A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(32)

As the meal wore on, a curious mood seemed to steal over the group, a tension whose source I could not entirely place. It was not until we finished our sweet course that Malcolm made an announcement.

The conversation had just wound down to a natural silence when Malcolm put down his cutlery and patted his mouth. Then he took a long moment, surveying each of us as his gaze traveled around the table. “I feel the time has come to take you all into my confidence. I did not invite you here simply for the pleasure of your company.”

He paused, seeming to steel himself. “I invited you here for a specific purpose, and I can only plead necessity as my defense. I hope that each of you will hear me out and decide to offer your help, for God knows, I have need of you all.”

He drew in a deep breath as we exchanged glances, our faces betraying varying degrees of bewilderment. Only Tiberius did not seem surprised, and it was to him that our host turned first. “With the exceptions of yourself, Tiberius, and your brother and Miss Speedwell, everyone here was present when Rosamund disappeared. It was the darkest hour of my life. Things have not improved materially since then,” he added with a bitter twist of his lips. “Mertensia and I have withdrawn from society. We see no one. How can we? We tried to pick up the threads of our lives. We attempted normality. But every time we encountered friends, there were the awkward silences. The pauses in conversation that went on just a little too long. The subjects upon which no one would ever speak—Rosamund, weddings, drownings. And each time I felt myself withdraw further from people. It felt somehow safer. I believe Mertensia’s emotions were much the same.”

He paused and his sister gave a grave nod. She had not eaten, I noticed, but merely tore a bread roll to bits in her fingers.

Malcolm went on. “In the end, it became too much even to see family. And that is why Helen and Caspian have not been here.”

“We would have come—” Helen Romilly began.

Malcolm held up a hand. “I know. But it all just seemed so much simpler to close the doors and pull up the drawbridge, so to speak. And as time wore on, it became even easier to keep to ourselves. But now I believe it is necessary for us to discover what became of Rosamund once and for all. Only by writing a final chapter to this story can Mertensia and I move on to another. If we do not do this now, we will be immured here, and I think that way madness lies.”

He paused again, letting his words settle like stones falling to the bottom of a pond.

“Put simply, I have invited you all here because I need your help.” He looked slowly around the table. “Each of you possesses some skill that I think would be useful under the circumstances.” His gaze was apologetic as it fell upon Stoker and upon me. “As for Mr. Templeton-Vane and Miss Speedwell, you came here expecting a peaceful holiday, and I do not intend that you should disrupt your plans on my behalf. But perhaps the fresh and observant gaze of scientists would not go amiss in this undertaking.”

“What undertaking?” Helen Romilly demanded.

“He has some bee in his bonnet,” Mertensia pronounced. “We had a great-granny who went entirely off her head, poor lamb. I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t done the same.”

“Mertensia,” her sister-in-law said in frigid tones, “I hardly think it is appropriate to speak of your brother in such terms.”

Mertensia Romilly gave her a scathing look. “I forgot how tiresome you could be, Helen. Thank you for reminding me.”

Before they could continue their spat, Malcolm intervened. “It has been three years since that dreadful day, but to me, it is as if it were yesterday. I think of her constantly. And always there remains the question, ‘What became of her?’ Did she wander off and lose her way? Did she fall into the sea? Did she run away?”

Helen’s expression was patient, as if she were speaking with a backwards child. “I thought it was quite agreed that she left the island of her own accord. It is not pleasant to think that she might have changed her mind about the marriage, but it is the only reasonable explanation.”

“That is what I believed,” Malcolm replied. “And it is that belief that has tortured me for three years. Why did she leave me? It was the most logical if painful explanation. I endeavored to accept it. I tried to reconcile myself to the fact that she would rather flee with no money, no prospects, than remain here and be my wife. It is a bitter thing for a man to believe,” he added with a thinning of the lips. “I knew that is what the gossips believed. It is certainly what the scandal sheets printed often enough. And these last years that has been my torment. Until now.”

He rose and went to the sideboard. One compartment of it was locked and he produced a key, fitting it to the door. From inside he drew an unwieldy bundle wrapped in a length of cloth.

“Mertensia, ring for Trenny.”

He held the bundle cradled in his arms as his sister did as she was bade. When Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, his instructions were brief. “Have the table cleared, Trenny.”

She gave a doubtful look to the bundle held tightly against his chest but nodded, gesturing to Daisy to whisk away the porcelain and cutlery.

“The port,” Mrs. Trengrouse began.

“The ladies will not withdraw tonight,” Malcolm told her. “And you ought to stay, Trenny. You are a part of the family, after all.”

She shepherded Daisy from the room and took a post near the door, closing it against prying eyes or ears from the rest of the staff.