Silent on the Moor (20 page)

Her expression was smug, but try as I might, I could not believe it. “It is madness,” I said finally.

“And who is to say the old woman is not mad?” she asked. “Think how they live. She is alone up here, with only another old woman and an oafish farm manager for company, and two daughters who are scarcely better than children. Ailith spends all day scurrying meekly behind her mother and stitching at her needlepoint, while Hilda wanders the moors like a madwoman and talks to chickens. They have buried the last male heir of Grimsgrave, and they have only themselves left, the remains of a noble and illustrious family. Isn’t it at all possible Lady Allenby would rather let their name die out than mix it with lesser blood?”

“It is possible,” I said slowly. “But there is another Allenby still unaccounted for.” I told her about Wilfreda, her quiet, bookish ways, and her desperate flight from Grimsgrave
with the artist commissioned to paint her portrait. “Her name was unpicked from the family tapestry,” I finished. “They would rather pretend she never existed than admit she married beneath her.”

Portia nodded. “Mark me, Julia. Lady Allenby was determined not to let another of her daughters go astray, and her only recourse was to attempt the life of the man who attracted her.”

I shuddered. “It seems so much more terrible, you know. I cannot imagine what a person must think, picking the mushrooms so carefully, wiping them and slicing them and bottling them just so, placing them carefully upon someone’s plate, all the while knowing what you mean to do with them. No one quite in her right mind could do such a thing.”

“Well, I have always said northerners were not trustworthy,” she reminded me. “And Yorkshire folk are the maddest of the lot.”

I thought of Deborah at the inn, and gentle Mrs. Butters, and Godwin, rough but kind for all his country ways. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said finally. “I think people are much the same wherever you go. Some of them good, some of them clever, and some of them with the devil in them.”

“The trick is learning to distinguish the difference,” my sister added.

“Indeed. There is one more thing,” I began, and told her about the mummified babies I had discovered in the priest’s hole. She gaped at me, horrified.

“Julia, that is beyond belief. Why on earth would Redwall Allenby have such things? And why keep them squirreled away behind the chimney?”

“Probably because they are so horrid. If you had mummy babies, would you advertise the fact?”

“But that is precisely the point. If I were the type of person to keep mummy babies lying about, I shouldn’t think I would mind if people actually knew it,” she pointed out.

Puggy let out a great, flatulent noise and I turned away. “But what sort of person collects mummified babies in the first place?” I asked.

“We are arguing in a circle,” Portia noted with maddening logic. “Mummified children are collected by the sort of people who would collect mummified children.”

“I feel a headache coming on, Portia. We have established that Redwall Allenby had rather peculiar tastes. Now, we must determine why. Were the mummies merely a curiosity, like the baboon and the cat? Or were they collected for a more sinister purpose?”

Portia arched a cool brow. “Like what?”

I began to tick the possibilities off on my fingers. “Medicinal properties, public demonstration, speculation…”

My sister waved a hand. “Your cart has galloped apace of your horse. Let us begin at the beginning. Medicinal properties?”

“Mummy dust has been used for medical compounds for centuries to cure a variety of ailments. One of the more disgusting facts I have recently learned.”

Portia pulled a face. “You mean people
eat
them?”

“Drink them, actually. A pinch of mummy dust in an embrocation of other assorted ghoulish ingredients. Just imagine how much power a superstitious peasant mind might attribute to powdered mummy.”

“I suppose,” she said slowly. “It was not so long ago that desperate syphilitics tried drinking from virgins’ skulls to cure their affliction.”

“Yes,” I said lightly, trying not to dwell in the long shadows of previous investigations. There were things I had learned that I had never told my sister, and never would.

“Public demonstration,” I continued. “Remember the unrolling we attended at the Duchess of Ottley’s? It was grotesque, but I am told the scientist who procured the mummy was paid a fantastic sum for the evening’s entertainment, particularly because the mummy was red-haired and therefore a rarity. Imagine how much more might be demanded for unrolling a pair of children.”

Portia shuddered. “Go on. You said speculation.”

“Hm, yes. The unlikeliest of all,” I told her, “but entirely possible. What if Redwall looked at his coffin, empty and therefore less valuable? And what if he then decided to fill it, and thereby increase its value? Procure a pair of mummified children and etch some appropriate inscription into the cartouche. It would be a very simple matter to find another buyer then, one who would be willing to pay a great deal more than Redwall would have had to put up in the first place.”

“Possible,” Portia said. She lapsed into silence then and I considered my theory. It fitted very well with what I had learned thus far of Redwall Allenby’s character. Opportunistic, resourceful, perhaps a little weak, and entirely ruthless when it suited him. I could well imagine him piecing together a superbly-fashioned hoax to fleece an unsuspecting lamb of a buyer. I made a note to delve further into Redwall Allenby’s notes and diaries. Whatever became of the
Allenby ladies at this point, I would finish this investigation, I promised myself.

