Deanna Raybourn - Silent In The Grave

“Come!”

The housekeeper bustled back the way she had come and I was left to open the door myself. I twisted the handle and entered, feeling rather like Stanley beating the bushes for Livingstone.

“Mr. Brisbane?” I called hesitantly, poking my head around the door.

“Come in and close the door. The draught will put these seedlings right off.”

I entered, quickly closing the door behind me. The room was spacious, and thoroughly cluttered, but not fussily so. A sofa and a pair of chairs flanked the fireplace, with a few tables scattered about and several stuffed bookshelves lining the walls. There was a writing table in the corner, with blotter and inkstand and a litter of correspondence. An assortment of boxes and oddments stood on the mantelpiece. There were a few bits of statuary, not the usual Dresden shepherdesses, but strange, foreign pieces from faraway lands, medieval ivories and bronze bells, jostling with fossils under glass and something that looked horribly like a bit of dried mummy.

A collection of swords and daggers was hung on one wall, and over the fireplace was a small tapestry or carpet with an intricate geometric pattern worked in vivid colours. There were a few pieces of interesting glass, sets of scientific instruments, and even something that I decided must be a camel saddle. In all, the room was fascinating, like a tiny museum storehousing the most interesting bits of a traveler’s collection. I longed to poke about, examining everything, ferreting out the secrets this room held.

But I could not. Instead, I turned my attention to the largest item in the room, the long table situated between the large window and the fireplace. It was fitted up as a sort of potting table, and Brisbane was busily engaged with some sort of botanical activity. He was standing in his shirtsleeves, tending a row of little pots tucked under bell jars. He put the last cloche in place and turned, rolling his cuffs back into place.

“What can I do—” He broke off as soon as he caught sight of me. His expression changed, but I could not read it. “Lady Julia Grey. Mrs. Lawson said only that I had a lady caller. She did not tell me your name.”

“I did not send it.”

He continued to neaten his cuffs, pinning his sleeve links into place and donning his coat, but all of this he did without taking his eyes from me—a curious habit I remembered from our first interview. It was frankly disconcerting, and I suddenly longed to confess that I had stolen my sister’s favorite doll for a day when I was eight. I made a note to employ the technique myself the next time I interrogated Cook about the accounts.

“Why have you come?” he asked finally.

I had expected frankness and had decided to answer him in kind.

“Because I need your help. I have discovered that I was very possibly wrong about my husband’s death. And to apologize,” I went on, my mouth feeling dry and thick. “I was quite rude to you when we last met and I do not blame you if you refuse me.”

To my surprise, a smile flickered over his features. “As I recall I threatened to horsewhip you the last time we met,” he said evenly. “I can forgive your rudeness if you can forgive mine.”

I extended my hand to him without thinking. It was a gesture my brothers and I had always used to seal our differences after a quarrel. He took it, and I felt the warmth of his palm through my glove.

“Sit.” He indicated the chair nearest the fire, but I was feeling warm and flushed from the closeness of the room already. I laid aside my muff and removed my gloves.

He watched as I stripped off the kidskin, and I felt as bare as if I had removed my gown. I folded my hands carefully in my lap and he lifted his eyes to my face.

“Why did you change your mind?”

I described the scene in the study that morning, my determination to clear out the detritus, the little wedge of paper caught at the back of the drawer. I removed it from my reticule and passed it to him.

His brow furrowed as he looked it over. He rose and returned with a small magnifying glass, examining every inch of the paper. He was wrapped in concentration, ignoring me completely for the moment. Free from his scrutiny, I scrutinized him.

The past year had left little mark upon him. His hair was longer than I had remembered, with a thread or two of silver that might not have been there before. It was tumbled now, as if he had thrust his hands through it while working over his plants. His clothes, something I should not have noticed before the tuition of the Riche brothers, were beautifully cut, though I noticed his coat strained ever so slightly through the shoulders. In some men this might have exposed a fault; in his case it only emphasized his breadth.

His mouth, which I had entirely failed to notice during our previous meetings, was quite a handsome feature, with a slight fullness to the underlip that lent a sensuality to the slim, purposeful upper lip and hard jaw. There was a small scar, high on his cheekbone, that I had not noticed before, an old one that I only saw now because it was thrown into relief by the firelight. It was shaped like a crescent moon. I wondered how he had gotten it.

He looked up sharply and I felt my face grow hot.

“This looks to be sent by the same hand as the others.”

“Looks to be? Can you not be certain?”

He shrugged. “I have not seen the notes in a year, my lady. But the evening of Sir Edward’s collapse, he told me that he had received another. He planned to show it to me that night. He was rather agitated about it. I suspect he put it into his desk and died before he had the chance to retrieve it. The typeface from the scissored bit seems to match what I remember of the earlier notes.”

He handed it back and I waved it away with a shudder. “I do not want it. What do we do now?”

His expression was incredulous. “We? Now? You will return to Grey House and I will get on with my experiment. Unless you would care for some tea. I am sure Mrs. Lawson would be only too happy—”

“About that!” I interjected, pointing to the note. “What do we do about that?”

He shrugged again, a peculiarly Gallic gesture that, coupled with his dark colouring, made me wonder if he was entirely English. Perhaps Portia’s speculations about his parentage were not so preposterous after all. Naturally I did not credit the story of imperial Bonaparte blood, but there was a foreignness to him that I could not identify.

“There is nothing to be done. Sir Edward is dead, the certificate says by natural causes, and you were content to let him rest in peace a year ago. Let him do so now.”

I stared at him. “But surely you can see that there has been some injustice done here. You were the one who urged me to have his death investigated. You were the one who first raised the question of murder.”

The table at his elbow was layered with objects, a small stack of books, some marked with playing cards to hold his place, a bowl that looked like a solid piece of amber, full of coins and pen nibs and a knot of faded calico. There was a Chinese cricket cage, empty but for a tiny stone statue, and a basket of apples, surprisingly bright and crisp for this time of year. He picked an apple from the basket and began to twist the stem. “It was relevant a year ago, my lady, to an investigation upon which I was engaged. My client died, his widow did not wish to pursue the matter, ergo the case is closed.”

The stem snapped and so did my fraying temper. “Ergo the case is not closed. You were the one who preached to me of integrity and probity last year. What was it you said? Something about justice being meted out to the guilty?”

He took a healthy bite out of the apple, chewing it thoughtfully. “My lady, what is justice at this point? The trail is cold, clues will have been destroyed or thrown out. You yourself nearly consigned this to the wastepaper basket,” he reminded me, flourishing the note. “What do you expect me to do now?”