Silent In The Grave

“Do not think of it, I beg you,” he said finally, settling back more comfortably in his chair. “I was gratified to have been of some small service to Sir Edward in his time of need.”

I could hear Aquinas, thumping things about in the hall. Like all good butlers, he was usually cat-footed about his work. His noises were a signal to me that he was within earshot if I needed him.

“Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Brisbane? Tea?”

He waved a lazy hand. His gestures were indolent ones, but affectedly so. He might wear the mantle of the idle London gentleman, but I had seen with my own eyes that he could move quickly enough if the situation warranted action. I found it curious, though, that he adopted a pose of sorts.

Without the prospect of tea to look forward to, I was at a loss. I knew it was my responsibility to introduce a topic of respectable conversation, but in that interminable moment, my breeding failed me. The only event we had in common was the one of which we had already spoken and could not possibly speak of again. Mr. Brisbane seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was not. It reminded me of the endless chess games I used to play with my father when one or the other of us invariably forgot it was our turn and we sat, ossifying, until we realized that we were actually supposed to move.

In fact, the more I studied Mr. Brisbane, the more he resembled a chess king. Polished and hard, with a certain implacable dignity. He was darker than any man I knew, with storm-black eyes and a head of thick, waving hair to match that would have made Byron prickle with jealousy.

But my scrutiny did not amuse him. He arched a brow at me, imperious as an emperor. I was mightily impressed. He did it much better than Aunt Hermia.

“My lady, are you quite well?”

“Quite,” I managed feebly, trying to think of a convincing lie. “I have not been sleeping very well.”

“Understandable, I am sure,” he offered. He paused, then sat forward in his chair with the air of a man who has just made up his mind to do something unpleasant, but necessary.

“My lady, I have not come solely to offer my condolences. I have come to deliver news that I feel will certainly be unwelcome, but must be related nonetheless.”

My stomach began to ache and I regretted missing luncheon. Whatever Mr. Brisbane had to tell me, I was quite certain I did not want to hear it.

“My lady, what do you know of me?”

The question caught me unawares. I struggled a moment, trying to reconcile gossip with decorum. What I had heard, and what I could repeat, were not always the same thing.

“I believe you are a detective of sorts. A private inquiry agent. I have heard that you solve problems.”

His mouth twisted, but I could not tell if it was meant to be a smile or a grimace. “Among other things. I returned to London two years ago. Since then, I have enjoyed some success in disposing of matters of a delicate nature for people who do not care to share their difficulties with the Metropolitan Police. Last year, I decided to set myself up in business formally. I have no offices as such, nor is there a sign proclaiming my profession at my rooms in Chapel Street. There are simply discreet referrals from clients who have availed themselves of my services and been pleased with the result.”

I nodded, understanding almost nothing of what he said. The words made sense, but I could not imagine what they had to do with me.

“The reason I am here today, my lady, is because one of those clients was your late husband, Sir Edward Grey.”

I took his meaning at once. I bit my lip, mortified.

“Oh, I am so sorry. My husband’s solicitors are handling the disposition of his accounts. If you will apply to Mr. Teasdale, he will be only too happy to settle—”

“I do not require money from you, my lady, only answers.” He cast a glance toward the open door. Aquinas was careful to leave no shadow across the threshold, but I fancied he was not far away. Mr. Brisbane must have sensed it as well, for when he spoke, his voice was a harsh whisper.

“Have you considered the possibility that your husband was murdered?”

I sat, still as a frightened rabbit. “You have a cruel sense of humour, Mr. Brisbane,” I said through stiff lips. I thought again of Aquinas lingering in the hall. I had only to call him and he would remove Mr. Brisbane from my house. He was no match for Mr. Brisbane’s inches, but he could enlist the footmen to throw him bodily out the door.

“It is no jest, my lady, I assure you. Sir Edward came to me, a fortnight or so before he died. He was anxious, fearful even.”

“Fearful of what?”

“Death. He was in mortal fear for his life. He believed that someone intended to murder him.”