“What will become of Lady Allenby?” I asked suddenly. In spite of her attempt on Brisbane’s life, I hated to think of her turned over to the authorities to hang for her crime. She was so old, so fragile. But even as I thought it, I pictured her gnarled hands cupped tightly over the head of her walking stick, her firm carriage, her indomitable will, and my pity withered a little.

Portia shook her head. “Brisbane has not spoken of it. It is for him to say, you know. Perhaps he will not tell the authorities at all. She is very old.”

Much as I did not like the idea of Lady Allenby in the hands of the law, I did not like the notion of Brisbane settling his score himself any better. His notions of justice were usually quite sound, but I wondered at his ability to remain impartial where the Allenbys were concerned.

“I must ask him.” I rose then and Portia and I made our way back toward the house. The empty east wing cast long shadows over the grass, stretching out to meet us. Or capture us, I fancied. I could not imagine ever feeling entirely comfortable in the house again, and although I still admired the elegant lines and solid workmanship, it would always hold horrors for me. I was so reluctant to return to it that we walked the long way round the pond, watching the wind stir the reeds and ruffle the surface of the black water.

“That pond wants a fish,” Portia said roundly. She put Puggy down to romp, but all he managed was a wheezing cough as he stumped toward the house.

“That pond wants filling in,” I returned. “It is bleak and un
welcoming. Just like the rest of this place. Don’t you feel it?” I turned on my heel slowly, taking in the empty wing, the crumbling stone, the weed-choked gardens and brackish pond.

“It is a bit austere,” Portia admitted. “It just needs a bit of work. A little repointing of the stone, rebuilding the east wing—”

“An exorcism.”

She pushed me. “Don’t be feeble. It could be a very nice house with some effort and a good deal of money. Brisbane could make a very nice home here.”

Indeed he could, I reflected, but not one that I would ever live in.

“Portia, about Jane,” I began.

She shook her head, and for an instant, the cool mask of self-possession slipped. Her anguish was so complete, so raw, it seemed like a trespass to look upon it. I dropped my eyes. “No, Julia. Jane has left for India. It is quite finished, and if I have to talk about it there is every chance I may never recover. Do you understand?”

I said nothing more. I whistled to Puggy and followed Portia inside, pulling my cloak more tightly about me as I entered and closed the door behind me.

“B
risbane, you cannot live in this room with Morag tasting your food and Minna jumping like a hare every time there is a knock at the door. You must make a decision about Lady Allenby. This situation cannot go on indefinitely,” I told him.

We were alone in his bedchamber two days later, after supper. Rosalie had returned to her cottage to collect some fresh supplies, while Portia was endeavouring to be kind to Ailith by spending the evening looking at her doll’s house. Valerius had finally persuaded Hilda to let him begin work on a new henhouse for her little flock. Morag and Minna had agreed to leave Brisbane for the evening on the condition
that I remain in his room at all times and surrender my post to Morag when he retired. She had laid a pallet across the doorway and intended to sleep there to guard him. Her devotion to him was beginning to alarm me.

He was still abed, but his nightshirt had been changed and he had grudgingly permitted Morag to shave him. He had a handkerchief pressed to his jaw.

“Am I still bleeding?” He pulled the handkerchief aside and I inspected the wound.

“Not much. But the one on your cheek has opened again. Here, let me,” I said, taking the handkerchief and pressing it firmly against his cheek. “Why on earth you let Morag shave you is beyond my comprehension. She is singularly unsuited to the task.”

“I was bored.”

“Do not shrug. You’ve opened it again. Be still, and listen to me. You cannot leave matters indefinitely. Something must be done about Lady Allenby.”

He touched my wrist, and I suppressed a shiver. “It will be. I have made arrangements already. When you were under Rosalie’s sleeping draught, I dictated instructions to Minna, and Godwin took her to Howlett Magna to the telegraph. The matter will be out of my hands very soon.”

I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to speak. My resolve did not last. “You were quite busy whilst I was out of the way. You mean to see her hang then? Brisbane, how could you? She is old and ailing. She might well be out of her mind, not in the sense that you or I might notice, but somewhere deep within. She cannot really have meant to kill you, not in the same fashion as a person who takes up a knife
and stabs another to the heart. She mayn’t even have meant to kill you at all,” I pointed out, warming to my theme. “She might only have meant to make you ill and miscalculated how dangerous the mushrooms were. Or how many you would eat. You can be quite greedy when it comes to food, I’ve noticed. You ought to be more restrained. You could run to fat when you get old.”

“Are you quite finished defending the woman who tried to murder me? You would make a delightful witness for the defence, you know.” His lips were tight, but I did not believe he was entirely put out with me. I blotted at his face again.

