The Dark Enquiry (15 page)

“I have heard that you have experience in such matters.”

He leaned forward over the desk, and when he spoke, flecks of spittle decorated his papers. “Mediums are nothing but charlatans and frauds, every last one of them.”

I started at the venom in his voice. “You really think so?”

“I know it,” he told me, warming himself upon his righteousness. “I have investigated half a dozen and none of them has given me a proper answer to the questions I put to them.”

“Honoria, of course,” I murmured.

The colour began to rise again. “What do you know of my daughter?”

“Only that it was a tragedy, such a terrible burden for a loving and stalwart father to bear.”

The flattery may have been thick as treacle, but he lapped it up. “Well, yes. I was always a good father to my children, even if they were girls. But Honoria had no proper pride. There were questions left behind when she died, and no medium has ever been able to answer them to my satisfaction.”

“How very awful for you to have suffered such a loss,” I said, larding my voice with sympathy. But I had erred.

Sir Henry rose, his colour ebbing once more, leaving an aspect so flat, so devoid of emotion, I wondered if he was entirely human.

“Honoria’s death was not a loss, my lady. The only loss was to my good name, and she cast that aside with both hands.” A bitter note leached into his tone, and his lips twisted a little. “She was difficult, even as a child. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. No correction amended her course, no punishment, however stern diverted her from her wildness.”

“Stern?” I asked, not entirely certain I wanted him to elaborate.

He shrugged. “You know the old saying. ‘A dog, a woman, a walnut tree, the better ye beat them the better they be.’ Not Honoria,” he added with real resentment. “If she had been a boy, such spirit would have been more understandable. No more acceptable, of course, but one could have at least comprehended it. But a girl is only useful so long as she is tractable. If she cannot be bent and broken to the proper role, how is she to bring honour to herself and her family?”

I suspected the question was rhetorical, and I was glad of it. I did not trust myself to answer him.

If he thought my lack of reponse curious, he dismissed it, doubtless because I was merely a useless female, I thought with some irritation. He rose and inclined his head with the barest attempt at politeness. “Now, if there is nothing more…”

It was dismissal, and I took it with good grace. I gathered up Morag and waited for her report in the carriage. She shook her head. “A French chef with his nose very high in the air, I must say,” she related. “And a pair of kitchen maids and a scullery maid. No boys at all, save the hall boy.”

“Aha!” I cried. “Now we are on the scent. Perhaps we have our boy at last.”

“Mayhap if you are looking for a black fellow,” Morag replied sourly, “because this one is the colour of night. I couldn’t even see him in the shadows until he smiled. Fair scared me half to death, he did.”

“Morag, your provincialism is showing. Do shut up,” I ordered.

I sat back on the seat, muttering a curse under my breath. The first promising lead and it was dashed already. “What a poisonous man. I hate to say it, but I suppose that is another fellow we must cross off our list. Sir Henry shows no love for the profession, but neither has he any reason to kill Madame. I forgot to ask if he had seen her more than the one time, but I doubt it. And strange that such a pragmatic fellow should have consulted mediums at all,” I mused aloud.

“That’s the face he shows to the world,” Morag commented. “It may not be the face he sees in the shaving glass each morning.”

I considered that Brisbane had made a similar remark and regarded her thoughtfully. “Morag, for all your daftness, you are occasionally terribly wise.”

“I have my moments, my lady. I have my moments.”

The third house was a stylish town house in St. John’s Wood, rather near to Hortense de Bellefleur’s pretty home. This town house was the abode of Sir Morgan Fielding, youngest son of the Earl of Dundrennan. He had been knighted for his services to the Crown—something about translating Chinese poetry into English, which I had to read twice to believe. It seemed an absurd thing for which to receive the accolade, but there it was. He received me in his writing room, a stunning little room that seemed designed to cater to every comfort in very modern ways. It borrowed heavily from William Morris, but with a dash of something quite new. There was a handsome tiled Swedish stove in the corner for warmth, and a set of excellent Japanese woodcuts on the walls. A screen covered in a lush Bohemian silk stood in front of the windows, diffusing the light from the garden and giving the air an otherworldly feeling. An elegant antique fruitwood tea caddy stood in solitary splendour before it, as much an object of art as utility.