I shook my head. “Impossible. Edward had no enemies.”

Brisbane’s cool expression did not waver. “He had at least one, my lady. An enemy who sent him threatening letters through the post.”

I swallowed thickly. “That is untrue. Edward would have told me.”

He remained silent, giving me the time to work it out for myself. I did finally, and it was horrible.

“You think that I sent them? Is that what I am to infer?”

He made a brief gesture of dismissal. “I considered the possibility, naturally. But Sir Edward assured me that it was unthinkable. And now, having met you …”

“I do not believe you, Mr. Brisbane. If Edward did receive such letters, where are they?”

His expression was pained. “I encouraged Sir Edward to leave them with me for safekeeping. He refused. I do not know what has become of them. Perhaps he locked them up or gave them to his solicitor. Perhaps he even destroyed them, although I implored him not to.”

“You expect me to believe this fairy story of yours when you can offer not the slightest particle of proof?”

He spoke slowly, as one does to a backward child. “Perhaps your ladyship will be good enough to consider the fact that I was present at Grey House when Sir Edward collapsed. I came at Sir Edward’s request. I suggested to him that if I had an opportunity to observe his closest acquaintances I could offer him some notion as to who might be responsible for the letters and for the threat implicit within them.”

“Your name was not on the list,” I remembered suddenly. “I sent you no invitation card. How did you gain entrance that night?”

“Sir Edward let me in himself.”

“Can you prove this?” I asked evenly.

There was the barest flush at his brow, probably of irritation. “I cannot. There was no one present except ourselves. We had arranged that I would come a few minutes early. He wanted to give me the lay of the land, so to speak.”

“And no one saw you with Edward? No one can corroborate your tale?”

His lips thinned and I realized that he was holding on to his temper with difficulty. “My lady, my clients come to me because my reputation for integrity and probity is completely unsullied. I had no reason to wish your husband ill, I can assure you.” For the first time I heard the faintest trace of an accent in his voice. Scottish perhaps, given his surname, but whatever it was he had clearly taken great pains to conceal it. I took it as a measure of his emotion that it crept out in his speech now.

“And yet, I am not assured, Mr. Brisbane. My husband is dead, of quite natural causes, according to the doctor who treated him all of his life. I have the certificate that states it plainly. But you would come in here, intruding upon the freshest grief, venting accusations so vile I cannot possibly credit them. You can offer me no proof except your good name, and you expect me to find that sufficient. Tell me, Mr. Brisbane, what was your true purpose in coming here?”

His flush had ebbed, leaving him paler than before. He had mastered his temper as well, and his manner was cool again.

“I sought only to right a wrong, my lady. If your husband was murdered, justice should be meted out to the guilty.”

“And you would be paid to find them, would you not? You present impeccable motives to me, Mr. Brisbane, but I think you play at a more lucrative game.”

His eyes narrowed sharply. “What do you mean, my lady?”

“I think you hope to profit, Mr. Brisbane. If I engage you to finish the task you claim my husband presented you, you will be handsomely paid, I have no doubt. And if I do not wish your allegations to appear in the newspapers, you will expect payment for that as well, I expect.”

That stung him. He rose, not quickly as I had expected, but with a slow, purposeful motion that was more frightening than a display of anger would have been. His eyes never left my face as he stood over me, drawing on his gloves and shooting his cuffs.

“If you were a man, your ladyship, I would cordially horsewhip you for that remark. As you are not, I will simply bid you farewell and leave you to your fresh and obviously debilitating grief.” He said this last with a contemptuous glance at the Italian books piled on my desk and strode from the room.

I heard the murmur of voices as Aquinas showed him out, and then the resounding thud of the door itself. I felt rather proud of myself for my spirited defense. Father was always claiming that I was too reticent, too easily cowed for his taste. Mr. Brisbane had confronted me with something too awful to contemplate, and I had met him squarely.

