Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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a unique problem for you to solve,” I corrected with as much dignity as I could muster in the face of his indolent stare.
He shrugged and placed his cup onto the table. “You will find that one problem is very like another, my lady. Only the personalities involved differ, and even then people are very much of a type. That is the greatest asset in my business, and the greatest bore.”
“You mean that people are largely predictable? I should think that a rather restful quality.”
His smile was small and enigmatic. “It is, and that is what makes it a bore. There is nothing in the world more dreadful than knowing exactly what someone else is going to do, even before he does.”
“You would very much like my family, then,” I put in with a laugh. “One never knows what a March is likely to do, not even another March.”
“So none of your family would have guessed that you came here today?” he asked slowly. He lowered his head, his eyes level with mine. There was something in those dark eyes that had not been there a moment before. Menace? Malice?
I forced a smile. “Of course they would. I told my sister Portia that I was coming here today. And my brother Valerius, who lives with me.”
He canted his head, considering me for a moment. Then he shook it slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I think you came alone. I think that no one knows the exact whereabouts of Lady Julia Grey.”
He moved very slightly forward in his chair and I felt my heart lurch. I learned something in that moment. Fear has a metallic taste, like blood sucked from a cut finger. I could taste it, flat on the back of my tongue as he moved closer toward me.
“My coachman,” I said suddenly. “He is circling the carriage. My footman is there as well. They both know where I am.”
Brisbane halted his movement, his eyes still intent upon my face. After a moment, he rose and went to the window. He flicked aside the curtain and I felt my toes curling up inside my boots as I prayed that Diggory was at the kerb.
Brisbane resumed his chair, his manner completely altered. “If you will forgive my remarking upon it, the first rule of investigation is discretion. Next time you call upon me, you should come in a hansom, or better yet, a hackney. Anyone who knows you will know that vehicle by the crest on its door. And your footman is a rather remarkable specimen as well. Some lady is bound to remember him.”
My heart slid back into its rightful place and I stared at him. “That was a joke, then? That menacing look? The vaguely threatening words?”
He waved a hand and helped himself to a biscuit. “I was curious. You had just maintained that the Marches were unpredictable. It was my professional estimation that you would have failed to take any precaution regarding your own safety in coming here today, or to make any attempt to conceal your identity. I was correct on both counts.”
“My safety! Why on earth should I take precautions on that score in coming here? You are my agent.”
Brisbane swallowed and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.
“No, I am not. I was your husband’s agent, and he is dead. I have not taken a farthing from you. And as for your safety, you have acted with the most appalling disregard for your own life because you failed to consider one thing, one thing that is staring you squarely in the face.”
“And what is that?” I demanded hotly. My temper was entirely frayed by now. I had had enough of his cryptic manner and ghoulish games.
He leaned forward, clamping both hands onto the arms of my chair. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he loomed over me, and I knew if I spoke it would come out as a feeble squeak. His face was inches from mine, his voice harsh and low.
“Did you never once ask yourself, my lady, if I might have murdered your husband?”
THE NINTH CHAPTER
Break, break sad heart There is no medicine for my smart, No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow.
—Thomas Randolph
“Phyllis”
“You needn’t have kicked me so hard,” Brisbane said bitterly, rubbing at his shin. He had retreated to his own chair and was regarding me much as he might a rabid dog.
“I said I was sorry. Shall I ring for Monk? A wet towel, perhaps—”
“No, thank you,” he said, his tone still acid.
“I’m afraid it’s going to raise an awful lump,” I put in helpfully. That much was a guess. Brisbane had not lifted the leg of his trousers, nor would I have expected him to. Our relationship was quite unorthodox enough without the sight of his bare leg adding to the mix. “Oh, do stop scowling at me like that. It really was your own fault, you know, frightening me like that. Of course I never thought you murdered Edward. Why should I?”
“That was precisely the point,” he replied through gritted teeth. “You must consider every possibility. You must realize that no one is above suspicion. You must be willing to scrutinize every person who knew your husband and consider at least the possibility that they were responsible for his death. If you cannot do that, you cannot continue with this investigation.”
“But why would you want to murder Edward? You barely knew him.”
Brisbane continued to grind his teeth, but I think it was more out of frustration than pain. “I barely knew him according to …”
He paused, waiting for me to catch up. “According to—oh, I do see now. According to you. And if you were the murderer, that makes your information rather suspect.”
“Quite,” he said grimly.
“Well, did you murder him?”
Brisbane looked at me, fairly goggle-eyed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you murder him? It is a simple question, Mr. Brisbane. Kindly answer it.”
“Of course I didn’t! Of all the bloody—”
“You needn’t swear at me. You said I must consider the possibility that you killed him, and I have. I asked you, you said no, and I believe you.”
He shook his head, his expression staggered. “You cannot do this. You cannot simply ask people if they killed your husband. Sooner or later, you will ask the wrong person. You will be killed in a week, you must know that.”
I strove for patience. “Mr. Brisbane, I am not entirely stupid. But circumstances and my own fairly dependable judgment have convinced me that you were not responsible for his death. I promise you that I would not be daft enough to ask anyone I actually suspected.”
His look was doubtful. “There are a hundred different ways you could get hurt—badly. You must be very certain what you are about to embark upon. This is no detective story, my lady. There is no guarantee we will unmask this murderer. He could slip through our fingers quite easily. Or worse.”
“Worse?”
“Our murderer, if in fact there is one, is comfortable by now. He has had almost a year of freedom, without even a whisper of murder to disturb him. If he thinks that is about to change, he might well panic, become desperate, even. He might tip his hand.”
“How?” I took a sip of tea, cool now, but still refreshing.
“He might try to attack you, for instance.”
I blinked at him and he went on, blandly. “I have been assaulted several times in the course of my work. If you were to take an active role in this investigation, you put yourself at risk of harm, even death. I cannot prevent it, you must know that. A clever murderer, one who is determined, desperate, could dispatch you before either of us even realized you were in danger. You must think of that,” he finished.
“But