A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(33)

Malcolm stood at the head of the table, looking us over as we watched with expectant eyes.

“I presumed Rosamund ran away, as much as it destroyed me to believe it. I was led to this conclusion by the fact that she took her traveling bag, a small affair of scarlet carpetwork. It was the same bag she had brought with her when she first arrived on the island. She had marked it with her initials, and there was no other like it in the world. The fact that the bag disappeared when she did seemed incontrovertible proof that she had taken it and run away.”

He opened his arms, letting the fabric slip aside to reveal a scarlet traveling bag. The initials R.I.A. were worked in white wool just beneath the handle. It was moldering, with a thick coat of lush green mildew staining the sides, but there was no mistaking the bag.

Mertensia’s expression was almost angry. “Where did you find that?” she demanded.

“In one of the priest’s holes,” he told her.

I sat forward in my chair, gripped by excitement. Priest’s holes were common in Catholic households during the time of the Elizabethan priest hunters. Fitted in such a way as to escape detection, these tiny secret chambers could hold a man, perhaps two, for weeks at a time as agents of the Crown searched for them. All the most interesting ghost stories featured priest’s holes, I remembered.

“Why on earth would you be poking about the priest’s holes?” Mertensia asked. “I thought they were all blocked up or refashioned years ago.”

“I was preparing to write a new version of the history of St. Maddern’s,” he explained. “I didn’t tell anyone because I was not certain I could bring it off.” His expression was slightly abashed. “I am no man of letters, after all. I thought I would have a look through the priest’s holes, perhaps take some preliminary notes, and then settle to writing over the winter. But I found this instead,” he finished, his gaze fixed upon the bag.

Helen Romilly’s eyes were wide in her pale face and her son looked bewildered. “What does this mean?” he asked.

He had put the question to his uncle, but it was Tiberius who replied. “It means that Rosamund Romilly never left this island alive.”

“That seems a stretch,” Caspian protested.

Tiberius regarded him dispassionately. “Is it? If a lady runs away, she takes a bag. Even Miss Speedwell, who has traveled the world five times over, always takes a bag.” He flicked a glance to me and I nodded slowly.

“I cannot imagine a lady embarking willingly on any sort of voyage without even the most modest assortment of possessions.”

Tiberius went on. “So let us carry it out to the logical conclusion. If she left and took no bag, she did not leave of her own free will. Or she never left at all. Either possibility points to foul play.”

Mrs. Trengrouse covered her mouth with her hand as Mertensia gave a little moan. “It cannot be,” she murmured. She reached out blindly, her fingers groping for some comfort. It did not escape me that they landed upon Stoker’s sleeve.

“What do you want from us?” Tiberius asked Malcolm.

A brief smile touched our host’s mouth. “I should have known I could count on you for plain speaking, Tiberius. I need your help in discovering what became of Rosamund.”

“You want us to help you hunt a murderer,” Tiberius replied sharply.

At this Helen Romilly shrieked a little and half rose. Stoker patted her hand and she resumed her seat. Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head sadly while Mertensia regarded her brother with horror.

“Malcolm, you cannot be serious,” she began.

“I am, I assure you, entirely in earnest,” he told her. “This bag means that Rosamund never left the island alive.”

“But murder—” Mertensia said.

“What else can it be?” Tiberius asked softly. “If she never left, taking her wretched little bag with her, then she must be here. And who else would hide her traveling bag except someone who wanted to make you think she left of her own accord?”

Put so bluntly, the question laid a pall upon the gathering. We were all silent a long moment, each of us grappling with the enormity of what we had just heard. Malcolm carefully laid the decrepit bag upon his chair and took up his glass.

“What do you want us to do?” Tiberius asked.

“I hoped each of you would bring your skills to the question of Rosamund’s fate.” He paused, his gaze resting upon Tiberius. “Tiberius, you are my oldest friend, and I find myself in need of support. We were close as brothers once, and I think you will not now refuse me.”

Tiberius stirred. “Naturally, I will do whatever I can. I do have a few contacts in London who might prove useful. I will write in the morning and make inquiries. Discreetly, of course,” he added with a graceful inclination of the head.

“Thank you, Tiberius. I am grateful,” Malcolm Romilly replied gravely. “I cannot imagine there has been any further development, but if there is the slightest chance, we should ask.” He seemed about to say something more but fell silent instead. There was an odd undercurrent between the two men, as if something more significant than words had passed between them, only a flicker and then it was gone as Malcolm Romilly moved on, looking to Stoker and to me.

“I had no thought of asking either of you to help, but when you unexpectedly joined our little endeavor here, it did occur to me that, as natural scientists, you are trained observers. There must be something the rest of us have overlooked. A fresh perspective from those who are experienced at observation must be useful and I am desperate enough to throw myself upon your generosity and implore you to lend your skills.”