Silent In The Grave (22 page)

I instructed Aquinas to send boxes and tissue to Edward’s room and give me the loan of one of the servants—anyone except Henry. I had no desire to be alone with the mad pornographer. To my surprise it was Magda who came, clinking her gold bracelets and swishing her taffeta petticoats. I cringed a little—it was the same red petticoat that I had found wrapped around the box of powder.

“Magda, I have decided to clear out Sir Edward’s clothes and personal effects. I would like to box them all up and send them along to Lady Hermia’s refuge. They should be able to make quite good use of them.”

I was chattering, but Magda did not seem to notice. She simply shrugged and began shifting the stacks of shirts from the wardrobe. Without being told, Magda wrapped the garments into neat parcels, putting a shirt, collar and cuffs with each suit of clothes to make a complete ensemble. After a long moment of watching her, I remembered something I had meant to ask her for several days.

“Magda, what does it mean when there is a serpent in the tea leaves?”

Her inky eyes narrowed. “You have let another Gypsy read the leaves for you?”

“No, of course not. I was just wondering.”

She regarded me a long moment, then shrugged.

“Sickness. Bad luck. Spiteful enemies.”

“Oh,” I said feebly.

The dark gaze narrowed still further. “Are you certain the leaves were not yours?” she demanded.

I gave her a thin smile as I lied. “Of course. But, I wonder, speaking of fortunes, why could you not tell Mr. Brisbane his fortune?”

Her hands did not hesitate but moved smoothly along as she wrapped the next shirt. “I cannot tell you, lady. He can.”

We worked another minute in silence.

“Who is Mariah Young?”

There was a reaction at this, a tiny jerk of the hands and a bit of the paper tore. She smoothed it, regaining her composure. “I cannot tell you, lady. He can.”

“But he won’t.”

“Then it is not my place,” she said calmly. She was fetching hats now, crumpling paper to fill out the crowns.

I twisted one of Edward’s neck cloths in my hands. “Magda, how can you be so stubborn! Don’t you realize that I am only trying to help you?”

She continued to work deliberately and slowly, moving with a certain deft precision that I had often seen among the Roma. I moved closer, determined to make her understand.

“He means to see you hang for murder, do you hear me? He has the poison.”

She turned, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “He took my arsenic?”

I groaned and dropped Edward’s neck cloth to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, fluidly, with none of the creaking and snapping one would expect from a woman of her years. A life spent traveling had kept her supple and strong, stronger than I.

“It
was
arsenic, then. He thought so. He has sent it to a doctor to be tested.”

I reached out and took her hand. It felt cool and wrinkled, like the top of a blancmange left too long in the larder.

“Magda, I know that you must have had some innocent purpose for the arsenic. I must believe that you wanted it for a cosmetic, a face cream. But Mr. Brisbane believes Sir Edward was poisoned. I cannot help you if you do not tell me the truth.”

Her face was utterly blank. No emotion, just the calm, fatal acceptance of her race.

“I always tell you the truth,” she said. “Not all of it, not at once, but what I tell you is never false.”

I nodded encouragement.

“I did not kill Sir Edward.”

I felt my spine sag. I had never actually believed her guilty, but it was a profound relief to hear her deny it.

She looked at me curiously, her eyes snapping with emotion. “You know why I am unclean to my people. But you have never asked me why I went to Carolina’s grave. It was because she called me.”

My breath caught painfully in my throat. “Called you? Magda, how can that be?”

“I was sleeping, and I dreamed of her. She came to me and said that I must go to her, that she was in danger. I rose and I went to her. My brothers found me there, sitting on her grave with her body in my arms. My brothers understood, they knew that I had to protect her, but the taboo had been broken. I was unclean and I had to leave them.”

Magda fell silent, but her words echoed in my head. Why had she felt the need to protect her dead child? The graveyard was a quiet country place, with no one to disturb her. And why should anyone want to? Granted, graverobbing had been a lucrative occupation fifty years before, but there were laws now, providing for the legal use of cadavers for medical study. Schools no longer needed to rely upon unsavory villains to retrieve the newly dead for their anatomical dissections.

But there were others, I thought with a thrill of horror, others who might have need of a fresh corpse, others who had no access to proper medical schools. I thought of my poor, misguided brother, and it was almost more than I could bear.

“Magda, did someone else remove Carolina’s body from her grave before you reached the churchyard?”

