajah is not all that he seems. He is a deceptive man, a criminal, who makes it his habit to ensnare gentlemen into habits they cannot afford. When they cannot pay, he will take whatever they have of value, including information that might prove embarrassing to others.”
“For blackmail?” the Reverend asked.
“I am afraid so. He has not approached you?”
The Reverend shook his head. “Not for so much as a shilling. I thought him a kindly old man. He even gave me a contribution for the orphans’ fund I manage.”
“No doubt he was holding on to the album for an auspicious time, perhaps when your daughter’s engagement was announced,” I put in.
“When I would be all the more vulnerable and likelier to pay,” the Reverend said. “It is diabolical!”
We did not disagree. I exchanged quick glances with Brisbane, realising the sudden futility of our errand. Black Jack had given us evidence, but clearly not evidence that would aid us in finding Freddie’s murderer. The Reverend had no notion those specific photographs even existed, much less that they had been stolen for nefarious purposes. And thus, he had no motive for killing Freddie Cavendish.
We left shortly afterwards, the Reverend’s expressions of kindly gratitude ringing in our ears. I glanced at Brisbane.
“You were right. Black Jack did us no favours. You needn’t look so pleased.”
He flicked me a glance. “I am not pleased,” he said slowly. “In fact, I would have far preferred it if you had been right.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because once more the trail of Freddie’s murder is winding us back to the Peacocks,” he said. We fell into silence then and said no more.
The Eighteenth Chapter
I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!
I bow to you all and take my departure.
—Farewell
Rabindranath Tagore
We returned to the Peacocks in a dispirited mood. Brisbane was well accustomed to the ups and downs of investigations, the blind alleys, the trails that went cold. I, however, was not. I liked things to be straightforward and easily solved, and I reflected that my frustration did not bode well for me as a detective. I had just avowed to myself that I would learn to temper my impatience when Brisbane and I entered the Peacocks. Portia flew down the stairs, her eyes wide.
“Dearest, where have you been? You will never believe it—Lucy Eastley has eloped!”
I stared at her in astonishment, but upon further reflection I realised I ought not to have been surprised. With Emma’s death, Lucy had nothing to hold her to Pine Cottage, and I had seen the expression of devotion upon her face when she spoke of her fiancé. And I had also seen the enormous sapphire that promised his intentions.
“Harry did not wait long,” I commented dryly.
“I did not wait long for what?” Harry asked, emerging into the hall from his study.
“Mr. Cavendish!” I cried. “You are here.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “Where should I be?”
Before I could reply, Portia gave me a shove. “What on earth are you talking about? Lucy eloped with that fellow you met.”
“What fellow?” I asked, feeling the chill of certainty reach into my bones even as I asked the question.
“The White Rajah,” Portia supplied. “Lucy has eloped with the White Rajah.”
“It is not your fault,” Portia said, putting another compress to my neck. “How were you to know?”
“She never said his name,” I said, my voice muffled by my skirts. Seeing my pale face at the mention of the White Rajah’s name, Brisbane had bodily removed me to the drawing room and ordered whisky. Portia had stood by, chafing my hands and laying compresses upon my neck while Harry built up the fire.
“She never said his name and I assumed it was Harry,” I moaned again
.
“You thought I was betrothed to Lady Eastley?” Harry asked.
I sat up, watching the room spin slowly. I took a sip of whisky and the room righted itself. “Lucy and I were discussing you. Then she began to speak of her betrothed, only I did not realise at the time that she changed the subject. Lucy can be so imprecise in her speech,” I added peevishly. “I thought you were her intended, Mr. Cavendish. I didn’t even realise she knew the White Rajah.”
“Their assignations were always conducted in secret,” Portia said rather unhelpfully. “She was afraid people might gossip about the difference in their ages. It is all in the note she left,” she added, brandishing the page at me.
I waved it off and watched as Brisbane took it, reading it over. “They met on board the ship,” he said after a moment. “The same passage during which Cedric died. She said she was flattered but aware of the impropriety when he followed her to the Valley of Eden. She made him promise not to tell anyone of their attachment and insisted their visits must be clandestine.”
“How revoltingly sentimental,” I said, feeling rather harshly towards Lucy. The truth was I could have throttled her with my bare hands. The stupidity of the girl astonished me.
I appealed to Brisbane. “Will you go after them?”
He lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that he is not a very nice person,” I said, infusing my words with meaning. I did not want to disclose the White Rajah’s true identity without Brisbane’s blessing.
“I thought you liked him,” Portia pointed out. “Why do you want Brisbane to go after them? And why do you say he is not a very nice person?”
I looked at Harry. “Harry knows.”
Harry blinked. “I know he hosts the odd gambling night, but I do not go,” he said stoutly. “I have scarcely met the gentleman.”
“Then why do you leave the Peacocks at night?” I asked him bluntly.
He gave a sharp intake of breath, then recovered himself. “I will not answer that except to say that my business is my own and it does not touch this matter. You have my word upon it.”
Dark Road to Darjeeling Page 27
