Silent in the Sanctuary (21 page)

I took one last look at the battered remains of Lucian Snow and left the chapel.

I met Aquinas just outside the door and blessed Portia’s efficiency in sending him along.

“Aquinas, I am afraid the Reverend Mr. Snow has died suddenly.”

Aquinas was a superior servant; he betrayed little reaction to the news that there was a corpse in the chapel. He merely blinked once, slowly, and then crossed himself.

“I do hope it was not the duck, my lady.”

My stomach lurched again. “No, nothing like that. Mr. Snow was murdered. Mr. Brisbane, that is, Lord Wargrave is attending him now. If you could find someplace suitable to er, store Mr. Snow, I think that would be best.”

“Of course. One of the larders, I expect, will serve nicely.”

“Father said the same thing. It seems terribly unhygienic, what with the food and all. And I cannot think that Cook will appreciate having a dead man in the larder when she is trying to feed a house party,” I objected.

“Of course, my lady, but he must be kept in a place sufficiently cool enough to retard decomposition—”

I held up a hand. “I do not wish to know. Father is expecting you,” I finished, gesturing toward the chapel. He bowed apologetically.

Leaving him to it, I hurried upstairs to my room, poking Morag awake from where she was dozing by the fire. As quickly as possible, I sketched the evening’s events. She gave a little scream, then shoved her fists into her mouth to stifle it.

“Murder? Here at the Abbey? We will all be killed in our beds, we will!”

“Do not be an ass. Now, Lucy must not be left alone in the chapel. She is quite fragile right now, and there is no one else to sit with her. Emma is too distraught at present. Lucy needs someone of sound common sense, and you will do, provided you do not start wittering on about murder.”

Morag’s eyes were round with terror. “What if she tries to kill me?”

“Morag,” I said through gritted teeth, “there will be a footman at the door should you have need of him, but you will not. The girl is quite overcome. What she requires now is compassion. Take your needlework and a few coverlets, for you and for Lucy. It is chilly in the chapel.”

“Shall I bring a weapon, just to defend myself in case of murderous attack?”

“By all means,” I said brutally. “Bring your embroidery scissors. You can cut her hair if she threatens you.”

Morag obeyed, but sulkily. She took her time gathering her things, and I used the opportunity to remove the pearls. I had a wretched headache from their weight and a sore spot on my neck where the twisted beak had pecked me. It was a relief to be rid of them.

Morag was still muttering sourly under her breath, and I followed her to the chapel myself to make quite certain she carried out my instructions. The body was gone and a quick glance behind the altar revealed the iron candelabrum had been removed as well. Chairs had been brought, hard, pitiless things from the corridor. Lucy was sitting on one, slow tears dripping down her face. Someone must have brought a basin, for her hands were clean now and faintly pink, as if from hard scrubbing. She had been persuaded to release the sanctuary ring and sat with her hands resting in her lap. She looked very small, and quite vulnerable. At the sight of her, Morag’s demeanour changed.

“Poor little poppet,” she said softly. She moved the other chair to sit beside Lucy, folding a woollen coverlet over the younger woman’s shoulders. “Now, Miss Lucy, you know me, don’t you? I am Morag, Lady Julia’s maid. I’ve come to sit with you for a bit. You won’t mind that at all, will you?”

Lucy shook her head and turned, burying her face in Morag’s shoulder. Morag patted her awkwardly, crooning something soothing in Gaelic. She waved me away and I slipped out, closing the heavy doors behind me. A footman had taken up his post outside and he stood up as I passed.

He was pale and wide-eyed, and I wondered exactly how useful he would be in a crisis.

I paused by his chair, looking at him closely. He could not have been more than twenty. “Which one are you?” I asked him.

“William IV, my lady,” he answered immediately. This was one of Father’s little whimsies. Unable to remember the names of the dozens of young men who had served as footmen at the Abbey, he had taken to calling them all William, using numerals to distinguish between them. I gave him a reassuring smile.

“I am sure you will do quite fine, William. Just mind the door, and do not let anyone in or out without his lordship’s permission. Have you a weapon?”

“A—a weapon, my lady?” he stuttered.

