I shrugged. “Poisoning is a woman’s method. We must look to the ladies of the house.”
“Not necessarily,” he began to argue.
I persisted. “I think it was a woman. Moreover, I think she masquerades as a ghost.” I paused, then took a deep breath. “I saw a phantom last night, at the end of the ladies’ wing in the dorter. It was at least a head shorter than six feet, and the draperies were filmy stuff, wispy, like fingers of fog.”
To his credit, Brisbane did not doubt me.
“What did it do?”
“It did nothing. It seemed to look at me, then it vanished.”
He looked at me severely. “I would thank you to save the nursery stories for Charlotte. What did it do?”
“I simply mean it was there one moment, and not the next. It slipped behind a tapestry concealing a hidden passage. That particular passage leads to the lumber rooms in the scriptoria, and from there, one might go anywhere in the Abbey. The ghost might have been about some nefarious business. We have, after all, had a murder and two attempted murders since it appeared.”
Brisbane shook his head slowly. “It is too early to theorise. We must know more. When the ladies have awakened tomorrow, they must be questioned, and the footman as well. And there is still a corpse to examine and the Reverend Twickham to call upon with the news of his curate’s murder.”
I gave him a smug smile. “That ghost is somehow connected to this ghastly business. And you will have to admit that I am right.”
Brisbane said nothing, but resumed his pipe. The smoke curled around his head, thick and sweet. I felt suddenly light as a feather.
“Brisbane, honestly. I do not see how you can stand the smell of it. It makes me feel quite queer.”
He gave me an enigmatic smile and regarded me through half-lidded eyes.
“‘You’ll get used to it in time.’”
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
—Hamlet
For the remainder of the night—what little there was of it—I slept as one dead. I do not know if it was due to the effects of Brisbane’s exotic smoke, or simply fatigue from a broken night’s rest, but I rose with a slight headache and heavy-lidded eyes. My first thought was of Aunt Hermia’s jewels. I had hidden the lumpy little bundle under my pillow for safekeeping. I felt a stab of guilt when I realised I had forgotten to show them to Brisbane. Then I remembered his occasionally high-handed behaviour and smothered it. It would give me great pleasure to present him with the jewelsanda reason for their presence among Snow’s belongings.
I rose slowly, stretching and yawning widely enough to crack my jaws. Florence was lethargic as well, barely opening her eyes when Morag brought my morning tea. I waved scraps of buttered toast under the dog’s nose, but she turned away, burrowing into the fur tippet with a sad little moan.
“Morag, I think Florence is ailing. Ask Cook for some beef tea. If she drinks that, then an egg, softly cooked, or a bit of chicken and potato.”
Morag grumbled at the extra work, but dressed me quickly in a thick gown of black merino edged in velvet ribbon. When she turned back to the wardrobe, I tucked the bundle of Aunt Hermia’s jewels into my pocket.
“And my boots. I may step out after breakfast,” I told her, making up my mind then that I would accompany Brisbane when he called upon Uncle Fly to break the news of Snow’s death.
“You’ll not stir a foot outside,” Morag said roundly. She went to the draperies and flung them back, rattling the rings on the pole. I went to her side and gasped.
“Heavens, it must have snowed all night.”
“As near as. The moat is iced, but not solid enough to walk upon, and the gates are frozen shut. We’ll none of us be leaving the Abbey today, not even poor Mr. Snow,” she said, her expression mournful.
I stared out at the sullen winter landscape. I did not recognise the view at all. Rather than the sweep of lawns from the moat’s edge to the formal gardens and woods, and then to the rolling Downs beyond, there was only softly billowing white, like a great pale ermine mantle draped over the landscape. The distinctive architectural features of the grounds—the statues and staircases, gates and urns—were shapeless white lumps. Beyond the formal gardens, the trees were black against the bleak grey sky, their bare branches encased in ice, like so many gnarled skeleton fingers. Just below my window, the waters of the moat moved black and fathomless beneath a paper-thin sheet of ice. Morag was unfortunately and entirely correct. We were housebound at Bellmont Abbey.
And Morag, who loved nothing better than a good disaster, smiled.
As soon as I left Morag, I made my way to Hortense’s chamber. Mindful of Brisbane’s instructions not to speak of Emma and Lucy’s ordeal, I went to her only for comfort. Hortense’s presence was a balm to the most wounded spirit, and I had neglected her terribly since I had returned home. She had been given the Empire Room, perhaps as a compliment to her native country. It was elegant in its simplicity and perfectly suited to set off Hortense’s serene beauty. The walls were hung with lily-strewn striped silk, pink and white, and the floor was warmed with an Aubusson, a relic from Madame de Pompadour’s apartment at Versailles, if legend was to be believed.
Hortense opened the door at once, her lovely face wreathed in smiles.
“Julia! How lovely to see you. I was just having my morning chocolate. You must have a cup.” She was dressed in a morning gown of lilac velvet with a little frill of silver lace at the neck. She resumed her seat and patted the sofa beside her. I sank onto it gratefully.