“I am not nervous for me,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you will remember we are here on Tiberius’ behalf.”
“I knew you cared about him!” I grinned. “He will be delighted to hear it.”
“Veronica, you are, under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever, to relate to Tiberius any concerns I may have for his well-being.”
“You love him,” I crowed. “Admit it. He is your brother and you love him.”
“I will admit no such thing. I will say that upon occasion, I do not entirely detest him.”
“Progress indeed,” I said. “But I am firm in my conviction that Pietro is no danger to anyone in his present condition. Now, what did you discover from your examination of Beatrice’s body?”
He launched into a highly technical and deeply dull explanation that went on for some time before he concluded with the confirmation that she had indeed been poisoned by strychnine with little indication of how the thing had been done or the size of the dose. “Although,” he finished, “with her heart troubles, she was unusually vulnerable. A normal young woman of rude good health, such as yourself, might be made violently ill from some toxic matter but weather the storm. The same amount could well kill a person with Beatrice’s infirmity.”
“The question is, who would view Beatrice as a threat?” I mused aloud. I went on. “Imagine you have committed the most grievous of acts, that of murder. You have taken a young man’s life. Perhaps it was a crime of the moment, perhaps it was done with deliberation and intent. You had motive to kill Lorenzo d’Ambrogio and you did it. And you got away with it! Now twenty years have passed. You have prospered, perhaps you have married—all but Timothy Gresham have taken wives, after all. You have made a life for yourself. But always in the back of your mind, the knowledge lurks, squatting like a toad. You bear the mark of Cain. Suddenly, you are thrown back into the company of the men you knew at the time. Only now two of them are dead, quite close together. And then Tiberius shares the cuttings he received. Kaspar and Alexandre have been murdered out of vengeance for an act you have committed. And it is very apparent that sometime, perhaps very soon, you must pay for what you have done.”
“My god, Veronica,” he broke in. “Spare me the rest. I think I understand. You believe Lorenzo’s killer has a guilty conscience. And that conscience has prompted him to believe he is at risk for retribution.”
“Precisely. And somehow, he has discovered Beatrice’s true identity, penetrating the secret she has worked so hard to keep. Naturally,he assumes she is picking off her brother’s possible assassins one by one.”
“And knowing the delicacy of her heart, he strikes before she can accomplish her revenge,” he finished. He gave a slow nod. “It does seem logical enough, I grant you.”
A lesser woman might have preened at the praise, but I spared no time for such pleasures, choosing instead to press my point home.
“And that means Beatrice was conclusively murdered,” I said flatly. “The only other possibility is that she happened to fall victim to some accident in the kitchens. Perhaps poisonous mushrooms in the consommé?”
“No,” he assured me. “We ate from the same tureen of consommé. If the mushrooms had been toxic, we all would have suffered. The same is true of any unwholesome food. Julien is thoroughly cleared, although I wonder if that was the murderer’s intention...” His voice trailed off, but I leapt upon his meaning instantly.
“How clever and how utterly diabolical! To administer the poison somehow so that Beatrice would collapse at the dinner. We would obviously think her heart had given out, but even if anyone suspected poison, the next logical conclusion would be that she perished from something she ate.”
“Leaving Julien the deliberately chosen scapegoat,” he finished grimly. “When we discover who did this, I swear I will take him apart bone by bone.”
We. The word did not escape my attention, and I felt a delicious rush of warmth clear to my toes from the sound of it. I smiled. “That puts Julien completely in the clear, as you say, but only if we run the murderer to ground and bring him to justice ourselves.”
“I was rather afraid of that.”
CHAPTER
26
We spent the next quarter of an hour pleasantly debating the most suitable course of action—if “pleasantly debating” can encompass a dispute comprising hissing whispers over the body of a dead woman. In the end, Stoker gave way. I chose to believe he was persuaded by my arguments, but it is also entirely possible he surrendered simply as a means to ensure I stopped talking. In any event, I emerged from Beatrice’s room victorious. We repaired to our respective rooms and I fell at once into a deep and restorative slumber, waking only when Lily arrived with my breakfast tray. She puttered about, polishing a grate that already shone as brightly as any mirror, as well as inspecting my clothes to see if any buttons needed tightening or boots shining.
