The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (23 page)

The musical evening began, as they always did, with Father reciting a soliloquy. He always played them well—his resonant voice and firm delivery would have served him well on the stage. He loved amateur theatricals and gloried in the applause. He did Lear that evening, or perhaps not, I confess I did not pay him much attention. I was too busy wrestling with my own thoughts, not the least of which was the guilty realization that I had sent Magda away without telling Brisbane. Sooner or later I should have to confess my guilt, and I was not anticipating the event with any good feeling. Brisbane was technically employed by me in this investigation, but I had a strong suspicion that he would be quite severe with me when he discovered what I had done.

Thank the heavens for Jane. Her sad Irish air was as soothing as a lullaby and twice as sweet. I felt comforted when she had finished, though I saw Aunt Hermia dash away a tear.

“That was utterly moving, Jane, dear. Thank you,” she said, turning to face us as we sat, arrayed in our little gilt chairs.

“Your Grace, would you care to favor us?” she asked. There was a gentle snore from the duke’s chair. “Ah, perhaps not just now. Portia?”

Portia rose and went to the piano where Hoots was waiting quietly to accompany her. It was perhaps unusual to allow one’s butler to join in the family entertainments, but Hoots was a rather fine accompanist. He gave a little trill of introduction and Portia began, singing in her adequate soprano. Something Italian. I did not listen much to her, either. Of course, Portia’s talent did not lie in her singing. It must have been some aria to do with lost love or a broken foot or some other tragedy, because there was a great deal of posturing and dabbing at her eyes with her shawl. I think it must have ended with a suicide because she suddenly clasped her fisted hands to her bosom and drooped onto the piano. Crab let out a pitiful sound and crept as far as she could under Father’s
chair. Hoots pounded out a few more mournful notes and Portia rose, triumphantly taking a bow.

She took her seat next to me, fanning her reddened cheeks.

“You are far too fat to play a consumptive,” I whispered through a smile.

She smiled back. “Yes, but I am going to marry a duke, so I do not care what you have to say. When I am very rich, I shall hire you for my maid.”

I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane watching me coolly. I blushed and looked away, Portia snickering in my ear. Aunt Hermia rose again. “Mr. Brisbane?”

Brisbane rose and went to the centre of the room. There was an array of instruments for performers to choose from. An old harpsichord, a rather unhygienic-looking flute, and an oboe that no one remembered bringing into the house. Among this motley group was the violin—the one true and pure thing in the room. Brisbane looked at it a long moment before picking it up. He ran his hands over it, slowly, reverently. And then he held it to his nose, briefly, as if using its scent to gauge its wanderings. He stroked the inlay of the wood and handled the bow, trying out a few strings. He frowned, plucking at the strings and adjusting them slightly. I heard no difference, but he must have, for his frown eased and he positioned the violin under his chin.

He played softly at first, then with growing vigor. I recognized it at once. I had asked him to play Bach, rather as a joke. The greatest Bach devotees were usually keyboard aficionados and singers. I myself preferred him simply because unlike other composers he actually wrote interesting music for alto sopranos to sing. I had not expected Brisbane to rise to the challenge. And once again I had underestimated him.

He played a unique version of “Sleepers Awake,” a bold choice for a solo violin. It was a credit to his proficiency that I never missed the violas, basses or horns. I sat, amazed. He must
have played it before, that much was certain, and yet I had not seen a violin in his rooms.

The piece rose and fell in arching phrases, by turns sweet and soaring. I heard Jane’s breath catch and I glanced at Portia, unblinking beside me. The duke was still snoring gently, but it did not matter. The music was enchanting. It felt true and pure and I gaped at Brisbane. He was a genius. Why had I not realized it before? Surely talent like that must leave its mark on the face? In the eyes?

I was still gaping when he brought the piece to its high, triumphant close. I moved to clap, but before I could bring my hands together, Brisbane—whose attention had been fixed upon his instrument—threw a look at his uncle. The old gentleman, intent upon his snores, missed it entirely, but it made my blood run cold. There was a chill in that look, a malevolence that I would never have credited had I not seen it. It vanished quickly, replaced by his usual cool mask, but I wondered at the antipathy between them—at least, I wondered until Brisbane began to play.

