I found the others in the drawing room. Stoker had retrieved the tantalus from the dining room and picked the lock, liberally distributing brandy to remedy the day’s shocks. I had not paused long in the little chapel, but it was time enough for the end to come to Mrs. Trengrouse. Mertensia joined me as I entered the drawing room, saying little to the others except that Trenny had passed away quietly and suddenly. Stoker gave me an oblique look and I nodded once, careful that only he should see. I knew what silent question he had posed, and I knew, too, that he would interpret my reply correctly. To the others, I did not explain about the little bottle with the skull upon the label or the choice that Mertensia had given Trenny. The old woman had got an easier death than she deserved but it would spare the family much in the way of scandal.
The atmosphere was unhappy and the cause of this was soon apparent.
“What has been decided? What will you do?” I asked Tiberius.
The gathering turned as one to him, watching with avid eyes. His expression was inscrutable. “I hardly know. Malcolm is half out of his senses. Mrs. Trengrouse has been revealed to be a murderess, and Rosamund is still missing. It is the devil’s own breakfast. God only knows what the courts will make of it.”
“Is it necessary to tell them?” Mertensia ventured hesitantly.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked with perfect hauteur.
“Well,” she began in a slow voice. “We do not know precisely what happened to Rosamund, that is true. But Trenny confessed to killing her, so we know more than we did before. Those who loved her can finally mourn her. As far as justice is concerned, her murderess has met with it. It wasn’t a rope at Newgate prison, but it is death nonetheless. Trenny has paid for her crimes. Surely we can agree upon that.”
She looked about the group, but no one said a word for a long while.
“So what do you propose, Mertensia?” Tiberius asked at length.
“Let it go,” she said simply. “Do not speak to the authorities on the mainland.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Do you think you can simply cover this up?”
“We have covered up worse on this island,” she retorted. “Romillys have smuggled and pirated in these waters for centuries and the mainlanders know nothing of it.”
Caspian came to his aunt’s side in support. “At least in this we are on the side of what is right, even you must admit that,” he challenged, lifting his chin as he regarded Tiberius.
“I must admit nothing,” he countered coldly. “You forget yourself, Caspian. And you forget the most important thing in this business. Rosamund. She was the beginning of it all, and she has no proper burial. I will report this to the authorities,” he promised.
Helen came forward, joining her son and her sister-in-law. “I understand that you have suffered,” she began gently. “But must we all go on suffering? Think of the scandal it will cause. For you as well as for us. There will be no escaping it.”
Tiberius drained off the last of his drink. “I will report Rosamund’s murder and I will insist on a search being made for her body. I will take this island apart, stone by stone, until she is found. And if there isnothing left of St. Maddern’s Isle or the Romillys or the Atlantic Ocean itself by the time I am finished, I don’t bloody well care.”
Caspian stepped forwards, standing toe-to-toe with Tiberius, sloshing a bit of brandy out of his glass as he gestured theatrically. “I will not let you harm my family,” he said, his voice cracking only a little.
Tiberius slanted him a thin smile. “My dear boy, you cannot possibly stop me.”
He set his glass down with great care and stood, shooting his cuffs as he surveyed the aghast faces. “I will be leaving on the morning tide,” he said. “Consider this my farewell to you all.”
He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Helen gave a low sound of protest while Mertensia uttered a swearword she might have learnt from Stoker, so eloquently profane was it. Caspian went to set his glass upon the mantel, but it slipped through his nerveless fingers, dripping amber liquid onto the hearthstones. Past caring, he threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“We are ruined,” he said.
“You tried,” his mother said by way of consolation. “And it was a valiant effort, poppet. I have never been prouder of you. You stood up to a peer of the realm!”
“What difference does it make?” he demanded, dropping his hands. “I say, we are ruined.”
I stared at the hearth, watching the brandy puddle on the dark stone, thinking of Mrs. Trengrouse. Stoker came to stand at my side.
“It seems such a short time ago that I stood with Mrs. Trengrouse, sipping brandy and talking about ghosts,” I mused.
“Fortune’s wheel turns on a—did you say sipping brandy with Mrs. Trengrouse? She was teetotal.”
“She liked a little stiffener,” I confided.
“But she avoided the island wine,” Stoker pointed out. “Even to test the quality of it before she added it to the barrel in the cellar.”
I stared at him. “Do not even suggest it,” I hissed.
He grabbed my hand, heedless of the stares of the others. I clasped his as we proceeded at a dead run through the kitchens and to the ironwork door giving onto the cellars. He stopped, cursing. “Locked and no doubt Mrs. Trengrouse still has the key.”
