A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(104)

I leant forwards, my voice coaxing. “Mrs. Trengrouse, what did you do with Rosamund after she was dead? If you tell us and she is given a proper burial, perhaps his lordship will speak on your behalf,” I suggested. I had little confidence that Tiberius would do anything of the sort. In fact, I rather suspected he would cheerfully knot the rope himself if it meant revenging himself on the woman who murdered the love of his life. But that bridge was yet to be crossed.

I gave her an expectant look, but she waved me off. “I am tired now, Miss Speedwell. I am glad the master is safe, and it is time for me to sleep.” She nodded towards the bottle Mertensia had left and I poured out a spoonful of the mixture as she directed. I waited until the housekeeper had drifted off before I left, smoothing the coverlet over her in a gesture of charity.

Mertensia was waiting outside the door when I emerged.

“You have dismissed the guard?” I asked, looking to the empty chair where Caspian had sat, shotgun broken awkwardly upon his knee.

“We have no need of that now,” she said simply.

I handed over the bottle I had taken from the night table. A tiny skull was etched at the corner of the label. “Nor ever again, I should think.”

She gave me a steady look. “Will you tell them?”

I shook my head slowly. “It is not my place.”

“I had to,” she said fiercely. “You heard what Malcolm said about the scandal. He is nearly unbalanced as it is. I do not know if he will properly recover, but I can promise you that being dragged through the mud of every cheap newspaper in England will destroy him. It was the only way.”

I said nothing and she squared her shoulders. “I gave her a choice,” she said. “She needn’t have taken it if she didn’t like. I would not have forced her. But she wanted to atone and this was the only way.”

“It is an easier death than she deserves,” I pointed out.

“But it will give Malcolm a chance at a better life,” she countered, and I could not fault her logic.

I turned to leave her then and she put a hand to my sleeve. “Thank you.”

I nodded to the closed door. “Go and sit with her. Even a murderess should not die alone.”



* * *



? ? ?

On my way to the drawing room, I stopped at the castle’s chapel, a tiny chamber consecrated for prayer from the first days when Romillys had lived upon St. Maddern’s. It was ten paces across and a perfect square, with a tiny altar set before a stained glass window depicting the patron saint of the island. I knew he had other names—Madern, Madron—and that he was a hermit devoted to his gifts of healing. I did not believe in religion, old or new, but on the slimmest chance that the old saint watched over his island, I offered up a fervent wish that he would employ his talents for healing once more and visit his kindness upon the Romillys. Heaven knew they were sorely in need of them. It was restful with a single pew cushioned in scarlet velvet and tiles of black and white marble underfoot while the ancient fragrance of incense hung in the stillness of the air. The ceiling was vaulted and laced with carvings of the fruits and fish of the island, a reminder to those who worshiped here that they enjoyed a rare and wonderful abundance. And as I turned to leave, I saw another figure, tucked behind a bit of carving upon the lintel of the door, so discreet that it would have been easy to miss her—a mermaid, the pagan ancestress of the Romillys, remembered here in this most Christian of places. I wondered if she, too, watched over those who lived upon her island, and I hoped so. I bowed my head to her as I left.





        CHAPTER





21


I found the others in the drawing room. Stoker had retrieved the tantalus from the dining room and picked the lock, liberally distributing brandy to remedy the day’s shocks. I had not paused long in the little chapel, but it was time enough for the end to come to Mrs. Trengrouse. Mertensia joined me as I entered the drawing room, saying little to the others except that Trenny had passed away quietly and suddenly. Stoker gave me an oblique look and I nodded once, careful that only he should see. I knew what silent question he had posed, and I knew, too, that he would interpret my reply correctly. To the others, I did not explain about the little bottle with the skull upon the label or the choice that Mertensia had given Trenny. The old woman had got an easier death than she deserved but it would spare the family much in the way of scandal.

The atmosphere was unhappy and the cause of this was soon apparent.

“What has been decided? What will you do?” I asked Tiberius.

The gathering turned as one to him, watching with avid eyes. His expression was inscrutable. “I hardly know. Malcolm is half out of his senses. Mrs. Trengrouse has been revealed to be a murderess, and Rosamund is still missing. It is the devil’s own breakfast. God only knows what the courts will make of it.”

“Is it necessary to tell them?” Mertensia ventured hesitantly.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked with perfect hauteur.

“Well,” she began in a slow voice. “We do not know precisely what happened to Rosamund, that is true. But Trenny confessed to killing her, so we know more than we did before. Those who loved her can finally mourn her. As far as justice is concerned, her murderess has met with it. It wasn’t a rope at Newgate prison, but it is death nonetheless. Trenny has paid for her crimes. Surely we can agree upon that.”