From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard before. This was no church piece. It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice. It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin. For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument. I had never heard anything like it—it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of. It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite
heavily. The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been—and its presence was something out of myth. It was apart from Brisbane, this melody he created, spun from dreams and darkness.

I dragged my eyes from him and realized that I was not the only one so affected. Jane was sitting with her mouth agape, her handkerchief in shreds under her nails. Portia was squirming in her chair, and both of them were blushing and moist as June roses. I did not dare look at Aunt Hermia.

I told myself I was disgusted by them. A fine pair of Sapphic lovers they were, getting themselves pink and panting over a man and his violin. But in truth, I was the worst. My palms were damp, my face hotly red, and I found myself staring at those long, nimble fingers, thinking very unsuitable things. I told myself it was natural. I had been a widow for a year, had not known the affectionate touch of a man for much longer. It was expected that I would find an attraction to a handsome gentleman of my acquaintance.

But I was not interested in pragmatism. I was too busily engaged with fragrant fantasies stretched out on red velvet. I dug my nails into my palms, but my gloves prevented any real pain. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the metallic salty redness of my own blood.

If Brisbane sensed anything of his audience’s reaction, he did not betray it. He played on, or perhaps the music played him, for he performed as one possessed. The music arced and twisted, tightening and coiling upon itself, rising faster and faster, almost shrieking with pitched emotion, until—at the very height of its ecstasy—a string snapped with a mandrake scream. The violin itself seemed to sob at the echo of the sound, which had the report of a gunshot. Brisbane remained perfectly still, his bow poised until the echo died away. Then he turned coolly and laid the injured instrument down upon the piano.

“My apologies, my lady,” he murmured to Aunt Hermia. “I shall of course make arrangements for the repair.”

She replied, something suitable I am sure, as she patted herself discreetly with her handkerchief. Conversation was roused and people began to stir. I heard my father complimenting the performance, and Brisbane’s quiet reply. Father must have been sincere, for he introduced Brisbane to Crab, a singular honour. Portia shot me a speaking look, and Jane was moving toward Brisbane to add her accolades. I acknowledged none of it, taking a moment instead to regain my composure and waiting for my knees to stop trembling.

I rose after a moment and decided to fetch myself a glass of champagne. Brisbane waylaid me.

“Ah, Mr. Brisbane. You are a virtuoso. You should have warned me. You must think us frightfully unsophisticated in our little family entertainments.”

His look was impenetrable. I could not tell if he were pleased or embarrassed or merely bored. “Not at all. I play only rarely these days, and never for so appreciative an audience.”

He leaned near, ostensibly to reach past me to pick up a glass of champagne. But as his sleeve brushed my arm, he said softly, “I must see you tomorrow. Mordecai has news.”

My eyes flared with interest, then dropped demurely. “When?”

“Five o’clock. My rooms.”

He pressed the glass into my hands and I smiled my acceptance, giving him a single short nod. He moved away then, approaching Aunt Hermia. I watched him for a moment, thinking that this was a man whose depths I would never begin to plumb.

And for some reason, my gaze fell, quite by accident upon the duke. He, too, was watching Brisbane, but his expression was not one of admiration. He had awakened during his great-nephew’s performance, his features twisted with irritation at
having his nap disturbed. But now they betrayed more than mere annoyance. There was frustration there, and something worse—something that looked frighteningly like hatred. I would not forget that look for a very long time.

Much later, as I lay awake, late into the night, I heard the faint scrape of footsteps on the stair. There was a long pause and then the unmistakable slither of stocking feet on a polished floor. Valerius had stopped to remove his shoes before moving past my door to his room. I put my hand to my dressing gown. I meant to rise, to go to him and demand an explanation for bloodied shirts and despoiled graves.

But I thought again of what Magda had told me and what I had deduced for myself, and I lay back down, too cowardly to do what must be done. Soon, I promised myself. Soon I would go to him and lay out what I knew, and tell him what must be done. But not just yet. It would mean disgrace for Val and banishment from the family. And in spite of our troubles, I could not bear to lose him yet. He was still my youngest brother, still the tiny, squalling infant who had been left motherless so many years ago, in need of his family’s protection. So I would protect him, I decided, staring sightlessly into the dark. I would say nothing, and I would keep him as long as I could.