“Your home is lovely,” I told him quite truthfully.

He beamed his pleasure, and I remembered that in the half-light of the Spirit Club, I had almost mistaken him for Plum. There was something similar in the set of the eyes, perhaps, or the extraordinary cheekbones. Over his more conventional garments, he was wearing a robe of heavy bronze silk, embroidered with designs I could not quite place. “From Tashkent,” he said, guessing my question. “And the décor is of my own design. I am an aesthete, my lady. I find I cannot write unless I am inspired, and I am not inspired by ugliness.”

He waved me to a rather bizarre and sinuous chair of various iron bits welded together. I regarded the thing doubtfully, then lowered myself onto it, surprised to find it quite comfortable.

“I designed the chair to conform to the contours of the female body,” he noted, and although such a remark would have been entirely inappropriate from most gentlemen, from him it was somehow inoffensive. There was something arch and playful about him, by turns challenging and charming. I imagined his conquests were legion.

“So,” he said, settling into his own chair with an air of mischief, “you are the dashing Lady Julia. I have heard of you.”

“Have you? From whom?”

He waved a languid hand, but his gaze was frankly admiring. “Various circles. And I am quite fond of your sister, Portia. If she could bring herself to become attached to a gentleman, I would offer for her tomorrow.”

I grinned at him. “She is rather wonderful, isn’t she?”

“A paragon amongst women, although,” he added, skimming my form with a critical eye, “I think you may well be challenging her for the title of most marvelous March. Tell me, my lovely Lady Julia, does your husband know you’ve come to see me?”

“Do you know Brisbane?”

He gave me a slanted smile. “Our paths have crossed. I find him quite the most terrifying man I have ever met. And that alone will ensure I treat you with every courtesy whilst you are my guest,” he added with an exaggerated bow from the neck. “I think we ought to be cosy. We must have tea.”

He clapped his hands and a servant appeared, an East-Indian fellow with a saffron-yellow turban and a tea tray. The cups were Chinese, fashioned of thinnest porcelain and without handles. The tea itself was green and so delicate the flavour of it seemed to dissolve on my tongue into nothingness. To my surprise, the tea caddy was not simply an object of beauty to be admired. Sir Morgan unlocked it with great ceremony and spooned out the fragile green leaves. To complement the tea, there was a plate of dainty little almond biscuits. It made a refreshing change from the usual groaning tea tray laden with sandwiches, tarts, cakes, bread and butter and scones. Sir Morgan poured out and presented me with an almond crescent. I studied him as he moved, his gestures entirely graceful, his manners almost studiedly effete. He worked hard to give the impression of delicacy, but his shoulders were solidly set and there was something resolute about him, something that suggested he was a person who could be trusted.

As if he sensed my scrutiny, he turned his head so the light fell perfectly upon his profile. It was an excellent profile, I noted, and the dark green of his eyes was arresting.

His handsomely shaped mouth curved up into a smile, and when he turned to me, I realised he was exerting the full power of his charm quite deliberately for my benefit.

“So do you see the family resemblance?” he asked.

I blinked at him. “Family resemblance?”

The smile deepened. “To you, of course. Didn’t you know I was a March?”

I gaped at Sir Morgan and in doing so, nearly choked myself on the pretty little almond biscuit. He hurried to refill my cup of tea as he apologised profusely.

“I am sorry, my dear. I ought not to have sprung it on you so abruptly.”

I gulped half the cup of steaming green tea while I tried to make sense of it.

“You are a March. You mean, Father…” I could not bring myself to say the words.

“Oh, heavens no!” he assured me, waving his hands. “No, no. I am not your brother, dear lady. I am your cousin. Your Uncle Benvolio’s child.”

“But you are the son of the Earl of Dundrennan,” I protested.