She nodded and began to rock slowly, her arms crossed over her womb.

“I was too late to stop him disturbing her rest, but I chased him away. He could not take her.”

I had read before, in lurid Gothic novels, of one’s blood running cold. Until that minute, I had thought it an exaggeration. But as the implication of her words took root, a monstrous idea began to grow, and with it, a cold, creeping certainty.

“Did you have that arsenic because you intended to kill the man who defiled her grave?”

She looked directly into my eyes. “Yes. I waited. It is almost time for me to return to my people. I did not want to kill him and remain under your roof.”

I clamped my hand around her arm and shook her hard.

“Do not speak. Do not say another word. Your intentions are enough to buy you a noose.”

I stopped a moment, thinking with an icy clarity that should have surprised me.

“Are any of your brothers in London?”

“Jasper. He is at Hampstead.”

Jasper, he would do. He was a horse dealer, and a good one. During the season, he could usually be found in London, peddling prime horseflesh to the pinch-purses who would not pay the prices at Tattersall’s. I moved swiftly to the mantel, sweeping up the nearest bibelots.

“Take these,” I ordered, thrusting the Sèvres candlesticks and the porcelain Pandora’s box into her startled hands. “Go to Jasper. He will know where to sell them to get money for you to live on. I haven’t any banknotes in the house and I dare not ask Aquinas. Once Jasper has gotten some money for you, get straight out of London. Go anywhere, but not into Sussex. Stay as far away from me and mine as you can, and above all, do not send word where you are. In a few months, you should be able to rejoin your people, up north would be best.”

She tightened her grip on the pieces of porcelain, nodding slowly. “You understand that I would never harm you, lady.”

I regarded her coldly. “You were prepared to poison a member of my family, my own kinsman. You have already harmed me.”

She nodded sadly and turned to wrap the objects in paper. I instructed her to cushion them with waistcoats and shirts, and in a very few moments she was finished. She reached into her pocket and drew out a piece of knotted calico.

“Do you know what this is?”

I shook my head.

“It is a charm, made from the graveclothes of a dead Rom. This comes from Carolina. It is the strongest magic I can give you.”

I took it with reluctant fingers. “Magda, I do not—”

“You will need magic. Because of him, the dark one. I cannot tell his fortune, but he brings death. He brings ruination and despair. I hear weeping when he walks and the screams of the dead echo in his shadow.”

The words might have been a trifle melodramatic, but the effect was ghastly. Her voice was low and her eyes glowed conviction. Whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen in Brisbane, she believed it.

“Thank you,” I said, clutching the small charm.

She nodded and moved heavily to the door, cradling her parcels.

“You will see me again, lady,” she promised me solemnly.

“Not for a very long time, I hope,” I said as the door closed softly behind her.

I opened my hand and stared down at the knot that carried so much powerful magic. And I tried to remember where I had seen one like it only recently.

I was tempted, sorely tempted not to answer her. But I knew she would run me to the ground eventually.

“Yes, Aunt Ursula.”

She entered, black skirts swishing, and surveyed the scene—me, woebegone and bewildered, surrounded by a load of Edward’s things, half-packed and tumbled about the room.

“Oh, my dear girl! Why didn’t you call me to help you? Packing up a loved one’s effects can be so very trying.”

Especially when one’s laundress admits to wanting to kill your brother in the midst of it, I thought sourly.

“I thought it was time,” I said.

“Of course you did. It is only one of the many tasks that you will have now that your first year of mourning is ended.”

Trust the Ghoul to mark the anniversary of Edward’s death when I had not. Really, she was a better widow to him than I was. I smiled feebly.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“After all, you will need new clothes to observe this new stage in your mourning.”

I widened my eyes. “I beg your pardon, Aunt? I thought you expected me to observe strict mourning in perpetuity.”

She gave me a sympathetic cluck. “Oh, no! Well, I admit I did think of it at first, but then I realized how much there would be to do if you put on half mourning. And I thought perhaps it might be best if you had something to occupy your days. Besides, there will be time enough to put your weeds back on when Simon passes.”

She began to burrow through Edward’s effects and I sat, trying to digest what she had just said. Naturally the arrangements of half mourning would appeal to her. There would be all sorts of doleful things to attend to, all manner of fresh new grimness to inflict upon me. I could well imagine what pleasure she would take in draping the house in purple and ordering new writing paper and candles. I opened my mouth to blast her, then stopped. Her intentions were appalling and her remark about Simon had been utterly cruel, but she was harmless enough. I complained loudly about her, but the truth was I minded her rather less as the months went by. Besides, one look at the wardrobe I had selected for my “half mourning” would likely put her into her own early grave.

