Silent in the Sanctuary (12 page)

Once in my room, I disrobed quickly and attempted with no success to persuade Morag to take Florence again.

“I will not,” she said, tucking my gown into the wardrobe. “She shakes like a poplar.”

“That means she is cold,” I told her in some exasperation. “She wants a little coat.”

“She wants an exorcism,” Morag muttered, slamming the wardrobe door. “If you don’t want nothing else, good night.”

I knew that tone well. It meant that I daren’t want anything else. I climbed up into the bed, stretching my toes toward the warming pan, careful not to touch it.

“Remind me to have a word with Aunt Hermia about your grammar. It is a disgrace.”

She said nothing, but poked up the fire and bobbed an exaggerated curtsey before taking her leave. I regretted my flippancy. Morag might be a creature of the streets, but she had her dignity, and she had worked terribly hard to raise herself from the squalor of her previous life. Her grammar had progressed substantially, and the worst of her brogue had been smoothed into something I could actually understand. It was wrong of me to needle her about it, and I made a mental note to apologise to her in the morning. I was far too cosy to leave my bed to deal with her at present. She had done a masterful job of warming the bed, and from the way Florence was snuggled into her basket, I suspected Morag had lined it with warmed towels. For all her sins, she was a thoughtful creature at times.

“Buone notte, Firenze,” I said, with a nod toward the basket on the hearth. “Good night, Florence.”

Florence growled in return, and I took up a book from the night table, determined to finish it. It was a rather spicy little novel Portia had given me, and I was in agonies of suspense as to whether the beautiful English captive would choose to stay in the harim of the sensual sultan or make her escape with the dashing Spanish buccaneer.

I must have dozed, for when I opened my eyes, the fire had burned down and the book had slipped to the floor. I blinked for a moment, uncertain why I had awakened. Then I heard it, a soft slithering footstep just outside my door. I glanced to the hearth and saw Florence, sitting up in her basket, ears pricked up, lips drawn back.

“Shh,” I soothed her softly. The hands of the clock on the mantel read two minutes past two. I considered the matter carefully. Violante and Charlotte had both been abed by the time I had retired. Portia would have rousted the ladies out of the drawing room and to their beds no later than midnight. I had heard a flurry of doors closing just about that time. So the ladies were accounted for, and even if the gentlemen had decided to play a game of billiards or retire to the smoking room, those rooms were on the opposite side of the Abbey. I thought of Mrs. King, her lips trembling as she spoke of what she had seen.

For what I did next, I can only blame my own unseemly reading habits. For years I wallowed in the unhealthy pursuits of Gothic heroines, tracing their footsteps as they wended their way through crumbling churchyards and decaying crypts. I walked with them into ghoulish dungeons hung with chains, and mouldering attics festooned with cobwebs. I thought them impossibly stupid, and yet when faced with the opportunity to chase a phantom of my own, I did not even stop to put on my slippers. I snatched a lace wrapper from the foot of my bed and hurried to the door, easing it open as silently as any practised burglar.

I slipped out of my room and into the shadows of the gallery. Bars of soft moonlight from the great Gothic windows illuminated the corridor, throwing the statues into sharp relief and casting sinuous, quatrefoil shadows over the floor. I peered one way, then the other, searching the gloom for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing. I waited half a minute, willing myself to breathe quietly. Still nothing, and my feet were beginning to freeze on the stone floor. I had just turned to regain my room when I saw it, there at the end of the gallery, flitting past a statue of Diana.

It was a ghost, or at least something that looked very like how I imagined a ghost should look. It moved slowly, gliding soundlessly, perhaps a foot above the stone floor, and whiter than the marble of the goddess’ motionless arm. The figure trailed ragged draperies behind it, foamy and billowing like fingers of damp fog on a moonlit night.

It paused then and so did my heartbeat. It was silhouetted against a tapestry of Venus and Adonis, silvered by the faint moonlight. I stared at it from my place in the shadows, suddenly horribly aware that in my white lace wrapper, I was as visible to it as it was to me. Before I could move, it gave a high, unearthly moan, then whirled and vanished, leaving behind nothing but a patch of shadow and the tapestry, stirring ever so slightly.

