“How can you tell?” Tiberius challenged.
I explained about the paneling as Stoker resumed his explorations. We started at opposite ends of the panel and pressed towards the center without victory, neither of us having discovered the mechanism. I realized there was a commotion behind us and glanced backwards into the bedchamber to see Caspian and Mertensia and Helen gathered, watching anxiously.
I climbed out of the little chamber while Stoker put out his head to address Mertensia and Caspian. “I do not know which of you to ask, but I require permission to break down the wall.”
Aunt and nephew exchanged glances and nodded in unison. Before anyone could speak, Stoker returned to the hole and lifted one booted foot, slamming it hard into the panel. It made an ominous creak but did not break. Stoker braced his arms and positioned himself again, kicking the panel until it shattered with a deep moan of protest. He ripped at the broken boards until he made a hole large enough to admit him. I knew, even before I heard the soft intake of breath.
“He is there,” I murmured, eager for the others not to overhear just yet. It would be too upsetting for them to discover his corpse in situ.
“He is,” Stoker said, putting one leg over the broken panel to reach into the chamber beyond.
“Shall I tell them to leave?” I asked softly.
“No. Tell them to get out of the bloody way,” he ordered. “He is still alive. And he is not alone.”
•••
I had to take Stoker’s word for Malcolm’s condition, for when Stoker emerged from the back passage carrying the man, I thought him certainly a corpse. He was bone white and unconscious, his breathing scarcely detectable. Helen burst into loud weeping, but Mertensia had recovered her composure. Stoker deposited Malcolm onto his bed and issued a series of commands with regard to treatments to be applied.
“Do you think him likely to die?” I asked as he assessed his condition.
“Possibly,” he said with a grim expression. “I saw neither food nor water in there. He is badly dehydrated and suffering from shock and the temperature. It is cold as the grave in there.”
I hardly dared to ask. “Is it Rosamund—” I began.
“No,” he said, clipping the word sharply. “Mrs. Trengrouse.”
He made another trip into the second priest’s hole to retrieve her. She was unconscious and Stoker handed her off with obvious distaste to Caspian. “Take her to her room. She is responsible for the attempted murderof myself, Tiberius, and Veronica, as well as your uncle. You will guard her and make certain she does not attempt to leave this house if she wakens,” he ordered, looking for all the world as imperious as his brother.
If the boy resented being ordered about by Stoker, he gave no sign of it. He nodded smartly and did as he was told. Mertensia hovered in the doorway.
“Trenny,” she said softly. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Believe it,” Stoker said in a stern voice as he returned to Malcolm’s care. “She’s damned near killed your brother as well, I would wager.”
Mertensia drew in a deep breath. “I will order whatever you need from the stillroom and Daisy will bring it. I will attend to Trenny myself until you can examine her.”
Stoker agreed by way of a grunt and Mertensia left. Helen, rising magnificently to the occasion, organized the maids into producing hot bricks and water in record time. A fire was kindled in the hearth, the applewood logs soon crackling and giving off welcome heat. Counterpanes thick with down were heaped atop the unconscious man and tucked tightly about him. Stoker kept a close watch, marking the slow rise in Malcolm’s temperature by the return of color to his cheeks. Through it all, Tiberius sat, still as a graven god, on a chair in the corner, saying nothing.
After a few hours, Mertensia returned, looking tired and deeply sad. “She has come to,” she told us. “She said very little before she went to sleep again. But she seemed glad to know that my brother has been found before it was too late. How is he?”
“The same,” Stoker told her. She went and shuttered away the sun lest the bright light hurt Malcolm’s eyes when he woke. She brought a small chair next to his bed and seated herself, watching over him as he slept.
“Is someone with Mrs. Trengrouse?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Helen has offered to sit with her, and Caspian is pacing outside with Malcolm’s shooting pieces. You would think she were dangerous as Napoléon,” she finished with a ghost of a smile.
“She rather was,” I reminded her.
“I cannot think what happened,” she said in a halting voice. “Her mind must have turned for her to harm Malcolm. It is impossible. He was her favorite, we all knew. She always loved him best,” she added. And I thought then how terrible love can be when it is not properly returned, thwarting and twisting itself into something unrecognizable—and dangerous.
After another hour, Malcolm roused, blinking hard against the light of the single lamp burning on the mantel. In the dimness, he struggled to make out shapes.
“Mertensia?” he called feebly. His sister went to him, putting his hand to her cheek.
“I am here, Malcolm.”
“Was it a nightmare, then? Nothing but a dream?”
