Helen Romilly’s eyes were wide in her pale face and her son looked bewildered. “What does this mean?” he asked.
He had put the question to his uncle, but it was Tiberius who replied. “It means that Rosamund Romilly never left this island alive.”
“That seems a stretch,” Caspian protested.
Tiberius regarded him dispassionately. “Is it? If a lady runs away, she takes a bag. Even Miss Speedwell, who has traveled the world five times over, always takes a bag.” He flicked a glance to me and I nodded slowly.
“I cannot imagine a lady embarking willingly on any sort of voyage without even the most modest assortment of possessions.”
Tiberius went on. “So let us carry it out to the logical conclusion. If she left and took no bag, she did not leave of her own free will. Or she never left at all. Either possibility points to foul play.”
Mrs. Trengrouse covered her mouth with her hand as Mertensia gave a little moan. “It cannot be,” she murmured. She reached out blindly, her fingers groping for some comfort. It did not escape me that they landed upon Stoker’s sleeve.
“What do you want from us?” Tiberius asked Malcolm.
A brief smile touched our host’s mouth. “I should have known I could count on you for plain speaking, Tiberius. I need your help in discovering what became of Rosamund.”
“You want us to help you hunt a murderer,” Tiberius replied sharply.
At this Helen Romilly shrieked a little and half rose. Stoker patted her hand and she resumed her seat. Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head sadly while Mertensia regarded her brother with horror.
“Malcolm, you cannot be serious,” she began.
“I am, I assure you, entirely in earnest,” he told her. “This bag means that Rosamund never left the island alive.”
“But murder—” Mertensia said.
“What else can it be?” Tiberius asked softly. “If she never left, taking her wretched little bag with her, then she must be here. And who else would hide her traveling bag except someone who wanted to make you think she left of her own accord?”
Put so bluntly, the question laid a pall upon the gathering. We were all silent a long moment, each of us grappling with the enormity of what we had just heard. Malcolm carefully laid the decrepit bag upon his chair and took up his glass.
“What do you want us to do?” Tiberius asked.
“I hoped each of you would bring your skills to the question of Rosamund’s fate.” He paused, his gaze resting upon Tiberius. “Tiberius, you are my oldest friend, and I find myself in need of support. We were close as brothers once, and I think you will not now refuse me.”
Tiberius stirred. “Naturally, I will do whatever I can. I do have a few contacts in London who might prove useful. I will write in the morning and make inquiries. Discreetly, of course,” he added with a graceful inclination of the head.
“Thank you, Tiberius. I am grateful,” Malcolm Romilly replied gravely. “I cannot imagine there has been any further development, but if there is the slightest chance, we should ask.” He seemed about to saysomething more but fell silent instead. There was an odd undercurrent between the two men, as if something more significant than words had passed between them, only a flicker and then it was gone as Malcolm Romilly moved on, looking to Stoker and to me.
“I had no thought of asking either of you to help, but when you unexpectedly joined our little endeavor here, it did occur to me that, as natural scientists, you are trained observers. There must be something the rest of us have overlooked. A fresh perspective from those who are experienced at observation must be useful and I am desperate enough to throw myself upon your generosity and implore you to lend your skills.”
He turned his head slightly. “Mertensia, Caspian. You are both Romillys. The local folk are loyal to us. It is possible that someone has seen or heard something. They might be willing to tell you.”
He took a deep breath. “Helen, that brings me to your particular talents.”
She inhaled sharply, the jet beads at her throat dancing in time. “Malcolm, surely there are better ways—”
Mertensia regarded her brother in dismay. “Malcolm, this is not wise,” she started.
He held up a hand, silencing them both. “I am resolved.”
“What talents?” Stoker inquired.
“My sister-in-law is renowned for her abilities to contact those who have passed beyond the veil,” Malcolm said. “She is a spiritualist.”
“Not just any spiritualist,” Caspian put in proudly. “She is rather famous. Perhaps you have heard of Madame Helena?” He finished with a flourish, bowing to his mother, who looked deeply unhappy.
“Malcolm, really,” she began again, but her brother-in-law shook his head.
