A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(86)

“How did you manage the rapping?” I inquired.

“Simple,” Stoker said. “She slipped her hand out of Caspian’s and knocked on the underside of the table.”

Helen nodded. “Most people are too suspicious to permit such an easy trick, but I knew Malcolm would not think it peculiar if Caspian were seated next to me.”

“And the candles? They were fixed to extinguish themselves?” I asked.

“Yes. We have them timed perfectly so that I know just when to ask a question. The sudden guttering of the candle looks like an answer then. It is most effective under the right circumstances.”

“You did not trouble to use the ectoplasm,” Stoker pointed out. “Or were you saving it for later?”

Her smile was wry. “One of the guiding principles of my success: I do as little as I need to set the scene. Malcolm was only too ready to believe in Rosamund. It required nothing on my part but a little acting and the candles.”

“And the music,” I reminded her.

Her expression shuttered again. “That was not me.”

“Come, now,” Stoker began.

Her fingers tightened on the cat’s fur, earning her a growl of protest. She opened her hands, crooning an apology to the animal.

“The music was the climax of your performance,” I said. “Surely that was arranged.”

“It most certainly was not,” she snapped. “I have confessed to everything else. If I had managed to arrange that, I would say it.”

“Then how was it done?” Stoker demanded.

“How should I know?” she replied in some desperation. “I was as surprised as the rest of you when I heard it.”

“But you immediately associated it with Rosamund?” I asked.

“Yes. She was the only musical one in the family apart from Lucian. When he left for school, the music room was shut up and no one played. But Rosamund asked that Malcolm open it up again and he was only too happy to oblige her. She played for hours on end, maddening Baroque stuff. I used to go for walks just to get away from the sound of it,” she told us.

“And when you heard the music you believed you had actually conjured her ghost?” Stoker did his best to keep the skepticism from his voice, I think, but I heard it, as did Helen.

“I know you do not believe me,” she said, her voice dropping dully. “But how else can you explain it?”

I flicked Stoker a warning glance and spoke before he could reply. “Is that why you bought the charm from Mother Nance?”

She nodded, lifting her wrist to show the length of colored cord knotted there. Dangling from it was a slim silver medallion with a worn inscription of some sort. “It’s a coin, salvaged from a Spanish shipwreck on the beach.”

“Rather unlucky for the fellow who wore it last,” Stoker ventured. “Spanish sailors have never fared well in these waters.”

“It is better than nothing,” she returned, lifting her chin.

“Why did you try to leave the island today?” I asked.

“Because of her,” Helen said. “If she walks, who is to say whom she will visit? What harm she will do? She died in the prime of her life on her wedding day. She must be angry, so terribly angry.” Her voice faded to a rough whisper, thick with fear.

Stoker’s pity seemed to stir then. He put a consoling hand to her arm. “I am certain you have nothing to be afraid of.”

She gave him a grateful look, and I chose then to speak. “I am not so certain,” I began slowly.

She blinked, panic returning to her. “What do you mean?”

“If Rosamund is returning, if her spirit is uneasy, it must mean that she has unfinished business. She wants something—revenge? To make us aware of how she died? A proper burial? Or to punish those who did not protect her in life?”

I stepped towards Helen with each question, coming so near that I could see the pupils of her eyes dilate in terror.

“Mertensia,” she said, bursting out with the name. “She would want Mertensia. I heard them quarreling the night before the wedding. In the garden. It was terrible! I thought Mertensia would kill her—” She broke off suddenly, two spots of color burning in the dead white of her face.

I stepped back, giving her a consoling smile. “There. I’m certain Stoker is right and you have nothing to be afraid of. All the same,” I added, “I would not leave this room after dark if I were you.”





        CHAPTER





17


“That was a trifle mean,” Stoker observed as we made our way from the family wing. “Even for you.”

I bristled at his accusing me once more of small-spirited behavior. “I was not mean. And if I were, she deserved it. I seem to recall you carping endlessly about her fleecing the grief-stricken.”

“Oh, I object to her occupation on principle, but there is something pitiable about her nonetheless.”

I quickened my pace. “The sentimentality of the male sex never ceases to astonish me,” I muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I returned. “Except that for a man who has suffered as much as you at the hands of women, I should have thought by now you would be immune to feminine wiles.”