Читать книгу Silent In The Grave - Deanna Raybourn, Deanna Raybourn - Страница 14

Break, break sad heart There is no medicine for my smart, No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow.

—Thomas Randolph

“Phyllis”

“You needn’t have kicked me so hard,” Brisbane said bitterly, rubbing at his shin. He had retreated to his own chair and was regarding me much as he might a rabid dog.

“I said I was sorry. Shall I ring for Monk? A wet towel, perhaps—”

“No, thank you,” he said, his tone still acid.

“I’m afraid it’s going to raise an awful lump,” I put in helpfully. That much was a guess. Brisbane had not lifted the leg of his trousers, nor would I have expected him to. Our relationship was quite unorthodox enough without the sight of his bare leg adding to the mix. “Oh, do stop scowling at me like that. It really was your own fault, you know, frightening me like that. Of course I never thought you murdered Edward. Why should I?”

“That was precisely the point,” he replied through gritted teeth. “You must consider every possibility. You must realize that no one is above suspicion. You must be willing to scrutinize every person who knew your husband and consider at least the possibility that they were responsible for his death. If you cannot do that, you cannot continue with this investigation.”

“But why would you want to murder Edward? You barely knew him.”

Brisbane continued to grind his teeth, but I think it was more out of frustration than pain. “I barely knew him according to …”

He paused, waiting for me to catch up. “According to—oh, I do see now. According to you. And if you were the murderer, that makes your information rather suspect.”

“Quite,” he said grimly.

“Well, did you murder him?”

Brisbane looked at me, fairly goggle-eyed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you murder him? It is a simple question, Mr. Brisbane. Kindly answer it.”

“Of course I didn’t! Of all the bloody—”

“You needn’t swear at me. You said I must consider the possibility that you killed him, and I have. I asked you, you said no, and I believe you.”

He shook his head, his expression staggered. “You cannot do this. You cannot simply ask people if they killed your husband. Sooner or later, you will ask the wrong person. You will be killed in a week, you must know that.”

I strove for patience. “Mr. Brisbane, I am not entirely stupid. But circumstances and my own fairly dependable judgment have convinced me that you were not responsible for his death. I promise you that I would not be daft enough to ask anyone I actually suspected.”

His look was doubtful. “There are a hundred different ways you could get hurt—badly. You must be very certain what you are about to embark upon. This is no detective story, my lady. There is no guarantee we will unmask this murderer. He could slip through our fingers quite easily. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Our murderer, if in fact there is one, is comfortable by now. He has had almost a year of freedom, without even a whisper of murder to disturb him. If he thinks that is about to change, he might well panic, become desperate, even. He might tip his hand.”

“How?” I took a sip of tea, cool now, but still refreshing.

“He might try to attack you, for instance.”

I blinked at him and he went on, blandly. “I have been assaulted several times in the course of my work. If you were to take an active role in this investigation, you put yourself at risk of harm, even death. I cannot prevent it, you must know that. A clever murderer, one who is determined, desperate, could dispatch you before either of us even realized you were in danger. You must think of that,” he finished.

“But you said he is comfortable,” I pointed out. “So long as we do nothing to alert him, he would remain so and there would be no danger.”

Brisbane shook his head. “Unlikely, at best. Most of the criminals I have encountered have a dog’s nose for trouble. They sense when they are about to be found out. And they usually take steps to avoid it. Sometimes they flee, but other times …” His voice broke off and his eyes were distant, as though seeing gruesome conclusions to his other cases.

“That does not frighten me,” I said boldly.

Brisbane’s gaze dropped to mine. “It should. If you are not afraid, you will not take the proper precautions. That sort of stupidity could get you killed. Or at best, jeopardize the investigation so badly we never catch him. And there are other dangers as well.”

“Such as?” I asked with a sigh. I was beginning to feel less than welcome.

“Investigations are rather like snake hunts. Rocks are overturned, hidden places are prodded, and what turns up is often rotten, poisonous and better left undisturbed. Sometimes it is an evil that has nothing to do with the investigation, just something dark and vicious that should never have seen the light of day. But lives are changed, my lady.”

“You are being cryptic again, Mr. Brisbane. I have no secrets.” Of course, as soon as I said the words, I wished them back. Everyone has a secret or two, however innocent.

He focused those hypnotic black eyes on me for a long moment. “Very well,” he said, his voice light. “Perhaps you would like to try a little experiment.”

