A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(48)

“Be that as it may, no one can deny that what happened tonight was sufficient to disturb the stoutest constitution,” Malcolm said evenly. “I confess that I myself was startled.”

“Startled!” Caspian’s handsome mouth curled in scorn. “You looked as if you had seen a ghost. That is—” He stopped abruptly, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks. “You never expected that, did you?” he demanded. “You thought Mama’s gifts were a joke, but now the laugh is on you because she did conjure something.”

“Something? Or someone?” Mertensia asked softly.

Silence blanketed the room save the sound of the crackling fire and the rising wind and Stoker, munching happily at a slice of cake he had unearthed behind the sandwiches. I pulled a face at him, but I knew better than to remonstrate with him when he was indulging his sweet tooth.

“I presume Rosamund played the harpsichord,” I said to Malcolm. He turned to me in surprise.

“Why, yes. She was quite accomplished. It was an old-fashioned pastime for a modern girl. She took no end of japing about it, but she refused to give it up. She could be stubborn like that,” he added, his expression faraway as he no doubt thought of his beautiful bride.

“And that was her instrument?” I pressed.

He nodded absently. “It was a wedding gift, I don’t know from whom. She demanded that it have pride of place in the music room. The evening before the wedding, when there was a reception for our guests and a dinner to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, she spent it in there, playing hour after hour. The same Baroque melodies.”

“Like the one we heard tonight?” Stoker asked.

Malcolm nodded again. “I think so. They all sound alike to me,” he said, his manner slightly abashed. “I am afraid I don’t understand music. Never did.”

“The Romillys, none of us, are musical,” Caspian put in. “Which is why the music room is usually shut up.”

“Is it?” I asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “There are instruments in there that my grandparents played, badly, I recall. But after their time, no one took an interest save Lucian. My father had been made to practice as a boy and loathed it, so when he inherited the castle, he left the room shut and that was the end of it apart from Lucian noodling away as a boy. He was the only one of us who had any sort of feel for music. I don’t suppose I have been in it more than a dozen times in the whole of my life.”

“Until tonight,” I observed.

“Until tonight. I certainly never went in there after Rosamund . . .” He did not finish the sentence.

Caspian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Perhaps ghosts know how to pick out a tune,” he ventured.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mertensia snapped. “We have had enough talk of ghosts for one night.”

“Yes, but we have made a start,” Malcolm said. There was a boyish earnestness to him that was oddly touching.

“You want to do this again?” I asked.

“I do. I believe we have only scratched the surface. My God, if Helen has managed to make contact with her so quickly and so comprehensively, imagine what Rosamund could tell us.”

His eyes were almost feverish, and his sister stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “You cannot be serious, Malcolm. It’s the rankest chicanery.”

“How dare you—” Caspian leapt to his feet, his fists balled at his sides.

Mertensia rose, standing toe-to-toe with her nephew, lacking a few inches but nothing in courage. “I do dare,” was the stout reply.

“Mertensia, Caspian, we have guests,” Malcolm reminded them.

“Guests?” Mertensia whirled to look at her brother. “I hardly think so. Tiberius has been coming here since he was a boy, and as for the others, what secrets have we now? We are beyond polite conventions, brother. We have been since you asked them to search for a dead woman.”

The gentlemen had risen as soon as Mertensia got to her feet. Only Helen and I remained seated, but she rose now, gathering the cat to her breast. “Malcolm,” she said in her usual gentle voice, “I will try again tomorrow if you insist. But I am not certain it is wise. Perhaps Mertensia is right. Perhaps it is best to let the dead bury the dead.”

Malcolm’s mouth set in a mulish line. “Do you know what the past three years have been like? No, none of you can imagine,” he said, looking from each of us to the next. “I have been as one insensible, sleepwalking through my days. I cannot put her memory to rest because I do not know what became of her. I have been driven halfway to madness, and you would have me stop now?”

“But what if the truth is too terrible to bear?” Mertensia asked in a voice of surrender.

“There is no truth so terrible as the unknown,” he replied.

“Very well,” she said. “I am against this. I do it under protest, and I think it unwise. But I will do it for you.”

He reached out and clasped her hand. He turned to their sister-in-law. “Helen, I do insist that you try again tomorrow. After dinner, we will attempt once more to contact Rosamund.”

“As you wish,” she murmured. “I will do my best.” But I noticed that the hand that stroked the cat trembled and the smile she offered her brother-in-law did not meet her eyes.