Our fears do make us traitors.

—William Shakespeare
Macbeth

 

I
did not sleep well that night. I remembered the hateful look that Brisbane had cast his great-uncle, and the vicious one he had received in turn later. I wondered, late into the darkness, why malevolence in the elderly should be so much more frightening than in the young. Is it because they were supposed to be wiser? Nobler? Or simply because we liked to believe they were past such passions? It was comforting to think that the sharper emotions could simply dull with time, taking the worst of our suffering with them.

But the duke did not seem dulled, I thought with a shiver. Between his salaciousness and his inexplicable malice toward Brisbane, he seemed as ripe as a youth of eighteen. Even if he did resemble the desiccated husk of an old fruit, I thought with a snicker. I had heard once that age stamps character on the face, that one’s passions were slowly etched over time, limning both experience and desire upon the features. If this were true, the duke’s face told a rather alarming tale, especially when compared to Father’s. Where the duke’s visage was a memoir of thwarted passion, Father’s was a love letter, creased and soft with much appreciation. There was good humour in Father’s eyes, while the duke’s bore the slightest sinister cast.
In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, I hoped to see more of the old gentleman—and not the least because he was Brisbane’s kinsman. If the affection between them was interesting, the antipathy was much more so.

Yet even the puzzling old Duke of Aberdour could not dampen my spirits the next morning. I rose as soon as Morag appeared with my tea tray, surprising her as well as myself. I hummed a little as she drew my bath and instructed her to lay out one of my new costumes—a striking striped ensemble of black-and-white silk, fixed with discreet, ruby-set buttons. There was a new hat as well, all black ribbon and red taffeta roses, with pure white ostrich plumes waving above. I was more than a little in love with that hat. But it was the new scarlet stockings that drove Morag to question me, her long rabbity nose quivering with curiosity.

“Are you feeling quite well, my lady?”

I smiled broadly at her. “Quite. Put out Madame de Bellefleur’s rose salve, will you? I shall dress after luncheon. I am going out this afternoon.”

She did so, eyeing me the way a nervous rider will a skittish horse. She was waiting for me to bite or bolt. I continued to smile at her as she brushed my hair. She stripped out the fallen hair from the brush and shoved it into the hair receiver.

“Not hardly worth bothering about with that crop of yours,” she muttered.

I ignored her and picked up a nail buffer. It was silver, one of a set. I inspected my nails, pink and healthy compared to Morag’s ridged grey ones. Without a thought, I handed her the second buffer.

“What is this?” she asked with a fair dollop of suspicion.

“A nail buffer. You haven’t one of your own, have you? I thought you might like it.”

I rose and went off to put on my loose morning gown. I
knew Morag was desperate to question me, but she was careful to slip the buffer into her pocket first.

“There are colds going round,” she said with a doubtful look at me. “Are you feverish?”

I sighed as I wrapped the sash into a loose bow. “No, I am happy, that is all.”

And the surprising thing was, I was speaking the truth. I could not imagine why it should be so—I was mired in an investigation that I did not particularly want to continue. I had a partner I did not fully trust. And it could well be that the appointment I was to keep that afternoon would bring everything crashing down on my head.

But at least my head would be prettily hatted, I thought that afternoon as I tipped the rose-strewn chapeau at a rakish angle. I put my hand out for my plain black silk parasol and twirled it. I felt confident that whatever the news Doctor Bent would bring, whatever the answers Brisbane and I unearthed, all would be well.

If I have not said so before, let me say now—I was sometimes very stupid. My exhilaration that afternoon only proves it. Why did I have no inkling of the danger? I had seen all the signs—I could have put the thing together even then had I known how to read them. But how does one learn to read shadows? I think of that morning as the last truly innocent time of my life. I wonder sometimes if I would have trod another path had I known what lay in wait down the one I had chosen. It is painful to lose one’s illusions. I like to think I would have chosen to learn, even through extreme danger and despair, whatever lessons life has to teach. But every now and then, I wonder what my life would have been had I broken that appointment with Brisbane, had I never gone back to Chapel Street, had I never learned the truth about Edward’s death. It would have been quieter and simpler and more peaceful, I know that much. And I like to believe I would have
scorned these placid virtues in favor of adventure, in favor of life itself. But even still, every now and then, I wonder…

I arrived on Brisbane’s doorstep at the same moment as Doctor Bent. He lifted his battered hat, smiling his charming, puppy-dog smile.

