Silent in the Sanctuary (26 page)

“Of course, she would dress better. That gown,” she said, clucking her tongue. “So severe, so masculine in the cut.”

I wrinkled my nose at her. “I happen to like this gown. I bought it in Milan. It is very smart.”

Hortense gave me the gently raised eyebrows that indicated disagreement, then squeezed my hand. “You used to call me Fleur, like my closest friends. You must do so again or I shall think you are cross with me.”

I rose and dropped a kiss on the top of her beautifully coiffed head. “I could never be cross with you. Now I must fly. I have nearly missed breakfast altogether.”

I moved to the door, but before my fingers touched the knob, she spoke. “He does not love her, you know. He never did.”

I went quite still, my back turned to her. “It is his own affair, Fleur. I am no part of it.”

“Still, I thought you should know. He has said nothing to me, of course, but I have known him since he was a boy. He has not changed so much that I cannot read him.”

A flash of memory from the previous night, his lips, his hands, his breath coming hard and ragged after he kissed me. Then I thought of Charlotte and the burden of guilt he still carried from our first investigation.

Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought of him away and reached for the knob.

“As I said, it is no affair of mine.”

She made no reply. I did not blame her. It was a foolish lie. It did not deserve a response.

*

As soon as I left Hortense’s room, I met Portia just coming from her room. Outwardly unruffled, her eyes were snapping and the tiny jet drops at her ears trembled violently.

“Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?”

We fell into step as we descended the stairs.

“What isn’t? Aquinas has informed me that none of the staff from the village will be able to make it in today, so we are lacking two footmen, four maids, and a boot boy. Dear brother Benedick trudged from the Home Farm to shout the news that the telegraph line at Blessingstoke has collapsed under the snow, so I cannot send to London for anything we should require. And, no great surprise, Cook is threatening to quit because there is a dead man in the game larder. As an interesting side note, Violante has packed her bags and is demanding to be taken to the station at once and put on the first ship back to Italy.”

“Pressing problems indeed,” I agreed.

“And one of the cats has given birth, quite nastily, in the linen cupboard.”

“How sweet! Which one?”

She gave me an arch look. “Christopher Sly. Which is all rather odd, as Father was quite certain he was a tom.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose the most immediate concern is Violante. Is she still upset?”

Portia shrugged. “How the devil should I know? I coaxed her back to her room and sent for Lysander to manage her, but she kept babbling on about dead men in the game larder and how such things aren’t done in Italy.”

I tipped my head, musing. “I wonder where they house their murder victims then? In the scullery? Or perhaps the laundry? No, altogether too hot there, I should think.”

“There is no cause for flippancy, Julia. I have a headache that has begun at my knees and gone right over the top of my head and back down again. I do not look for improvements as the day goes on.”

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I patted her arm. “I shouldn’t worry about the staff. They will be snug enough in the village, and heaven knows we’ve plenty of hands to keep this place running without them. And don’t mind too much about Violante. I have no doubt it’s her pregnancy making her hysterical.”

Portia sighed heavily. “I suspected she was breeding. I have never seen anyone eat so many pickled chestnuts. Her fingers were quite shrivelled from them. I suppose I had best go speak to Cook and make certain we’ve plenty more of them.”

“While you’re about it, assure her the body will be removed as soon as possible. And tell Aquinas to make certain the staff are given black armbands to wear as a token of respect for Mr. Snow.”

Portia put her hands on her hips, giving a perfect impression of one of the maids in a pet. “Any more instructions, missus?”

“Do make certain the linen cupboard door is kept shut. I shouldn’t like Florence to get a taste for kittens.”

She put out her tongue at me and moved to turn away.

“One last thing, dearest. Do you know where Aunt Hermia keeps that funny little jade monkey Uncle Leonato brought her from China?”

Portia threw up her hands in exasperation. “Really, Julia, of all the impossibly stupid things to wonder about.” She paused and thought, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Oh, very well. The last time I saw it, she kept it on her night table.”

“And the amber beads from Russia?”

“In a box next to the monkey.” She started to tap her toe on the carpet.