Before the tapestry had settled, I was back in my own room, door firmly locked, cowering under the bedclothes with a struggling Florence clutched to my chest. She kicked and fussed until I let her go, then marched to my pillow where she gave me a resentful look and promptly curled up with her tail over her nose and went to sleep. It was not much, but it was some comfort, and I put a hand on her silky back. She twitched, but did not move away, and after a long while I slept.

It was not until Morag unlocked the door with my morning tea, rousing me with malicious pleasure, that I realised what I should have known all along: that particular tapestry covered one of the hidden passages of Bellmont Abbey. The Abbey itself had been lousy with them as it provided the brothers an easy means of moving from place to place without disturbing one another or exposing themselves to inclement weather. Most had been blocked up or fallen into disrepair, but some remained, and a few were even used by the servants as service passages. And though I could not explain how a human being could levitate as perfectly as my phantom had done, it would be a very poor ghost indeed to require hidden passages to creep about the Abbey instead of walking through walls.

And if the ghost was not supernatural, then one of the inhabitants of the Abbey was up to something highly irregular and thoroughly interesting. An intrigue was afoot, and I was determined to unearth it.

I hurried through my ablutions, eager to begin investigating my little mystery. I was thwarted by Morag, who insisted on taking her time with my hair, and Father, who sent a note requesting my presence in his study after breakfast.

“Bother,” I muttered, slipping the note into my pocket. The missive was perfectly courteous, but a summons from Father carried all the weight of a papal bull. “Finish, Morag. I’ve no more time to waste on your ministrations.”

She jabbed the last pins in my hair with what can only be described as unnecessary force. I rose and hurried to the door, turning to smile sweetly at her. “Mind you walk the dog. And I was quite serious about a coat for her. I’ve a pretty little jacket Plum purchased for me in Milan. Persimmon is a frightful colour for me, but it should suit Florence nicely.”

Morag crossed her arms over her chest and fixed me with a baleful stare. “I’ll not be sewing for a dog.”

I looked at her closely. Morag could often be cajoled into acquiescence, but once she had reached her limit, there was only one method by which it was possible to persuade her.

“I will pay you four shillings and will thank you for picking my pocket.”

Morag was nothing if not avaricious. She gave me a thin-lipped smile and scooped up the dog, tucking Florence under her arm. “Come on then, ye wee rat. Let us take the measure of you and fit you for your wardrobe.”

When I left the room, I took the opportunity to examine the spot at the end of the gallery where the ghost had disappeared. The egress was easy enough to find provided one knew where to look. The statue of Diana, poised on one foot, bow uplifted, obscured the view of the tapestry’s edge. Not much, but enough to confuse the eye, particularly on a moonlit night with ghostly draperies fluttering about.

With apologies to Venus and Adonis, I slipped behind the tapestry and found a solid stone wall, or at least the appearance of a solid stone wall. This was no simple case of a doorway that had been covered over for the sake of convenience. This was a proper secret passage, with a mechanism that had been oiled recently from the smell of it. I reached up to the single stone carved with the tiniest of March hares and pushed. The door swung back soundlessly. The passage beyond was black as pitch and freezing. I paused, listening intently, but of course I heard nothing. I stepped back and swung the door shut, moving out of the way as it slid into place.

I stood behind the tapestry, considering the matter carefully. The passage, although quite antique, had been well maintained, and the little hare had been carved by the family to clearly identify the key stone. Presumably the monks were cleverer than the Marches, and had found their way without such aides-memoire. The passage went some little way, then terminated in a flight of tight, twisting stairs up to a suite of lumber rooms. Originally a row of cells used as scriptoria by the monks, they were terribly useful for storage. The little passage itself had been occasionally used to move carpets or tapestries, but its dimensions had not permitted its use for anything more substantial. It was useful for the maids, for their rooms were in the attics, divided from the lumber rooms only by a short corridor. We children had used the passage when playing sardines or other such games, and I remembered sulking there once or twice when I did not wish to be found. I had not used it in a dozen years, and I did not think Morag even knew of its existence.

