Deanna Raybourn - Silent In The Grave

“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.

He was sad at heart, unsettled yet ready, sensing his death.