A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(26)

He shrugged. “Precious little for all my trouble. Discounting the piskies and knackers—”

“And giants,” I added.

“And giants”—he nodded—“it seems there are only two possibilities.”

“Death or departure,” I supplied.

“Precisely. If she left, how and under what circumstances? Was she abducted? Did she flee, alone or with the help of another? And if so, why has no one heard a whisper of her whereabouts since?”

“And if she died, was it by her own hand, misfortune, or murder?” I finished. “Very tidy. A taxonomy of possibilities. It is practically Linnean in its purity.” I paused. “Tell me, what do you think of our host?”

Stoker did not hesitate. “Agincourt,” he said, and I understood him perfectly. With that rare sympathy that we shared, he had seen Malcolm Romilly precisely as I had, a bulwark of English predictability in this strange and otherworldly setting.

A rush of pleasure surged through me. This was how it had so often been between us, repartee serving as the language of the heart for us. Where others might whisper little poetries, Stoker and I engaged in badinage, each of us certain that no one else in the world understood us as well as the other.

But just as I began to hope that his mood of the previous night was well and truly behind him, some almost imperceptible withdrawal occurred. His posture, always inclined to lean towards me like an oak to the sun, straightened and he took half a step backwards, his tone suddenly cool. “Personally, I am inclined to think that she took a boat and left. It is the simplest explanation, after all.”

“On her wedding day?” I protested. “Surely not.”

His sapphirine gaze was level and hard. “I do not pretend to understand the motives of women,” he said.

I ignored the barb and replied only to his words. “I suppose such a thing would be possible,” I reasoned. “The currents around here must be dangerous.”

“That was brought to my attention many times by my drinking companions,” he informed me. “They also like to think that she is haunting the island, but that was no doubt a story for my benefit as an outsider. They’ve created a sort of cottage industry about her disappearance. Peter tried to sell me a charm to protect me against her ghost.”

“How much did it cost you?” I knew him too well. He would never have passed up an enterprising child bent upon earning a coin.

He reached into his pocket, producing a bit of shell strung upon a ragged string. “Two shillings.”

“Two shillings! Highway robbery,” I said with a lightness I did not feel, “particularly as you’ve already agreed to teach him to use a sword.”

He thrust the unlovely item back into his pocket. “He is a bright boy and someone should encourage his initiative.” I was not surprised at his justification. He was forever distributing coins to the filthy waifs who trundled to our doors with barrows of fruit or half-read newspapers or bits of nasty embroidery stitched by consumptive sisters. He was the softest of touches.

I fell into step beside him and we started up the path again, walking for a few minutes in silence. We had passed many hours in comfortable quietude with one another, but this constraint was new and unwelcome, and I was uncertain of how to put it right. I only knew that I could not take back the words I had spoken the previous night. He might disagree with my position, but I could no more change it than I could change the course of the sun. “I hope you are at least consoled that I am in no danger from whatever attentions your brother may offer. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as I have just demonstrated with ample effectiveness,” I said with a penetrating glance at his manly areas.

He gave me a level look. “I would never make the mistake of thinking you needed anyone.”

With that, he picked up his pace with a long-legged stride, leaving me to gape after him. “You ought to hurry if you want to beat the storm,” he called over his shoulder. “I hear it’s going to be absolutely monsoonal.”

He did not turn to see if I followed, which was probably for the best. He would not have appreciated the gesture I directed to his back.





        CHAPTER





6


I arrived back at the castle just as the deluge began. Mrs. Trengrouse was waiting at the door. “I will take those boots if you please, miss,” she said. “And I have brought your slippers.”

“How very kind.” I smiled. “And desperately efficient. I should have tracked mud all over your lovely carpets otherwise.”

She took my boots, holding the muddy things at arm’s length away from the pristine linen of her apron. “The others have just gathered in the dining parlor for luncheon,” she told me. “If you would like to wash, there is a small water closet just behind that bit of paneling.” She nodded towards a length of linenfold. I pressed it experimentally and it sprang open to reveal a tiny modern room devoted to hygienic purposes.

“What a clever arrangement. I should never have known it was there,” I said.

She gave a satisfied nod. “The castle is full of such devices. There was no way to build up or out beyond the original structure, so the masters of St. Maddern’s have had to be clever in putting in cupboards and water closets and boot rooms and the like. They are fitted in wherever, which makes it all a bit higgledy-piggledy. But if you discover you are lost, you’ve only to give a shout and one of the maids will come and find you. The small dining parlor is just along this corridor,” she added.