I turned to Brisbane.
"If Lucy even knows of that passage," I countered. "I had entirely forgotten it myself. It has not been used in years. Grandfather had it locked ages ago. I can't imagine it has been opened since."
"It has not, insomuch as I could determine," Brisbane confirmed, his handsome upper lip curling in distaste. "A fair bit of it has collapsed, and I saw distinct evidence of rats."
I shuddered. "How in the name of heaven did you persuade Aunt Dorcas through that passage?"
Brisbane gave me a deliciously wicked look. "My dear lady, I did not coax. I was led. Lady Dorcas was thoroughly acquainted with the passage and showed no hesitation in scrambling over broken stones and splashing through puddles."
"The maid said she took no coat. She must have been freezing," I remarked.
"Not at all. She sent me to the lumber rooms for some furs and was warm as toast."
Father and I were silent a moment. I was having a difficult time imagining Aunt Dorcas, wrapped in furs, leading the charge down the rock-strewn, rat-infested passage. I suspected Father was as well.
"And you say she is in good health?" Father asked finally.
Brisbane gave a short nod. "Quite. Now, on to other matters. I discovered nothing of interest in Sir Cedric's room," Brisbane reported. "There was a good deal of correspondence from his agent in London, but nothing unusual. The letters confirm he is what he presents himself to be—a successful man of industry. I took the opportunity of searching Henry Ludlow's room, as well as that of Alessandro Fornacci," he finished smoothly.
"Tell me you did not," I said, levelling my gaze at him.
He returned my stare with a coolly appraising look of his own. "Oh, but I did. Fornacci is the only other gentleman of the party not connected with this family. That fact makes him suspect. Am I to infer you did not search his trunk?"
I opened my mouth to speak, then snapped my teeth together. "Blast," I muttered between them.
"From that delicate expression I will conclude you put sentiment aside and searched it. I will further presume you found nothing to incriminate him. You will be pleased to hear I found nothing in his room pertaining to this investigation."
Father raised a hand. "No sparring, I beg you. Now, what will you be about, Brisbane?"
"I have other matters to attend to at present. When Lady Julia has something relevant to report, I will listen."
He rose, nodded sharply once to Father and once to me. He clicked his fingers at Grim, who responded with a happy quork and a flap of glossy black wings. I waited until the door had closed behind him before turning to Father.
"If the passage to the churchyard is navigable, why can we not remove Mr. Snow now?"
Father flicked the snuffbox open, then snapped it shut again. "You heard Brisbane. It is collapsed in places. Fallen stone, icy puddles, rats. It would be madness to attempt it."
"Surely not. If Aunt Dorcas could manage it, I daresay a few footmen could maneuver Mr. Snow quite handily."
Flick. Snap. It was rather hypnotic, the slow, even movements of his fingers on the snuffbox. Father scorned modern instruments, but played the lute quite beautifully. He had taken it up as part of his homage to Shakespeare. I had not heard him play in years, but there was still a musician's suppleness to his reflexes.
"It is a trifle unseemly, don't you think? One ought to treat the dead with dignity."
Still his hands moved, and as I watched them, it did not seem entirely fanciful to imagine them laced about Snow's throat, closing tighter and tighter, choking the life out of him.
"Julia."
I jumped in my chair. "Yes, Father?"
He laid the snuffbox onto the desk and gave me an apologetic smile. "Your aunt deplores my little habit as well. I shall endeavour not to fidget."
His eyes were warm over his little half-moon spectacles and I felt instantly flooded with shame. How could I have suspected, even for a moment, my beloved parent had had any role in Snow's murder?
But the greatest danger of evil is that it is insidious. It had crept into my home on cloven feet, and would not leave until the murderer was brought to justice. Until then I knew I would be doomed to view every man around me, even my father, my brothers—Plum with his broad palms calloused from chiselling marble, Lysander with hands stronger than a labourer's from spanning a violin and keyboard for hours every day—as potential murderers. I stiffened my resolve to unmask the villain and put an end to this hateful charade. I rose to leave then, but one last thought intruded.