“Officially,” he corrected. “My dear mother was a bit freer with her charms than she ought to have been. My eldest brother and the second son belong to my father, of course. It would never have done for her to threaten the earldom with illegitimate heirs, but after Lucas and Neddy were born, Mama and Father went their separate ways. They had an understanding of sorts. Mama would not kick up a fuss about Father’s peccadilloes, and he would acknowledge all of her bastards as his own children. Rather tidy.”

“All of her bastards? How many—” I broke off. There was simply no way to phrase it politely. “Seven, altogether.”

“Oh, my. And were any of the others Marches, as well?”

“Goodness, no. Benvolio was simply a passing fancy. They met up just the one time at a house party and nine months later I was born. A bit of bad timing, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully.

I took a long sip of the tea, composing my thoughts. Sir Morgan wore his bastardy easily, with no sense of shame or impropriety. And why should he? I asked myself. The deeds belonged to his parents. It was really nothing to do with him at all.

“Did your mother tell you about Uncle Benvolio?”

“Oh, yes. It’s tradition, you see. On our thirteenth birthdays, Mama takes us for nice luncheon at the Langham Hotel and reveals our real parentage. Mine was a bit of a letdown, if I am honest. My elder sister is the bastard fruit of the Duke of Scilly, and the next child dear Mama got from the Bishop of Barnstaple. Having the younger brother of the Earl March for a father is not quite so impressive.”

“You seem to know rather a lot about us,” I remarked.

He smiled again, and I noted that for all his confidence and ease, there was a touch of melancholy to his smile.

“I used to see the lot of you from time to time in town, and I was so envious of you all. Watching you walk through the park was like watching the circus come to town, a riot of colour and noise and excitement. I felt as if I had my nose pressed to the glass of a sweetshop window, and never got to come in.”

“You would have been most welcome,” I assured him. “At last count, I have forty-three first cousins. What’s one more?”

The smile turned arch. “I do not expect you to recognise the connection in society, dear lady.”

“Does Portia?” I nibbled at the almond biscuit. It was quite tasty now that I was not choking upon it, I thought.

“No, I haven’t told her.”

“But you told me. Why?”

He shrugged. “It amused me. And I know you want to ask me about Madame Séraphine. It seemed best if you understood that I have nothing at all to hide.”

I smothered the urge to choke again and took another sip of tea. “How do you know I want to ask about Madame?”

He gave me a pitying look. “My dear lady, your exploits are notorious. You like murder, and the only murder I have been attached to is Madame’s.”

“Madame’s death was officially ruled an accident,” I reminded him.

He snorted, a gesture I often made, and I was startled at the resemblance between us. “Officially. But I have my doubts.”

“Had you attended many of her séances?”

“Half a dozen,” he replied promptly. “She was a fraud, of course, but a delicious one.”

“If you thought her a fraud, why did you attend so many?”

He flicked a glance to the narrow writing desk in the corner. It was littered with sheets of closely scribbled fools-cap.

“I am writing a novel and the main character is a medium. I was using her for a character study.”

“Did she know it?”

“Oh, yes. I was quite honest with her about my intentions. She only laughed. She thought it a very great challenge. She meant to change my mind and make a believer of me. From time to time she invited me up to her boudoir to take tea. She was really quite lovely. The only fly in the ointment was the dragon at the door, Agathe.”

“Agathe?” I widened my eyes to give him the impression that I was not
au courant
with the inhabitants of the Spirit Club. It seemed best to conceal what little I did know, although I could not have said precisely why.

“Madame’s sister, poor drab Agathe LeBrun. Séraphine was a bird of brilliant plumage. Agathe is a wren. She guarded Madame’s privacy most diligently. I think she had an idea that I was a wastrel and only out for what I could get.”

“Were you?”

To his eternal credit, Sir Morgan laughed. “Bless you, no. I make a comfortable living from my writing, and dear Mama’s father was the Duke of Esherton. His title was entailed through the direct male line only, and he had no sons after him. He was so furious that none of his daughters’ boys could inherit the title that he left us all of his money. My poor cousin has the dukedom and no means of supporting it, whilst we have all the cash. A pity for him, but there it is.”