“It might be useful, should matters get out of hand,” I mused. “Still, you are a sturdy lad. I’m sure you can handle any trouble that arises with your fists.”

I smiled again, but he merely nodded and murmured, “Yes, my lady,” his expression worried.

I hurried to the domestic offices, not entirely certain where I would find my father and Brisbane. I finally ran them to ground in the game larder. It was a suitably grisly place, any number of dead feathered and furred things hanging from steel hooks in the ceiling. There were a few other lumps of meat, things I could not immediately distinguish, and my thoughts went at once to my Aunt Lavinia who had adopted a ferociously vegetarian diet. The notion seemed oddly attractive to me now.

The worktable had been cleared of all foodstuffs, all the little pots of paté and forcemeats, and Lucian Snow had been arranged atop it. He was decently draped in a sheet, and at his head the iron candelabrum lay as a sort of macabre decoration. I glanced from my father to Brisbane.

“Well, it did seem the best place after all,” Brisbane began defensively. “There is a proper table and it is very cold.”

I shuddered, and Father gave a brisk nod. “He will do well enough in here for tonight. There is not enough light to do any sort of proper examination. Perhaps in the morning…”

I stared at him, not quite comprehending his meaning. “But Father, you must summon the authorities. We cannot deal with this as a private matter. A man has been murdered in our home.”

“Do you think I am not aware of that?” he demanded. His lips thinned, and his eyes were hard with anger and grief. “Child, I am the authority in this part of Sussex, or had you forgotten?”

“Of course not, I simply meant—”

“I know well enough what you meant. You think I ought to summon the coroner, that there should be an inquest, neat and tidy, and with what result? My own niece sent to be hanged?”

“Surely they will not hang her.”

His anger ebbed then, leaving him spent. He rubbed a hand over his face. “That is the difficulty. They will not hang her. They dare not because she is of my blood. And yet, how can I ever look any man in the eye after that and pronounce justice if I will not seek it for my own?”

Brisbane remained silent, his good arm folded over the sling at his chest.

“What do you mean to do then?” I asked softly.

“I must send to London tomorrow. The Metropolitan Police may be depended upon to be discreet and to be impartial.”

I did not like to point out to him that no one was likely to be impartial when an earl was involved in a murder investigation.

Instead I nodded. “Very well. And what of this examination?”

Brisbane spoke up. “Much may be learned from studying the corpse, but it must be done quickly. In the morning we can go into Blessingstoke and telegraph Scotland Yard, though it is anyone’s guess how long it will take them to dispatch an investigator. In here, he will be quite cool and fresh whenever their man arrives. I mean to examine the victim first and make very certain they miss nothing.”

Already he was thinking of Snow as the corpse, the victim. It was astonishing to me how quickly Brisbane could slip into the role of investigator, but even as I looked at him I could see his eyes were bright, his jaw set, his very mien one of intense excitement.

I sighed. Between the pair of them they had decided on a course of action I could not entirely approve. The villagers were accustomed to thinking of Father as little less than a demigod. Yet I could not help but wonder how they would like having their minor county officials passed over entirely in favour of London investigators. They would very likely be affronted, and to add insult to injury, I was not completely certain what Father was proposing was legal. But the point was not worth arguing. The combination of Father’s very deep pockets and very blue blood was a potent one.

“There are no windows. There will not be ample light,” I pointed out, hoping to dissuade them on the grounds of practicality. Father waved a dismissive hand.

“With a few mirrors and enough lamps, I believe we can illuminate the room sufficiently.”

“Not to mention all of the helpful kitchen maids and scullery maids and pot boys. Really, Father, there is no hope that this will go unnoticed.”

“I am aware of that, Julia,” Father said with some asperity. “I am also aware I must bear the responsibility of the reckoning of this crime. Every decision I make will be scrutinised and found to be lacking. That is why I must have your help, both of you.”

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his thick white hair. “Brisbane, you will have to gather the evidence and prepare the reports. With Julia’s help.”

I felt a hot rush of triumph. Brisbane did not even look my direction. “I am prepared to do what I can for you, my lord, but surely there is no need to involve Lady Julia.”

