Silent In The Grave (36 page)

“Why did you lie with him if you were angry enough to send those notes?”

He flinched at my plain speaking, but he answered quickly enough, smiling a little at the memory.

“I was angry before because I had just learned of my illness. I learned I had not been the only one for him. I was jealous and angry. We were parted for the winter, and my bitterness was everything to me. I sent him the notes, but smiled to his face. He never suspected I was angry with him. But when he came back, and still wanted me—” He paused, his face rapturous. “I could not believe he had chosen me. He said we would be together, that he was finished with the others. I loved him, my lady,” he ended on a sob.

I turned my face away as he wept softly. There was only one thing more to ask. “Why the sheath that last night? Both of you were infected, why bother?”

“The doctor had told him it was necessary for him to use them, even if he was with someone who already had the disease. Something about it making the disease more virulent if he were exposed again. I did not understand it entirely.”

But I did. Edward’s constitution was already weakened, almost fatally so. Even without the poison, he would have likely lived only a matter of months. But with his declining health, he could not risk a fresh infection of the disease—having it already was no protection against a new infestation of it, an infestation that could prove quickly fatal in his condition. It was ironic that the very device he used to preserve his health had been the means of destroying it.

I squared my shoulders and faced Desmond. “You will speak of this to no one. When your duties here are at an end, we will see you settled into a proper nursing home, where you will be looked after.”

He nodded, his face awash with misery. He did not attempt to apologize again, and for that I was glad. I had dealt with him calmly enough, but I realized my hands were fisted damply at my sides. I needed a few moments to compose myself. I dismissed him with a jerk of the head and he left me. I sat woodenly on the side of Edward’s bed, feeling raw with emotions I could not entirely identify.

Humiliation was only the first. How many others had there been? Who had known? Who had watched me with pity and scorn and the secret knowledge of what Edward was? I felt sick to my stomach with it, and I sat there, swallowing it down. I thought of the conspiratorial smiles Edward had given me, and wondered how many others had received them as well. The little jokes, the charming ways—I had thought them mine, at least for a while. I had been so bloody stupid, I told myself savagely. How could he have done such things, under my very roof? But more importantly, how could I not have known?

I looked about the room, silently hating everything in it. I had not been here since Magda and I had made an attempt to clear it. There were boxes, still only half-packed with suits of clothes. There were still sheets on the bed, a few shirts in the drawers. His ring and watch were still in a box on the dresser, his cologne still scented the air. I looked around at the little statues—a shepherdess, a flute-playing youth, a Roman warrior. I saw the invitations still tucked into his mantel mirror—from the wealthy and respectable. How many of those men—a cabinet minister, a vicar, a duke—had been party to his visits to the brothel? Were they all privy to that? Did they occasionally catch one another’s eyes over the saddle of mutton at dinner parties, winking discreetly and thinking of other delicacies they would enjoy together as their wives sat, pretty and oblivious?

I wrenched my eyes away from the invitation cards and looked about the room, seeing Edward through his things. It was like reading a stranger’s palm. His brushes, just so and painfully clean, without a single blond hair to mar their perfection. His books, clean and unmarked, because he preferred things fresh and new. His pictures, some good copies of famous pieces, some little paintings done by friends to commemorate happy times. There was a view of the Colosseum bought when he toured Rome, and another of a country folly, Gothic and dark, with autumn leaves curling at the foot of the stones…

I stopped there, my progress arrested by this little sketch. I stared at it, scrutinizing the twisted branches and crumbling leaves, the carved stone and the pointed arches. I had seen another picture, very similar, but done by another hand. Between them, they linked two people to one shared moment, one place where they had been together, long enough to make separate sketches of the same courtyard, sketches they both kept as a memento. The sketches linked them to each other and to this place—and to a motive I had never guessed at.