“Lady Julia. I hope you are well.”

“Very much so, Doctor. And you?”

He grimaced. “I am behindhand as usual. I sometimes despair of ever catching up with my work.”

I took him in from his unpolished shoes to the bit of jam that had dribbled down his shirtfront. Doubtless he had eaten on the fly and his clothes bore the unmistakable rumpled air of being slept in. He made an interesting contrast to Brisbane, I thought as the latter admitted us to his rooms.

There was no sign of Monk, for which I was mildly grateful. I had seen him just once since that unimaginable scene in Brisbane’s bedchamber, and the feeling between us had been strained. People often regret confidences given in a time of trouble, and I suspected that Monk might well resent me for receiving his.

Brisbane bade us be seated, offered us refreshment, and seemed pleased when it was rejected. I understood his satisfaction at this. He had on his bloodhound look and he was ready for the trail. Doctor Bent seemed aware of it, too, for he began without preamble.

“The powder was arsenic.”

I felt myself deflate, like a child’s pricked balloon. I had known it, of course. Magda had confirmed it herself. But I suppose somehow I had held out hope that Doctor Bent would find otherwise. Impossible, I knew, but still I had hoped.

Brisbane gave a little animal sound of satisfaction, something like a grunt. But Doctor Bent held up his hand.

“But it does not matter in any case. Sir Edward was not poisoned with arsenic.”

I could not speak. I felt a ferocious surge of joy. Magda had told the truth. She had not murdered Edward.

Brisbane had opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Doctor Bent was handily holding his own. “I am sorry, Nicholas, but it is a matter of scientific fact. I have compared your account of Sir Edward’s symptoms with her ladyship’s. They tally perfectly, yet they do not match any recorded case of arsenical poisoning that I can find. Sir Edward experienced symptoms that are inconsistent with arsenical poisoning, while the symptoms that are most indicative of arsenic were simply not present.”

Brisbane said nothing, but sat looking mightily displeased, the muscles of his jaw working furiously. Doctor Bent turned to me to explain.

“My lady, you described convulsions, vomiting. You say he had pains in his chest and that he was sweating freely.”

“So he was,” I agreed.

Doctor Bent plunged on. “You also told me that he complained of feeling cold, a sensation of iced water flowing in his veins, although the evening was warm.”

I nodded, confirming this as well.

“And you say he had difficulty in speaking, although he remained conscious.”

“As far as I know,” I reminded him. “My father sent me from the room shortly after Edward’s collapse.”

Brisbane stirred slightly. “He was conscious, giddy even. What does that signify?”

“It signifies that it was not arsenic,” Doctor Bent said, with only the faintest air of triumph. “Did he pass blood?”

Brisbane frowned. “Mordecai, I hardly think that Her Ladyship wishes to know—”

“But I must!” Doctor Bent countered fiercely. He tugged at his hair, leaving it standing electrically on end. Brisbane sighed.

“No.”

“And was there an odour of garlic?” the doctor demanded.

“No.”

“There would not have been,” I put in suddenly. “Edward could not abide garlic. He would never have eaten it.”

Doctor Bent’s face was shining evangelically. “The odour of garlic is not from the plant itself,” he explained. “It is from the arsenic. Do you not see, Nicholas? Victims of arsenical poisoning almost always sink into a coma before dying. There is—” he paused with an apologetic glance in my direction “—usually considerable bloody offal, smelling heavily of garlic.”

Brisbane fetched out one of his slender brown cigars and lit it, smoking energetically. “That is acute arsenical poisoning—a massive dose, administered all at once. What if he were poisoned slowly, over some months?”

“You are determined to see Magda hang,” I burst out.

“I am determined to find the truth,” Brisbane returned coldly. He fixed his attention on the doctor, who was looking uncomfortably from one of us to the other.

