“Excellent! Will you write to him?”
He blinked a few times, very slowly. “Yes. I will arrange an interview. We should both be present. I imagine he will have questions about Sir Edward’s general health that I could not—”
He broke off then, his eyes fixed upon the fire, his shoulders tightly knotted, his jaw working furiously.
“Mr. Brisbane,” I said softly.
He jerked his eyes toward me, seeming almost startled to see me there.
“I think it an excellent idea. Perhaps tomorrow—” I stopped as I watched him lift a hand to his temple.
“Mr. Brisbane, are you unwell?”
I made to rise, to help him, but he waved me off angrily.
“I will be fine. Go now. Send Monk to me.” His voice was raspy now, as if the simple act of speaking was a tremendous effort.
I stood uncertainly. Both of his hands were fisted against his temples, grinding into his head. His brow was deeply creased, his mouth white and twisted in pain.
“Mr. Brisbane,” I began.
“I said go—now!” This last was a full-throated bellow, ragged with pain and rage.
I will admit to cowardice. I snatched up my things and fled, throwing open the door to find Monk already hurrying to him. He was carrying a flask and some other paraphernalia I could not identify.
I did not stay to see what aid he administered. Instead, I hurried outside, never looking behind me. I walked quickly back to Grey House, making straight for the study. Once there, I poured out a glass of whiskey and took a deep swallow. It burned all the way to my belly, warming me through, but for the better part of an hour I trembled in spite of it.
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
Within himself the danger lies…
—John Milton
Paradise Lost
For the rest of that day, I could not settle to anything. I meant to go over the household accounts with Aquinas, but after he had to explain the wine bill for the third time, he closed the grey leather ledger.
“I think your ladyship is much distracted,” he said kindly. “Too much so to bother with the wine merchant. I will inform him that the port was charged twice to your account and that the last bottle of champagne he sent was unacceptably dry. Leave it with me, my lady.”
“Thank you, Aquinas,” I said with some embarrassment. “I will be more myself later. Was there anything else?”
“No, my lady. Nothing that cannot wait.”
He bowed and left me alone with my thoughts, most of them unpleasant. Brisbane was unwell, which was unfortunate both for him personally and for the investigation. Simon had had a bad turn in the night, and Valerius was in possession of a stolen raven. Thequeen’sstolen raven.
And I had gotten nothing useful from Doctor Griggs. What sort of detective would I make if I could not elicit information from someone I had known all of my life? I fretted for a while, then decided it was no use worrying about the investigation until Brisbane was feeling himself again. I took my supper tray into Simon’s room, pleased to see him feeling a little stronger. He rallied enough from his bad night to take a portion of my lamb and a glass of wine. We even managed half a game of chess before he sent me away, rather to my relief. I had been losing badly.
It was later than I had thought when I left Simon, nearly half past ten. Val was out for the evening, hopefully making some arrangement about the raven, and I was feeling unmoored and wide awake. I poked about downstairs, picking up unfinished knitting, then a book of poetry, but putting them down again only a moment later. Finally, I settled into my study to attempt the accounts again. I applied myself, and this time actually managed to make a bit of progress. I made a few notes on matters I meant to discuss with Cook—she was paying entirely too much to the fishmonger, to begin with. And the amount of butter this household used in a month’s time was nothing short of scandalous. I worked on, almost peacefully, relaxing a bit as the numbers spun out of the end of my pen. I could hear Aquinas moving about in the front hall, dousing lamps, when the bell rang. A moment later he came to the study door.
“My lady, a visitor. Mr. Nicholas Brisbane, if you will see him. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour.”
I sprang up, upsetting the pot of ink onto a pile of magazines.
Aquinas whipped a snowy cloth from his pocket and wiped at the mess.
“Send him in, Aquinas. The ink has only ruined the magazines. The ledger is quite untouched.”
He inclined his head, too correct to question my sudden attack of nerves. He swept the magazines up into a tidy pile and took them away along with his soiled dust cloth.
