A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(34)

He turned his head slightly. “Mertensia, Caspian. You are both Romillys. The local folk are loyal to us. It is possible that someone has seen or heard something. They might be willing to tell you.”

He took a deep breath. “Helen, that brings me to your particular talents.”

She inhaled sharply, the jet beads at her throat dancing in time. “Malcolm, surely there are better ways—”

Mertensia regarded her brother in dismay. “Malcolm, this is not wise,” she started.

He held up a hand, silencing them both. “I am resolved.”

“What talents?” Stoker inquired.

“My sister-in-law is renowned for her abilities to contact those who have passed beyond the veil,” Malcolm said. “She is a spiritualist.”

“Not just any spiritualist,” Caspian put in proudly. “She is rather famous. Perhaps you have heard of Madame Helena?” He finished with a flourish, bowing to his mother, who looked deeply unhappy.

“Malcolm, really,” she began again, but her brother-in-law shook his head.

“Helen, I know you must think me inhospitable. I have not invited my own brother’s widow and son to enter his family home for years. I have not answered letters. I have fulfilled the very least of my obligations and nothing more.”

Helen shook her head. “You have continued the allowance that was Lucian’s. You were not obligated to do so,” she said in a low voice.

Malcolm brushed her remark aside, and for an instant I saw a flash of the man he must have been before tragedy and isolation had worked their worst upon him. He was decisive and unflinching and new blood rose to his cheeks, giving him a more animated look than I had yet seen. “It is not enough. I have failed,” he said firmly. “I have scrutinized my own conduct, and believe me when I say that I am the first to condemn myself for being consumed with my own difficulties and giving little consideration to yours. I wish to make amends, truly. But I understand if you do not wish to clasp the olive branch that I extend.”

“It is not that, Malcolm. You must not think so.” She stopped, biting her lip until the blood rushed into it.

He rose and went to her, putting out his hand. “Shake hands with me, Helen. Do this for me, and let us be a proper family once more.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to her son and she summoned a smile that did not touch her eyes. Slowly, she reached out and took the hand he offered. “Of course, Malcolm. Whatever you wish.”

“Then it is settled,” he said. “Tonight we will begin our investigations in earnest. With a séance.”

“No,” she put in sharply. “That is, I cannot possibly summon the spirits with so little preparation. I must have time.”

“You do not have to do this,” her son said. “Uncle Malcolm has done little enough for us.”

Malcolm flushed but did not reply. Helen gave her son a look of mild reproach. “Your uncle is right. We have the chance to be a proper family. And if I can help, I owe it to him. I will do this,” she said, more firmly than before. But as she reached to her son, her hand trembled, and something like dread settled in her eyes.

I moved forward as if to look into the bag, but Malcolm met my gaze, his expression bleak. I paused, checking my enthusiasm. To me, it might rank as evidence to be met with scientific inquiry, but to him it could only be a painful reminder of the wife he had lost. Worse still, it was no impersonal item, but her traveling bag, doubtless packed with her most intimate possessions. There would be time enough to ask for its examination later, I decided. I stepped back.

“Tomorrow,” Malcolm said firmly, picking up the decaying bag. “We will begin.”



* * *



? ? ?

As with my visit to Stoker’s room the previous night, I did not bother to knock. I entered Tiberius’ bedchamber under a full head of steam, surprised to find that he was already undressing. He gave me a wicked glance.

“Why, Veronica, this is all so terribly sudden. Will you still respect me in the morning?”

“You dreadful man. I ought to have known. Stoker warned me, but I would not listen. You’ve dragged me down here for some nefarious purpose and I mean to know what it is.”

I stood with my back firmly against the door as I waited for his reply. He stripped off his evening coat and waistcoat and began yanking at his neckcloth, long fingers plucking irritably at the silk. “Dragged you? My dear Veronica, I had only to mention the glasswings and you were fairly begging to come.”

“Semantics,” I said firmly. “Now, what is this all about? What is Malcolm Romilly playing at with this gathering and what the devil happened to Rosamund?”

He arched a brow at me. It was an effective gesture, one Stoker often attempted and rarely achieved. “Excellent questions. I wish I knew the answers.”

“What do you mean?”

He plucked at his studs, removing each and dropping them to a tray upon the washstand before removing his collar and cuffs. “Lucky for you the master of the house didn’t see you creeping into my bedchamber like a lady of imperfect virtue. Malcolm is something of a prude, you know. He would be mightily shocked if he knew you were here right now.”

“He will be more shocked if he has to treat you for the injuries I am about to inflict if you do not begin answering my questions.”