"Father, I understand you do not wish to remove Mr. Snow until it can be done in a dignified fashion," I began, tactfully ignoring the fact that the poor man was laid out in the game larder. One can hardly imagine a more undignified place of repose. "But I wondered if you had sent a note to Uncle Fly yet. He will know how to find Mr. Snow's family. They ought to know."
Father took in a great breath, then expelled it slowly in a soft, sorrowful sigh. "When a member of the family passes we stop the clocks, to show that time itself has stood still. We do not observe this custom for Lucian Snow, but so long as the Abbey remains snowbound, time does stand still. Out there, life carries on its usual pace. No one knows what transpires here, we are an island unto ourselves. For this little time, there is nothing for anyone to know. When the snow melts and the ice runs to water, then we must tell the world what has happened."
This was a mood I recognised well. Whenever he felt particularly gloomy, he was inclined to talk like Prospero. It was an affectation, of course, but a harmless one, and I looked past his words to the sentiment behind them. So long as we were housebound, no one knew of Snow's murder, and no one could speculate about the crime or its author. Once word of the murder spread, nothing would be quite the same. The newspapers, ravenous for scandal, would use this story to slake their appetite. From Dover to Orkney, our names would be bandied in every household. It was enough to make me long for Italy and anonymity. It would be so easy to pack my bags and board the first steamer across the Channel.
But for Father there would be no escape. His name was already well-known for his radical politics, the antics of his scampish youth, his charming eccentricities. And when folks tired of gossiping about him, they would cheerfully savage the rest of us. I shuddered to think what my brother Bellmont would make of this. Elected as a Tory, Bellmont was frightfully conservative, and more mindful of his dignity than the queen. As soon as the merest scrap of this reached the papers, he would descend upon us with all the wrath of a Biblical plague, blaming us for dragging the family name into disgrace once again. When he discovered my husband had been murdered, he had stopped speaking to me for two months. It was actually something of a relief, but I did not like to be at cross purposes with any of my family, no matter how maddening they could be.
"I have made a terrible mistake, I fear," he said softly. "I ought to have left you in Italy. You were happy there."
"You sent for us because Lysander married without permission. It had nothing to do with me," I reminded him.
He waved a hand. "Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than meddle in my children's romantic entanglements? It's a fool's game, and one never wins."
He was pensive, fretting now, talking more to the fire than to me.
"Then why did you send for us if not for Lysander's sake?"
He hesitated, as if weighing his words. "I knew Brisbane would be here. For weeks. I thought if I brought you home, he might declare himself."
"Oh, Father." His expression was apologetic, and a little of the spirit seemed to have gone out of him. "You just said you do not meddle in your children's romantic entanglements."
He beetled his heavy white brows at me. "I also said it was a fool's game and I am nothing if not a fool. A very great fool."
I started to rise, then sat back down, thinking swiftly. "Brisbane was betrothed to Charlotte. Why would you expect him to declare himself to me?"
"Bah. That engagement was a farce. It is you he loves."
My heart lurched a little. "He does not love me," I said flatly, remembering Brisbane's insistence on never taking a wealthy wife.
"He is far enough down the path, my dear," Father returned sharply, "and when he gets there, it will be the devil to pay. I ought to have left you in Italy," he repeated. "If only I had seen him for what he was."
I stared at him, my fingers tight around the arms of the chair. "What is he?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"A buccaneer," Father said harshly, "of the worst sort. He will think nothing of you, only himself and what serves his investigations."
I relaxed my grip on the chair and blew out a sigh of frustration.
"This is not about me. This is about you, resenting the fact that you brought him here and he has acted as lord and master in your home," I told him waspishly. "You thought you could put the bit between his teeth and guide him where you liked, and it nettles you that he cannot be mastered. He is not like your sons, Father. He doesn't give a tuppence for your great house or your lofty titles. He accepts you as an equal, but you will not do the same for him. You are a terrible snob, do you know that?"
Father's lips went very thin. "I am no such thing."
"Yes, you are." I rose, smoothing my skirts. "You always taught us that we should value a man according to his merit, his competence. Do you know a man more competent than Brisbane?"