Who, then, did? My brothers, naturally, and Father and Portia. But try as I might, I could not imagine any business that would necessitate any of my family wandering the Abbey in the guise of a ghoul. There was Aunt Dorcas, of course, but I snickered when I thought of her attempting to negotiate the snug little staircase with her bulk.

That still left the guests, any one of whom might have heard of the passage from a member of the household and decided to do a bit of exploring. Harmless enough, but why in the form of a spectre?

Interesting questions indeed, and I pondered them as I descended to breakfast. My little detour had taken longer than I thought, and by the time I reached the breakfast room, it was empty and most of the chafing dishes had been scraped clean. Aquinas entered with a steaming pot of tea and a rack of fresh, crisp toast as I peered at the sideboard, frowning.

“Do not tell me I have missed Cook’s kedgeree,” I said mournfully.

“I took the liberty of putting a bit back for your ladyship. I have been keeping it warm in the butler’s pantry. I will fetch it now.”

I seated myself and sighed. There are few greater pleasures in life than a devoted butler. I counted myself very fortunate to have secured Aquinas. I had offered him an outrageous sum to leave his previous employer, an act that had stricken me from that particular hostess’ guest lists for eternity. It was a small price to pay for such competence, I reminded myself as he served a generous portion of the delectable kedgeree.

While I ate, Aquinas busied himself at the sideboard. I had just popped the last bit of buttery toast into my mouth when I had a thought.

“Aquinas, did Uncle Fly and Mr. Snow spend the night, or did they return to Blessingstoke last night?”

He lifted my plate and whisked the toast crumbs into his little silver pan. “I called the carriage for them at midnight, my lady. His lordship offered them rooms for the night, but the Reverend Mr. Twickham was feeling a trifle unwell and wished to sleep in his own bed.”

I looked up sharply. “Uncle Fly was ill? Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Not at all, my lady. If I may speculate, I believe Mr. Twickham indulged himself a bit more than is his custom.”

I burst out laughing. “He was drunk.”

Aquinas looked mildly shocked. “I should be heartily sorry if I suggested such a thing, my lady. However, if I were to observe that he seemed to have a bit of difficulty putting on his coat, and that entering the carriage proved so treacherous he nearly ended up in the moat, these would not be exaggerations.”

“Poor Uncle Fly. His head will be sore as a bear’s this morning. And we lot are supposed to descend upon him for luncheon! How ghastly.”

Aquinas agreed and removed my empty plate. I sat over the last few sips of my tea, making note of the fact that Uncle Fly and Lucian Snow could be eliminated from the list of possible miscreants who had donned the ghostly garb.

But instead of simplifying matters, it muddied them. Snow had a sort of puckish charm, and Uncle Fly had always been good for a joke, particularly of the elaborate and practical variety. If I numbered gambling among my vices, I would have wagered handsomely on one of them being our prankster.

Still, it left me with several interesting questions yet to be answered, including the one that intrigued me the most: what had Brisbane been doing when the clock struck two?

O, that a man might know

The end of this day’s business ere it comes.

The door to Father’s study was closed, but I had no doubt he was within. I could smell his pipe tobacco, and if I pressed my ear quite tightly to the door, I could hear him talking. From the rhythm of his speech, it was apparent he was reciting one of his beloved soliloquies. Lear, no doubt. He was particularly fond of Lear.

I rapped sharply, and after a moment he called for me to enter. I felt a sense of peace descend as soon as I stepped over the threshold. Father’s study held only the most pleasant connotations for me. Any childhood transgressions were dealt with as a matter of business, and lectures and punishments were meted out in his estate office where farmers and servants were given their pay or their notice. Here, there was only the memory of spending time alone with Father, a rare privilege in a household of ten children. It was in this room rather than in the schoolroom that each of us had learned our letters, following Father’s finger as he traced out a line of Shakespeare and encouraged us to sound out the words. There was always a treat if we excelled—crumpets Father toasted over the fire, turning them on forks until they were brown and crisp.