“There is no one here,” I said finally. “I mean to try Father’s study.”
“A fair idea,” he said smoothly, opening the door for me. He had taken it as understood I would not question his accompanying me again, and it is a credit to how well he knew me that I did not. He could be silent as a tomb when he chose, and nothing would pry him open.
I preceded him to the study, and after a lengthy conversation with Grim, we searched it, turning up nothing. My gaze lingered on the box where Father kept the newspapers, the ones that told of the vicious riot in Trafalgar Square. Questions trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I did not ask them. We were at last forced to admit defeat and moved on, closing the door softly behind us.
A few shadows flickered in the nave, a few glimmers of light glowed from under closed doors, but there was no one about. I had just begun to wonder if we were entirely alone in this part of the Abbey when the silence was shattered by a broken scream.
It faltered, then started again, over and over, until I thought I should run mad from it.
“The chapel,” Brisbane muttered. He grabbed my hand, crushing it in his, and began to run. I dropped my candle along the way, glancing back only once to make certain the flame had not sparked the carpet.
I dropped the candlestick and pressed my free hand to where a pain stabbed my side. “Brisbane, I am tightly laced. I cannot run so quickly.”
If he heard me, he did not care. He did not slow his pace until we reached the great oaken doors of the chapel. One was closed; one stood open a scant few inches. Light spilled across the carpet of the hall, and yet I was as reluctant to enter the chapel as I would have been to cross the very threshold of hell.
The screams had stopped, and there was only a tense, expectant silence as Brisbane pushed open the door and we stepped inside. The scene before us was like something out of a nightmare.
Lucian Snow was lying on the cold stone floor just in front of the altar, his neck twisted so that he faced us, his eyes wide open and staring.
And above him stood Lucy, clutching an iron candelabrum that dripped slow, heavy drops of crimson blood onto the floor.
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple…
—Macbeth
In an instant Brisbane was beside her, but before he could pry the candelabrum out of her fingers, she dropped it. It made a horrendous clatter on the stones. She flinched and turned her face up to Brisbane’s, her eyes rolling back white. He caught her with his good arm before she could slide to the floor. He looked at me over his shoulder, and I stepped quickly over Snow’s body to retrieve the candelabrum.
“Put it aside, out of the way,” he instructed me softly. “I shall wish to examine it later.” It was typical of him to worry about the evidence before the girl.
I carried the candelabrum at arm’s length, mindful not to disturb the blood or other, nastier bits. I tucked it behind the altar and hurried back to help Brisbane lower Lucy carefully to the floor a little distance away. She opened her eyes and Brisbane spoke calmly to her, but she made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on Lucian Snow’s broken head.
I heard Brisbane tell her she should stay where she was and not move, then he joined me at the body.
“I suppose it is quite certain he is dead?” I asked faintly.
“There are bits of him stuck to your shoe,” he remarked, rather unhelpfully. I felt instantly sick, but I swallowed hard, forcing the sensation down. Brisbane was making a quick study of the body, noting its position and the arrangement of the clothes, as well as the scene. I knew better than to interrupt him. Brisbane did not take kindly to distractions whilst he was working. Instead I moved to where Lucy was sitting.
Her shoulders shook as if she were sobbing, but there were no tears, and not a sound escaped her lips. Impulsively, I put my arm around her.
“It is all right, Lucy. I am here with you. You are not alone.” If she heard me, she did not give any sign of it. She simply sat, her shoulders shuddering as if with extreme cold. I noticed then that her hands were wet with blood. She held them open in her lap, staring at her red, sticky palms.
I rose and went to Brisbane. “Your coat. Lucy needs it.”
His eyes did not leave the corpse. He had thrust his good arm into the sleeve of his fine wool evening coat; the rest of the coat was simply draped over his other shoulder like a cape. He stripped it off without hesitation. “That is good of you,” I whispered as he thrust it into my hands.
He nodded absently, still scrutinising the body. I turned to Lucy, but before I could reach her, Father appeared in the doorway, Portia just behind, Ludlow hard on her heels.
“We heard screams. What is wrong?” Father demanded.
His gaze moved from the broken, bloody body on the floor to Brisbane, to me, to Lucy and her hands wet with blood.
“Oh, Miss Lucy, what have you done?” Ludlow murmured mournfully. Lucy roused then, looking from Ludlow to Father to Brisbane. Then her eyes lit on the iron ring in the wall, and somewhere in the sluggish depths of her shocked mind, something must have stirred.
She rose and staggered toward Father. Her face pale as moonlight, her steps unsteady as she held out those gore-stained hands in front of her.
“My lord! In this holy place, I claim the right of sanctuary!” Her voice was shrill, her eyes burning with emotion. The phrase, the gestures, were the grossest of melodrama, but Father did not laugh. He looked down at her, his expression grave.