“You’re all right now.” I handed him the handkerchief. “If there is nothing I can say to change your mind—”

I moved to the door, but before I could leave he gave a great sigh. “A convent. She is going to a convent. In Ireland. There is apparently some connection with the family. It was founded by an Allenby lady a thousand years ago or some such rot. In any event, I have sent to the mother house in Dublin, and a very discreet abbess replied that they would dispatch a pair of sisters from the convent to fetch her. They have even,” he said, his lips twitching in what I assumed was amusement, “promised to pray for my soul in perpetuity for showing such compassion to an old woman who now has time to atone for her sins before she must stand in judgment before her Maker.”

I hardly knew what to say. How like him to resolve the entire situation so neatly and so appropriately. And how like him to torment me a little before taking me into his confidence.

“When does she leave?”

“Tomorrow. I was naturally not inclined to spend any
more time than strictly necessary under the same roof as Lady Allenby once she confessed.”

“Her poor daughters,” I murmured. “They will be quite lost now.”

Brisbane’s expression turned thoughtful, but he said nothing.

I shook my head. “I still cannot quite take it in. That elegant old lady, willing to kill you.”

Still he did not speak, but a muscle moved in his jaw, and I realised he was angry, far angrier than I had guessed.

“I would like to see her before she goes,” I told him.

He nodded and Morag returned, effectively putting an end to our conversation. I left him then, his expression thoughtful and his eyes fixed on the view of the moor from the window.

The next morning after breakfast, I paid a visit to Lady Allenby. Mrs. Butters had told me she was still in her room, receiving no one. I gathered my nerve and tapped on the door, calling softly to her.

“Lady Allenby, it is Lady Julia. May I come in?”

She made no reply, but I opened the door and slipped in, closing it behind me. Lady Allenby was kneeling at her
prie-dieu,
her full skirts spread about her like a still pool of black water. Her rosary was clasped in her hands, and her lips were moving. Her gaze did not waver from the crucifix on the wall. I waited several minutes as her hands moved over the beads, counting them off one at a time.

At last she reached the end and crossed herself.

“I apologise,” she said faintly. In spite of my horror of what
she had done, I went to her and helped her to her feet. She gave me a grateful smile, only faintly tinged with cynicism.

“You are kind,” she said, looping the rosary at her belt and regarding me closely. “You do not like me, and yet you help me. That speaks of the virtue of compassion. Something of the divine dwells in you, my child.”

Already she spoke like a nun. She seated herself in a straight-backed chair and waved me to another opposite. I settled myself, feeling strangely awkward, as though I were a pupil summoned before an exacting headmistress. I tried to compose myself and remember why I had come.

“I do not think you came to gawk at the would-be murderess,” she remarked softly. “Was there another purpose?”

I shook my head, wondering why I found the interview so difficult. She was in the wrong, and yet she had managed with a coolly superior look and a few choice words to make me feel entirely at fault.

She sighed, and when she spoke it was with exaggerated patience. “Do you want to know why I did it, or how? Life with him will be extraordinarily difficult, you know. It might suit you to know the method. Just in case you have need of it,” she finished coldly.

I rose at once. “It was a mistake to have come,” I told her, my tone as icy as hers. “I thought to understand you, but there is nothing to understand. I ought to have known you for what you were the day you told me about the bees. You were ruthless to them, and you were ruthless to Brisbane.”

She curled her lip at me, scorn written in every line of her countenance. “My dear girl, now you know the true legacy of the Allenbys. Ruthlessness has always been our byword.”

She began to laugh then, laughing until she wept, great, wracking sobs. She motioned angrily for me to leave her, and the sound of her weeping was still ringing in my ears when I left her.

I descended the stairs, intending to take a brisk walk across the moor to calm myself, but there was a stranger standing in the hall, a small travelling bag at her side. She was dressed in a plain black habit, the coif perfectly starched and blindingly white. I wondered vaguely how she had managed to keep herself so tidy on her travels.

“Sister?” I began, moving toward her. She had been looking about the panelled hall with great interest, but at the sound of my voice she turned, her eyes wide, her lips set in a half-smile.

“I rang the bell, but no one came. I thought no one would mind if I let myself in,” she began.

“Think nothing of it,” I assured her. “The master of the house, Mr. Brisbane, is still abed,” I said, glossing lightly over the reason for her visit.

She nodded, the smile fading. “I am Sister Bridget,” she said suddenly, thrusting out a hand. I took it, introducing myself and explaining briefly as I could that I was a friend of the new owner. Her hand was warm in mine, the palm hard and edged with calluses. It was a sturdy hand, formed by hard labour, and it suited her, for she was a tall, solid sort of woman. I doubted she spent her days singing in the chapel choir. This was a woman who served God literally, toiling in the fields or labouring in the kitchens, I decided.

