“Brisbane, surely I do not need an apron. I mean, I won’t be—”
He turned, raising a brow coolly at me. “Of course you will. I have one good hand and his lordship is not at liberty to assist.”
He put out his hand for the apron.
“What do you mean Father is not here? What else could he have to do?”
Brisbane’s nostrils flared in impatience. “He was speaking with Miss Lucy and Miss Emma. I rose early this morning and told him about the drugged brandy. But now I believe he is searching for Lady Dorcas. The upstairs maid says she has disappeared.”
I stared at him, clutching the aprons in nerveless fingers.
“Disappeared? Are you quite serious?”
“As the grave. My apron?” He put out his hand again and I thrust it at him, my mind whirling.
“Where could she have gone? The gates are frozen shut and the moat is covered in ice. She cannot have gone far.”
“Then she is probably quite safe.”
Brisbane whipped a quick knot into the strings at the neck of the apron, then looped it over his head, mussing a lock of hair onto his brow. He reached his good arm behind his back, then gestured for me to help him. I crossed behind him, reaching around him for the strings. For such a large man, his waist was narrow, and I crossed the strings, moving in front of him to tie them securely. He said nothing, but I glanced up to see the hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.
“Brisbane, how can you be so calm? She is an elderly lady, and that was a killing storm. She might be frozen in a snowdrift for all we know.”
Brisbane moved to the little table and opened the book. “Put on your apron. This might prove a little unpleasant and that is a very nice gown.”
I obeyed him, my fingers stiff with cold and dread. When the apron was secure, I went to his side, peering over his shoulder at the book. I was instantly sorry.
“I haven’t given up on the subject of Aunt Dorcas,” I warned him. “But this is a more immediate problem,” I said, waving a hand from the hideous plates in the book to the motionless figure on the table. “I do not think I can do this.”
Brisbane looked at me severely. “Did you not insist to me just last evening that you would have your part in this investigation?”
I clamped my lips together against the faint smell emanating from the body. I nodded.
“Very well. This is part of an investigation. That body may hold information for us, and if it does, I mean to find it.”
I swallowed hard, terribly grateful I had eschewed breakfast. “But you cannot possibly, that is to say, those pictures are quite specific and very, erm, thorough. I really think only a trained physician should make such an extensive examination. And don’t you think the authorities will notice if you cut him like that?”
Brisbane looked back at the book. After a moment he nodded, reluctantly, I fancied. “They might at that. Very well. I shall not perform a proper post-mortem. But I will do everything else. Now, you must be my hands.”
For the next hour I did as I was told. I started by unpinning my sleeves. When I rolled the first above my elbow, Brisbane’s eyes lingered for the briefest moment on the soft white skin at my wrist. I glanced up when I turned back the second, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the book in his hand, and from that moment on his manner toward me was coolly proper.
“Begin by drawing back the sheet,” he instructed quietly. “Fold it down all the way, and mind you don’t disarrange anything further.”
I reached a hand to touch the sheet, then drew it back sharply. “I know it is just a fancy, but I thought it moved.”
Brisbane looked up from the book. “If this is too much for you, I can ask Aquinas.”
I shook my head, forcing myself to take in one slow breath, then release it calmly. “No. If you can do this, so can I.”
I would have expected a tiny spark of admiration in his gaze for that little speech, but his nose was buried in his book again, and I rolled my eyes. This time, I approached the sheet and removed it, as crisply as any housemaid about her chores.
Following his explicit instructions, I loosened Mr. Snow’s clothing, removing his evening jacket, waistcoat and neckcloth. I felt them carefully, but the pockets were empty. I laid them aside and steeled myself for what must come.
“Wait,” Brisbane said, bending swiftly over the body.
“What is it?” I demanded, elbowing Brisbane a little. His expression was grim. “There.”
He pointed to Lucian Snow’s neck. Bruises blossomed around the throat, heavy blackish-purple things, livid against the pale skin. It was clear, even to my amateur’s eyes, that they were finger marks, borne in with great pressure.