The Dark Enquiry (11 page)

“A wife?” Plum choked again, this time so deeply that I was forced to strike him hard several times upon the back before he recovered. Lady Felicity looked deeply embarrassed, but her breathing had quickened and she darted a glance at Plum from beneath her lashes.

“You seem quite determined,” Brisbane said to me at last.

“I am. Each of us has contributed to Lord Mortlake’s predicament, and we ought to help him out of it. He really is a decent fellow, you know. He has been a member of Father’s Shakespearean society for decades. Father would want us to help him.”

“What Father would want is bloody well not the point!” Plum spluttered.

I clucked at him. “Language, Plum. And it is the point.” I turned to Brisbane. “You have held forth many times upon the subject of justice, my dear. I know it is the principle that guides your every action. If we destroy Lord Mortlake for a momentary weakness and in doing so ruin his entire family, where is the justice in that?”

Brisbane knew I had the right of him. He did not answer my question. He merely folded his arms over his chest and posed one of his own. “And—begging your pardon, Lady Felicity—if we save him, he might just as easily go off and do it again. Who will save him then?”

Felicity leaned forward towards me, her expression earnestly sweet. “Mr. Brisbane is quite right. It is entirely possible that Father will do something foolish again. You cannot be expected to rescue us a second time.”

I pondered this a moment, then brightened. “We will give him the chance to save himself! We will have him sign a statement, a confession of sorts that he instigated this, and shall assure him that should he ever gamble again, we will proceed directly to the authorities with the evidence.”

“That is blackmail!” Plum exclaimed.

I furrowed my brow. “Really? I thought it was extortion. Brisbane, you will have to explain the difference one of these days.”

“It is practical,” Felicity said slowly. “And it isn’t as though Father has many alternatives left.”

Brisbane covered his face with his hands for a long moment, then dropped them, and to my astonishment, he was smiling. “One woman in a thousand,” he murmured. He cleared his throat. “Very well, wife. You, Plum and I will put up equal shares and purchase the Mortlake town properties. I will summon Mortlake this afternoon to explain the situation and offer us up as his saviours.”

I would have flown to him to offer my thanks, but the presence of Plum and Lady Felicity was rather chilling in that regard. Instead, I blew him a kiss and hoped that would suffice as both a thanks and a promise.

Lady Felicity sat, shaking her head as if to clear away a waking dream. “I cannot believe it is all going to come right. I feel as if I have just walked through a whirlwind.”

“The Marches tend to have that effect,” Brisbane agreed. “You will grow accustomed to it in time.”

Mrs. Lawson appeared then with the tea tray and it took ages to pour and hand round the sandwiches and cakes, but I noticed as I offered Lady Felicity her cup, she was still pleasantly pink from Brisbane’s last remark. The implication that her association with the Marches might be one of long duration had clearly made her very happy. She was conversing softly with Plum, their heads close together, his so dark, hers so fair. They made a pretty picture, and I saw a sudden smile soften her features. She was rather smitten with my brother, I decided, and for Plum’s part, he seemed cautiously attracted. I wanted him happy. His heart had been broken long enough over a woman he could not have, and if he could make up his mind to love Felicity Mortlake, matters might indeed come right in the end.

A few days later, Brisbane and I were enjoying a most delicious breakfast courtesy of our new cook. I gave a contented sigh at the properly shirred eggs and even spooned one into a saucer for Rook. He lapped delicately at it, and from over my shoulder Grim made a threatening quork.

“Oh, very well. What about a nice bit of kedgeree?” I asked, preparing a small dish for him. He bobbed his head happily when I put the bowl into his cage. “Breakfast,” he said in his reedy little voice. I left him to it and resumed my chair just as Brisbane gave an exclamation, leaning for ward swiftly in his chair as he focused intently upon his newspaper.

“Brisbane?”

He lowered the newspaper, a feline smile playing about his lips, and handed it to me.

It was not difficult to discover what had captured his interest. The inquest into Madame’s death had made the newspapers. I skimmed the piece, brief as it was, and gave a gasp.

“It was just as you said. Aconite poisoning.”

“Keep reading,” he instructed, serving himself another plate of eggs and devilled kidneys. The new cook was proving rather too skilled, I thought. If Brisbane continued to eat so heartily, he soon would find himself paying a visit to his tailor.

I surveyed the rest of the article until I came to the conclusion. “Accidental death! They have returned a verdict of accidental death,” I said, brandishing the newspaper. “Do you think it accidental?”

“Not bloody likely.” His expression was grim. “It is entirely too coincidental that a woman such as Madame, who collected lovers and kept mementoes of her
affaires,
should have died accidentally.”

I pursed my lips. “It says here that the Spirit Club’s cook is an elderly fellow and mistook the root of
aconitum napellus
for a horseradish. He has cataracts. It is supposed that the greengrocer’s boy, who brought the produce, must have inadvertently delivered the wrong root.”