I dragged my attention back to the Ghoul, who had been chattering happily the whole time, poking through Edward’s bits and probably marking out something she would ask for as a “memento.” That was another of her favorite tricks. No matter how far removed she had been from the deceased, she always asked for some small token to remember them by, usually the most expensive bibelot or costliest jewel in the house. Few people had the courage or cruelty to resist her, with the result that she had amassed a collection of jewels and objets d’art to rival the queen’s.

“And I told dear Hermia that I would be coming with you tonight.”

I jerked to attention. “Tonight?”

“Yes, to Hermia’s musical evening. Don’t tell me you have forgotten,” she said with a trill of laughter, sharp and brittle, nothing like Fleur’s silver bells.

Of course I had forgotten. I had begged off of her oratory contest, pleading a headache, but Aunt Hermia was nothing if not persistent. She had sent me a note more than a week before regarding the musicale, a note I had thrust aside and promptly dismissed. Aunt Hermia’s musical evenings were legendary within the family. Absences were rarely tolerated, and performances were strongly encouraged—or extorted if necessary. Occasionally other guests were invited, which made for hilarity and a boisterous evening. Other times it was just family, and those could be deadly. I wondered which this was to be and I was strongly inclined to send my regrets.

But I could not. I had missed the oratory contest and the last two musicales; a third and Aunt Hermia herself would come to Grey House to drag me out of it. Besides, I was not much enthused about spending another evening alone, reading and answering correspondence. For all their faults, my family were gregarious and animated, which I could not say for my books and letters. And as an added incentive, it was very possible that Val might be there. I longed to observe him without his being aware of it. He was so seldom at Grey House that Aunt Hermia’s entertainment might be the only chance I would have to engage him.

And do what? I asked myself later as I pondered Morag’s selections from my wardrobe. She had laid out a deep-necked, delicious violet velvet and a beautifully cut, tight crimson silk. I dithered between them, trying to imagine how I could possibly accuse my youngest brother of the attempted robbery of a new grave. Perhaps I could ask him to pass the gravy and make a dreadful pun…no, that would never do. I would simply have to go and keep my eyes sharp and my ears sharper. Perhaps I could delicately probe our family for their opinions on his sanity. It made me not a little nervous to think of sharing a house with a person capable of exhuming a young corpse simply to cut it open.

Shivering, I settled on the crimson and permitted Morag to dress me. I think we were both startled at the result. I had thought the violet revealed a bit of décolletage, but the crimson was nearly as flagrant. In fact, I felt it was a bit much for a family party, but as Morag reminded me, it was
only
a family party. Who else would be there to see and be shocked by the rather sumptuous display of bosom? I agreed with her, only because it was too late to change, and I made a note to myself never to wear the violet outside of my own home. What on earth had Monsieur Riche been thinking? Honestly.

I had just a few moments to spare and decided to spend them with Simon. The valet, Renard, was just collecting his dinner tray and he stepped aside at the doorway to let me pass.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said, casting an approving glance at my bosom. I drew back, ensuring that even my skirts would not touch him.

“Renard,” I said coolly. I could not help it. Every time I saw him, I thought of the odious drawings he had supplied to Henry and my skin crawled. He slipped past me, brushing as near as he dared, and I closed the door firmly behind him. I moved to Simon, my lips set in a deliberate smile.

“How are you this evening, dearest?”

His face brightened. “Julia! You are the very picture—turn around and let me see you properly.”

I pirouetted obediently. He watched, nodding in appreciation.

“Lovely. I did tell you bright colours, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I said, dropping a kiss to his brow. “I feel rather unlike myself, though. I’ve never worn anything quite so…”

He smiled, reaching for my hand. “You have never looked lovelier. Where are you bound?”

“March House.”

“Ah! One of Lady Hermia’s musicales, am I right?”

“You are. Shall I plump your pillows for you?”

“Please do. I should far rather have you do it than Renard.” He leaned forward and I busied myself fluffing the feathers. “I remember those evenings,” he said, his voice tinged ever so slightly with nostalgia. “Edward played the most awful piano, but your singing was quite—”

“Vile,” I put in helpfully. He gave me a reproachful little look.