After several minutes of her dawdling, I sighed and drained the last of my cup, pushing it towards her.
“Lily, if you want to talk about the countess, do pour yourself a cup of tea and sit down. Your restlessness is most disconcerting.”
She tried to refuse, but her eagerness to please a guest in her master’s house and her desperation to indulge in a little idle talk about the most dramatic thing to happen in her young life were too much to resist. I nudged her along by pouring the tea myself and dropping in aconsiderable amount of sugar. I never take it in my tea, but I could see from the way her eyes lingered on the snowy lumps that she was a devotee.
“Now,” I said, handing over the cup and patting the bed. “Come and sit. If Mrs.Brackendale wants to know what has kept you, you may tell her that I needed the hem of my evening gown whipped.”
“Yes, miss,” she said, sipping nervously at the tea. She was timid as a rabbit to begin with, but half a cup of India’s finest brew and she was talking animatedly.
“Nanny is most distressed. Mr.Collins used one of the best sheets for covering the poor lady and Nanny said it’s proper Irish linen, embroidered by nuns, and part of Lady Templeton-Vane’s trousseau, irreplaceable, which Mr.Collins ought to have known, and she said it’s the rankest disrespect to come into a house and simply take as you please, and then Mr.Collins said the poor lady was dead and he would be”—her voice dropped to a thrilled whisper—“damnedif he begrudged a woman a shroud. And they both looked to Mrs.Brackendale to settle the matter, but she was having none of it, and now neither of them is speaking to each other or to her, so everything is at sixes and sevens belowstairs. And one of the scullery maids has gone back home. She refuses to sleep in a house where there is death,” she intoned darkly. “She says the spirits of the dead do not rest so long as they are aboveground and it isn’t as if the poor lady were going to be buried soon, so goodness only knows how long she will lie there. And worst of all,” she added, her eyes widening in horror, “poor Polly was away yesterday evening—her mother was poorly and she went to tend her. Well, she come back today and went directly to do the countess’s room, only she hadn’t heard yet about the lady being departed, and Poll got the absolute shock of her life when she went into the room to see her just lying there under the shroud.”
“The good Irish linen shroud, embroidered by nuns,” I put in.
“Exactly. So Poll runs down to the kitchens and fairly shrieks the house down and goes into hysterics so badly that Mrs.Brackendale hasto slap her to bring her to her senses, and it was the right thing to do, I say, even if she is my cousin. Heaven knows she ought to have a slap or two even on a good day just to get her to mind her work, but Polly took it amiss that she should be struck when she was simply suffering from shock. And Mrs.Brackendale said she would do far worse to a miserable slattern like Poll who couldn’t even be bothered to put on a fresh cap and apron, and Poll did not like that one bit as the laundry maid never brought her a fresh set and she had to put on what she wore yesterday that was soiled. Then Mrs.Brackendale said it was a low trick to try to throw blame on the poor laundry maid when everyone knows the girl has never been quite right in the wits. Poll said the little fool should never have got the post because she can’t remember from one day to the next where the linen room is and only got the job because she is Mrs.Brackendale’s niece. And Mrs.Brackendale slapped her again and that was it. Poll gave her notice right then and there and said she’d marry the undergardener after all in spite of turning him down three times since she’s had her eye on the new blacksmith. So I’ve all this wing to do as well as lend a hand in the kitchen,” she finished breathlessly. She looked mightily put out and I felt a little dazed after that comprehensive recital of the domestic dramas that had been unfolding belowstairs.
“The coal miners have unions to make their working conditions acceptable. Perhaps chambermaids ought to do the same. Now, you have certainly earned a moment of rest,” I told her. “More tea?”