I returned to my verbs with a sense of vindication and triumph I had seldom felt. But I noted as I wrote out the words that my hand shook, and after that I was never able to think of that day without the creeping certainty that I had made a dangerous mistake.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

This busy, puzzling stirrer-up of doubt, That frames deep mysteries, then finds ‘em out.

—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

“A Satire Against Mankind”

“Of course you did the right thing, darling. Nicholas Brisbane is the sort of man one takes to bed, and since, clearly, that is not the sort of thing you would do …” Portia’s voice trailed off, but her meaning was explicit. I was not daring enough; I lacked the dash and the spirit to bed a man I barely knew.

“You would not take him to bed, either,” I reminded her sulkily.

“Yes, but for a very different reason. Jane would never forgive me if I went back with men. And I did promise her to remain faithful. You, on the other hand, do not engage in the Sapphic pleasures, so you would be perfectly free to avail yourself of Mr. Brisbane’s considerable charms and expertise.”

I glanced around furtively. The footpaths in Hyde Park, when deserted, provide excellent opportunities for privileged conversation. But Portia’s voice was carrying, and I feared eavesdroppers.

She slapped at my arm lightly, then looped hers through mine. “I was right to call you a little mouse. There is no one about for miles.”

That much was true. I had arranged our meeting for eleven o’clock in the morning, long past the hour when fashionable society exercised itself on the horse paths. There were a few children about with their vigilant nursemaids, but they were far away, near the Serpentine. I could scarcely hear the shouts of the children at play.

“I still have not forgiven you for calling me that,” I reminded her.

“Duly noted, my pet. But I am your elder sister. It is my duty to abuse you when necessary.”

We shared a little smile and both of us knew she was forgiven. I could never stay angry with Portia for long. Particularly not when I needed her.

“What do you mean ‘expertise’?” I asked suddenly. She lifted her brows meaningfully.

“Dearest, you must come to one of my card parties. Caroline Pilkington is the most revolting gossip. As long as she is winning, she will tell you simply everything.”

I stared at Portia, remembering Caroline’s ample hips and fleshy arms. I could not picture them twined with Mr. Brisbane’s. He had seemed so urbane, so groomed and fastidious, that I could not credit him willingly engaged in any intimacy with a woman who was famous for changing her underlinen only once each month.

“Do you mean that Mr. Brisbane and Caro Pilkington—”

“Don’t be daft. Her sister Mariah, the pretty one, apparently had a very brief liaison with him. Her husband objected and Brisbane graciously withdrew. Apparently it was all quite gentlemanly. Horace approached him at the club, stated his case, Brisbane agreed, and they shared a cigar and a glass of brandy together. Brisbane broke it off that very evening. Mariah was bereft, according to Caro. She’s had scores of lovers and says he was quite something extraordinary. Apparently, he uses disguises sometimes in the course of his investigations. In his liaison with Mariah, he used them for discretion. He came to her once dressed as a chimney sweep. Quite invigorating, don’t you think?”

I felt flushed, in spite of the coolness of the morning. “That may well be, but it is considerably off the subject. I need advice.”

Portia stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression stern. “No, Julia, you need adventure. You need a lover, a holiday abroad. You need to cut your hair and swim naked in a river. You need to eat things you have never even seen before and speak languages you do not know. You need to kiss a man who makes you feel like your knees have turned to water and makes your heart feel as though it would spring from your chest.”

Her eyes were so earnest that I burst out laughing. “I think you have been at my romantic novels again.”

“And what if I have? You went from Father’s house to Edward’s, knowing nothing. You have spent the past five years married to a man who barely acknowledged your existence in his house and who certainly did not provide you with an exciting bedmate. You are free now, rich and healthy and quite handsome. Do something with yourself or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I had thought of going to Italy,” I said hesitantly.

She snorted. “Italy. To point at the statues and buy out the shops? I am not talking about simply a holiday abroad. I am talking about seizing your life and truly living it before it is too late.”

She knew me too well. “I am not such a wallflower. I sent Mr. Brisbane off with a flea in his ear,” I defended.

