“Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”
“The what?”
I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.
“Who else lives at Grey House?”
“Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”
“Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”
“Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”
“What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”
I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.
“Your staff,” he prodded gently.
“Aquinas is the butler. You know him.”
Brisbane nodded, writing swiftly. “Go on.”
“Cook. Diggory, the coachman, Morag, my maid. Whittle does the gardening, but he is employed by Father. Desmond and Henry are the footmen. Magda, the laundress. And there are maids. Cannot keep it sorted out which is which,” I finished thickly.
“Have they been with you long?”
“Aquinas since always. Cook four years. Morag came just before Edward died, maybe six months. She was a prostitute. She was reformed at my aunt Hermia’s refuge and trained for service. The others at March House quite some time. Renard.”
Brisbane wrote furiously, then stopped. “Renard?”
“Edward’s valet. French. Sly. Hate him. Stayed on to help with Simon.”
This, too, went into the notebook. “Anyone else?”
I shook my head, feeling it throb ominously as I did so. There was a pain beginning behind my eyes and I was thirstier than ever.
“What of Sir Edward’s friends? Enemies?”
“No enemies. Everyone a friend, none of them close. Edward was private. God, my head.”
He rose again and opened the window a little. Cold, crisp air rushed into the room, clearing out the thick pungent smells from the fire. He left the room and returned a moment later with a wet cloth folded into a pad.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Put it on your brow. You will feel better in a minute.”
I did as he said, listening to the light scratching of his pencil as he finished writing his observations into his little notebook. Within minutes the lassitude had lifted and the pain had begun to abate. I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor, and watched as the ceiling seemed to change places with it.
“Easy, my lady,” he said, pushing me firmly back against the cushion. “You will be quite well in a minute, but you cannot move too quickly.”
I lay still, feeling the giddiness recede slowly. When I thought it might be safe, I raised myself by degrees. Brisbane was sipping a fresh cup of tea and had poured one out for me. There was no sign of the notebook.
“What did you do to me?” I demanded, peeling the compress from my brow. I did not want the thing against my skin. God only knew what was in it.
“Drink your tea, my lady. You will feel yourself in a moment.”
“How do I know it hasn’t been tampered with? For all I know you have laced it with opium,” I said indignantly.
He sighed, took up my cup from the saucer and drank deeply from it. “There. It is quite safe, I assure you.”
