“I’ll grant you he might have been able to arrange the candles guttering out by means of clipped wicks or some such trickery, but what of the music?” Tiberius demanded. “He can’t have done that. He was with us.”
Stoker explained swiftly about the hidden passageway between the music room and the library. “Anyone might have managed it by means of a hidden music box or a bit of clockwork mechanism we have yet to discover. But having considered it, I don’t think Malcolm did,” Stoker said slowly. “His expression was too genuinely shocked. I think the music was a warning to him to let well enough alone.”
“A warning?” I ventured. I drew in a sharp breath. “From the murderer!”
“Precisely,” Stoker said. “Suppose Malcolm believes one of you responsible for his bride’s disappearance. He summons you here to get to the bottom of things, makes a few suggestive remarks, plans a few little surprises like the flowers to keep everyone on edge. Now, someone who genuinely loved Rosamund and was innocent would be upset, but only the guilty would take action.”
“By turning the tables,” I said, picking up the thread of his idea. “Making Malcolm think that her ghost had actually been summoned.”
“That is the rankest, most absurd—” Tiberius began. Stoker held up a hand to silence him.
“I am not saying it is logical. But if someone were responsible for Rosamund’s death, then coming here, being subjected to Malcolm’s little suggestions—that would be enough to prod the guilty party to act. The candles are blown out, Rosamund’s music comes down the corridor.What is Malcolm to think? He will be overcome with grief and bewilderment. He will not be able to continue his little game.”
Tiberius looked doubtful. “I could pick a dozen holes in that theory without taxing my imagination.”
“Do it. And then come up with a theory of your own. I shall be happy to wait,” Stoker told him.
Tiberius’ expression was thoughtful. “Even if what you say is true—”
“It is.”
“Evenif,” Tiberius continued as if Stoker had not spoken. “There is no proof. And what has become of Malcolm? He would not be so overcome that he would simply abandon his house party.”
“Unless,” I began. I let the word drop into silence as I gathered my skirts into my hands and bolted from the room. The Templeton-Vanes were hard upon my heels as I made my way down the corridor and up the main staircase. It took only two wrong turnings to find Malcolm’s bedchamber.
“Veronica,” Stoker remonstrated. “You cannot simply barge into Malcolm’s room.”
“I can and I will,” I told him stoutly. I rapped sharply at the door, but there was no response. I threw open the door. The bed had not been slept in. The coverlet was still drawn neatly back, by the maid the previous night, the curtains still tightly closed. The wardrobe door stood open with a few items in disarray, as if Malcolm had snatched up clothing with no care.
“He left in a hurry,” Tiberius said thoughtfully. “He is always tidy as a monk.”
“And he never went to bed,” Stoker pointed out, nodding to the pristine sheets. “That is suggestive of a disordered mind. Perhaps he did himself a mischief.”
Tiberius’ voice was sharp. “You think he might have killed himself?”
“It’s one of eight possibilities for his absence,” I remarked.
Tiberius’ eyes fairly popped.“Eight?”
I ticked off the prospects as I named them. “I have been thinking outthe possibilities with regard to Rosamund’s fate, but they will do just as well for Malcolm. He might have killed himself. He might have met with an accident. He may be trapped somewhere and unable to free himself. He might be hiding. He might have suffered a breakdown of sorts. He might have been murdered. He might have keeled over dead of quite natural causes. He might have surprised smugglers or pirates and is being held against his will in a lair—”
Tiberius made a strangled noise and Stoker shook his head. “You’ve over-egged the pudding with that one.”
“I never claimed all the options bore equal likelihood. I merely said they werepossible. And you must admit, there is a history of piracy in this place.”
“Not since the days of Elizabeth and her privateers,” Stoker argued.
“Feathers. As long as men sail the seven seas, those bent upon mischief or profit will find it,” I countered.
Tiberius held up a hand. “I have never, in all of my life, needed two people to shut their mouths more urgently. The point is that Malcolm has gone missing and we must determine our next step.”
“Our next step,” I instructed, “is to search the castle from turrets to terraces. Onward!”
•••
They did as I bade them with ill grace. For all their differences, the Templeton-Vane men were of a masterful bent and never liked being told what to do. As for myself, I never permit petty irritations to dissuade me from my purpose. (For most people, a potentially murderous viscount, a missing host, and a vengeful ghost might seem out of the realm of petty irritations. But then, most people have not led my life.)
We divided the task thusly: Stoker took the wardrobe, Tiberius searched the washstand and water closet—a rudimentary affair whose plumbing arrangements do not bear further discussion—whilst I gavethe bed a careful going-over. There was no safe in the room, no strongbox for the keeping of anything of a private and valuable nature. I felt my way through the pillows and between and underneath the mattresses, scattering feathers into the air as I searched. I even went so far as to crawl beneath the bed, where I was impressed to find not so much as a mote of dust. Mrs. Trengrouse was as thorough as she was devoted.
