A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(91)

“Rosamund was going to have a child,” I concluded.

“Yes, miss. She were sick a time or two in the morning. Nothing half so bad as I’ve seen with my sisters,” Daisy advised. “But sick nonetheless. I cleaned it all up and she gave me a shilling to keep quiet about it. And quiet I was,” she added firmly. “I never told Mother Nance, although she might have made a few shillings herself out of childbirth charms. But it made it all the more tragic when she disappeared, miss. It weren’t just her that vanished, it was the master’s child,” Daisy said, shaking her head sorrowfully.

But I had a different thought entirely.



* * *



? ? ?

After my talk with Daisy, I repaired to my room to wash off any dusty traces of the search, extracting cobwebs from my hair and rubbing a smudge from my cheek. Suitably freshened, I found Tiberius in the billiards room with Stoker. They were not playing but sitting, sunk deep in the leather armchairs, smoking and saying nothing.

I went and sat on the hassock at Tiberius’ feet, ignoring Stoker entirely. I leant forward, placing my hands in Tiberius’. “Did you know?”

His brows quirked up inquisitively. “Did I know?”

I tightened my grip, my gaze never leaving his. “Did you know?”

He did not speak for a long moment, and when he did, he paid me the compliment of the truth. “I did.”

“How? Was it in the telegram she sent you before she married him?”

He gave a slow nod. Stoker stirred but did not interrupt.

“By the time I received the telegram, she was already missing and my child with her,” Tiberius said. Stoker’s eyes were bright with inquiry but I continued to ignore him.

“Tiberius, you have not been forthright with us. Tell us now why you have come here.”

His expression hardened. “Malcolm married the woman I loved and for whatever reason, he failed her—failed her so badly that she fled. Or took her own life. Or was murdered. If someone has hounded Malcolm to death for it, then I would like to know who so that I may take them by the hand and convey my thanks.”

I had never heard him speak so bitterly, and it was a moment before I could form a reply. “You surprise me, my lord,” I said gently. “I hadn’t realized you shared Stoker’s capacity for rage.”

“Share it?” he mocked. “My dear lady, I taught it to him. Now, I should like very much to discover the truth of what has happened to Malcolm.”

“And Rosamund,” Stoker put in steadily.

The brothers squared off in a posture that was no doubt familiar to them from their boyhood days of brawling. “Yes. I do want to know precisely what happened to her.”

“Well, I am glad you are man enough to concede you have an ulterior purpose.”

Tiberius’ handsome mouth curled. “Brother mine, I thought you learnt long ago—even my ulterior purposes have ulterior purposes.”

Stoker returned the smile. “Such as murdering Malcolm Romilly?”

I blinked at him. “Stoker, what on earth—”

“I searched Tiberius’ room when you were talking to Daisy. He has a revolver hidden in his bag. He does not habitually travel with one, and a sleepy isle off the coast of Cornwall is not exactly a thiving hive of dangerous criminal activity. Therefore, why would he choose to arm himself this time, I ask myself. Why come here at all and suffer the tortures of Rosamund’s disappearance resurrected? Unless he decided to take matters into his own hands.”

“Stoker, you cannot—”

“Accuse my own brother of plotting a murder? Of course I can. In fact, I accuse him of carrying it out.”

“You bloody fool,” Tiberius began with a thin smile.

“Am I?” Stoker crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll stake my life on you being up to your lordly neck in this business and take my chances.”

They stood toe-to-toe for a long, breathless minute. There was no sound except the ticking of a particularly ugly mantel clock until at last Tiberius expelled a deep breath and let his shoulders soften. “Very well. I came here to kill Malcolm. Is that enough of a confession for you or shall I write it in my heart’s blood?”

Stoker’s expression barely shifted but I caught the triumphant flicker in his eyes. I hurried to speak before he goaded his brother to further violence. “Tiberius, perhaps you would care to start at the beginning.”

He shrugged. “There is not much to tell. When Rosamund disappeared, no one knew precisely what had happened. Theories abounded, each wilder than the last. It was suggested that she had thrown herself into the sea or that she had gone off in a passing boat. Some said she was murdered, others that she had turned into a dove and flown away on the west wind. That last contribution was from the more superstitious villagers,” he added with a cold smile. “No body was ever recovered, no note or witness ever produced to say one way or another what became of her. Malcolm was advised that he could apply to have her pronounced legally dead if she had not been heard from in seven years. For three years, there has been nothing. Then, quite out of the blue, Malcolm wrote me a fortnight ago. He said he had discovered proof that Rosamund did not leave the island of her own free will and he wanted me to come here because he wanted to discover the truth.”

“Did he tell you anything more?” I prodded.