“And the coral bracelet from the Java Sea?” I pressed.

“In her knickers.”

I gave her a sour look. “You might be a little more helpful, Portia.”

“Well, honestly. She isn’t even here. Why you would ask about her little trinkets is beyond me. If you are so keen on them, have a look for yourself. You know she would not mind. Now, I really must go and find something for my head.”

“Ask Brisbane,” I called after her sweetly. “He has a new cure I think would suit you perfectly.”

*

In the end, I had no time and little stomach for breakfast. I had thought to make a dash into the dining room for a bit of toast, but the notion of Lucian Snow, lying cold and possibly bloated in the game larder put me firmly off the idea.

The game larder itself had been fashioned into a crude sort of laboratory. A stone counter ran the length of the room. On it, propped against the walls, was a quantity of mirrors, from tiny things fit for a lady’s reticule to enormous looking-glasses taken from the dressing rooms. In front of these were as many lamps as the counter could hold. The effect was dazzling, so bright I blinked as I entered the room.

Brisbane was already there, dressed in shirtsleeves and making an adjustment to one of the lamps. He grunted when I came in but did not look up. I turned my gaze firmly away from the sheet-draped figure on the table. I noticed a small table had been brought in and laid with a clean white cloth. Brisbane’s leather case was there, and a book with a mouldy green cover. A few instruments such as tweezers and scissors had been arranged neatly on the cloth. I did not look further to see what else might lurk there.

“There are aprons on the hook behind the door,” Brisbane said finally. “Put yours on and bring the other for me.”

I put out my tongue behind his back and went to the door. The aprons were not the dainty pinafores the maids wore, but the thick white canvas affairs the footmen donned for the most menial chores. It was not until I was halfway back, aprons in hand, that I realised what he had said.

“Brisbane, surely I do not need an apron. I mean, I won’t be—”

He turned, raising a brow coolly at me. “Of course you will. I have one good hand and his lordship is not at liberty to assist.”

He put out his hand for the apron.

“What do you mean Father is not here? What else could he have to do?”

Brisbane’s nostrils flared in impatience. “He was speaking with Miss Lucy and Miss Emma. I rose early this morning and told him about the drugged brandy. But now I believe he is searching for Lady Dorcas. The upstairs maid says she has disappeared.”

I stared at him, clutching the aprons in nerveless fingers.

“Disappeared? Are you quite serious?”

“As the grave. My apron?” He put out his hand again and I thrust it at him, my mind whirling.

“Where could she have gone? The gates are frozen shut and the moat is covered in ice. She cannot have gone far.”

“Then she is probably quite safe.”

Brisbane whipped a quick knot into the strings at the neck of the apron, then looped it over his head, mussing a lock of hair onto his brow. He reached his good arm behind his back, then gestured for me to help him. I crossed behind him, reaching around him for the strings. For such a large man, his waist was narrow, and I crossed the strings, moving in front of him to tie them securely. He said nothing, but I glanced up to see the hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.

“Brisbane, how can you be so calm? She is an elderly lady, and that was a killing storm. She might be frozen in a snowdrift for all we know.”

Brisbane moved to the little table and opened the book. “Put on your apron. This might prove a little unpleasant and that is a very nice gown.”

I obeyed him, my fingers stiff with cold and dread. When the apron was secure, I went to his side, peering over his shoulder at the book. I was instantly sorry.

“I haven’t given up on the subject of Aunt Dorcas,” I warned him. “But this is a more immediate problem,” I said, waving a hand from the hideous plates in the book to the motionless figure on the table. “I do not think I can do this.”

Brisbane looked at me severely. “Did you not insist to me just last evening that you would have your part in this investigation?”

I clamped my lips together against the faint smell emanating from the body. I nodded.

“Very well. This is part of an investigation. That body may hold information for us, and if it does, I mean to find it.”

I swallowed hard, terribly grateful I had eschewed breakfast. “But you cannot possibly, that is to say, those pictures are quite specific and very, erm, thorough. I really think only a trained physician should make such an extensive examination. And don’t you think the authorities will notice if you cut him like that?”

