I fetched two hairpins out of my Psyche knot and handed them over. He fitted them to the lock and with a moment’s deft manipulation had the thing opened.
“You are going to teach me how to do that,” I warned. He opened the door and I hurtled through, leading the way down the stone stairs to the cellars, Stoker hard upon my heels. We stopped just short of the great barrel, staring at it in mute horror.
“I cannot bear to think of it,” I managed at last.
“It is the only place we have not looked,” he said simply. “And Mrs. Trengrouse was tasked with searching for Rosamund in all the nooks and crannies of the castle. Including the cellars.”
“She could have taken her body out to sea and dumped her,” I argued.
“It is too far. She might have been seen,” he countered.
I sighed and gestured towards the axe hanging on the wall. “You will need that.
“The notion of being seen did not seem to trouble her when she sent us to our doom,” I said as he retrieved the axe.
“It was dark and the mist was rising and it was the day after a heavy storm. There was little danger of her being seen,” he pointed out. “Rosamund vanished on a bright summer’s day.” He took a firm grip upon the axe and paused. “Veronica,” he said, and I turned, seeing the expression of anguished reluctance on his face.
“I know.” I stepped back and gestured towards the largest of the wine barrels. “Do it.”
He hefted the axe and swung it over his head. It took three blowsbefore he shattered the side of the barrel. There was a pause, a breathless moment where nothing happened, and then the wine burst forth, rivers of it as darkly scarlet as old blood, pouring onto the floor. After that came the arm, a slender limb wrapped in bridal satin, stained the color of grapeskins. At the end of the arm was a graceful hand, and on the fourth finger of the hand, a ring—a slim band of gold—shining dully in the shadows.
“My God,” Stoker breathed. And I knew that for once it was not a curse. It was a prayer.
•••
We did not tell Tiberius until we had removed her from the cask, laying her out and straightening her wedding gown as the last of the wine dripped from the barrel. I wiped her face and arms with a clean cloth dipped in vinegar and Stoker found a sheet to cover her to the neck. Her hair was sodden with wine and badly stained, but what was left of her expression was calm.
I do not like to think of the next hours. Tiberius was shattered by the sight of her. He retreated to his chamber without a word and it was left to Mertensia to make the necessary arrangements. It was midnight before Caspian and Stoker had finished the digging, but when all was prepared, Mertensia summoned us to the poison garden, giving each of us a taper as we gathered beneath the solemn watch of the figurehead.
“What is this?” Tiberius demanded.
Mertensia stepped forward. “You told Caspian you would not leave us in peace until and unless she was buried. That is what I mean to do.”
“Here?” Tiberius looked around. “This is not hallowed ground.”
“This is a garden,” she told him. “The first place of God’s own creation for mankind. It is as hallowed a place as anyone could wish. If you want hymns, we shall sing them. If you want prayers, we shall make them.”
Tiberius hesitated. “Malcolm ought to be here.”
“Malcolm is not well,” she said, new authority steadying her voice as she stood toe-to-toe with him. “I will explain everything when he is capable of comprehending it. For now, he will rest.”
Tiberius turned in a slow circle, taking it in. Just behind was the stone wall covered in lady of the night, the scent perfuming the night air. The serene face of the figurehead called Mercy watched over it all with opaque eyes.
“Very well,” he said hoarsely. “Do it.”
There had been no time for a coffin. Mertensia had unearthed draperies from the attics, heavy golden brocade, and Rosamund had been wrapped carefully in these. With infinite gentleness, Caspian and Stoker moved to place her in the grave. When she had been laid neatly, we each took up a handful of the piled earth and dropped it onto the shimmering cloth, offering a peaceful passing to the young woman who would rest forever in the garden at the edge of the sea.
Finally, it was Tiberius’ turn. We stepped backwards to give him a moment of privacy as he slipped to his knees at the edge of the grave. I heard his voice, a low murmur that went on for a long time as he spoke one last time to the love of his life. I heard, too, the dull noise when the soil in his hand dropped to the golden cloth. He rose and took the shovel from Caspian’s grasp. Together, he and Stoker finished the long, laborious task of filling in the grave. When they had finished, Stoker put a hand to his brother’s shoulder and Tiberius covered it with his own for a brief moment. Then he shrugged it away and went to theCestrum, the lady of the night, cutting a long sprig of it to place upon the mound of earth. It was white and fragrant and looked very much like a bridal bouquet. We stood for a long time in that garden as the moon rose above us, shedding its pearly light, and over it all spread the scent of the starry jasmine blossoms blowing away and over the sea.
•••
By the next morning, all was decided. When Malcolm had recovered himself enough to travel, Caspian and Helen were taking him on a long tour of Italy. A foreign country with no acquaintance to ask questions was just the thing. They expected to be gone at least a year while Malcolm made peace with all that had happened. In the meantime, Mertensia would act as master of St. Maddern’s Isle, and given the decisiveness and authority she had exhibited on that fateful night, I had little doubt the island would be in good hands.
The news of Mrs. Trengrouse’s passing was accepted with relief on all sides, although Tiberius looked as if he regretted the fact that her end had been a tranquil one. It took a little gentle debate before Mrs. Trengrouse’s fate was decided and, in the end, it was Stoker’s suggestion which prevailed. He had discovered in his conversations with the local fishermen that burials at sea were sometimes held surreptitiously for those who had died quietly at home and preferred the consolations of the deep to those of the churchyard. He explained that the current had shifted and that anything put on the outgoing tide would be carried away. And so her body was taken down to the shingle beach on the western edge of the isle. She was laid into a small boat and pushed out to sea as the tide turned, bearing her over the horizon.
“It is better than she deserves,” Tiberius said as we watched the tiny craft bob and toss on the waves.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But justice has been meted. And the dead can rest at last.”
