The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (12 page)

If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.

—William Shakespeare
Hamlet

 

F
ather had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Valerius came home. I heard him call a brief greeting to Aquinas in the hall, then hurry past the open door of my study and up the stairs.

I called to him, but he did not reply. I followed him up the stairs, catching him up at the door to his room.

“Valerius! Whatever is the matter? I want to speak to you. Father was here this evening—Val? What is it?”

He was hunched over, facing the door, his coat folded over his arm. He was not wearing his waistcoat.

“Are you ill?” I put a hand to his shoulder to turn him, but he threw me off.

“I am well, please.” He edged away, but I followed.

“Julia, leave me.”

“Valerius, stop being tiresome. Turn around and face me this instant.” He went very still, probably weighing the odds that I would go away and leave him in peace. He must have realized how slim they were, for when I reached out for him again he turned. His face was ghastly, pale and lined with fatigue, but it was his shirt that made me gasp. The pure white
linen of his shirtfront was dark crimson, crusted with dried blood. I put out my hand.

“Val—you’re hurt! My God, what happened to you?”

He brushed my hand away. “I am well. The blood—it isn’t mine.”

“Whose, then?” I put myself between him and the door and he sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell me the entire story.

“There was a fight outside the theatre. It was quite vicious. A man, set upon by ruffians. They got out his tooth and cut him rather badly about the head.”

I raised a finger toward the wide crimson stain.

“Careful,” he said, edging away. “There are still some spots that are wet.”

I shook my head in astonishment.

“But so much blood, you must have been quite close to him.”

He nodded, his face rather grey at the memory of what he had seen. “I sat with him and tried to stop the bleeding while his brother went for their carriage.”

“How ghastly for you! What were they about, these ruffians? Did they mean to rob him?”

Val passed a hand over his face. “I do not know. Some private quarrel, I think. But I am out of it now. I want only to change my clothes and get into bed.”

I gestured toward his fouled shirt. “Give me the shirt. It must be put to soak or it will be spoilt.”

He hesitated, then nodded and slipped into his room. I heard the raven
quorking
at him irritably. After several minutes, he opened the door just enough to thrust the soiled shirt into my hands.

“Thank you,” he said shortly. He shut the door before I could question him further. I shrugged. I had no doubt the fight would be detailed in the morning papers. And very likely an enterprising reporter had obtained more details than Valerius had.

Holding the crusted shirt at arm’s length, I made my way down the stairs, through the hall belowstairs, past the kitchens and into the laundry. Aquinas was finishing his rounds of the windows and doors, his locking-up ritual for the night. He always carried a lamp with him and extinguished the last of the house lights as he went. The front of the house was in darkness and I could hear him securing the bolts on the garden doors.

I moved quietly, feeling unaccountably timid about explaining Val’s gory shirt. If Aquinas saw it he would insist upon soaking it himself and he would doubtless find some fault with Magda’s methods of keeping the laundry, his own standards being far more exacting than hers. The absence of a housekeeper at Grey House, though unorthodox, was perfectly adequate in most circumstances. With Magda, it sometimes proved a liability. For the most part she kept to herself, and on the rare occasions when discipline was required, Aquinas was man enough for the task. But Magda seldom went along easily with his corrections, preferring to rage or sulk, depending upon which approach seemed likeliest to garner my support. The two of them were entirely capable of waging a war of attrition that would last for days. Rather than facing a staff row, it seemed far simpler to deal with Val’s nasty shirt myself.

Although, I should have brought a lamp or at least a candle, I realized as I barked my shin on the pressing table in the laundry. By all rights I should have summoned Magda to take the shirt herself, but I was far too tired to even contemplate tackling Magda. There was still the question of her appalling behavior toward Brisbane to address, and I was unwilling to speak to her tonight. It was late now, and I was more than ready for my own bed. All I wanted was to dispose of Val’s unspeakable garment and put the whole evening’s bizarre events behind me.

With any luck, the stains would have soaked out by
morning and there would be little trace of Val’s adventure at the theatre. Magda always kept a bucket of cold water at hand for the soaking, and I knew she liked it to be stood below the front windows, those that overlooked the area. It gave her good light, even on overcast days, and a chance to see passersby—if only from the ankle down.