In that minute, as I stared at the lightly penciled lines and arches, everything I had heard and learned over the past weeks came rushing back at me. I stood, letting them wash over me as I heard the voices, as clearly as if they were speaking in my ear. Whispers about mysterious travels, ravens and follies and thwarted, poisonous love, jealousy and disease, and a virgin’s skull. Everyone had contributed something; their voices threaded and tangled, merged and knotted, but I could still hear them, saying the things that I had heard but not understood until just this minute, when it all fell into place and I simply
knew,
as one knows that fire is hot and sleep is sweet. It was just that sudden, that elemental, and it occurred to me then that the truth is precisely that—elemental. It is the essence of itself; it cannot be argued or winnowed down to something less than what it is. It simply is.

To be certain, I removed the sketch from the wall. The wallpaper was bright behind it. In all the years I had lived at Grey House, I had never seen this picture moved from its place, a significant place, I realized now. Edward would have been able to see it from his bed, the first sight of his morning, the last sight of his evening. I opened the frame and slid the sketch out. There was an inscription penciled on the back, very brief, but it was enough. I knew now who had killed Edward. And more important, I thought I knew why.

There was not much to be done. I made my arrangements for that evening, telling no one, not even Aquinas, what I had discovered. He went smoothly along with them, thinking that I was still pursuing poor, pathetic Desmond. I let him believe it because I had no choice. I had to face the murderer alone. I was not afraid, although I know now that I should have been. And as I dressed myself that night, I began to wonder if I had in fact known it all along…

But in the end, I could not. I stood there and simply held out the sketch to him. He stared at it, and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to lie about it, hoping that I had not read the inscription, that condemnation written in his own hand. He might yet have bluffed, taken the chance that I had not put the pieces together. But he read my face swiftly, and clever and destructive as he was, he was too tired of it all to pretend with me. I think he felt in that moment that I would understand him, and so he confided. I suppose it was a sort of compliment, but perhaps it was not. Perhaps he simply wanted to tell it to anyone, after all this time.

“So you know,” he said softly. “Come and sit down. No, do not linger there in the doorway. You are perfectly safe with me. You forget, I have kissed you,” he said with a seductive smile. “I have tasted your lips on mine, Julia. I could not destroy you, although I think the memory of it may well destroy you in any case.” His laugh was mirthless. I sat as he bade me.

He looked at me awhile, his eyes searching my face. “Yes, you do know, I see it there. So much knowledge, so much bewilderment. You cannot understand it, can you? Even now, you cannot imagine why?”

I shrugged. “You were lovers and he betrayed you. You loved him, but he fell in love with someone else. It is simple enough. A story as old as time, is it not?”

His smile was wolfish. “How very progressive of you, my dear. You make it all sound so conventional. I might almost believe you approved of our sort.”

His eyes were lively, snapping and bright with some private malice. He might claim to savor the taste of my kiss, but he wanted to hurt me, that much I could sense, as a hind senses a wolf in the wood.

“Your sort is not my concern. I merely supplied you with your motive as you asked.”

His smile deepened, but I saw the lines of cruelty about the mouth and eyes that I had never noticed before. I had spent so much time with him; how could I have not seen it?

“Sweet, innocent Julia. I often thought it might be fun to tell you, to take you into our confidence. I suggested it once, but he got quite angry. A pity that my tastes do not extend to women…” He broke off a moment, and I looked down at my hands, feeling sick. “Oh, yes, we might have made quite a game of it. Or at least that is what I used to tell him. The truth is, I don’t think I could have borne sharing him, not even with you. But Edward could be tiresome in his misguided loyalties—and shortsighted, you know. He wanted to protect you. And the boy. I warned him about the boy, you know, but he did not listen.”

“You killed him because of Desmond.”

The predatory eyes sharpened. “I warned him. He could toy with others, but he loved me—only me. I even permitted him to marry you because I knew he did not love you, not really, not in the ways that mattered. I warned him he was getting too close to the boy, but he did not hear me. So I simply crafted a little test.”

“The condoms,” I said flatly. The eyes danced a little.

“Oh, she knows the word! Imagine that, the earl’s little Dresden china daughter, knowing about such things!” He laughed but did not move near me. I thanked God for that. I could not have borne it if he had touched me. “Yes, just like the knightly contests of old. If he was worthy and faithful, as he promised, he would not die. But if he failed me, if he was not worthy, if he were faithless, his own treachery would be his undoing. An elegant little solution, I thought.”