“I hope you have not travelled alone, sister. I thought there was a pair of you coming to collect Lady Allenby.”

The nun’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling again, where pale shadows of crowned
A’
s were barely visible overhead.

“Aye. Sister Dolores. She thought to stay in Lesser Howlett and let me come alone. She did not fancy a walk across the moor, and Godwin Allenby was kind enough to fetch me,” she said with a faint smile.

Brisbane had given no instructions regarding the nun, and I was just wondering what I ought to do with her when Minna appeared.

“Mr. Brisbane said as the sister has arrived, if you would be good enough to show her into the great hall to wait, he will come,” she said, bobbing curtseys at me and to Sister Bridget, to the nun’s obvious amusement.

“He ought not to be up and about yet, but if I tell him so, he will only argue. Very well, Minna. Tell him we will await him there.”

She scurried off and I turned, but Sister Bridget was already moving, looking about her with avid interest.

“It is a lovely house,” I said, not quite truthfully, “but it has seen some difficult times lately. The furnishings are gone, but there is one relic of the family who built the place.”

I nodded toward the mouldering tapestry on the wall. Sister Bridget gave a little intake of breath and went to it, putting out a fingertip to trace the lines of embroidery. She ought not to have, but it was not mine to protect, and truth be told, it was in sorry enough condition as it was. I wondered what would become of it now. I supposed Ailith and Hilda would live together in the Bear’s Hut with Mrs. Butters, but I doubted there would be a wall in any cottage large enough to accommodate it.

“Moths have been at this,” Sister Bridget said finally, touching a series of tidy little holes. “And likely the damp as well.” She scraped a fingernail over the patch that had been picked out, pulling loose a tiny golden thread. She held it out to me, smiling.

“One gold thread. The only remnant of a lost girl,” she said softly.

I blinked at her, comprehension dawning at last. “You are Wilfreda Allenby.”

She smiled, and in her wide honest face, I saw none of the ruthless cunning of the Allenbys. They were nature’s aristocrats, beautiful and merciless. This girl had kindness in her face and good humour, and I found her altogether more attractive than her far lovelier sister. She reminded me of Hilda, but there was a pleasantness to her countenance, a contentedness that spoke of satisfaction with her place in the world.

“I am,” she said roundly. “And I think you know more about my family than a stranger might. Tell me quickly, is Mrs. Butters still here? I am gasping for a cup of tea and one of her little plum cakes.”

I managed a nod. “I am sure she would be only too happy to provide you with refreshment. Forgive me, you’ve had a long journey. I ought to have offered straightaway.”

She waved a hand. “It can wait a moment. I am too much a coward to leave this room quite yet.”

With a rush of sympathy, I realised what she meant. She was at Grimsgrave to collect her mother to do penance for attempting a murder. That would have been difficult enough, but added to that was the strangeness of coming home after so many years away.

“How long has it been?” I asked her.

“Very nearly twenty years. That was why I came alone. Sister Dolores thought I ought to face my ghosts on my own. She is very wise.”

“Did Godwin know you?”

“Oh, aye, he knew me well enough. I could not bring myself to ask him after my family. We talked rather a lot about sheep on our way here. I understand they are disappearing. They never did that in the old days.” Sister Bridget gave me a smile then that was so sad, so wistful, I wondered how I could ever have thought her merry.

“Has it been so difficult then?”

She groped for her words, choosing them carefully. “Not always. Most of the time it has been peaceful. I have known real serenity, Lady Julia, and that has been a gift. I will not know it again. I had thought Grimsgrave and my family were in my past, and I find they are in my present as well. I will not make that mistake again. We are what we are, blood cannot be undone.”

“Were you close to your family?”

She said nothing for a moment, and I wondered if I had offended her. But the wide, clear brow was furrowed slightly, and I realised she was thinking carefully.

“No, I do not believe that I was. We were never the ideal, you know. Never what one thinks a family ought to be. Father was always too busy carrying on with his magistrate’s duties, making quite certain everyone followed the law to its strictest interpretation. Mother was distant—living in the past, I think, when the Allenby name meant something. We were kings, once upon a time, and for my mother,
time has stood still. We were never permitted to make friends with the other children. We never even played with Godwin. We had only each other, and yet…”

She paused and I looked at her encouragingly.

“Have you brothers and sisters, Lady Julia?”

“Nine, actually.”

The fair brows lifted. “Indeed. Then perhaps you will understand. Even amongst one’s siblings, one can be entirely alone.”

I thought of my place in the family as the youngest daughter. Only my brother Valerius was lesser, and yet he and I, who ought to have been allies, had often been at odds. I had known the close affection of Benedick and Portia, but some of the elder children were far removed from the nursery by the time I made my appearance. The eccentricity of my family had made it easy enough to justify holding them at arm’s length when I was so inclined.

“I think so,” I told her.