I had just reached the bucket and lifted the lid when I heard voices. I started, thinking I was not alone in the laundry. But as they went on, I realized they were coming from the area above me. The pair had taken refuge behind the potted trees to the side of the front door and were speaking in low, harsh voices. I recognized them at once.

“I will give you one last chance to let go of my sleeve before I break your fingers.” To my astonishment, I realized that this was Brisbane. His voice was iron, cold as I had never heard it, and I had little doubt that he meant his threat, though I could not imagine what he was doing there, of all places. He had left Grey House an hour before.

Magda’s laugh echoed mirthlessly.

“Oh, I think not. You will not hurt me. There are still some of us who remember Mariah Young.”

These last words were a hiss, and they must have struck Brisbane like a lash, for I heard a scrape, like a quick footstep, and her sharp intake of breath. There was a little moan of pain.

“Do not interfere with me,” he told her. “I will ruin you if you dare.”

“Others have tried,” she spat back. “But you remember that I know who Mariah Young was—
and I know how she died
.”

He must have released her then, for there was a sharp clang against the railing and the sound of booted footsteps moving quickly away in the dark. And following him into the night was Magda’s laugh, low and throaty, like the rasping call of a raven.

Oh, we are lords’ and ladies’ sons,
Born in bower or in hall,
And you are some poor maid’s child
Borned in an ox’s stall.

—
Traditional Ballad

 

T
o my surprise, I slept rather well that night. The alcohol I had consumed, coupled with the evening’s strange events, proved entirely too much for me. I crept up the backstairs in order to avoid Aquinas, said little to Morag as she got me ready for bed, and was asleep almost as soon as she closed the door behind her.

But I woke early to the muffin-man’s bell, and lay awake, listening to the streets come to life and thinking hard about the previous night. Brisbane’s initial call had been unexpected, but not unorthodox. Whatever malady he suffered, it had been considerate of him to make the effort to warn me that he would be incommunicado for some days.

Father’s call was somewhat more puzzling. I could well believe him capable of encouraging me in as bizarre an undertaking as a murder investigation. What I could not believe was that he actually seemed to be regretting the fact that I had not taken Brisbane as a lover. That Father had never entirely approved of my marriage was no secret. Just before he walked me down the aisle, he had paused in the vestry and offered to take me away—France, Greece, anywhere I wanted if I had changed my mind. I had laughed, thinking
him in jest, but after Edward and I had been married for some time, I began to notice things I had not seen before. Father, always a woolgatherer, became sharply observant whenever Edward was in the room. I watched him watch my husband, and wondered what he was thinking. I never had the courage to ask and he never said, but I suspected I knew already. Edward was the sort of man Father universally despised—wealthy, self-satisfied and utterly incapable of thinking or feeling deeply. Father’s sensibilities were so refined, he had been known to lock himself in his study and weep over
Titus Andronicus
for hours. Edward had not even wept when his mother died. Father might deplore Bellmont’s stance as a Tory, but he applauded his convictions. Edward had had none.

Whenever the subjects of politics or religion or philosophy arose, generating a heated debate at the March dinner table, Edward would sit with a tolerant half smile firmly on his mouth and say nothing. No matter how fiercely Father baited him, he never rose to it, never offered an opinion on anything more serious than the cut of an evening suit or the vintage of a wine. He let the property at Greymoor decline—the most venal of sins to my own land-mad family. Marches had been taking the notion of stewardship seriously for centuries. We could no more leave a field unploughed or a hedgerow untended than we could keep from breathing. I remembered one conversation in particular. There had been a spirited disagreement regarding enclosure and my brother Benedick had appealed to Edward for his opinion. This was early days yet, when they had not realized that he was never going to take an interest in such things. They had all looked to Edward, eager for his view. He had simply smiled his sweet, sleepy smile and lifted his glass.

“Brother Benedick,” he had said, “I cannot think of such things when there is wine such as this to drink. You must tell
me the name of your agent,” he concluded, turning to my father.

This was a blind, of course. Edward might like to discuss vintages, but he never bothered to keep them straight. His own cellar was a disgrace, not because he lacked the intellect to stock it properly, but because he lacked the initiative. Quite simply, he was the most indolent person I have ever known.