But Brisbane was not to be swayed. “I do not like coincidences. Besides, it is only a theory that the cook mistook the horseradish root. There was none left to test. It had been thrown out and the dish scoured by the time investigators thought to ask after it. A kitchen mishap is merely the simplest explanation, and a damned lazy one, in this case. And the greengrocer’s boy makes far too convenient a scapegoat. He swore under oath that the horseradish root was a proper horseradish root. His employer swore to the same, a man with forty years’ experience with vegetables. And yet the police are perfectly content to accept this nursery story about mistaken roots instead of pursuing
where
the aconite came from.”

I put the paper aside and stirred my tea thoughtfully. “No one traced the root. If the greengrocer and his lad are telling the truth, the boy delivered horseradish, not aconite. So where did the aconite itself originate?” I sat back. “An interesting question, to be sure, and one that no one seems to be asking. I presume you believe the greengrocer is correct.”

“I do.”

“So you think the verdict in error. Do you mean to investigate?”

“I detect a note of disapproval, my sweet. You want me to leave it alone?”

I struggled to give voice to my thoughts. “It is simply that Madame is dead, and for better or worse, there is a verdict in the case. Her poor sister, Mademoiselle Agathe, has an answer—whether it is the correct one or not—and we do not know that it isn’t,” I reminded him. “There has not been a breath of trouble as far as Bellmont is concerned since Madame’s death.”

“That we know of,” he corrected.

“True. I daresay his last visit was so contentious that he might well hesitate to turn to you again, even if the devil himself were at his heels. Still, I saw Aunt Hermia yesterday and she mentioned that she had dinner with Bellmont the day before and his spirits were better than she had seen in some time. He has never been good at concealing his feelings. I think he has begun to put this entire unsavoury episode behind him. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps Madame did destroy the letters. She would not be the first woman to keep a memento of a love affair and then change her mind.”

Brisbane gave me the courtesy of thinking over his reply and for a moment, said nothing. “You make perfect sense, my dear. But I cannot shake the feeling that there is more afoot here than a simple kitchen mishap.”

“Perhaps there is,” I conceded. “Perhaps she was murdered. But it does not touch upon my brother. Whatever evils Bellmont may contemplate, I assure you murdering his mistress is not among them,” I added with some tartness.

Brisbane regarded me thoughtfully. “You are a very loyal woman, Julia. I often wonder what would happen if you were forced to choose between your family and me.”

I started, spilling my tea. “Brisbane, what an extraordinary thing to say!”

The tea smeared the headlines about Madame’s inquest, blurring the words. “And yet you do not know the answer,” he said softly.

I dropped the sodden mess of tea-soaked newspaper. “Yes, I do, you great fool. You
are
my family.”

“I am glad to hear you say it,” he told me, and though I waited for some smile or other sign of levity, I saw that he was deadly serious.

“Brisbane, you are even more enigmatic than usual this morning. What are you about?”

He shook himself, as if throwing off a reverie that made him melancholy and gave me a humourless smile. “Nothing, my dear.”

He rose and pressed a kiss to my brow. “I am off to my consulting rooms. I will take your excellent advice and leave this,” he said, nodding towards the ruined newspaper. “For now.”

He left me then, and I sat for a while, pondering the strange conversation that had just passed between us.

Before I could reach any firm conclusions, Plum appeared, dressed in one of his customary dashing ensembles—a town suit with an emerald-and-pink-striped waistcoat and a violet silk neckcloth. He always took great pains with his
toilette,
but he had grown even more attentive to his appearance since he had begun to spend time with Lady Felicity. They had met, carefully chaperoned, for the theatre and the occasional walk in the park, and matters seemed to be moving along—with glacial slowness, to be sure, but forward at least.

“Good morning, Julia.” He helped himself to the hot dishes on the sideboard and cast a glance at the pile of wet newspapers.

“What happened here?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was clumsy. I am sorry, the paper is quite ruined.”

I waited for an outburst of temper, for Plum loved nothing better than to read the paper thoroughly over breakfast, but he merely shrugged.

“No matter. You can tell me any news of importance.”

His spirits were unnaturally high, and I leapt to the logical conclusion.

“I take it you saw Lady Felicity last night?”

He gave me a smug smile. “I did.”

“I do hope she is more appreciative of our efforts than her father.” If my tone was waspish, I could not help it. Contrary to my expectations, Lord Mortlake had not been at all pleased at the solution we had presented to his troubles. He had been outraged by the statement Brisbane had given him to sign and almost apoplectic at the notion of selling his town properties. But he crumbled at the round figure we offered and had finally agreed to sell us his properties at very fair prices, reimbursing the insurance company and giving him the opportunity to retrench and salvage his family name.

Plum helped himself at the sideboard. “She regrets his attitude, but she still takes a rather more pragmatic view of the situation than Lord Mortlake. She is happy to keep the matter from the papers and her father’s reputation unsullied.”

“Excellent.” I pressed him no further. I knew the attachment to Lady Felicity was tender and new, and I also knew that nothing could kill a romance in its cradle as fast as sisterly intervention.

I bade him a good morning, and as I left the breakfast room, Aquinas approached.

“If you have a moment, my lady, I should like to present the new staff for your approval.”

“New staff? Have we more besides the cook?”

“I have engaged a pair of footmen I think will fit in quite nicely with the establishment. Would you care to meet them, my lady?”