“I was going to say original, but all right. You are frightfully tone-deaf, my darling.”

“I know. Pity that I love to sing, isn’t it? But you must have paid better attention than Edward to your piano master. Your melodies were always so lovely.”

He gazed down at his hands, swollen a little about the knuckles. “I doubt I could play now. Doubt I even remember a note of anything,” he said ruefully. “Funny how we spend our entire adolescence learning skills that are supposed to serve us in society, then spend our entire adulthood forgetting them.”

“Not all of them. The last time we danced, you still remembered how to do that quite well.”

“Well, dancing is different. I always enjoyed that. Music and gaiety and breathless promises to meet in darkened gardens—so much intrigue.” He raised a brow meaningfully.

I settled him back against his pillows. “Ass,” I said affectionately. “When did you ever make assignations in the garden?”

He waved an airy hand. “Loads of times. I cannot tell you how many lovely memories I have of fumbling with buttons under the cover of leafy darkness.…” His voice trailed off and his eyes were dreamy.

I slapped lightly at his hand. “You are a beast, Simon Grey.”

“Yes, but a discreet one. You never knew I was off misbehaving, did you? Did you never once see me slip back into a ballroom, cravat askew, face dewy and flushed with rapture?”

“No, thank God. What of the poor creatures you were deflowering? Were they ever discovered?”

“No, not one, mercifully. But as I say, I was discreet. Edward used to get up to the same, did he never tell you?”

There was a flash of excitement in his eyes, an avidity that comes with truly succulent gossip.

“No!” I leaned forward, heedless of my neckline. “Do tell.”

He smiled and wagged his finger. “I shall not. Some secrets should be kept. But the stories I could tell…”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I don’t care a bit.” I kissed him again and bade him good-night.

“Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious.” I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.

Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably. Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct. Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night. Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.

Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise. Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness. Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat. Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness. We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father’s butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.

Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.

“She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout.”

His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.

“It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady,” he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.

“Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots.”

I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.

“Portia, Jane, good evening,” I greeted, going to kiss them.

“Julia, dearest, I am so glad you are here!” Portia exclaimed, returning my kiss with enthusiasm. “All of you,” she murmured with a lift of the brow toward my gown. She was dressed in blue, a delicious cerulean shade that flattered her wide eyes. “Father is just now gone to change and Aunt Hermia is bandaging up Cook in the stillroom. Jane and I were simply aching for conversation. Oh, good evening, Aunt Ursula.” Portia went to make polite noises at the Ghoul and I turned to Jane.

As usual, she looked as though she had been dragged through a bush backward. She was wearing one of her favorite shapeless dresses. Usually they were made up in heavy cottons, but she had a few in thick, unattractive fabrics for evening. She wore them with heavy ropes of dull, lumpy beads that could not hope to match the sparkle of her fine eyes or the exquisite colour of her complexion. She put a hand to her untidy red hair. “I know,” she said mournfully. “I look a fright. I had put my hair up, I promise. But I seem to have lost the pins.”

I smiled at her. “Nonsense. I was just thinking that you look like Daphne, the moment she metamorphosed into a laurel bush.”

She looked very happy at the allusion, and I tucked my arm through hers. “Now, what shall you play for us tonight? I am quite out of practice, so I shall not perform, but I always look forward to hearing you.”

This was entirely true. Jane was a gifted musician with a remarkably sweet, clear singing voice and a talent with three different instruments. This was perhaps the most significant reason behind why we loved Jane so. The family, and occasionally, friends, were pressed into performing at Aunt Hermia’s evenings, usually something we had all heard a hundred times before, and usually done quite badly. We had our gifts, we Marches, but I do not think we numbered music among them. Having Jane with us was rather like having Sarah Siddons stride into the midst of an amateur theatrical.

“The harp,” Jane said promptly. “I have a new Irish air I have been practicing. It is very melancholy, very atmospheric. You will smell the peat fires and damp wool, I promise.”

Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and I shivered playfully. “Sounds quite intriguing. What of you, Portia?” I called over my shoulder. “Will you play, or is simply giving us all something beautiful to look at contribution enough?”

She raised a brow at me. “Good Lord, Julia, what has come over you? You are positively giddy. Well, I am glad you are in high spirits, because if I am not mistaken, that is a footstep upon the walk.”