His expression was guarded, but there was anticipation there, something almost gleeful. It made me nervous. “What sort of experiment?”

“Oh, nothing painful. In fact, quite the reverse.” He smiled suddenly. “If you wish to be a part of this investigation, you must first provide me with information about Sir Edward, your household, your family. I shall simply ask you a series of questions. Nothing too frightening about that, is there?”

There was the faintest tone of mockery in his voice. I had taunted his courage before, now he was taunting mine.

“Nothing at all,” I said roundly. “When do we begin?”

He smiled again, that serpentine smile that Eve must have seen in the Garden. “No time like the present.”

He began to make a few alterations in the room. The tea things were dispatched to a far table, jostling a small clock, a set of nautical instruments and a tortoiseshell. In their place he put a single candle, a thick, creamy taper that he lit with a spill from the fireplace.

Then he reached for a lacquered box on the mantel. Out of it he scooped a handful of something that rustled, dried flowers or leaves, perhaps. These he hurled into the fireplace. The change was immediate. There was a fragrance, subtle and soothing, and the flames burned bright green for a moment. He turned to me then, brisk and businesslike.

“Remove your jacket, my lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” I clutched the lapels of my jacket together like a trembling virgin. He sighed patiently.

“My lady, I am no Viking bent on pillage, I assure you. You will understand what I am about in a moment. Take off your jacket.”

I complied, feeling like an idiot. If Portia had not made it very clear to me that Brisbane would never think of me as a woman, he certainly had. I struggled out of the jacket, regretting that I had instructed Morag to put out the new silk. It was tight and I knew I must look like a wriggling caterpillar trying to get it off. Finally I was free of it and Brisbane took it, tossing it onto a chair. Then, before I could remonstrate with him over the expense of the silk he was creasing, he grasped my ankles and swung them to the sofa.

“Mr. Brisbane!” I began, but he silenced me with an exasperated gesture.

He released my ankles then, but I could still feel the pressure of his hands through skirts, petticoats, boots, and stockings. He thrust a pillow behind my head, causing me to lie back in a posture I had most certainly never adopted in front of an acquaintance before.

“Comfortable?” he inquired, resuming his seat.

“Rather like Cleopatra,” I returned tartly. “What exactly is the point to all of this?”

“I told you, it is the beginning of our investigation.”

He busied himself taking a notebook and pencil from the drawer of the table beside him. “I know it seems unorthodox, but I need information from you, and I believe that the more relaxed a person is, the more information he or she will relate.”

“You believe. Is this your normal practice? Do you do this to all of your clients?”

“No, because most of my clients would not consent to it.”

“What makes you think that I will?”

“You already have, my lady. Besides, you are a rather special case.”

I felt a warm flush of pleasure. “I am?”

“Yes,” he replied absently. “Most of my clients are far more conscious of their dignity to permit such an experiment.”

The flush ended abruptly. “Oh.”

“But I have great hopes for you, my lady,” he continued. The flush began again, a tiny, creeping wave this time, but at least I did not feel quite so low. “I have read a great deal about the techniques used by the police and by those who practice psychology. Some of them seem quite suitable for use in my own work. It is just a theory at this point, but I have had some success in the past.”

Of that I was certain. I wondered how many other ladies’ ankles he had handled, and promptly dismissed the thought as unworthy of me.

“Begin then, before my neck takes a cramp,” I ordered him crossly.

He opened his notebook and made a few comments before he began his questions. When he spoke, his voice had gone soft and mellow, like sun-warmed clover honey. I wondered if he was conscious of it.

“My lady, I need a bit of background information from you. We need a place to begin. So, I am going to take you through some of what Sir Edward told me, and I need you to confirm or correct it.”

I nodded, feeling a little sleepy and as relaxed as if I had just had a glass of Aunt Hermia’s blackberry cordial.

“Sir Edward told me last year that he had been married to you for five years. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I murmured.

“How did you meet?”

“His father bought the estate next to my father’s in Sussex. We knew each other from childhood.”

“Was the marriage a happy one?”

I fidgeted a little. My body felt restless, but my limbs were languid, almost too heavy to move. “Happy enough. We were friends.”

“There were no children?” he asked, his voice mellower still.

I shook my head sleepily. “Not from me. I could not have them.”

“Did he have children by anyone else? Natural children?”

