The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself for what he is, and steal out of your company.
—Much Ado About Nothing
At dinner I was mightily put out to find Brisbane absent. The pheasant was delicious, but the dish was hotly peppered with my pique. He might have been in a bit of pain from the bout of fencing, but it had been his own notion to engage Alessandro, and he had only himself to blame. He had a responsibility to Father, to this investigation, tome,to follow through with his inquiries. And as I sat at table, glancing surreptitiously at my companions, it occurred to me our time together was drawing to a close. This grim thought was borne out by Father, who rose after dessert and addressed the company.
“I thought it appropriate to take this opportunity to speak to you all. This chance may not come again. A westerly wind has blown in, and the snow is nearly melted. I am assured by tomorrow morning the roads will be muddy and slow, but passable. If that is indeed the case, Lord Wargrave will leave us then to bring a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. If the telegraph is still inoperable, he will travel up to London personally and then the investigation into the death of Mr. Snow will be taken out of my hands, and what has transpired here will be known to all.” He paused here for dramatic effect. It was a gesture I had seen often enough when he played Lear in our amateur theatricals, but it was highly effective. He looked slowly from one face to another, giving nothing away. Some squirmed a little under his scrutiny, some dropped their eyes, and some met his gaze squarely with their own.
“I should also make you aware of a murderous attack perpetrated upon my nieces, Emma and Lucy, last night,” he said, his voice ringing out in tones a thespian would have envied. Sir Cedric made to rise, but Father waved him back to his chair. I bit back a groan. Brisbane had specifically instructed him to tell no one of the attack. He would take Father apart with his bare hands when he heard what he had done. The rest of the company sat in mute horror as Father continued.
“Thanks to timely intervention, they are both quite well, but I have ordered them kept under watch of my own staff in the ladies’ wing. This matter will also be given over to the detective inspector. But as this place has proven dangerous for members of my own family, so it may be so for the rest of us. Therefore, when you rise from table, you will go directly to your rooms and remain there until morning.”
He paused again, pitching his voice lower for effect.
“I think tonight would best be spent in contemplation. If you are the sort of person given to prayer, then do so. Pray for us all, pray for the soul of Lucian Snow, and pray for the murderer who walks among us.”
Charlotte gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands, but the rest of the company made no reaction. For my part, I thought it a masterful bit of rhetoric on Father’s part. I had never heard him speak of prayer before, for he was not a religious man. He believed in the repose of one’s mind, of solitude taken in regular doses to quiet the spirit. But in this place, this Abbey once consecrated to the service of God, the very stones still echoed with the chants of holy men.
Perhaps he hoped it would be enough to prick the conscience of the guilty to confession. Or perhaps he simply wanted an evening free of all of us. If the latter, his aim was true. We left the chilly dining room then—dinner had been a frigid affair, marked with the mewling of infant cats and an occasional hiss from their irritated mother—and went our separate ways, bidding one another good-night in subdued voices. Portia and I made our way slowly upstairs, and I noticed anew the marks of fatigue upon her lovely face.
“I am glad Father has banished us to our rooms tonight,” I told her. “You look a fright.”
“I feel one as well. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to entertain properly when there is a dead man in the game larder.”
I patted her shoulder. “I am sorry for it. Rest is what you need now. Take a nice, dull book to bed and you will be asleep before you know it.”
“I must look in on Brisbane first. He sent his regrets for dinner by way of Aquinas, but I would like to make certain he is quite all right.”
That Brisbane was perfectly fine, I had no doubt. He was simply being mysterious, holed up in his room like a wintering bear, nursing at his hookah pipe and cogitating, instead of actively investigating as he ought to be.
“I am sure he is entirely well,” I told her acidly. “I think you need not bother.”
She waved an airy hand. “Oh, I do not mind. Besides, I wish to speak with him about another matter we have been discussing. A bit of business between friends,” she finished with a maddening air of vagueness.
Portia had the nasty habit common to all elder sisters of sometimes pretending to knowledge I did not have in order to provoke me to irritation. I would not be provoked. Instead I lifted my chin, gave her a sweetly sticky smile, and simply replied, “Then I will leave you here. Good-night, dearest.”
She continued on to Brisbane’s room, leaving me seething with annoyance. “A bit of business between friends,” I muttered. “Bit of business indeed. And what friends? They hardly know one another.”
I continued on in this fashion until I reached my room where Morag was dozing over her knitting. I poked her with a finger.
“Get up and go to bed. I shall not want you this evening.
And take the dog with you.” My plans did not include Florence. Morag yawned and stretched, an elaborate production that took a few minutes. She made a great show of packing up her knitting and collecting the dog whilst I waited.
“You needn’t tap your foot at me,” she warned. “I am going as fast as I can.”
“Feathers. You are slow as treacle because you want to know what I am about. And what I am about is none of your business.”
“Oooh, you are in a right nasty mood, you are. Come, Florence. We’ve no call to be spoken to like that.”
Nose in the air, she stuffed the dog under one arm, the knitting under the other, and retreated to her room. I paced the room after she left, working off my impatience. I was anxious about the night to come, worried my plan would work, and terrified it would not. Restless, I picked things up and put them down again, tried to read for a while, and even attempted to answer a few letters with little success.
At last the clock struck midnight, the earliest hour at which I thought my plan might be put into play. I rose from my chair and threw a black dressing gown over my clothes, changing my evening shoes for a pair of slippers with soft felt soles. If I were seen, I could easily claim I was wakeful and in need of a book or some refreshment. But I did not mean to be seen.
I crept from my room, careful to keep to the interior wall. The gallery was flooded with shifting moonlight. The moon had waxed full, shedding soft pearly light through the great windows. The light shifted as ragged bits of clouds, torn by the warm west wind, dragged over the moon’s face like bits of veiling. I made no sound as I slipped behind the tapestry and depressed the mechanism. I had brought no candle with me. I could not risk being betrayed by the feeble light, and I knew the passage well enough to traverse it by feel. If I climbed slowly and kept my hands in front of me, I should be quite all right, I reasoned. But I will admit to heaving a great sigh of relief when I gained the lumber rooms. Though the moonlight was even brighter here, it took me some minutes to arrange a place of concealment. Finally, I hauled a small trunk onto a larger one and topped them both with a hat form, tucking myself neatly behind. And then I waited.
It was bitterly cold in the lumber rooms, even with my dressing gown over my clothes, and I wished more than once I had been clever enough to have dragged out a few of the moth-eaten old furs to line my little den. I dozed in spite of the cold, but jerked myself awake, occasionally resorting to little pinches and pokes to keep alert. I waited, thinking of all the things I would rather be doing at that moment. I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I heard a softly muttered curse. Carefully, I stretched my stiffened limbs and dared a peek over the trunk.
A woman was standing with her back to me, scarcely a dozen feet away. She must have been there a few minutes at least for she had nearly finished assuming her costume. Her hair was obscured by the thick white veiling, and she was already dressed in the ghost’s attire, completely concealing her identity. She was fumbling at her feet, doubtless attaching the pattens to her shoes.