His mask of savagery slipped a little then, and I knew what he had suffered when Edward died. Knowledge not only of his own guilt, but of his lover’s infidelity.

“Oh, Julia,” he said, with his sly, beautiful smile, “have you never known me?”

“I begin to think not. You have kept yourself well guarded. I did not suspect what you were until this very evening.”

I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were spoken. But I could not bring them back. If I hesitated now, he would spring some trap of his own devising, something I had not been clever enough to foresee. I had no choice but to go forward, but carefully.

His voice was silky. “You have not discussed your suspicions with anyone? Not even the clever Aquinas?”

“No,” I said truthfully. I did not believe that he would hurt me, not even then.

He smiled again, those white, wolfy teeth gleaming in the dim light.

“Julia, do you trust me so well? And do you regret it now? How delicious to have you here at last, as if…ah, sweet mouse Julia has wandered into the tomcat’s lair…whatever shall we do with her?”

It was difficult to believe I had ever seen a sign of ill health on this man. His voice was strong and alive, his eyes fairly glowing with pleasure. He radiated strength and vitality, and I think he might have been capable of anything in that moment.

With some great effort, I kept my voice level. “You will not harm me. You are sick, that is all. It is your illness that speaks so. This is not you. You have cared about me. I know it. Perhaps you even loved me. You will not harm me,” I repeated, as much for my own sake as his.

He reached a hand out to take up a box of matches. He said nothing while he struck one, lighting a lamp. It flared, then settled to a warm glow, bathing us both in soft light.

“That is better,” he said, settling himself comfortably even as he scrutinized my face. “You have changed through all of this,” he said at length. “You have grown up. You have me to thank for that. You were so delightfully appealing in your innocence. I wanted to take you in hand, you know. I wanted to educate you, to strip the scales from your eyes. Perhaps that would have been a better revenge on Edward than killing him,” he said thoughtfully, tilting his head to eye me better. “Yes, I think it would have been. I could have given him an infidelity to match his own. And it would have hurt him, you know. He did love you—or at least he tried. But I could not bear touching you any more than he could.”

“What makes you think I would have complied?”

He gave a short laugh, but it had no power. I suddenly realized that the newfound strength and vitality, the awesome glitter in those savage eyes, was due to some drug. He had dosed himself, perhaps to assuage his ailment. Or perhaps he had grown accustomed to needing it simply to survive. But he had not taken enough, or had taken it too soon. It was wearing off, and soon he would be weak and puny with the aftereffects of it.

“You would have lain down for me,” he said softly. “You have been ripe for it for years. All you want is the right man to say the right words and you will open like a well-oiled lock.”

I said nothing. The accusation was too crude to merit a response. It was only later that I acknowledged that he knew me better than I ever suspected. I did not like to admit it, but it was possible that I would have lain with him, only just possible, but it was there. I had been lonely and unappreciated. Who was to say what I might have done, if the circumstances had been just so? If he had caught me at a vulnerable moment, if he had looked at me in just the right way, with murmured words of love and seduction, his hands gentle but eager, urging me…I like to think I would have had the strength to resist that. But I knew better.

“But I could not do it,” he said regretfully. “My quarrel was with Edward, and there I kept it.”

“When did you prepare the poison?” I asked curiously. This might well be the only time I would have to question him, and I wanted to ask everything. I did not want to wonder later.

“The autumn before he died.” He laughed at the memory. His voice was softer than it had been, a little thready. “I nearly killed myself in the process. But it was easy enough. A few books, a few basic precautions, and the thing was done. Too easy, really. It’s a wonder more people don’t do it.”

“And you put the sheaths into the box and left it in his room.”

He nodded, his gaze distant.

He had been cautious, and yet audaciously bold, I thought with some admiration. It had been cleverly executed and brilliantly conceived. He had gotten away with it for a year. How much longer might he have kept his secret had I not gone meddling? And, more to the point, how long would I live, knowing what I knew?