Brisbane looked back at the book. After a moment he nodded, reluctantly, I fancied. “They might at that. Very well. I shall not perform a proper post-mortem. But I will do everything else. Now, you must be my hands.”

For the next hour I did as I was told. I started by unpinning my sleeves. When I rolled the first above my elbow, Brisbane’s eyes lingered for the briefest moment on the soft white skin at my wrist. I glanced up when I turned back the second, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the book in his hand, and from that moment on his manner toward me was coolly proper.

“Begin by drawing back the sheet,” he instructed quietly. “Fold it down all the way, and mind you don’t disarrange anything further.”

I reached a hand to touch the sheet, then drew it back sharply. “I know it is just a fancy, but I thought it moved.”

Brisbane looked up from the book. “If this is too much for you, I can ask Aquinas.”

I shook my head, forcing myself to take in one slow breath, then release it calmly. “No. If you can do this, so can I.”

I would have expected a tiny spark of admiration in his gaze for that little speech, but his nose was buried in his book again, and I rolled my eyes. This time, I approached the sheet and removed it, as crisply as any housemaid about her chores.

Following his explicit instructions, I loosened Mr. Snow’s clothing, removing his evening jacket, waistcoat and neckcloth. I felt them carefully, but the pockets were empty. I laid them aside and steeled myself for what must come.

“Wait,” Brisbane said, bending swiftly over the body.

“What is it?” I demanded, elbowing Brisbane a little. His expression was grim. “There.”

He pointed to Lucian Snow’s neck. Bruises blossomed around the throat, heavy blackish-purple things, livid against the pale skin. It was clear, even to my amateur’s eyes, that they were finger marks, borne in with great pressure.

“What fools we have been,” Brisbane muttered.

I stared at the bruises, my mind working furiously. “Lucy could not have done that.”

Brisbane rose, stroking his jaw. It was darkly shadowed, as if he had shaved quickly and without particular care that morning. It was oddly attractive.

“No, she could not. And those bruises would not have shown half so violently if he had been strangled after death.” Brisbane took his good right hand and fitted it to the bruises, his own handspan matching the marks nearly perfectly. I could almost see the crime in my mind’s eye, the murderer, facing Lucian Snow, bearing down upon him, crushing the life out of him as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Abruptly, Brisbane moved to Lucian’s head. Before I could look away, he had turned the head and was probing the wound gently. I swallowed hard, refusing the heaving insistence of my stomach. After a moment, Brisbane drew back his hand and shook his head.

“There is a bit of a depression here where the bone was broken, and a fair amount of blood matted in his hair.”

“He was struck down before he was strangled?” I asked.

Brisbane nodded. “A fair hypothesis, I think. Had he been struck after death, there would have been very little blood.”

“To what purpose?” I asked.

“To incapacitate him,” he replied. “A blow there would have rendered Snow unconscious, an easy victim for his killer. And that would explain why there is only one handprint,” Brisbane added. “The murderer did not require both hands to subdue him.”

I looked at Brisbane’s left arm, firmly strapped to his chest and blinked. He marked the glance.

“Yes, my lady, I am the obvious suspect,” he said, a trifle acidly. “Is my word good enough, or would you care for an alibi? I seem to remember I was with you when Snow was murdered.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. I ducked my head to hide my blushes.

“The question is, if the girl could not have killed him by strangulation, and the blow struck with the candelabrum was landed before he died, what did she see?”

I began to pace the room, putting a little distance between myself and the gruesome relic on the table.

“Either Lucy was an accomplice, perhaps striking the blow with the candelabrum herself, remaining behind when her partner fled…” I began.

That mesmerizing pair of eyes fixed on me intently. “Or she did not touch him, but is taking the blame upon herself for another’s crime,” I finished.

I could not imagine Lucy creeping up on a man and striking him viciously with a candelabrum. Of course, until the previous night, I would have thought her incapable of any violence at all. I was rapidly revising my opinion of her. My first investigation had taught me the unlikeliest of suspects may be the most culpable.