“I suppose now is as good a time as any.” Our changes in staff had become so frequent that I had instructed Aquinas only to present them in batches once a week rather than piecemeal. It had saved a considerable amount of time.

Aquinas hurried off, and in a very few minutes he returned with the three newest members of the household. The cook removed her apron and thrust it behind her. Her hair was mousy brown, and she had watery, rather protruberant eyes.

“Welcome to our home. I hope you do not mind if we simply call you Cook. It’s rather a tradition with my staff. I must compliment you on the wonderful food you have been sending up. Quite delicious, and we’re all terribly pleased.”

She ducked her head and mumbled something inaudible to Aquinas.

He stepped forward. “Cook is Swiss and uncertain of her English, my lady. She says she is happy to have given satisfaction.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise. Well, how very exclusive we are to have a Continental cook.” I addressed her in Italian then, thanking her again, and she gave me a look of confusion.

“Not that part of Switzerland,” Aquinas murmured.

“Oh, I see.” I switched to German, and the cook brightened immediately. I thanked her for the excellent breakfast, and she seemed very pleased with my compliments. I gave her permission to return to her baking, and she bobbed a clumsy curtsey to me before fleeing back to her kitchens. I turned my attention to the remaining pair.

It was their first morning in service and they had been breakfasting belowstairs and showing off their new livery. I had chosen it myself and was rather proud of it—smart black tailcoats with waistcoats of striped black and pewter. The trousers had a narrow piping of scarlet and the effect was dashing, or would have been with a pair of matching six-footers. Aquinas had proven himself an original in his choice of footmen, for it was the custom to engage footmen in pairs as close to one another in appearance as possible. A set of identical twins would have been a coup beyond measure, but even young men with similar build, good shoulders, excellent calves and superior height would have been the thing.

The pair that presented themselves to me looked more suited to the stews than a drawing room. They were of wildly variant heights, the taller having long limbs and a particularly graceful neck and a head of shining silver-blond hair. The shorter of the two had a great barrel chest and a nose that looked as if it had been broken. Twice.

I summoned a smile. “Welcome to our employ. Mr. Brisbane and I do hope you will be happy with us.”

I put out my hand to shake theirs, and the shorter of the two nearly crushed it in his great paw. The taller gave me a gentler, but still thoroughly brutal handshake. I winced only a little.

“Tell me, I am curious as to your previous employment.” I turned to the taller of the two. “Where have you worked before?”

The tall fellow darted a glance at Aquinas, then swiftly back at me. “At a club in St. James Street.”

I regarded him a moment, then put the same question to the other. He gave me a nod. “What he said,” came the gruff reply.

I stepped back and looked them over again. “Aquinas,” I began, setting a deliberate smile upon my lips, “I know I have not Mr. Brisbane’s experience of the world, but one thing I do know is what a footman should look like. Neither of these men has ever so much as seen a suit of livery before, much less been engaged by one of the St. James Street clubs.”

Aquinas began to protest, but I held up a hand. “Really, Aquinas, you ought to have known better. The St. James Street clubs are the most fashionable in London. They employ only the most experienced, most exclusive staff in the city. They do not engage men who look as if they have just lost a prizefight.”

“Here, now, my lady, I have never lost a fight,” protested the shorter of the pair. “I am undefeated, I am.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. “You are a prizefighter?”

He drew himself up to his rather diminutive height and gave me a broad smile, revealing a pair of missing teeth and an enormous one that seemed to be made of solid gold.

“I am. Bert Pigeon, at yer service, my lady.” He swept me a low bow.

I looked to the other. “And you? What is your talent?”

He gave me a languid glance. “I am a cracksman, my lady, and the best pistol shot in all of Surrey and sometimes Kent.”

Aquinas began to speak again and once more I held up a hand. “You did not find these men, Aquinas. Brisbane did.”

“That he did,” Bert Pigeon said proudly. “And a finer man to work for you’ll not find in all of London. He’s a proper gentleman he is, and he saved me from the hangman’s noose and I’ll not forget it.” He pitched his voice lower. “There was some bother with some jewels, but we will not speak of it,” he added with a wink.

“And you? Did Brisbane save you, as well?” I asked the taller fellow.

He shifted a little. “Mr. Brisbane might have intervened in a matter that could have caused me some trouble,” he acknowledged. He cleared his throat. “Bert and I formed a professional partnership that was ill-fated.”

“And jewels were involved?”

He gave a graceful nod. “They were, my lady.”

“You were stealing them.” It was not a question. I knew the answer.

Bert Pigeon’s expression was pained. “Well, that is a blunt way of putting the matter, but I do admit we had an eye to liberating one or two items when Mr. Brisbane apprehended us and put it to us that it was perhaps not the best of schemes.”

My head was swimming, and I took a deep breath, striving for patience. “Whose jewels?”

The taller fellow blinked. “Beg pardon, my lady?”

“Whose jewels?” I persisted. “If I am to have two jewel thieves in my employ, I want to know what your intentions were.”

They exchanged wary glances.

“Well,” Bert Pigeon began uncomfortably, “I suppose you might say they were Her Majesty’s, although I like to think of them as belonging to all of us as it were.”