“It hardly matters now that Beatrice is dead,” Tiberius began.
“It bloody well does!” Stoker erupted from his chair. “Tiberius, if Pietro aided her in these murders, then he is still a danger. To you, to James, to Timothy Gresham, possibly.”
I did not object to this last point, but I rather liked Timothy for the murderer. I always think one cannot entirely trust physicians. Far too many of them liken themselves to gods with their ability to play at life and death.
Tiberius appeared to consider Stoker’s words before shaking his head. “I cannot sanction further sleuthing games on my behalf.”
“Games!” The word erupted from Stoker. “Might I remind you we undertook this matter at your behest.”
“Yes, and now I tire of the whole thing.” Tiberius always affected a world-weary mien, but I saw real emotion underpinning his attitude. This was not ennui; something darker and more implacable worried at him.
“You feel guilty,” I said simply.
“Of course I bloody well do!” he roared in a creditable imitation of his younger brother’s wrath. “Beatrice was a young and vital person. Yes, I know she may have been responsible for Kaspar and Alexandre’s deaths, but I can understand that. God knows I would have torn apart a dozen men with my bare hands if it had kept Rosamund safe.”[*] Tiberius seldom spoke of his late beloved, but I knew the wound ran deep, to the bone, a scar that would never entirely heal. I was not surprised that he would sympathise with Beatrice, connected as they were by shared loss.
He went on. “You must remember, I knew her. So many weeks we spent at the d’Ambrogio villa, little Stella always tagging along after us, just to be with her cherished Lorenzo. And how he adored her! I used to wonder what it must be like to be the object of that kind ofdevotion. God knows I never felt that sort of affection in this place.” Stoker’s brows raised and Tiberius hurried on. “With Lorenzo’s death, everything was taken from her. Everything—not just her brother but her parents, her home. Whoever was responsible for Lorenzo’s death murdered a part of that girl as well, and if she elected to take her revenge, then I will do nothing but applaud her for it.”
He stopped suddenly, his colour high.
“But, Tiberius,” Stoker began gently.
Tiberius made a slashing gesture with his hand. “She has paid for her crimes, whatever they were. Enough. Let her rest in peace. Let them all. I am finished with it.”
He turned back to his paperwork and I realised we had been dismissed. I would have expected Stoker, under more ordinary circumstances, to have stayed and argued with Tiberius. Instead, he rose and walked from the room without a backwards glance.
I followed hard upon his heels and he did not stop until he reached the staircase hall, whirling to fix me with a bewildered stare. “What in the name of seven hells wasthat?”
“I know,” I said by way of consolation. “Tiberius is quite wrong, of course. Whoever murdered Beatrice must be brought to justice—”
“Not that! His... his feelings. I didn’t know Tiberius had them.”
“Of course he does.”
“He never shows them,” Stoker retorted. “To anyone. He hides everything behind that cool façade of urbanity. But that”—he raised a hand and pointed back towards Tiberius’ office—“that was something I have never before seen. He was...”
He trailed off, clearly at a loss.
“Vulnerable?” I suggested.
“Exactly so. Vulnerable. I cannot say that I much enjoyed it.”
“Of course you didn’t. Not a single one of you Templeton-Vanes can speak of such things with equanimity. If you were madeuncomfortable by the knowledge that Tiberius might have liked a closer relationship with his brothers, how much more uncomfortable must he be?”
Stoker thought it over for a long moment. “It was never encouraged,” Stoker said finally. “Father always pitted us against one another. Partially for his own amusement. He enjoyed our battles. But he also believed it would make men of us, make us stronger if we never needed to rely upon anyone else. He wanted us self-sufficient. Like islands.”
“Continents, more like,” I muttered.
“You are a fine one to talk. I do not seem to recall that allowing yourself to depend upon others is one of your accomplishments,” he said stiffly.
Ah, the difficulty between us had reared its head again at last. But as Stoker had reminded me before our interview with Tiberius, this was most definitely not the time.
“I think,” I said calmly, “that we ought to speak with Pietro. Whatever Tiberius says, we must learn the truth about whether he collaborated with Beatrice in her murderous endeavours. And wewilllearn the truth, by whatever means necessary.”
“Certainly,” Stoker said, following me up the stairs. “Shall I get my thumbscrews and meet you in his room?”
I did not bother to reply. In the end, it required nothing more than the mention of Beatrice’s name to open the floodgates of Pietro’s emotion.
The room Tiberius ordered prepared for him was in the nursery wing, on the side of the house opposite the wing where Beatrice now lay. I rapped softly at the door and it was opened by Augusta. She looked deeply weary, dressed in sober black, and I cursed myself again for not travelling with a plain mourning costume in order to be prepared for any eventuality.