I tried to shake my head again, but now it felt too weighty.

“Just lie back against the cushion, my lady,” he instructed from far away. I did as I was told, perfectly content to lie there forever.

He made a few notes while I drowsed against the cushions, thinking of Odysseus and the Lotus-eaters. I felt very thirsty, but it seemed far too much trouble to reach out my hand for my teacup. Then I remembered that he had moved it across the room and decided I would wait until he had finished.

“Sir Edward had little family left by the time of his death,” he commented.

“Only his first cousin, Simon. He inherited the baronetcy from Edward.”

“And you,” Brisbane prodded gently.

“I was not Edward’s family,” I replied. “I was his wife.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“I have quite a lot of that,” I said, feeling a ridiculous and inappropriate urge to giggle. With a great effort, I suppressed it. “My mother died when I was a child. I have nine brothers and sisters. Father is in town just now, at March House in Hanover Square. He lives with Aunt Hermia.”

“Indeed. Do any of the other members of your family live with them?”

“None. Most of them live in the country. My eldest brother, Viscount Bellmont, has his residence in London. So does my sister Portia, Lady Bettiscombe.”

“Did Lord Bellmont get on well with Sir Edward? Were there problems between them?”

“Only about politics. Monty is a Tory. Edward was apathetic. Used to call each other names. It meant nothing.”

“What of Lady Bettiscombe? Did she get on well with Sir Edward?”

“Well enough. Portia does not like many men. She lives with her lover, Jane.”

There was a long pause, but Brisbane made no comment.

“And who else lives in London?”

“Valerius, my youngest brother. Lives with me.”

Even through the lassitude, I could feel him prickle with interest.

“Tell me about Valerius.”

“Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”

“The what?”

I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.

“Who else lives at Grey House?”

“Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”

“Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”

“Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”

“What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”

I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.

“Your staff,” he prodded gently.

“Aquinas is the butler. You know him.”

Brisbane nodded, writing swiftly. “Go on.”

“Cook. Diggory, the coachman, Morag, my maid. Whittle does the gardening, but he is employed by Father. Desmond and Henry are the footmen. Magda, the laundress. And there are maids. Cannot keep it sorted out which is which,” I finished thickly.

“Have they been with you long?”

“Aquinas since always. Cook four years. Morag came just before Edward died, maybe six months. She was a prostitute. She was reformed at my aunt Hermia’s refuge and trained for service. The others at March House quite some time. Renard.”

Brisbane wrote furiously, then stopped. “Renard?”

“Edward’s valet. French. Sly. Hate him. Stayed on to help with Simon.”

This, too, went into the notebook. “Anyone else?”

I shook my head, feeling it throb ominously as I did so. There was a pain beginning behind my eyes and I was thirstier than ever.

“What of Sir Edward’s friends? Enemies?”

“No enemies. Everyone a friend, none of them close. Edward was private. God, my head.”

He rose again and opened the window a little. Cold, crisp air rushed into the room, clearing out the thick pungent smells from the fire. He left the room and returned a moment later with a wet cloth folded into a pad.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Put it on your brow. You will feel better in a minute.”

I did as he said, listening to the light scratching of his pencil as he finished writing his observations into his little notebook. Within minutes the lassitude had lifted and the pain had begun to abate. I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor, and watched as the ceiling seemed to change places with it.

“Easy, my lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back against the cushion. “You will be quite well in a minute, but you cannot move too quickly.”

I lay still, feeling the giddiness recede slowly. When I thought it might be safe, I raised myself by degrees. Brisbane was sipping a fresh cup of tea and had poured one out for me. There was no sign of the notebook.

“What did you do to me?” I demanded, peeling the compress from my brow. I did not want the thing against my skin. God only knew what was in it.

“Drink your tea, my lady. You will feel yourself in a moment.”

“How do I know it hasn’t been tampered with? For all I know you have laced it with opium,” I said indignantly.

He sighed, took up my cup from the saucer and drank deeply from it. “There. It is quite safe, I assure you.”

My expression must have betrayed my doubt, for he handed me his nearly full cup. “Take mine, then. Besides, if I were going to lace anything with opium, it would not be tea.”

I sipped cautiously at his tea, but it tasted fine. “Why not?”

“Tea is a natural antidote to opium. You would probably vomit it up before it did any real harm.”

“Mr. Brisbane, I deplore your manners. Such conversation is not fit for a lady.”

