Silent In The Grave (29 page)

I gave him my warmest smile. “Good morning, Monk. How are you today?”

His expression was correct, but his gaze dropped instantly to my bruised lip.

“Better than most, my lady.”

It was an effort, but I held my bright smile fixed in place.

“Mr. Brisbane is not expecting me, but I wonder if he could spare me a few minutes of his time?”

Monk stepped backward and gestured for me to enter.

“I shall see if Mr. Brisbane is available to callers, my lady.”

He gestured for me to take a chair and I sat, willing my knees to stop trembling. I was frankly nervous at seeing Brisbane, and I wished fervently that I had worn something more flattering, something to give me a bit of dash and a bit of confidence. Yes, I should definitely have worn the scarlet walking suit. Either that or taken a very stiff whiskey before I had come out.

Monk offered me tea or coffee and withdrew when I refused both. I did not look at
Punch
or peruse the bookshelves. I sat instead, staring at the little calico knot in the bowl on his side table. A knot very similar to the one Magda had given me, doubtless fashioned from the graveclothes of a dead Rom. One of Brisbane’s Gypsy relations? Did he keep it for protection, as a talisman? Or simply as a reminder of someone he had loved and lost? Or was it a bit of detritus, flotsam he had collected on his travels and neglected to discard?

So deep was I in my musings, I did not hear Brisbane come in—it was only a moment later and he was treading like a cat. Or a Gypsy. I remembered from childhood how soft-footed they were. From years of eluding trouble, I imagined, but I suppose it served Brisbane well in his chosen occupation. He took the chair opposite mine and simply regarded me, saying nothing. There were a few bruises from the fight darkening his jaw, and a little cut on his lower lip that I was very much afraid had not come from the fight at all. I felt a wave of heat break over my face, doubtless leaving me unattractively ruddy under his scrutiny.

“It was good of you to let me in today,” I began, my voice a good deal steadier than it had a right to be. The tips of his nostrils were flaring white—not a good sign. I had always been undone in the presence of angry men.

“I did not,” he pointed out coolly. “Monk did.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to make this easy for me. Why did you agree to see me, since you so obviously do not wish to?”

He lifted one shoulder in a bland shrug. “Curiosity. It killed the cat and no doubt it will be my undoing, as well.”

“I suppose that is fair enough. What do you wish to know?”

He gave a short, mirthless laugh that was probably intended to make me feel stupid. It succeeded wildly. “Everything. To begin, how could you, a woman of such obvious intellectual gifts, not realize the danger of a Gypsy camp?”

“I did realize the danger. That is precisely why I went.”

He passed a hand over his eyes. They were shadowed today, and I wondered if he felt another headache coming on.

“I do not understand you. Most women would go fleeing in the opposite direction of such a situation.”

“Oh, and so would I, under other circumstances. But you see, I did not have a choice.”

Brisbane’s eyes were sharp and wolfy. “Because you wanted to find the box before I did.”

“Yes. Or no, I mean I wanted the box, but I went to find you, really.”

“To ask me to give up on Magda, I expect.”

“No, of course not,” I said, growing exasperated. Why were men so impossibly obtuse at times? “If I were so worried about poor Magda, I would hardly have told you where to find her. Come to think of it, why did you even tell me that you were making for the camp?”

“Because I did not think you would be daft enough to follow me,” he returned, his temper rising.

“But how else was I supposed to make certain that you were all right?”

He went quite still then. I would have sworn that even his pulse did not beat in that quiet moment. “Explain,” he said finally, his voice quite low.

“As you pointed out, Roma camps can be dangerous places. I thought you meant to tear off and accuse Magda of something dreadful—something her menfolk would not stand for. To be honest, I would not have given a farthing for your chances if you hadn’t known the language. As it was, you were really quite lucky, you know. Magda’s family are very private, even for Gypsies. They don’t mix very much with their own kind.”

He was staring at me with an expression that would have been dull-witted on any other man. I waited while he gathered his thoughts and closed his mouth.

“Let me see if I understand you,” he began slowly. “You went along because you thought you were on a mission of rescue?”

“Something like that. I mean, I doubt Val and I could have done much against a tribe of angry Roma, but we do know Magda’s family. We could have vouched for you, that sort of thing. I rather think they feel they owe me something for taking care of Magda, which is utterly backward when you think about it, because they are the ones who turned her out without so much as a cook pot—Mr. Brisbane? Brisbane, are you quite all right? You look very queer.”

He rose and went to the window. He was thinking, apparently something too electric to share. I shrugged and sucked another cachou, waiting for him to get hold of himself.

After a minute or so he resumed his chair. “Forgive me, my lady. I was simply struck by the irony.”

“Irony?”

He waved a hand. “Never mind. I sent word to Mordecai about Mrs. Birch’s observations. He wrote back this morning. He seems quite encouraged by her information and tells me that he hopes to have discovered the source of the poison within a few days. Then we shall be one step closer to finding our man.”

“Our man. You still think the murderer a man?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I meant the word figuratively. Poison is often a woman’s weapon, and the method…it speaks of love gone wrong, does it not?”

I nodded slowly. “I suppose the brothel, then. Perhaps he had a relationship with a particular girl…”

Brisbane was watching me closely.

“Do not think that I enjoy this, Mr. Brisbane, but it is only logical.”

“Yes. Especially when you know the purpose of the box.”

He reached again into his pocket, this time producing the little porcelain box that was the source of so much trouble. It was rectangular, fitted with gilt or perhaps even gold fastenings. It was slim and elegantly proportioned, but the colours of Pandora’s portrait were rather garish. Gilt, I decided finally.