As if reading my thoughts, he stroked the side of the lamp, studying the flame, and said, “You were a brave girl to come here and plan to accuse me of murder. And braver still to hear my confession.”

I watched him watching the flame.

“I am tired,” he said suddenly, the drug having spent itself quickly. “I wish I could play with you a bit longer, but I am tired now.”

I made to rise. “You should rest now. You are not yourself. I will go.”

“No,” he said sharply, and the sheer power of his voice held me to my chair. “We must finish this. I cannot live,” he cried, “not now. I don’t even want to live, not without him.”

“You are not thinking clearly,” I said, edging to my feet. “You are ill and tired. Sleep now.” And, thinking to reassure him, I added, “I will tell no one.”

His eyes flashed and I knew I had made a critical miscalculation. “No, you will not tell. Not now. Not ever.”

With his last words, he picked up the lamp in both hands and hurled it at me. I ducked, shielding myself with the chair. The lamp crashed against it, breaking and spilling oil and fire over the silk and wood. Flames rushed to the floor, racing over the carpet to the bed and to the hem of my skirts.

I screamed and batted at the fire licking my skirts. It extinguished immediately and I turned to where he stayed, smiling at me, though the fire was rising between us.

“Will you save me, Julia? And risk your own life? Or will you run away?” His voice was mocking, even now. I reached for him. God help me, I would have saved him even then. But the smoke and the fire were rising hotly and I was thrown back. I turned at the door and saw the bed, engulfed in flames.

“Simon!” I screamed. But there was no reply.

I took the stairs of Grey House two at a time, my scorched skirts high in my hands. My lungs, constricted with stays and smoke, were screaming by the time I gained the ground floor. The servants were gone, sent away for the evening at my insistence, and the empty house echoed with the sounds of the fire, the taffeta rustle of flames, and the shriek of shattering glass. The hall was filling with smoke and I could barely see my way.

Suddenly, above me, a black shadow swooped from above. In my terror I thought it was Simon, risen from his burning bed, but it was not. I nearly sobbed in relief as the raven wheeled before me, leading me on to the door. He screamed, flapping in front of me as I followed him. I reached the door, but the locks were fast, secured for the night as the staff were still out. I wept as I struggled with them. The smoke was billowing down the stairs, blackening the hall in a thick, sooty fog. My hands were slippery on the locks and I could not manage them.

Behind me, the raven continued to wheel and scream, scolding me, I thought. I cursed as I turned the first lock, snicking the bolt back. I moved on to the second, both hands wrapped around my skirt to grip it better. I took a deep, choking breath of the black smoke and nearly swooned. I was lightheaded with it, scarcely able to see the lock in my hands. The raven screamed and I tried and failed, tried and failed again.

I took another breath and felt myself grow suddenly dreamy and tired. Another breath and I would not keep my feet. If I did not turn the lock now, I would never do so. Panting out the suffocating smoke, I tightened my grip one last time and the lock turned in my hands. I stumbled back in relief, yanked at the doorknob and felt the rush of sweet, cool, coal-gritted London air. My clothes and face were streaked with soot, my skirts charred where they had been afire, and I was red-faced with weeping and panic. But I was alive, I thought to myself exultantly. I staggered out onto the front step, feeling the rush of wings as the raven passed me to light on the iron railing.

I clung to the railing next to him, weeping and coughing. I felt a hand, slapping hard at my back, and looked up, straight into the face of the Ghoul.

“Good Lord, Julia, you look a fright. What is all the smoke about? Did Cook burn dinner? I just heard about Simon’s bad turn. Am I too late?”

I stared at her, from her neatly flowered hat to her trim little boots. She had a carpet bag in one hand and a hatbox sat on the ground. She was freshly arrived from Twickenham, unexpected, and so much more than welcome. She was perfectly, utterly normal, and I felt laughter, hysterical and sharp, bubbling up as I looked at her.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I could not make the words happen. Instead I watched as the street, dotted with soft, glowing lamps, began to spin about me. I let go of the railing, my feet floating free of the earth. I heard a voice say, “Oh, dear, I believe she is going to faint.”

And I did—straight into the arms of Nicholas Brisbane.