A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(83)
“Where is it now?” Mertensia demanded.
“There is no call for you to know that at present,” Tiberius replied, every inch the lord. “Now, in Malcolm’s apparent absence, I shall remind you that I am the highest-ranking man on this island. Furthermore, I am the lord magistrate for my country estate and I am no doubt more familiar with the law and correct procedure than anyone else here, unless you have some constable or judge tucked away you’d like to produce?” He looked from one blank Romilly face to the other. “No? Good. Then let us be clear. I am taking control of this matter. I will authorize an island-wide search for Malcolm Romilly. Not a stone will remain unturned while we look for him. My brother and Miss Speedwell will assist me, and the pair of you will either help or keep bloody well out of my way, do you understand?”
Caspian merely nodded but Mertensia clenched her fists against her skirts as emotions warred upon her face. Tiberius’ tone turned silken. “You must forgive me, but I am afraid I could not hear your replies.”
“Yes, my lord,” Caspian said swiftly.
Mertensia gave a sharp nod, seemingly against her will. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice was harsh and two spots of bright color burned high in her cheeks.
“Excellent. Now that my brother has demolished that entire cake, I suggest we make our preparations and begin the search, as we will get nothing more to eat here.”
* * *
? ? ?
Under Tiberius’ capable direction, the entire island was searched. The fishermen and villagers scoured the buildings and fields, not omitting the various nooks and crannies and smugglers’ caves that were inevitable in such a place. Mertensia and Caspian formed an unlikely alliance and made a careful search of the grounds of the castle. Tiberius remained in the library with the understanding that anyone who discovered anything of note would report immediately to him, and Stoker and I were left with the task of searching the castle itself.
“It’s a ridiculous notion,” I muttered after we had climbed our fourteenth staircase and inspected what felt like our twenty-seventh empty bedchamber. “He might be anywhere. Has anyone even counted the boats? He might have sailed to one of the Three Sisters.”
“Impossible,” Stoker replied as he poked his head into a mercifully empty water closet. “He knows these waters. He would never have attempted such a suicidal act.”
I stopped what I was doing and leveled my gaze at Stoker.
“Don’t,” he ordered, intuiting my thoughts. “Do not even suggest it.”
“We must consider the possibility,” I insisted. “You will admit he has suffered a great deal, and he seems a sensitive sort of man. Who is to say that finding Rosamund’s traveling bag was not the final straw? It has clearly preyed upon his mind. Perhaps having that proof that she did not leave of her own accord was too much for him. He might have brooded on it ever since he came upon it until he could stand it no more. Just imagine—he was deeply in love with her, and losing her must have been a heart-wrenching experience. After years of uncertainty, he finally discovers evidence that she did not leave this island, that she must be dead. He invites a dearest select group of guests to help him discover the truth of her disappearance and instead he seems to have raised a ghost. What horror that must have kindled within him! He must have been nearly out of his mind with grief and shock. What more natural thing than that he should decide to join her?”
“You are forgetting two things,” Stoker pointed out reasonably. “First, if Rosamund’s traveling bag never left the island, neither did she.”
“Your point being?”
“That she was clearly murdered,” he stated.
“Feathers. She might have met with an accident. She might have died of natural causes. She might have—”
“She might have been swallowed by a whale, but it’s not bloody likely,” he retorted. “I forgot your tendency towards melodrama.”
“My tendency to melodrama! You are the one insisting Rosamund was the victim of a crime worthy of a penny dreadful.”
He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “Veronica. I realize that your feelings for Tiberius have clouded your judgment, but do try not to be quite so much a woman.”
I gaped at him in mute outrage.
He went on in a tone of such maddening calm that I was tempted to bring an andiron down on his head. “You have, upon many and various occasions, persuaded me that a woman might be just as capable of rational thought as a man. I might even be so generous as to point out that you have, once or twice, been possessed of more sangfroid than I myself. But I find you sadly lacking in any matter that touches my brother.”
“Of all the cheap and desperate insults, to attack my scientist’s brain,” I began.
He held up a hand. “If you mean to rage at me, can you do it whilst we search? Otherwise we shall never finish the entirety of the castle.”
He left the room and I had no choice but to trot after him, my footsteps clipping sharply on the stone floors. We continued to search in silence for some time, neither of us speaking beyond necessity.
We discovered nothing of note until we came to the last room. I pointed to the little card written in tidy script. Mrs. Lucian Romilly. I rapped gently but there was no reply. We slipped into the room, closing the door noiselessly behind us. The bedside table was littered with tins of pastilles, moist handkerchiefs, a tiny crystal goblet suitable for liqueurs, and a little flask of green glass with a chemist’s label. Stoker lifted it and gave a tentative sniff.