A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(80)

“He left in a hurry,” Tiberius said thoughtfully. “He is always tidy as a monk.”

“And he never went to bed,” Stoker pointed out, nodding to the pristine sheets. “That is suggestive of a disordered mind. Perhaps he did himself a mischief.”

Tiberius’ voice was sharp. “You think he might have killed himself?”

“It’s one of eight possibilities for his absence,” I remarked.

Tiberius’ eyes fairly popped. “Eight?”

I ticked off the prospects as I named them. “I have been thinking out the possibilities with regard to Rosamund’s fate, but they will do just as well for Malcolm. He might have killed himself. He might have met with an accident. He may be trapped somewhere and unable to free himself. He might be hiding. He might have suffered a breakdown of sorts. He might have been murdered. He might have keeled over dead of quite natural causes. He might have surprised smugglers or pirates and is being held against his will in a lair—”

Tiberius made a strangled noise and Stoker shook his head. “You’ve over-egged the pudding with that one.”

“I never claimed all the options bore equal likelihood. I merely said they were possible. And you must admit, there is a history of piracy in this place.”

“Not since the days of Elizabeth and her privateers,” Stoker argued.

“Feathers. As long as men sail the seven seas, those bent upon mischief or profit will find it,” I countered.

Tiberius held up a hand. “I have never, in all of my life, needed two people to shut their mouths more urgently. The point is that Malcolm has gone missing and we must determine our next step.”

“Our next step,” I instructed, “is to search the castle from turrets to terraces. Onward!”



* * *



? ? ?

They did as I bade them with ill grace. For all their differences, the Templeton-Vane men were of a masterful bent and never liked being told what to do. As for myself, I never permit petty irritations to dissuade me from my purpose. (For most people, a potentially murderous viscount, a missing host, and a vengeful ghost might seem out of the realm of petty irritations. But then, most people have not led my life.)

We divided the task thusly: Stoker took the wardrobe, Tiberius searched the washstand and water closet—a rudimentary affair whose plumbing arrangements do not bear further discussion—whilst I gave the bed a careful going-over. There was no safe in the room, no strongbox for the keeping of anything of a private and valuable nature. I felt my way through the pillows and between and underneath the mattresses, scattering feathers into the air as I searched. I even went so far as to crawl beneath the bed, where I was impressed to find not so much as a mote of dust. Mrs. Trengrouse was as thorough as she was devoted.

“This is ridiculous,” Tiberius said, emerging from the tiny water closet with decided distaste. “There isn’t a place to hide as much as a pin.”

I crept out from under the bed, straightening my skirts and accepting the hand Stoker proffered. He hauled me to my feet and shook his head. “It pains me—you cannot imagine how deeply—to agree with Tiberius. There is nothing to be found here.” After a thorough search of the wardrobe, Stoker had stood in the fireplace, running his hands over the stones and sifting through the cold ashes until his face and hands were black as a badger’s pelt.

I tipped my head, looking thoughtfully at the wooden paneling on the interior wall of the room. Like the rest of the bedrooms, this one had been built into a tower, with circular stone walls surrounding most of the space. But a partition wall of stout oak had been installed along one side, dividing the bedchamber from the adjoining water closet.

“Tiberius, how large is the water closet?” I inquired.

“Six feet?” he guessed.

“And how long is this wall?” I asked, running my hands over the elaborate linenfold carving. Finding a likely spot, I rapped it with my knuckles. A dull thud echoed back.

“Nine,” Stoker supplied, coming immediately to help. Together we rapped our way down the panels, alternating to listen as the other knocked.

“What are you both doing?” Tiberius demanded. “You look like figures in a fun fair.”

“The Romillys are an old Catholic family,” I replied. “Malcolm said he found the bag in a priest’s hole and Mrs. Trengrouse mentioned the castle has several. Many recusant households boasted them. Some were doubtless holdovers from the days when good Englishmen feared invasion from abroad and wanted a place to hide, but most were purpose-built in order to conceal a priest or Catholic relics during the reign of Elizabeth.”

“And they went on being used through the Civil War,” Stoker added. “Many is the Royalist who was hid away as the Roundheads searched fruitlessly for those who fought for the Stuarts.”

“Thank you for the history lesson,” Tiberius said dryly.

We rapped at the panel for several more minutes before the telltale hollow echo repaid our efforts.

“Here!” I cried. Stoker moved to my side, inspecting the seams in the panel.

“It cannot be a large space,” he mused. “You couldn’t hide much more than a dog in there.” He traced the panel with his finger. It could not have exceeded three feet by two. The linenfold was bordered by a pattern of lozenges and roses and I pressed them all in turn.