CHAPTER
23
In an instant, the brawling was forgot as Stoker—having hauled Sir James off his feet by his collar—dropped the baronet and went to Beatrice. Before anyone else could respond, Stoker swept her rigid body off the chair and into his arms.
“She must have air,” he said, forcing his way past Pietro as the count attempted to wrestle Beatrice from Stoker’s grip.
Pietro, streaming blood and swearing in both gutter Italian and English, followed, landing a number of blows to Stoker’s shoulders as he ordered him to release his wife.
Timothy struggled out from under the table where he had taken refuge at the beginning of the fight, and together the rest of us hastened to the clearing outside the Megalosaurus. The flames of the cressets streamed like crimson banners against the night sky, and the Megalosaurus itself glowed malevolence from its glassy eyes.
Around the edge of the clearing, the entertainers and servants stood in openmouthed horror. It took the musicians a moment longer to grasp the gravity of the situation. They had just struck the first notes of “Danse Macabre” when Collins, white-faced with shock, gestured them abruptly to silence.
With superb presence of mind, Collins whipped a tablecloth from one of the serving tables and spread it on the grass, ducking back into the shadows before Stoker laid Beatrice gently upon it. The little countess was staring up with unseeing eyes, her brows raised and her mouth curved in a tight smile. Pietro dropped to his knees beside her, clasping her hand and babbling words of endearment as Timothy hastened to take charge. Stoker ceded his position to allow the physician to take her pulse, but just then she arched again, so that the whole of her body was balanced upon her heels and the back of her head. It was terrible to witness, and even J. J., who had looked upon all manner of sordid things, seemed shaken by the sight. She kept to the edge of the clearing, an unobtrusive witness to it all, and I made a note to seek her out for a private conversation as soon as possible.
Suddenly, Beatrice gave a deep shudder and collapsed back onto the ground. The fit that had come upon her was finished, but the expression on her face did not change—that strange, otherworldly smile and those wide eyes.
Timothy put his finger to her neck and then bent swiftly to her chest, placing his ear just above the neckline of her gown. He remained there for a moment that stretched into eternity, no sound except the rustle of the cresset flames and Pietro’s muted, pleading whispers as he begged Beatrice to live.
Slowly, reluctantly it seemed, Timothy sat back on his haunches and looked at Pietro. “I am so sorry,” he said.
For a long moment, the world hung in silence. Then a grievous wail, a great, horrible lamentation, split the air. Pietro collapsed, hands covering his face. To my astonishment, it was Merryweather who went to him, putting his arms around the poor man while Stoker retrieved his evening coat and laid it reverently over Beatrice’s face.
Augusta succumbed to emotion, weeping silently in her husband’s arms.
“How?” I heard her wail against his shoulder. He patted her, disarranging her hair a little. Timothy retreated to a garden bench, head heavy in his hands, while Elspeth went to sit next to him and offer some comfort. Tiberius, his face quite pale, motioned to Stoker and then to me. We joined him a little distance apart, just far enough so the others could not easily overhear.
His expression was grave. “I presume there was nothing you could do?”
A muscle twitched in Stoker’s cheek. “You may presume that if there was anything at all to be done, I would have done it.”
Tiberius looked almost apologetic. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your willingness or your abilities. Only to clarify that there was no hope.”
“None whatsoever.”
Tiberius was silent a moment. “When Pietro has had time to accept what has happened, we will take her up to the house and lay her out with dignity. I will tell Collins to have Mrs.Brackendale prepare a suitable room for Pietro. He will not wish to sleep in the same room as—” He broke off and waved his hand to where Beatrice’s shrouded form lay.
Stoker regarded him with frank astonishment. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am perfectly serious,” Tiberius assured him. “She must be treated with all due dignity until we are able to have the undertakers in.”
“Undertakers?” Stoker hissed the word in a whisper. “You cannot have the undertakers. You must call the coroner.”
“Iamthe coroner, or had you forgot?” I was not entirely surprised. In most areas of the country, the most prominent landowner held the office of coroner and was entrusted with seeing justice done. In the case of sudden death, it was the coroner’s responsibility to hold an inquest and establish the means of death by presenting evidence to a jury of the public. Such affairs were usually grand entertainment for the locals, held in pubs and open to all.
Stoker folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “Then you know the necessity of an inquest in the eventuality of sudden death—” He broke off as he realised the MacIvers were looking curiously at us, no doubt wondering what the two brothers could possibly find to argue about at such a time.
Tiberius cut his eyes at them and back again. “We must discuss this in private.”
Stoker opened his mouth to remonstrate, and if Tiberius had given him a quelling look, he might have persisted. Instead, his elder brother stared at him with such an expression of beseeching that Stoker clamped his lips together. He gave a single, sharp nod and Tiberius turned to the other gentlemen.
“Let us bear her into the house with the dignity she deserves,” he said quietly.
•••
Merry, who I surmised had been speaking words of clerical consolation to Pietro, rose and came to his elder brother at once. Sir James detached himself from his lady, consigning her to Timothy with a hopeful look. Timothy took Augusta’s arm firmly in his. Elspeth joined them, looping her arm about Augusta’s waist. I was rather surprised that Augusta should seem so badly affected. She had seemed to me a lady of grit and self-possession, but, as I reflected, if Timothy Gresham, a trained physician, could be so deeply shaken by the sudden death, then it was not surprising that Augusta had been shocked nearly to the point of insensibility.
Behind them, I caught sight of J. J.’s cap disappearing into the shadows as Collins directed a pair of servers to bring a table forward as a makeshift catafalque. I knew I should have to speak firmly with her to keep Beatrice’s death from becoming a lurid headline, but that was a problem for another time. Instead, I applied myself to Pietro,gently taking him into my charge as Stoker and Tiberius lifted Beatrice with infinite care onto the table. At this Pietro gave another final ululation of grief and collapsed into my arms.