I drew the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Was Madame helpful to you in your work?”

Sir Morgan fell serious for a moment, and his usual arch, laughing manner sobered. “Not entirely. I am not quite happy with the character I have created based upon her. I needed another month’s study and then I could have really got her. She was an elusive sort, full of secrets and changeable as the very devil. One minute, she would be warm and generous, the next she would pout over something entirely trivial and I would spend the entire evening making amends. Very curious and most vexing,” he informed me.

Just then a figure moved in the corner, and I started.

“Good heavens, what a peculiar cat!”

The feline in question had emerged from a fanciful little house of Chinese design with a fluted pagoda roof and heavily lacquered walls. I had seen such elaborate houses before—Puggy slept in a tiny French château—but I had never seen such a cat. Its fur was short and the colour of Saharan sands, shading to sable-dark paws and a velvety mask surrounding piercing blue eyes. It walked with the haughty grace of an emperor.

“A Siamese,” Sir Morgan informed me. “They once roamed the sacred temples of Siam.”

The cat tiptoed near to me, lifting its aristocratic little nose and twitching it in my direction. I noticed then that she—for I could see now that the creature was demonstrably female—had a kink in her tail. She peered up at me with a squint, which I found rather endearing. The flaw seemed to ameliorate her haughtiness a bit.

“I see you have noticed the idiosyncrasies of the breed,” Sir Morgan observed. “Siamese are particularly prized by the royal family and it is said that the kink is to hold in place the jewelled rings presented them by their royal masters.”

“And the squint?” She came closer still, touching her nose to the feathered trim of my reticle.

“Legend says one of the breed was charged with guarding a valuable vase that was of special importance to the king. The cat took the charge to heart and wrapped its tail tightly about the vase and stared at it, peering so closely that every Siamese after was born with a kinked tail and crossed eyes.”

“A charming story,” I murmured as she lifted a pretty paw to bat at the feathers.

“The king thought so,” Sir Morgan said with a smile. “The king commissioned me to set the story in verse and was so pleased with the result he made me a gift of her.”

Deftly, she teased one of the feathers free and darted after it. Sir Morgan gave an exclamation of dismay. “My dear lady, I do apologise. I am afraid peacock feathers are one of her dearest temptations. You must permit me to make reparation for Nin’s larceny.”

I flapped a hand. “Think nothing of it. I bought armfuls of the stuff in India, and I keep peacocks in the country. I can always replace it.”

“You are too gracious,” he said. “Not every lady would be quite so tolerant of her misbehaviour.”

“I have a raven at home, as well as a lurcher. I am quite accustomed to destructive pets,” I assured him. “Her name is lovely. Is it Siamese?”

“Nin? It is. Her real name is Sin, which is Siamese for ‘money.’ The king thought it a great joke because he gave her to me in lieu of a cash prize for the poem. But I thought Nin had a slightly less alarming sound. It means ‘sapphire.’”

“After her eyes,” I said, noting again the brilliant blue hue.

Just then she left off toying with the feather and came near to me again. She sat upon my hem, stretched up on her haunches and put a dainty paw to my lap.

Sir Morgan sat forward. “Nin, leave off.”

“It’s quite all right,” I assured him. “She is only being friendly.”

“But she never does that,” he said with some astonishment. “She is a friendly cat, but her demonstrations of real affection are usually confined to me. I am afraid it seems I have a rival for her regard.”

I put a fingertip to her paw, stroking the silken fur. She purred then, a loud, rumbling purr that sounded very like the engine of the motorcar Brisbane had been agitating to purchase.

“Extraordinary,” Sir Morgan said softly.

I sat back a little, which Nin must have viewed as an invitation, for she leapt up into my lap, as lightly as an acrobat. She straightened, then touched her brow to mine, nuzzling against my face, and just as quickly as she had come she was gone again, leaping off my lap and collecting her feathered trophy. She trotted away, the feather waving over her head like a sultan’s plume.