“Helen, I know you must think me inhospitable. I have not invited my own brother’s widow and son to enter his family home for years. I have not answered letters. I have fulfilled the very least of my obligations and nothing more.”
Helen shook her head. “You have continued the allowance that was Lucian’s. You were not obligated to do so,” she said in a low voice.
Malcolm brushed her remark aside, and for an instant I saw a flash of the man he must have been before tragedy and isolation had worked their worst upon him. He was decisive and unflinching and new blood rose to his cheeks, giving him a more animated look than I had yet seen. “It is not enough. I have failed,” he said firmly. “I have scrutinized my own conduct, and believe me when I say that I am the first to condemn myself for being consumed with my own difficulties and giving little consideration to yours. I wish to make amends, truly. But I understand if you do not wish to clasp the olive branch that I extend.”
“It is not that, Malcolm. You must not think so.” She stopped, biting her lip until the blood rushed into it.
He rose and went to her, putting out his hand. “Shake hands with me, Helen. Do this for me, and let us be a proper family once more.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to her son and she summoned a smile that did not touch her eyes. Slowly, she reached out and took the hand he offered. “Of course, Malcolm. Whatever you wish.”
“Then it is settled,” he said. “Tonight we will begin our investigations in earnest. With a séance.”
“No,” she put in sharply. “That is, I cannot possibly summon the spirits with so little preparation. I must have time.”
“You do not have to do this,” her son said. “Uncle Malcolm has done little enough for us.”
Malcolm flushed but did not reply. Helen gave her son a look of mild reproach. “Your uncle is right. We have the chance to be a proper family. And if I can help, I owe it to him. I will do this,” she said, more firmly than before. But as she reached to her son, her hand trembled, and something like dread settled in her eyes.
I moved forward as if to look into the bag, but Malcolm met my gaze, his expression bleak. I paused, checking my enthusiasm. To me, itmight rank as evidence to be met with scientific inquiry, but to him it could only be a painful reminder of the wife he had lost. Worse still, it was no impersonal item, but her traveling bag, doubtless packed with her most intimate possessions. There would be time enough to ask for its examination later, I decided. I stepped back.
“Tomorrow,” Malcolm said firmly, picking up the decaying bag. “We will begin.”
•••
As with my visit to Stoker’s room the previous night, I did not bother to knock. I entered Tiberius’ bedchamber under a full head of steam, surprised to find that he was already undressing. He gave me a wicked glance.
“Why, Veronica, this is all so terribly sudden. Will you still respect me in the morning?”
“You dreadful man. I ought to have known. Stoker warned me, but I would not listen. You’ve dragged me down here for some nefarious purpose and I mean to know what it is.”
I stood with my back firmly against the door as I waited for his reply. He stripped off his evening coat and waistcoat and began yanking at his neckcloth, long fingers plucking irritably at the silk. “Dragged you? My dear Veronica, I had only to mention the glasswings and you were fairly begging to come.”
“Semantics,” I said firmly. “Now, what is this all about? What is Malcolm Romilly playing at with this gathering and what the devil happened to Rosamund?”
He arched a brow at me. It was an effective gesture, one Stoker often attempted and rarely achieved. “Excellent questions. I wish I knew the answers.”
“What do you mean?”
He plucked at his studs, removing each and dropping them to a trayupon the washstand before removing his collar and cuffs. “Lucky for you the master of the house didn’t see you creeping into my bedchamber like a lady of imperfect virtue. Malcolm is something of a prude, you know. He would be mightily shocked if he knew you were here right now.”
“He will be more shocked if he has to treat you for the injuries I am about to inflict if you do not begin answering my questions.”
He gave a short bark of laughter in spite of himself. “God, I was right to bring you,” he said, stripping off his shirt. His musculature was not as impressive as Stoker’s but it was a glorious thing in its own right. He was long and sleekly sensuous as a Praxitelean statue, and under other circumstances my fingertips would have itched to discover if that marble perfection was as solid as it looked. He took up a dressing gown of black silk and knotted it about his waist.
He gestured towards the chairs by the fire. “Would you like to make yourself comfortable? Or would you prefer the bed?” He chose the bed for himself, lounging against the pillows and patting the coverlet invitingly.
I remained where I was. “Tiberius.”
He gave a gusty sigh. “Very well.” He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the canopy of the bed. The fabric had been gathered in a complex starburst pattern, pleated elaborately and most likely at great expense. “To repeat what you have already learnt this evening, three years ago Rosamund and Malcolm Romilly were married here in the castle. On their wedding day, Rosamund disappeared—apparently in her wedding gown and veil.”
“Apparently?”
“No one saw her leave,” he said in a flat monotone. “The wedding cake was left to molder, the ropes of flowers dropped their petals. It was all frightfully reminiscent of Miss Havisham. Finally, Malcolm accepted that she was gone and was not returning. Now, with the discovery of that dreadful bag, it seems he has decided he wants to rake it all upagain, hence the party. He has brought together the only people he believes he can trust to investigate the problem.”
“Why not go to the police?”
“The police?” Tiberius pulled a face of mock horror. “My dear Veronica, the police would have been quite happy to hang him for her murder, only it was rather difficult without a body. They made no secret of their suspicions, and one or more of them spoke to the press with disastrous results. You and Stoker were both abroad at the time, but believe me when I tell you I have seldom witnessed a more brutal evisceration by our newspapers. You had only to read one to be convinced that Malcolm was an unholy combination of Bluebeard and Henry VIII. The scandal nearly destroyed him. That is why he is so skittish about my being discreet with any London inquiries I might make—for fear it might all be raked up again.”