He said nothing, his mouth set mulishly.
"I thought so. You are behaving very badly, Father. Very badly indeed."
I reached out and took up the little cache of Aunt Hermia's jewels, pocketing the bundle. "That is why you would not let him take these. You simply wanted to prove you could impose your will. He would never do anything to harm this family, Father."
Father lowered his head, peering peevishly at me over his spectacles. "I think I may know better than you what that man is capable of, child. There are depths there you cannot begin to plumb."
I smiled maliciously. "I seem to remember a time when you thought a dalliance with him might be advisable. Have you changed your opinion of him so much then?"
He did not reply to that, and I knew better than to push him further.
"I shall take Grim with me for a bit of exercise," I told him. If he heard me, he gave no sign of it. He simply reached for his snuffbox again and flicked it open as I left him to his thoughts.
THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
—As You Like It
I found Sir Cedric in the smoking room, alone with his thoughts and a thoroughly vile cigar. He rose when I entered and made to crush it out, but I stopped him.
"You must not on my account. I do love a good cigar," I told him with a smile. It was not entirely a lie. I did love the scent of Brisbane's thin Spanish cigars. The aroma of them clung to his fingers and clothes, cloaking him in mystery and a bit of a glamoury, conjuring thoughts of smoky campfires and the sharp-blooded dances of Andalusia. Sir Cedric's cigar, an enormous fat sausage of a thing, smelled of mould and old dog.
I took the chair opposite and he resumed his, watching me with an appraising glance. Grim had wandered off in the direction of a rather fine bust of Caesar, quorking softly to himself.
"An interesting pet, my lady," Sir Cedric commented.
"He is, rather. Some people find him too morbid, but I am very fond of him." I sat a little forward in my chair, hands clasped on my lap, smiling at him winsomely. "Sir Cedric, I believe you must know by now we are an unconventional family. We observe society's customs when it suits us, and cast them to the winds when it does not."
"I had noticed," he replied acidly. He flicked a bit of ash into a china dish at his elbow, and I noticed his mouth had settled into lines of discontent. As well they might, I thought. His beloved fiancée enmeshed in a terrible crime, his temper worn to the thinnest edge. He had not as yet been told of the attack upon Lucy and her sister, but I thought it would take very little to push him to the brink of violence. I realised, repressing a little shudder, that he might well have already done violence. I thought of poor Mr. Snow, lying broken and bloody on the floor of the chapel, and the memory of it stiffened my resolve. I would use whatever means I held at my disposal to unmask his murderer, even if it was the man before me.
And the strongest weapon in my arsenal was surprise. I pitched my voice low and gentle. "I am worried for Lucy, and it is this cousinly concern that prompts me to speak freely to you. She has confessed to a terrible crime, which I believe she did not commit. I will ask you, sir, if my cousin is proved innocent, as I believe she must be, will you marry her still?"
His teeth ground together as he crushed out the glowing tip of the cigar, with rage or some other emotion I could not decide. He rose, looming over me in a fashion I could not help but find a little threatening.
"I cannot see that it is any business of yours. Your father ought to find you another husband, one who will mend your meddlesome ways." He turned to go, and for what happened next I can only credit instinct. I reached out to him, laying a gentle hand on his sleeve, and when I spoke, it was with a kindliness I feigned.
"She has broken your heart, has she not?"
He paused, his entire body stiffening like a pointer's. Then he collapsed into the chair with a groan, burying his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he dropped them, and when he did, I saw they shook a little.
"Did you hear the story of how we met, Lucy and me?" he began. I shook my head, concealing my surprise at the turn of events. Instead of being rather sternly lectured, it seemed I was to be treated to a story. "It was Ludlow's doing. His side of the family put great stock in education, refinement. My father thought solely of money. We lived in the poorest slums, not because my father could not afford better, but because he would not spend a tuppence more than he must for anything. He was a grim, miserly man who lived by one creed—if it could not put a penny in his pocket, he cared nothing for it. But I was a smart lad, and when Father put me to work as a bootmaker's apprentice, I learned the trade faster than any other boy in East London. I could cut a sole as quick and pretty as you please, and not one of the other lads could touch me for the stitches I used to make, so small you would need a magnifying glass just to see them."