And just then, Benedick must have realized it, too, for I heard him as Father began to discuss the wine, mutter under his breath, “Bloody useless.” I raised my eyes just in time to see the tiny smile flicker over Olivia’s lips and the way Bellmont was carefully studying his plate. They all thought so. But Olivia’s smile was not malicious, and Benedick, for his disapproval, did not actually dislike Edward. They deplored his lack of energy, his casual ways and his refusal to properly manage his land, but they all liked him in spite of themselves. He had a way of endearing himself to people, a manner of charming them with clever conversation and self-deprecating humour that made them in turn feel quite witty. Everyone always felt brighter and sharper and more brilliant when Edward was one of our number.

“He is a diamond-polisher,” Portia once told me, and she was correct. He had a gift of being able to take one’s feeble little quips and shine them up into real cleverness. He never read books, and rarely newspapers, except to see if his name was mentioned. But he always seemed to know what was being said, and about whom, who was doing what, and to whom. I suspected it was this ability to keep his finger firmly on society’s pulse that multiplied the respectable fortune he had inherited into a tiny empire by the time of his death. He listened closely when others talked, and people always talked freely around him. He always cocked his head toward the person to whom he was speaking, enveloping them both in a warm intimacy. He knew just what questions to ask, and did
so without anyone ever feeling that he had been intrusive or prying. He always prised just the precise nugget of information he needed, then passed it along to his man of affairs with instructions on how to act upon it.

I knew none of this until after his death, of course. It came out during a long session with the solicitor, Mr. Teasdale. We were making an exhaustive tour of Edward’s investments, and I was expressing my astonishment that his affairs had been so sophisticated, so diversified and far-thinking. Mr. Teasdale finally explained to me about Edward’s business practices, shamefacedly, as if it was something slightly tawdry. But ingenious, just the same, and behind Mr. Teasdale’s demure expression lay more than a little admiration for Edward’s abilities. I did not bother to explain to Mr. Teasdale that he might have saved his adulation. Edward had only engaged in his pony tricks for his own amusement. If making money had required anything more demanding than gossiping with friends and penning occasional letters to his agent, he would never have bothered.

It was rather like his pretensions to collecting art. Edward loved landscapes and would often come upon one that he loved at a friend’s home. A discreet inquiry would be made and, if his friend was amenable, a quiet sale would be arranged. But Edward would never have troubled to actually visit a gallery, or worse yet, commission an artist for himself. Even his tailor knew better than to require more than two fittings for any garment as Edward simply could not be bothered. He liked things that came easily to him—his inheritance, money, me.

It was highly interesting to me to see that what I always thought of as Edward’s little game—spending time quietly drawing people out of themselves—had in fact been an extremely lucrative business practice. I thought of all the people who had said to me over the years that Edward was such a wonderful listener, so very compassionate and feeling. They
always envied me, although they needn’t have bothered. I was the one person Edward rarely listened to, simply because we were so seldom together.

But everyone else felt the warmth of his sunny attentions, never realizing that there was something slightly chilly and shadowy behind them. I found myself staring at my bedroom ceiling—pale bluish-grey, Edward’s choice—and wondering if anyone had guessed that his interest in them had been more calculating than convivial. Had someone been hurt by this? Betrayed, even? Could such a thing drive a person to murder? Possibly, under the right circumstances.

But what were the right circumstances? And what sort of person?

I toyed with that question while I listened to the cabs beginning to rattle down Curzon Street. Traffic was becoming appalling in London and I was longing for the country. I usually decamped by May, but not this year, I feared. Last year, just after Edward’s death, I had taken Simon to Bellmont Abbey. The journey was slow, in deference to his failing health, but he had loved it. He felt well enough to have his Bath chair out in the garden where we spent long hours, reading and working on word puzzles together. I painted sometimes, very badly, and we talked or remained silent as the mood took us. His cheeks were brown by the time we came back to London in September, but the city air was a vicious change. He took to his bed again immediately, his cough bad, his colour worse. That summer had been his last rally. Since then his strength had continued to ebb and I knew that if I tried to take him back to Sussex again he would not survive the journey. Even if Brisbane and I concluded our investigation, I would not leave Simon.