“There is,” my father put in wearily. “She knows the family and the Abbey. She can give you information, and she will be invaluable in dealing with the ladies of the party. I know the wretched girl has confessed, but I wish every provision for her innocence to be explored.” He shook his head. “I can only think that her mind must have been quite deranged for her to have done this terrible thing.”

“Very well,” Brisbane said, grudgingly. “Lady Julia and I will work together.”

“Good,” Father replied. “Now, we will seal this room, and address the rest of them.”

“What will you say to them?” I asked as we filed slowly out of the game larder.

Father shrugged, his upright posture failing him only a little. “I cannot imagine. But I shall think of something.”

The game’s afoot!

As I made my way from the game larder to the lesser drawing room, I realised the lights, doused for the game of sardines, had been lit. Every sconce, lamp, and candelabrum blazed, banishing the shadows. It was little consolation. The very air of the place felt different to me now that murder had been done here, and I wondered if I would ever feel quite as I once had about my home.

Just as I approached the drawing room, the door was flung open and Alessandro bolted out, his face twisted with emotion.

“Ah, Julia!” he cried. He rushed to me, but before he could engage in any impropriety, I raised a hand. He stopped in his tracks, scant inches from me. He took my hand in his.

“Alessandro. I see that you have heard about Mr. Snow. It is a terrible thing.”

He shook his head. “Julia, I do not understand this. I knew nothing until Lysander came and found me. I was on the other side of the Abbey, in the room with all of the plants. I cannot think of the word.”

His brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps in frustration.

“The conservatory?” I hazarded.

“Si, conservatory. I was there, and Lysander came to look for me. He said that Signore Snow has been murdered in the chapel, and that Miss Lucy, she has confessed to this horrible thing.”

I could feel the confusion emanating from him. I had left Father and Brisbane to finish their preparations in the game larder, and I knew I had but a moment until they appeared. For either of them to find me in a tête-à-tête with Alessandro was not a complication I relished.

I adopted my most soothing tone. “Yes, it is frightful. And what Lysander told you is correct. But my father has matters under control, and we must soldier on.”

He started, his skin going quite pale under its usual olive cast. “Soldiers? There will be soldiers here?”

“No, my dear. It is simply an expression we English use. It means we must do our duty and not give way to emotion.”

Alessandro blinked at me, and I realised then how impossible it would be to explain the concept of a stiff upper lip to an Italian.

I turned him and prodded him toward the door. “Come now. Father wishes us all gathered in the drawing room, and he will be along any minute.”

He cast a doubtful look at me over his shoulder, but he went without a murmur. If only every man in my life were so biddable, I thought ruefully. He paused at the door to permit me to enter first, and I made at once for the chair nearest Portia.

In the drawing room, the assembled company was solemn. Brandy and tea had been supplied, but no one seemed very inclined to partake. Cups and glasses were clutched in pale, nerveless fingers, and Charlotte for one, trembled so badly I thought her cup would shatter in its saucer. Plum stood by the window, glowering at the blackness beyond. Violante was grasping Ly’s hand so tightly their fingers had gone white.

“Where is Aunt Dorcas? And Hortense?” I whispered to Portia.

“Bed,” she murmured. “The old fright was tired, so Hortense saw her up to bed. Then she told Aquinas she was retiring herself. Something about a headache. They would not have heard the screaming, and I thought it best to let them be.”

I nodded. “Time enough for them to hear of it tomorrow.”

By way of reply, she took a deep swallow of whiskey, closing her eyes for a long moment. I could just see the fine lines at their corners, newly incised from fatigue. I felt a rush of affection for her then, and covered her hand with my own. She grasped it, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.

Portia looked up in relief a moment later when Father entered, but it was Emma who rose, deadly pale but composed.

“My lord uncle!” she cried, her lips trembling. She bowed her head and raised a handkerchief to her mouth.

Father patted her back, a trifle awkwardly. “There, there, my girl.”

“What happened?” she asked him, simply, as a child might have done.

Father shook his head. “I do not know, save that Mr. Snow is murdered, by her hand, Lucy claims. She refuses to leave the chapel, and I have respected her wishes.”