“Nicholas Brisbane is an adventure unto himself, Julia. Far too dangerous for you to handle, I can assure you. You were quite right to send him away. If I were not so devoted to Jane, I should be quite intrigued by him myself. You know, absolutely no one knows where he comes from. It is a very great mystery.”

“I should think he comes from Mr. and Mrs. Brisbane, wherever and whoever they might be.”

“Don’t be so literal, dearest. Apparently, he is very great friends with the Duke of Aberdour. The old gentleman sponsored him into his clubs the season before last. But no one knows why. Does he have some hold over Aberdour? Is he the bastard son no one ever suspected? It is quite possible that he is a Scot, given his connection with Aberdour, although no one really knows. Welsh, perhaps? A Savoyard count with a dark past full of misdeeds? Is he a Bonaparte prince in disguise, biding his time until he can claim his throne? It is all quite thrilling, don’t you think?”

“It is not thrilling, it is disgraceful. Imagine anyone accusing the sweet old Duke of Aberdour of foisting his bastard on society. And as for being a Bonaparte prince, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

Portia snorted. “You have never met Aberdour. Sweet isn’t the word. And no, I do not really think Mr. Brisbane is a prince, but there is something quite intriguing about him, the tiniest bit uncivilized—like a lion in a zoo. I can well imagine him the descendant of bloodthirsty Corsicans. And he would look rather well in an emperor’s robes.”

“Why do you think him dangerous?”

“That business last year with Lord Northrup’s son.” She paused and I looked at her blankly. “Goodness, Julia, will you never learn to listen to gossip? It can be quite useful. Apparently, Northrup’s youngest son was cheating at cards. At first he won only modest amounts, nothing to raise too many suspicions. But then he began to be greedy. He started playing for much higher stakes, winning conspicuously. He ruined the Bishop of Winchester’s nephew. Someone, perhaps the bishop, engaged Mr. Brisbane to sort it out.”

“What happened then?”

“Mr. Brisbane managed to get himself invited into a game where Northrup’s son was playing. Young Northrup won, and Mr. Brisbane immediately charged him with cheating. The young scoundrel had no choice. He challenged Brisbane to a duel and the particulars were arranged.”

“A duel? That is illegal,” I put in. Portia rolled her eyes.

“Of course it is illegal. And highly dangerous. That is what makes it interesting, ninny. They met at dawn, with pistols. They paced off the proper distance, turned, and Brisbane fired first, clipping young Northrup’s curls just over his ear.”

“And then?”

“Are you quite all right? You look flushed. Are you overwarm?”

I felt a spasm of irritation. She could not see my complexion through my veil. She was simply trying to draw out the tale, larding the suspense. Although, now that she mentioned it, I did feel a trifle hot.

“I am fine, Portia. Get on with it.”

She shrugged. “Well, it was young Northrup’s turn to fire, but he thought to provoke a retraction from Brisbane instead. He pointed his pistol at him and told him that if Brisbane would withdraw the accusation, he would not fire. Julia, you are breathing quite fast. I am concerned for you.”

I took her firmly by the arm. “Finish the story.”

“Very well. Brisbane refused.”

“No!”

“He did. He stared down the barrel of young Northrup’s pistol and said, ‘You are a cheater and a scoundrel and I will say so, even with my dying breath,’ or something like that. He stood square to little Northrup, and the young man could not fire at him. He discharged his weapon in the air and left in disgust.”

I dropped my hand. “But Northrup might have killed him.”

“That is why I said he was dangerous,” she said gravely. “A man who cares so little for his own mortality might well play loose with someone else’s.” Her expression turned mischievous. “But it does make for a rather dashing story, doesn’t it? Can’t you just see him there, the mist swirling about his legs, the sun just beginning to rise, burnishing his ebony hair …”

I poked at her with the end of my parasol. “Do be serious, Portia. I think I may have made a mistake in sending him away.”

Portia sobered. “No, dearest. Nicholas Brisbane is a complicated man. You need simplicity for a while. You must be selfish and think of happy, easy things—like new shoes and a good set of furs.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she went on.