But I would regret the summer in the country, I knew. I would miss the fresh, jeweled berries and the sprightly games of croquet, the long sunny afternoons on the lawn stretching
from luncheon to tea, the turns on the lake in the ancient rowboat Father kept, the thin muslin gowns that seemed almost indecent after the thick winter garments we had worn in town. Well, I could at least walk in the Park and instruct Cook to purchase berries, I supposed. There was no substitute for the long walks over the Downs, but I made a mental note to order some lighter things from the dressmakers and returned to my ruminations.

Father—and his curious visit. Now that I thought on it, it did not much surprise me that he suggested I take a lover, however discreet he had been. I must have been a sad disappointment to him with my quiet, conventional ways. I had sometimes caught him looking at me with a pensive, almost wistful air, as if he were waiting hopefully for me to do something dashing and romantic and decidedly Marchian. With a legacy of seven centuries of elopements, abandonments, disinheritings, and the occasional execution to spice things up, nothing I did would shock him greatly. And perhaps he and Portia were correct. Perhaps the attention of a man who appreciated me would prove a balm.…

One of the maids—Sally, I think it was—came in then with morning tea, and I put aside Father’s visit to ponder the more serious events that had followed.

Val’s appearance, gore-stained and unprepossessing, had not been a happy development. I had thought he had settled down rather nicely into life at Grey House. Granted, we saw almost nothing of each other, but that suited us both quite well and he had seemed more contented in my house than in Father’s.

But he had become almost mysterious of late in his comings and goings. The existence of Her Majesty’s raven in my Blue Room was solid proof of that. I should have handed him over to Father before Val returned from the opera, I realized ruefully. Father would have been furious with him initially; I always suspected he harbored some tender feelings for the
queen, their having played together as children being one of his fondest memories. But his irritation would have subsided—eventually. He would have seen to it that the thing was taken back to the Tower and restored to its proper place.

And he would have taken up Val’s part with the queen, I had no doubt of that. He might rail against the little idiot in private, but no one, not even the queen, would be permitted to speak against one of his own. He might even think of it as one of those high-spirited little japes he was always wishing on us. And surely Val would forgive me for breaking his confidence if everything turned out for the best.

Unfortunately, I had not had the presence of mind to think of it the night before. I had been too preoccupied with Father and Brisbane. And Magda. I sipped at my cooling tea, thinking again of the words she had hissed at him in the darkness.

I know who Mariah Young was…and I know how she died.

Ominous words, chilling even. I had no idea who Mariah Young was, but I did not much think I would like to find out. Was Magda trying to imply that Brisbane knew something about the death of this woman? Or worse, had had something to do with it himself?

I put down my tea and pulled the coverlet to my chin. Had I entrusted myself, foolishly, to a person capable of the very crime we were trying to investigate? Was he capable of violence? Or had Mariah Young died as the result of some tragic accident, perhaps at Brisbane’s hands? What did I really know of Brisbane? And, more to the point, what did Magda know?

I was still puzzling over these questions when Morag bustled in with the news that my bath was ready. I bathed and dressed that morning in a state of distraction, still mulling questions for which I had no answers.

And because I was thinking of Brisbane when I took my seat at the breakfast table, it seemed like some sort of sorcery to find a letter from him waiting on the salver next to my plate.

I put out a finger to poke the envelope, not entirely certain it was real. It was, although the handwriting was thinner, less confident than I had seen it. Whatever ailed him, he was clearly in a decline. I opened it, scanning it quickly as Aquinas presented the toast.

My lady,

My friend finds himself unexpectedly available and places himself at our disposal this morning. He will be in Chapel Street at eleven o’clock. I hope that this does not inconvenience you.

 

Unlike the body of the note, the signature was firm and thick, as though Brisbane had borne down hard with the pen, making an impression in the paper. I ran my finger over it, tracing the loops of his handwriting. If Brisbane’s condition was worsening, I did not think I much wanted to call upon him. But only he knew the limits of his strength. I doubted he would have allowed his friend to visit if it was a very great hardship to him.

In a matter of minutes I had penned a quick response and dispatched Desmond to Chapel Street. I sat back, picking at my cold eggs and waving off Aquinas when he offered to fetch me hot ones.

For some reason I could not identify, my appetite had entirely fled.