—Russian Proverb
Brisbane had hailed a hansom and was waiting for me at the kerb. He handed me in and gave the direction of Grey House to the driver. I fussed with my reticule, pretending to search for a tin of lemon pastilles, then my handkerchief. Anything to avoid revealing to Brisbane what Mrs. Birch had disclosed….
I had just begun burrowing about for a bit of lip salve when his nerve broke. “All right, I know it must be something fairly awful. You might as well tell me now.”
“I’m not entirely certain that I can. How do you know it is awful?” I asked mildly.
“You’ve fidgeted so violently that you have managed to rip the cording of your reticule completely off. Tell me.”
“Very well, but you must look out of the window.”
I sensed his eyes rolling in exasperation, but I would not turn my head.
“I beg your pardon?” His voice was even—quite a good effort, I thought, given how annoyed he must have been at this point.
“I simply cannot say it if you are looking. I know that we are supposed to be quite grown-up about such things, but I cannot help it.”
“About what such things?” he asked with deliberate patience.
“You are still looking at me.”
This time the eyes definitely rolled, punctuated with an audible sigh. But he turned, edging his broad shoulders toward me, his gaze clearly fixed out of the window.
“I am not looking now, nor shall I.”
I cleared my throat. “Very well. Mrs. Birch said that when she washed Edward she noticed that there was some discoloration—some rather violent discoloration.”
“What sort of discoloration?”
My cheeks were warm and I fanned my face with my hand.
“How explicit must I be? Something was not the colour it should have been. It wasdiscoloured.”
“I am conversant with the meaning of the word, my lady. I am inquiring as to the location and the extent of the discoloration,” he said coldly. “In plain words, what part of his body and in what manner discoloured?”
“Oh, you are beastly. Very well, if you must know, it was his—his manly apparatus.”
Brisbane gave a little choking noise. I do not like to think that it might have been a laugh.
“His what?”
“Hispenis, Mr. Brisbane. His stem of fertility, his manly root.”
By this time his shoulders were definitely shaking, but to his credit, there was not a trace of amusement in his voice.
“She is quite certain? I mean, it is quite customary for the, er—manly apparatus to be of a different coloration than the rest of a gentleman’s skin.”
“Is it quite customary for it to be the colour of a vintage Bordeaux?” I asked venomously. “Mrs. Birch has washed more bodies than you or I have had hot meals. I take her opinion as the valuation of an expert.”
“No doubt,” he said gravely. He fell silent, ruminating as I recovered my composure. My cheeks felt marginally cooler, and by the time he straightened in his seat, gripping the head of his walking stick, I was almost myself. His face was lit, his expression rapturous, like St. Paul’s on the road to Damascus, I imagined.
“What? What are you thinking?”
He was fairly quivering. The hound had once more picked up the trail.
“That was how the poison was introduced.”
I stared at him, not bothering to conceal my scorn.