“And as for the threatening letters, I am inclined to think our deliciously devilish Mr. Brisbane was telling the truth. Edward probably annoyed someone at the club with a silly prank and they decided to pay him back in kind.”

I felt dizzy with relief. “Of course! That must have been it. A prank that Edward did not recognize for a jest. Then Mr. Brisbane was acting in sincerity,” I finished, feeling rather miserable. If he had been sincere, I had behaved appallingly.

Portia put her head to mine. “Be cheered. I am certain he has been harassed by more vituperative women than you. To him, it is probably a hazard associated with his profession. Believe me, he will not think of you again.”

For some unaccountable reason, I found this to be less than comforting. I loathed the man and his vile implications about Edward, but I did not like to think of myself as forgettable. Instead, I seized on something she had said earlier that had gone unremarked upon.

“Do you really think I am handsome?”

“Absolutely,” she answered at once. She canted her head, studying my face through my widow’s veil. “But there is work we could do …. “

I looked at her suspiciously. Portia loved projects. If I allowed her to undertake me as a project, there was no knowing where it might lead. I might not recognize myself at the end of it.

Then I thought about her remarks—that I needed an adventure, that Brisbane was more of a challenge than I could handle, that he would not think of me again. And suddenly I felt angry, reckless, desperate to do something to change myself and the course I was on toward a staid old age of boredom and bread puddings.

“Then let us begin,” I replied firmly.

Portia’s eyes sparkled as she began to detail her plans. I was only half listening. I knew that I would give her free rein and that she would do exactly as she pleased with me. Her taste was impeccable, and I had little doubt that I would turn out better at her hands than I had from Aunt Hermia’s or Edward’s.

She chattered on about coiffeurs and corsets, but I was still thinking of Nicholas Brisbane’s dark eyes and cool manners. A year would pass before I saw him again. And it was then that the adventure truly began.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

—William Shakespeare

“Sonnet 94”

Of course, it did not seem like anything of an adventure at the time. Despite Portia’s efforts with my appearance, I still spent most of my time at Grey House, reading to Simon, listening to Aunt Ursula detail her newest remedy for constipation, or waiting for Val to return home from his evergrowing number of social engagements. My year of widowhood was nearly at an end and I was beginning to chafe under the restrictions. I had not been to the theatre or the opera since Edward’s death. I had not entertained, and had been invited to only the most intimate of family parties. I felt sometimes as though I might as well have been locked up in a Musselman’s harim considering how little I was actually outside of Grey House.

As for Portia’s suggestion that I take a lover, the very idea was laughable. I saw few men, save those I employed or to whom I was related by blood or marriage. I had only the notion of Italy to sustain me. I had mapped out my plans to the last detail, dispatching letters to delightful innkeepers and receiving particulars on their accommodations. I had applied myself diligently to the study of Italian, and with Simon to tutor me I made rather good progress. He had always had a good ear for languages, and was enormously patient with my mistakes.

“You are a natural,” he told me more than once. “I could close my eyes and believe you were Venetian.”

“Liar,” I said happily.

And we were happy, I think, in spite of his bouts of breathlessness and the fevers that left him too weak to hold a book. I used to look up quickly and catch him, a hand pressed quietly to his chest as he stilled his jagged breathing. But even then he would not forgo our lesson.

“It is all up here, my darling,” he said, tapping his brow. “Now, tell me, how would you say, ‘these gardens are beautiful’?”

“Questi giardini sono belli,” I replied.

“Very good. Now ask what sort of tree this is.”

“Che albero è questo? But Simon, I’m not terribly interested in trees, I’m afraid.”

He smiled up at me, his face pink with exertion and pleasure. “Ah, Julia. You are going to Italy. You must be interested in everything. You must be open to every possibility.”

Strange that both he and Portia should parrot the same theme. Change, possibility, opportunity … but as I looked at Simon, I remembered that this particular opportunity would not come my way until he had passed from my life.

I think he remembered it, too, for he looked away then and told me to begin counting, a skill I had mastered a month before.