He opened it, but it was empty. “Do you know what this is?”

I shrugged. “As you said before, a rather tacky souvenir of my husband’s distasteful adventures.”

He placed it carefully on the table. “It was designed to hold condoms—contraceptive sheaths.”

I stared at the pretty, tawdry little box. “You mean that that actually—”

“Held the murder weapon. Yes. At least I am as certain as I can be. I intend to have Mordecai test it eventually. Perhaps traces of the poison remain.”

The sweet cachou turned sour in my mouth. “Put it away. For God’s sake.”

He did, slipping it into his pocket.

“How did you persuade Jasper to get it from Magda?”

“I offered him money.”

I lifted a brow at him. “Is that really all it took?”

“She had given it to him to pawn. It saved him a trip. My greatest trouble was persuading him that I only wanted the box. I almost had to take those bloody candlesticks as well.”

I looked up at him and he was almost smiling. He knew I would not take offense at his language, and I think he was trying in some small way to put things right between us. I was still miserable, but not as bleakly so as I had been a moment before.

“I am sorry, you know. Clearly you meant to keep your Gypsy blood private and I blundered in where I had no right to be.”

He waved an indifferent hand. “Perhaps I did not mean to keep it so private as I thought I did.” He paused, canting his head at my incredulity. “You’re blinking at me like a rather curious owl.”

“Forgive me. You seemed angry enough at me last night for discovering your secret.”

“I was angry…for a variety of reasons. Not the least because I distrusted your motives. I thought you meant to take the box before I could retrieve it.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you understand now that that was not my intention.”

“I do.” His gaze was firm and clear, no shadow of a headache, I thought now. “But you are quite correct. I told you where I intended to be. I opened myself to the possibility that you would find me speaking Romany.”

“Quite fluently, I should say.” I caught my breath, comprehension beginning to dawn. “Magda knew, didn’t she? The first time she met you, she spoke Romany because she intended you to know that she had discovered your secret. She called you a posh rat.”

Brisbane’s eyes gleamed. “The word is
poshrat,
” he corrected me, giving it the same inflection Magda had used. “It means half-breed. And yes, she knew me well enough for what I was. My mother’s people all bear a strong resemblance to one another.” His mouth twisted into a bitter little smile. “You will note that I do not resemble His Grace of Aberdour in any respect.”

“Thank God for that! Is that why he looked at you so viciously when you played the violin?”

He nodded. “It reminds him too much of the wild little half-breed he took in. Especially when I play Romany music.”

I felt my heart quicken. “The second piece?”

“Yes. Did you like it?”

“I did.” I swallowed thickly. “I had never heard it before, but I should have known it for what it was. I heard enough Gypsy music as a child.”

He waved a lazy hand. “So, you see? I must not have intended to keep my secret from you for very long.”

His gaze narrowed and focused now, tightly upon my face, my eyes, and I began to feel flustered. I have seen the terrible excitement of chickens when a fox comes creeping too near the hen yard. I felt my feathers beginning to ruffle.

I cleared my throat primly. “You may be certain that I shall keep it.”

“It does not matter. One of these days my great-uncle will get too old or too tipsy and that particular cat will come streaking out of the bag. And I will be finished in society.”

“You do not know that.” I felt suddenly argumentative. I did not like him like this, quiet and acquiescent. Combative and difficult was his normal manner. I had grown accustomed to it. “Many Jewish men are accepted in society. Why not a Roma?”

“The Jewish men in society all have a great deal of money that they are happy to lend to their impoverished peers.”

“That is horribly cynical, Brisbane. But probably true,” I admitted. “Still, you are only half a Gypsy. Half Scot as well.”

He laughed. “Slim redemption, that. With the exception of the duke, all of my father’s family still refer to me as ‘Jack’s filthy Gypsy bastard.’ I doubt they would sponsor me should I lose my entrée into the best houses.”

“Don’t be self-pitying. It isn’t becoming,” I said sharply.

He shrugged again. “It is true. That they say it, I mean,” he said with a grin. “Not that I am. My parents were married very properly some seven months before I was born.”

“Your father was quite something else,” I observed mildly.

“Quite,” he agreed.

He seemed so reconciled to the thought that he might lose his standing, his reputation, that I had to ask, “Why do you pursue society clients, then, if you do not seem to mind about losing them?”

“Money, of course. The wealthy are able to pay far more for my services than the middle class. Why not take fewer, more lucrative investigations and leave myself more time for my own pursuits?”

I did not wish to probe too deeply into this. I had a vague notion that some of these pursuits might be unsavory.

“What will you do if the clients do not come?”

“What I did before. This and that. Do not mind about me, my lady. Like all cats, I land on my feet.”

I started. I had so often thought of him as feline, that I wondered for one mad moment if he had read my thoughts.

“Ah, good. Well, I suppose we had best discuss the investigation and how we shall proceed.”

“
We
shall not proceed, my lady,” he said matter-of-factly. “I must do the rest alone.” He raised a hand to stem my angry protest. “Listen, before you screech at me. You went to that camp last night because you feared for my safety. I shall not forget that. But in return, you must allow me to have a care for yours. The next step must be tracing this box to the person in the brothel who knew Sir Edward. You might have gotten away with your little masquerade in a dark Gypsy camp on a moonless night. But there is no possible way, I repeat,
no possible way
that you could do the same in a West End brothel. There are men there whose sole occupation is to beat and torture those who make trouble for the proprietors. Do not think they would scruple to hurt you if they discovered the truth about your identity.”