Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet
Father had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Valerius came home. I heard him call a brief greeting to Aquinas in the hall, then hurry past the open door of my study and up the stairs.
I called to him, but he did not reply. I followed him up the stairs, catching him up at the door to his room.
“Valerius! Whatever is the matter? I want to speak to you. Father was here this evening—Val? What is it?”
He was hunched over, facing the door, his coat folded over his arm. He was not wearing his waistcoat.
“Are you ill?” I put a hand to his shoulder to turn him, but he threw me off.
“I am well, please.” He edged away, but I followed.
“Julia, leave me.”
“Valerius, stop being tiresome. Turn around and face me this instant.” He went very still, probably weighing the odds that I would go away and leave him in peace. He must have realized how slim they were, for when I reached out for him again he turned. His face was ghastly, pale and lined with fatigue, but it was his shirt that made me gasp. The pure white linen of his shirtfront was dark crimson, crusted with dried blood. I put out my hand.
“Val—you’re hurt! My God, what happened to you?”
He brushed my hand away. “I am well. The blood—it isn’t mine.”
“Whose, then?” I put myself between him and the door and he sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell me the entire story.
“There was a fight outside the theatre. It was quite vicious. A man, set upon by ruffians. They got out his tooth and cut him rather badly about the head.”
I raised a finger toward the wide crimson stain.
“Careful,” he said, edging away. “There are still some spots that are wet.”
I shook my head in astonishment.
“But so much blood, you must have been quite close to him.”
He nodded, his face rather grey at the memory of what he had seen. “I sat with him and tried to stop the bleeding while his brother went for their carriage.”
“How ghastly for you! What were they about, these ruffians? Did they mean to rob him?”
Val passed a hand over his face. “I do not know. Some private quarrel, I think. But I am out of it now. I want only to change my clothes and get into bed.”
I gestured toward his fouled shirt. “Give me the shirt. It must be put to soak or it will be spoilt.”
He hesitated, then nodded and slipped into his room. I heard the ravenquorkingat him irritably. After several minutes, he opened the door just enough to thrust the soiled shirt into my hands.
“Thank you,” he said shortly. He shut the door before I could question him further. I shrugged. I had no doubt the fight would be detailed in the morning papers. And very likely an enterprising reporter had obtained more details than Valerius had.
Holding the crusted shirt at arm’s length, I made my way down the stairs, through the hall belowstairs, past the kitchens and into the laundry. Aquinas was finishing his rounds of the windows and doors, his locking-up ritual for the night. He always carried a lamp with him and extinguished the last of the house lights as he went. The front of the house was in darkness and I could hear him securing the bolts on the garden doors.
I moved quietly, feeling unaccountably timid about explaining Val’s gory shirt. If Aquinas saw it he would insist upon soaking it himself and he would doubtless find some fault with Magda’s methods of keeping the laundry, his own standards being far more exacting than hers. The absence of a housekeeper at Grey House, though unorthodox, was perfectly adequate in most circumstances. With Magda, it sometimes proved a liability. For the most part she kept to herself, and on the rare occasions when discipline was required, Aquinas was man enough for the task. But Magda seldom went along easily with his corrections, preferring to rage or sulk, depending upon which approach seemed likeliest to garner my support. The two of them were entirely capable of waging a war of attrition that would last for days. Rather than facing a staff row, it seemed far simpler to deal with Val’s nasty shirt myself.
Although, I should have brought a lamp or at least a candle, I realized as I barked my shin on the pressing table in the laundry. By all rights I should have summoned Magda to take the shirt herself, but I was far too tired to even contemplate tackling Magda. There was still the question of her appalling behavior toward Brisbane to address, and I was unwilling to speak to her tonight. It was late now, and I was more than ready for my own bed. All I wanted was to dispose of Val’s unspeakable garment and put the whole evening’s bizarre events behind me.
With any luck, the stains would have soaked out by morning and there would be little trace of Val’s adventure at the theatre. Magda always kept a bucket of cold water at hand for the soaking, and I knew she liked it to be stood below the front windows, those that overlooked the area. It gave her good light, even on overcast days, and a chance to see passersby—if only from the ankle down.