“When arsenic is administered in small doses, over a long period of time, it produces jaundice and episodes of gastric distress. From those symptoms one might make an assumption of gradual arsenical poisoning, although I must warn you, those findings are my own. I hope to publish them one day, but they are not universally accepted in the medical community.”

“It does not matter,” I said, jubilant. “Edward did not suffer from gastric distress, and he certainly was not jaundiced. Magda is acquitted,” I finished with a jerk of my chin at Brisbane.

He ignored me, which was probably for the best. “What could it be, then?”

Doctor Bent shrugged. “Without a proper postmortem, I can only offer the broadest suggestions. Perhaps some sort of plant poison. But I cannot tell you how it was administered. If I had seen the contents of his stomach, or the pallor of his skin…” He threw up his hands helplessly.

“What about Doctor Griggs?” I put in. “Surely he would know those things. I mean, not the stomach, of course—” I felt slightly queasy discussing this, but I pressed on “—as there was no postmortem. But he might have noticed something during the examination that would shed some light on matters.”

Doctor Bent and Brisbane shared a look.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“Mordecai wrote to Doctor Griggs regarding another patient. I had him test the waters a bit to see if perhaps he could form some sort of professional relationship. A means to eventually questioning him informally about Sir Edward.”

“And?”

I looked from one to the other. Doctor Bent did not meet my eyes. Brisbane’s handsome mouth had curled into a sneer.

“Doctor Griggs does not associate with Semites, professionally or otherwise,” he said flatly.

I swore softly and Doctor Bent’s head came up. He smiled.

“Thank you for that,” he murmured. “But really, it is nothing new to me. Besides, there are many others who do not share his views. The real difficulty is that it means we are at a loss. We have no way to proceed without some detailed knowledge of the state of Sir Edward’s body.”

I looked again from one to the other.

“Why not ask Mrs. Birch?”

Brisbane pulled lazily at his cigar. “Who is Mrs. Birch?”

“The parish worker who washed his body, of course,” I said impatiently. “Really, you didn’t think I did it, did you?”

Slowly, dazzlingly, a smile—a real, bone-deep expression of violent joy spread across Brisbane’s face. It was perhaps the first time I had seen him really smile. I had been so accustomed to his scowls and frowns that the effect was rather unsettling.

“And you know how to find this Mrs. Birch?”

“I should think so. She is on the charity list for Grey House.”

“The charity list?”

I waved a hand. “Yes, of course. There are a number of people within the parish who are what the vicar calls the ‘deserving poor,’ you know, people who work, but who still half starve. Those of us who have the means send along blankets, meat, soup, clothes for the children, that sort of thing. Mrs. Birch has been receiving baskets from Grey House for years.”

Brisbane stubbed his cigar out slowly. “Then we shall call upon her at once. Well done, madam.”

I preened a little. Doctor Bent rose, a trifle uncertainly. “I suppose I had better be off, then. I’ve left a clinic full of patients. They’ll not thank me if I stay away longer.”

I rose and extended my hand. “Doctor Bent, I know you are quite busy, but I wonder if you could perhaps see your way to taking on another patient? I am in need of a doctor, my own has proven unsatisfactory.”

He patted his coat, finally extracting a creased, grimy card. “There is the address of my rooms,” he said, flushing a deep, becoming red. “I know you will not wish to go there, but if you will send for me, I will come.”

I smiled. “You are very kind.”

The blush deepened and he stammered a little as he let himself out. Brisbane sat, regarding me thoughtfully.

“I rather think you’ve made a conquest of poor old Mordecai,” he said finally. “Pity you are not a daughter of Leah. You might have made him a rather fine wife.”

“Do not be nasty, Brisbane,” I returned, refusing to rise to the bait. “It does not suit you.” I rummaged in my reticule. “Here is the completed inventory of Grey House. It is the only copy.”

He took it from me and scanned it quickly, thumbing through the pages. “Good. Not that I think it will lead us to anything, but one never knows.”

I felt a rush of irritation. That inventory had taken hours to complete, dreary, dull hours of copying out endless lists of what Aquinas and I had found in every room. To have those interminable hours referred to so lightly was more than I could stand. I would not be made to feel like his pet clerk.

“Brisbane, you are being churlish. Now, if you mean to call upon Mrs. Birch, get your coat. I will wait.”