A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(47)

“It is music,” I said in some surprise.

“No, it isn’t,” Mertensia burst out. “It is Rosamund!”

“Will someone light a bloody candle?” Tiberius demanded. I heard the rasp of a lucifer being struck and Stoker’s face sprang into view, illuminated by the small flame. He held it to one of the tapers, but it would not take light. It guttered out at once and Mertensia made a small noise of protest. Stoker struck another lucifer, cupping one hand to protect the tiny flame.

“Mama!” Caspian cried. His mother was slumped senseless in her chair. He shook her gently until she came to with a start.

“What has happened?” she demanded. Then she heard the music, sitting forward, clutching at her son’s sleeve. “Rosamund,” she breathed.

Stoker’s lucifer burnt out and he struck another.

“There are lamps in the hall,” Malcolm told him.

“You mustn’t,” Mertensia cried, curling her hands into fists at her temples. “We must stay together! Do not leave,” she pleaded.

Malcolm half started from his chair. “The music is getting louder,” he said, still holding fast to my hand.

Stoker vanished with the tiny flame, plunging us once more into darkness before returning a moment later with a small lamp lifted just high enough to throw his face half into shadow. “The music is louder in the passage.”

“The music room,” Malcolm managed in a strangled gasp.

We rose almost as one, Malcolm, Stoker, and I at the front of the little band, leading the way towards the music room. The door was closed but we could hear the music clearly, growing louder with every step. The trills and flourishes seemed to surround us in the passage, music conjured from nowhere, teasing and tormenting as snatches of it danced around us.

“She is still here,” Helen said in a strangled voice. Her son supported her, one stalwart arm at her waist. To my surprise, Mertensia supported her other side, gripping her sister-in-law’s hand with her own grubby one. For once, Helen did not pull away. She seemed, instead, grateful for her kindness.

Instantly, the music stopped, the last notes cut off sharply but an echo of them lingering in the passage. Malcolm burst through the doors of the music room, leading us as he held the lamp aloft. In the center of the room stood a harpsichord, the lid lifted, music scattered upon the floor. Attached to the harpsichord was a bracket for a candelabrum fitted with slim white tapers. The scent of blown candles filled the air and a slender wisp of grey smoke spiraled lazily upwards. Stoker put his finger to the smoking wick.

“Still hot,” he murmured.

“What does that signify?” Malcolm demanded.

Stoker opened his mouth to speak, but paused as Tiberius came forward. He moved like a sleepwalker, slowly, inexorably towards the harpsichord. He put out his hand and lifted something from the seat, turning towards Malcolm with an expression I had never seen before.

Clutched in his fist was a single striped rose.

He held it up, but Malcolm did not touch it. He stared in horror, his white lips parted, his breathing heavy. Suddenly, with a choking gasp, Helen slid to the floor, crumpling into a heap of black taffeta.

Caspian bent to his mother just as Mrs. Trengrouse bustled into the room.

“Mr. Malcolm, I am sorry. I’m afraid the storm—” She broke off at the sight of Helen Romilly huddled on the Aubusson.

“Fetch a vinaigrette, Trenny,” Malcolm said wearily. “I think it is going to be a long night.”





        CHAPTER





10


By unspoken agreement, we reassembled in the drawing room, where a fire had been kindled against the rising storm. The draperies were drawn to shut out the pounding rain, but a restlessness seemed to have settled over the group. Helen had been roused from her swoon and was settled on a sofa, a rug over her knees. Caspian disappeared and returned a few moments later with her cat, Hecate, dropping the animal onto his mother’s knee. The creature turned a few times, kneading its claws, before gathering its legs underneath and assuming a posture of watchful rest upon its mistress’s lap.

“Thank you, darling,” Helen murmured to Caspian. He shot her a fond smile and then ducked his head, as if embarrassed at being caught in the act of a kindness.

The rest of us said little, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackle of the flames, and after a long while, Mrs. Trengrouse reappeared, leading Daisy and another maid bearing platters of sandwiches, bread and butter, and bouillon cups of steaming beef tea. There were pots of strong black tea as well, and Mrs. Trengrouse set the maids to serving. “Mind you all have a cup of the beef tea. It is sustaining and should prevent anyone else from succumbing to shock.”

“Strong drink, you mean,” Mertensia put in. She was seated on a sofa next to Helen, not touching her sister-in-law but keeping a curious eye upon her. Whatever fright Mertensia had taken during the séance, she seemed determined to recover herself. I knew well the inclination to explain away the inexplicable. It was easy to forget the things that waited in the dark when one was warmed by the light. But there was a tautness to her expression that made me wonder if she had been more frightened than she would like to remember.

“Mertensia!” her nephew called sharply.

His aunt shrugged, and Helen bestirred herself. “Never mind, Caspian. It is true that I drink more than I ought. It is the only thing that quietens my head.” She trailed off, letting her words hang in the air.