Deanna Raybourn - Silent In The Grave

Just as suddenly as the brow had raised, it lowered, and his nostrils flared a little, as a bull’s will when its temper is beginning to rise.

“A very diverting problem for a country vicar, I’m sure, but hardly germane to what we are about,” he said. “Now, I have delivered the report, as promised.”

“And you mean to leave matters there,” I finished flatly. He shrugged. “That is not good enough, Mr. Brisbane. You seemed convinced a year ago that something criminal was afoot. The passing of time does not change that. It simply makes your task more difficult. I would not have taken you for a man to shy from a challenging situation. In fact, I would rather have thought you the sort of man who would relish it.”

His expression was thoughtful, but his eyes, watchful as always, gave nothing away. “Oh, very neatly done, my lady. If I refuse to pursue this goose chase of yours, I am either a lazy cad or a coward.”

Too late, I remembered Portia’s tale of the duel he had fought with Lord Northrup’s son. This man was far from a coward. He was headstrong, audacious. Some might even call him violent. And with characteristic March fecklessness, I had just baited him dangerously.

“Did I imply that? I am so sorry. I simply meant that I thought this would appeal to your intellectual curiosity. I was so certain that you were the man to help me, I was perhaps overzealous.” I smiled ingratiatingly.

He smiled back, a baring of the teeth that was more wolfish than engaging. “I shall pursue this for you, my lady. Not because you nagged like a fishwife, but because my curiosity is indeed piqued.”

Nobly, I ignored the insult. “Edward’s murder did not seem to pique your curiosity a moment ago.”

Brisbane blinked, like a cat will when it is sunning itself, slowly, hypnotically. “I did not say that it was the possibility of murder that aroused my interest.”

Before I could decipher his meaning, there was a scratch at the door. Brisbane did not reply, but the door opened, anyway, and a man appeared bearing a tray. “Tea,” he pronounced, looking pleasantly from Brisbane to me and back again.

Brisbane waved a hand. “This is Theophilus Monk, my lady. My factotum, for lack of a better word. Monk, Lady Julia Grey.”

Monk was a very superior sort of person, perfectly groomed and very poised. He had an eager, almost educated look about him, and had Brisbane not introduced him, I would have mistaken him for a gentleman, a country squire perhaps, much given to vigorous exercise. He looked robustly healthy, with a very slight embonpoint that seemed the result of the thickening of old muscles rather than too many pastries. His hair was neatly trimmed and silvering, as were his mustaches. His eyes were an indeterminate colour, but assessing and shrewd. He took a moment, as he laid the tray, to take my measure, but he was so quick, so discreet, I almost missed it. I had a very strong suspicion that he assisted Brisbane in his inquiries. I could easily imagine him proving quite resourceful in an investigation.

He bowed very smartly from the neck.

“Do you enjoy being called a factotum?” I inquired, taking the cup he poured. Most bachelor gentlemen would have expected their lady guest to do the honours of pouring. It was a relief to be spared that. I was always rather clumsy around tea things and I fancied Brisbane thought me odd enough without my spilling the tea or dropping the saucers.

“I have suggested majordomo, but Mr. Brisbane finds it too grandiose for such a small establishment,” Monk explained in a gravelly Scots voice. “I am in fact his batman, my lady. Feather cake?”

“Ooh, yes, please. Batman, Mr. Brisbane? You were an officer in the army?”

Brisbane stirred his tea slowly. “I have been many things, my lady, none of which would interest you, I am sure.”

Monk coughed quietly. I had heard that cough often enough from Aquinas. It was the upper servant’s method of tactfully correcting his employer. But if Brisbane was aware of his rudeness or of Monk’s disapproval, he did not show it. In fact, if anything, he seemed vaguely amused.

“I shan’t need you further, Monk. Her ladyship and I can manage the rest.”

Monk bowed again and withdrew.

I faced Brisbane over the teapot. “Did you mean what you said? You will pursue this?”

Brisbane sipped at his tea. “I suppose. I have a few other matters that I must bring to conclusion, but nothing that cannot wait. And I have no other clients questioning either my integrity or my courage at present.”

I bit my lip. He was right to needle me. I had behaved wretchedly. Out of my own impatience and frustration I had offered him an insult that few men would have borne so calmly. I was only surprised that he had borne it at all, considering his bald threat of the previous year to have me horsewhipped for impugning his character.

“Yes, about that,” I began slowly. “I spoke in haste. I am truly sorry. I really did not mean it as an insult. I do find the whole matter puzzling in the extreme, and as you are in the business of conundrums …”

“You thought I would find yours irresistible?” he supplied.

Again, his voice was perfectly even, unshaded by even the slightest hint of an ulterior meaning. Why then did I feel he was amusing himself at my expense?

“I thought that it would present a unique problem for you to solve,” I corrected with as much dignity as I could muster in the face of his indolent stare.

He shrugged and placed his cup onto the table. “You will find that one problem is very like another, my lady. Only the personalities involved differ, and even then people are very much of a type. That is the greatest asset in my business, and the greatest bore.”

“You mean that people are largely predictable? I should think that a rather restful quality.”

His smile was small and enigmatic. “It is, and that is what makes it a bore. There is nothing in the world more dreadful than knowing exactly what someone else is going to do, even before he does.”

“You would very much like my family, then,” I put in with a laugh. “One never knows what a March is likely to do, not even another March.”

“So none of your family would have guessed that you came here today?” he asked slowly. He lowered his head, his eyes level with mine. There was something in those dark eyes that had not been there a moment before. Menace? Malice?

I forced a smile. “Of course they would. I told my sister Portia that I was coming here today. And my brother Valerius, who lives with me.”

He canted his head, considering me for a moment. Then he shook it slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I think you came alone. I think that no one knows the exact whereabouts of Lady Julia Grey.”

He moved very slightly forward in his chair and I felt my heart lurch. I learned something in that moment. Fear has a metallic taste, like blood sucked from a cut finger. I could taste it, flat on the back of my tongue as he moved closer toward me.

“My coachman,” I said suddenly. “He is circling the carriage. My footman is there as well. They both know where I am.”

Brisbane halted his movement, his eyes still intent upon my face. After a moment, he rose and went to the window. He flicked aside the curtain and I felt my toes curling up inside my boots as I prayed that Diggory was at the kerb.

Brisbane resumed his chair, his manner completely altered. “If you will forgive my remarking upon it, the first rule of investigation is discretion. Next time you call upon me, you should come in a hansom, or better yet, a hackney. Anyone who knows you will know that vehicle by the crest on its door. And your footman is a rather remarkable specimen as well. Some lady is bound to remember him.”