Sir Cedric paused, his tawny eyes glazing slightly out of focus as he looked beyond me into his past. "One day the bootmaker's son was sick abed, and he shouted to me to come and help him fit a gentleman who had called at the shop. I had never seen a person of quality before, not like that. He was straight as a ramrod, a spine of steel and a nose like a whippet's. He looked down at me with that nose, and why not? I was scruffy and ill-fed. I slept with the beetles under the stairs, and I washed only when forced to it. But I forgot myself, my worn clothes and ill-kempt hair. I made so bold as to stare at the gentleman, and when he took a book from his pocket and began to read, it was like he was doing magic in front of my very eyes. I was eight years old and I had never seen anyone read a book, can you imagine that?"
I could not, but I knew to comment at this point might be disastrous. He was lost in his reminiscences, and I dared not call him back.
"The gentleman noticed my interest, my obsession, and as he left, he gave me the book. I have read a thousand books since, but not one of them ever taught me a word to describe the feeling I had in that moment. Joy, euphoria, ecstasy, they are pale and feeble ghosts of the word I want. I thought the feeling would consume me. I might have gone up in a pillar of flame in that moment, and done so happily. The feeling lasted until I opened the book and realised I could not understand a letter of it," he added with a wry smile. "But I did not let that stop me. I begged the bootmaker's daughter to teach me my letters, and she did, a to zed, right the way through, and by the end of that autumn, I could read the first line of the book the gentleman had given me. 'If music be the food of love, play on'."
"Twelfth Night!" I exclaimed, forgetting myself. But Sir Cedric merely smiled indulgentl
y.
"Indeed it was. I thought it was the most magical thing I had ever heard, a shipwreck, false identities, love that could not be satisfied. My contentment never waned, no matter how many times I read it. Until I went home on Christmas Day, and my father threw it into the fireplace and burnt it before my eyes."
I drew in a sharp breath, expelling it slowly. Sir Cedric curled a lip in derision.
"Do not pity me, lady. He burnt it because he thought I had wasted my wages on it instead of handing them over as I ought. But I got my own back, I did," he said, his eyes snapping with a hellish mischief. "I burnt his only suit of clothes. The house stank of charred cloth for weeks—as long as I carried bruises on my back from the beating he gave me—but I did not care. He took ill that winter and was buried by Easter. I came home to live with my mother, and I promised her I would care for her. I did. By the time I was fourteen I had earned enough, coupled with what my father left us, to start my own business, selling cheap shoes out of a cart for four times what they cost to make. They fell apart the first time they got wet, but no matter. By the time I was sixteen I had enough money to buy a pub. My mother signed the papers as I was not old enough, and I hired a rough-looking fellow to water the gin and look the other way when the doxies brought clients upstairs. Ah, you are shocked at that, I think. Not many know I made a tidy profit from the whores in Whitechapel, turning a blind eye to their doings, taking a share of their earnings in exchange for a private room and a bed. And with that profit, I bought my first factory, a textile mill in the Midlands, where I made my first millions on the backs of women and children."
I did not speak. His story had clearly been told to offend me, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. I had thought him capable of real tenderness, but as he related the events of his youth, I began to doubt it.
"Now I owned copper mines and steamships, paper mills and even a small railway in Scotland. But still I lacked something. It was Ludlow who told me what it was. Civility, he said, education, polish. I had not read a book since the one my father burnt. No time for such foolishness, but Ludlow convinced me it was foolish not to. He said no lady of quality would marry a ruffian like me. So I hired a teacher of etiquette to smooth out my edges. I bought the entire library of a country house at auction and read every book in it. I attended plays and operas and exhibitions of the greatest paintings. And I went to lectures, everything from Darwin to the Dolomites, and it was at a lecture I met Lucy. Your father spoke two hours that night, and I heard not a word of it. I could not take my eyes from her."
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