A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(79)

It was a testimony to his authoritative manner that no one questioned him. The two Romillys merely nodded and took their leave to do his bidding, the luncheon dishes abandoned. I saw Stoker glance longingly at the casseroles of macaroni cheese before turning manfully aside.

“My God, you would have made quite a Caesar,” I told Tiberius when the others had gone.

“I believe taking a firm hand is the best strategy in all situations,” he told me with a meaningful look. I sighed. The vulnerable, confiding fellow of the previous evening was gone. Tiberius had resumed his mask and his custom of saying outrageous things.

“I saw Mrs. Trengrouse last night,” I told him. “In the music room, shortly before I came to your room. If she were the last to see him, it was most likely at that time.”

“So quarter to one, then,” Tiberius said.

“Something like that. And now he’s gone missing.”

“I cannot blame him,” Stoker put in. “He must be horrified at how his plan has turned out.”

“His plan?” I asked.

“Yes, his plan to embarrass his friends and relations with this idiotic farce of a house party.”

Tiberius gave him a level look. “Explain.”

Stoker folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and lounged against the mantelpiece. He looked relaxed and yet possibly lethal, like a lion at noontime rest. “Malcolm invited the lot of you here to investigate Rosamund’s death.”

“Disappearance,” Tiberius corrected swiftly.

Stoker waved a hand. “Either. Both. In any event, he brought everyone together and arranged for her flowers to be placed on the table. He organized a séance. He wanted you to talk about her, to stir memories of what she was like and how it was when she was alive. To what purpose?”

“To investigate her death,” I supplied patiently. “He was quite clear upon the point.”

He shook his head slowly. “I wonder. Malcolm presented evidence that Rosamund never left the island alive. What if he has other evidence that he did not share—evidence implicating one of his guests?”

Tiberius did not deny it. He flicked an invisible bit of lint from his lapel. “How very interesting,” he said blandly. “Do go on.”

“Very well. What if Malcolm intended to lure Rosamund’s murderer to the island to take his revenge?”

“You have no proof of that,” Tiberius pointed out reasonably.

“No, but it is a working hypothesis that fits all of the circumstances.”

“I’ll grant you he might have been able to arrange the candles guttering out by means of clipped wicks or some such trickery, but what of the music?” Tiberius demanded. “He can’t have done that. He was with us.”

Stoker explained swiftly about the hidden passageway between the music room and the library. “Anyone might have managed it by means of a hidden music box or a bit of clockwork mechanism we have yet to discover. But having considered it, I don’t think Malcolm did,” Stoker said slowly. “His expression was too genuinely shocked. I think the music was a warning to him to let well enough alone.”

“A warning?” I ventured. I drew in a sharp breath. “From the murderer!”

“Precisely,” Stoker said. “Suppose Malcolm believes one of you responsible for his bride’s disappearance. He summons you here to get to the bottom of things, makes a few suggestive remarks, plans a few little surprises like the flowers to keep everyone on edge. Now, someone who genuinely loved Rosamund and was innocent would be upset, but only the guilty would take action.”

“By turning the tables,” I said, picking up the thread of his idea. “Making Malcolm think that her ghost had actually been summoned.”

“That is the rankest, most absurd—” Tiberius began. Stoker held up a hand to silence him.

“I am not saying it is logical. But if someone were responsible for Rosamund’s death, then coming here, being subjected to Malcolm’s little suggestions—that would be enough to prod the guilty party to act. The candles are blown out, Rosamund’s music comes down the corridor. What is Malcolm to think? He will be overcome with grief and bewilderment. He will not be able to continue his little game.”

Tiberius looked doubtful. “I could pick a dozen holes in that theory without taxing my imagination.”

“Do it. And then come up with a theory of your own. I shall be happy to wait,” Stoker told him.

Tiberius’ expression was thoughtful. “Even if what you say is true—”

“It is.”

“Even if,” Tiberius continued as if Stoker had not spoken. “There is no proof. And what has become of Malcolm? He would not be so overcome that he would simply abandon his house party.”

“Unless,” I began. I let the word drop into silence as I gathered my skirts into my hands and bolted from the room. The Templeton-Vanes were hard upon my heels as I made my way down the corridor and up the main staircase. It took only two wrong turnings to find Malcolm’s bedchamber.

“Veronica,” Stoker remonstrated. “You cannot simply barge into Malcolm’s room.”

“I can and I will,” I told him stoutly. I rapped sharply at the door, but there was no response. I threw open the door. The bed had not been slept in. The coverlet was still drawn neatly back, by the maid the previous night, the curtains still tightly closed. The wardrobe door stood open with a few items in disarray, as if Malcolm had snatched up clothing with no care.