He regarded me with something like real interest. “That is quite a little war you have going on in there,” he said with a flick of his finger toward my brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You are such a strange mixture of forthrightness and proper breeding. It must always be a battle for you, knowing what you want to say and feeling that you mustn’t.”

I shrugged. “Such is the lot of women, Mr. Brisbane.”

He gave a short laugh. “Not by half. Most women of my acquaintance would never think of the things you do. Much less dare to say them.”

“I do not!” I protested. “If you only knew how much effort I take not to say the things I think—”

“I know. That is why I took the liberty of conducting my little experiment. It worked rather better than I had anticipated.”

I set the cup down with a crack. “You admit you deliberately gave me something—some sort of truthfulness potion—to get information?”

“Truthfulness potion? Really, my lady, your penchant for sensational novels is deplorable. There is no such thing as a truthfulness potion. Herbs, my lady. That is all. I threw a certain compound of dried herbs onto the fire. They produce a feeling of calmness and well-being, euphoria sometimes, lassitude most often. The result is one of almost perfect truthfulness, not because of some magic power, but because the subject is too relaxed to lie.”

I stared at him, clenching my hands into fists against my lap. “That is appalling. No, it is worse than appalling. It is horrible, horrible.” I could not think of a word bad enough to call him.

“I did tell you I was going to conduct an experiment,” he reminded me.

“Yes, but this—this is far beyond what I expected.”

He smiled thinly. “Did you think I was going to swing my watch in front of your face and count backward? I could engage in hypnotism if you like. I have practiced it. Mesmerism, as well. But I have found that those methods frequently have more value as parlor tricks than interrogation techniques.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands fisted tightly. “I do not care. I still think what you did was appalling.”

“Is it more appalling than sending a threat of death to a sick man, making his last days full of fear and doubt?” he asked softly.

Almost unwillingly, I unclenched my fists. “You mean that your methods are justified by the ends.”

“I see that you have read your Machiavelli, along with perhaps some Sappho?”

“Leave Portia quite out of this. I would never have told you about Jane without your nasty tricks.”

“Indeed.”

We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our tea in a state of armed and uneasy truce. I was not happy with his methods, but I understood why he had employed them. If we were to unmask Edward’s murderer, we must use every weapon at our disposal, even if it meant occasionally wielding them against each other. But it would be a very long time before I trusted him again.

“Headache better?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You will be quite thirsty for the rest of the day. It is the only lingering effect I have found.”

I nodded obediently and decided to venture a question that had been puzzling me. “Why did it not affect you?”

He gave me a thin, bitter smile. “I inured myself to its effects long ago in China.”

“China! How did you come to be in China?”

The smile faded. “I passed through on my way to Tibet. It is a story I do not care to tell, my lady, at least not now. It is sufficient to say that if I did not know how to hold my own against that herb, it would have been more than my life was worth. Now, I believe I have all the major players,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I think the most logical place to begin is with the death itself. Was it murder? If so, it could not have been by bullet, garrote, blade, or any means other than poison. Which means that the first person to consult is—”

“Doctor Griggs,” I finished for him.

He gave me a look of grudging acknowledgement. “He knew Sir Edward’s health intimately and certified the death as natural. But were there any questions in his own mind about that? Any symptoms that appeared out of the ordinary for a man with Sir Edward’s heart condition?”

I shook my head. “I am afraid that Doctor Griggs will not speak to you, especially if he thinks you mean to accuse him of making a mistake. He has connections at Court—lofty ones. He will not thank you for making trouble. I must take him on myself.”

Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. “I thought we agreed that your involvement was to be largely in a consulting capacity.”

“Largely, but not entirely,” I replied with spirit. “I shall write to Doctor Griggs. He has known me from my birth. Whatever story I concoct, he will believe it. I will think of some suitably convincing tale, and when he sends his reply, I shall forward it on to you.”

He agreed and we made arrangements for meeting again when I had Doctor Griggs’ reply in hand. He did not summon Monk, but helped me into my jacket and coat himself. I took my hat from him and pinned it on securely, feeling more myself than I had since I entered the room.

“Oh, and by the way,” I said sweetly, my hand on the knob, “if you ever use me in such a disgraceful fashion again, I will use every and all means at my disposal to ensure you get the thrashing of your life. Good day, Mr. Brisbane.”

I am not entirely certain, but I think he was smiling as I left.