Chapter 23
THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
There’s small choice in rotten apples.
—William Shakespeare
The Taming of the Shrew
It occurred to me as I began my search of Grey House that size is entirely relative. I had always thought it a modest sort of town house. But when I began to pace it thoroughly, methodically, and above all surreptitiously, it seemed enormous.
The most difficult part was inventing plausible excuses to be in rooms I had scarcely even seen before.
I murmured that I was thinking of changing the wallpaper when Aquinas found me in the butler’s pantry, and I very nearly insulted Cook by delivering the day’s menus to the kitchens in person.
Cook did not like even Aquinas setting foot in her domain.
I was strictly persona non grata belowstairs.
For a while I walked around with paper and pencil, ostensibly making an inventory of furnishings to be sold when I left Grey House.
That ruse got me through Edward’s rooms, but by the time I finished, my hand was cramping and the inventory had grown to an unwieldy length.
The search saddened me, more than I had anticipated.
I had not ventured into Edward’s rooms since his death.
The sight of his things, freshly dusted but undisturbed, brought quick, hot tears to my eyes.
The rooms looked cold, unused, unfriendly even, like a set piece in a rather forbidding museum.
I wandered about for the longest time, touching things, picking up little treasures and peering into photographs.
I touched the beautiful candlesticks on the mantelpiece, Sèvres, with a design of roses and lilies, copied after a pair made for Madame du Barry.
They had been his mother’s, the only really decent pieces she had ever bought.
There were a few other bits with them, not quite so beautiful, but still pretty enough: a little clock with a shepherdess and a porcelain box decorated with a picture of Pandora opening the legendary box.
There were only a few books, the histories he liked to read when he could not settle to sleep, a few volumes of poetry, that sort of thing.
On the walls were a pair of rather good paintings with mythological subjects—one of Narcissus gazing into a brook and the other of Achilles mourning the death of Patroclus.
I had never much cared for them, but they were very much to Edward’s taste—refined, fashionable, serenely coloured with his favorite blues and greys.
I moved from item to item, opening boxes and drawers and peering into vases.
I found nothing except a little dust and a few ghosts.
It was a disturbing experience, and I realized then that I had no wish to search Grey House by myself.
In the end, I convinced myself I had no choice. I told Aquinas.
“You wish to search Grey House, my lady,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. Like all good butlers, Aquinas would never dream of offering an overt criticism.
“That is correct.”
“For the purpose of discovering evidence of some wrongdoing.”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps I might offer a suggestion or two that would be of assistance.”
“I rather hoped you might.”
“If your ladyship could possibly postpone the proposed search until tomorrow, I think it would be immeasurably easier to arrange.”
I blinked at him. “Why?”
“Tomorrow is the Sabbath, my lady,” he said, without a trace of impatience.
“Oh, very good. How many of them go to church?”
“All, my lady. And afterward they have the afternoon free to avail themselves of the pleasures of town, such as they are.” Aquinas had been in service in Paris and was always bitter about the solemnity of a British Sunday, even in London.
I stared at him. “Really, how very extraordinary. I never noticed. But I always have luncheon on Sunday, the fires are always tended to.”
“I do not attend services myself, my lady. It is my privilege to stay behind and make certain that you are taken care of.”
I did not know what to say. Aquinas had always shown such deft, quiet concern for me that I was not surprised that he should have given up his own Sunday so that I should not be inconvenienced. What surprised, and saddened me, was my own blindness to his devotion.
“Thank you, Aquinas. You are most diligent.”
He bowed from the neck. He never sat in my presence, with the result that our conversations were always slightly awkward, and I usually finished them with a crick in my neck. But I respected his insistence on decorum.
“Now, I have undertaken to solve a problem with the assistance of Mr. Nicholas Brisbane. Perhaps you will remember that he has called here?”
“I remember all callers, my lady.” A lesser servant would have noted my callers in a book. Aquinas, I was certain, simply filed them in his head.
“Yes, well, Mr. Brisbane has suggested that I search the premises for our culprit. I may tell you the wrongdoing in question was a peccadillo itself—one of the books in my study was vandalized and the snipped passages were fashioned into anonymous notes. Mr. Brisbane’s intention is to prove that one of the staff here at Grey House was responsible, but I intend to prove him wrong.
Unfortunately, the only method for doing so is to search the house for any clue, however trivial, that might point to the guilty party. ”
Aquinas nodded thoughtfully. “Might I suggest that your ladyship pay particularly close attention to the public rooms? I do not think one of the staff, if he is a clever villain, would leave evidence of his guilt in his own rooms.”
“Good Lord, Aquinas! You, too? Mr. Brisbane said much the same thing. I thought it indicated he had a criminal mind.”
Aquinas said nothing, but his colour deepened, staining his neck a ferocious scarlet.
“Oh, really, not you as well!”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he asked innocently.
“Nothing, Aquinas. I do not wish to know,” I said firmly, and I meant it.
In spite of Brisbane’s allusions, I trusted Aquinas more than anyone else in Grey House.
I did not care what youthful escapades might have brought him to the wrong side of the law.
All that mattered to me was that he was on the proper side of it now.
“Naturally your ladyship will wish to search my room as well,” he said smoothly. “It will be at your disposal whenever you wish.”
“Oh, no, really, I could not—”
For the first time I could remember, Aquinas interrupted me. “You must. I would not like there to be a shadow of suspicion clouding my name, my lady. I value your good opinion too highly.”
I said nothing, but I could hear Brisbane’s voice, insidious as a snake. Well, of course he would say that, wouldn’t he? Especially if he has already hidden the evidence.
Resolutely, I put Brisbane’s nasty voice from my mind, but it came creeping back when I opened the door to Aquinas’ room the next morning.
The bells had already summoned the faithful to church and I was surprised at how quickly the house fell silent.
Renard, usually kept on duty to look after Simon on Sundays, was given one day free per month.
Usually, he took it in the middle of the month, but Aquinas had made some excuse for requesting that he take it this first Sunday, and Renard had been too eager to question it.
The Ghoul had left on her customary Sunday tour of the churchyards.
She left quite early each Sunday morning, swathed in mourning veils and crepe, and did not return until late in the evening, quite as rested and relaxed as if she had just taken a holiday.
Even Magda had gone, although I knew better than to expect her to have gone to worship.
She would pay a visit to her own people, no doubt, catching up with the aunts and sisters who had opposed her leaving, and who continually pressed their menfolk for her return.
The others would likely go to the parks, meeting up with friends and would-be lovers.
From my post in the study, I had listened to them, chattering happily as they crowded down the backstairs, liberated for the better part of the day.
It seemed a little insulting really, that they should be so glad to be quit of Grey House, and of me.
But I tried to imagine myself in their places and I knew I would have been the first one down the stairs.
Even poor Desmond, recovering from a cold, had managed to rub enough camphor on his chest to make an outing worth his while.
I could still smell him, along with the cheap perfume the maids had splashed on when I crept out into the hall, feeling for all the world like an intruder in my own house.
I began with Aquinas’ room, for no other reason than guilt.
I was ashamed at having to do it while he was in the house, but he had tactfully taken himself upstairs to tend to Simon.
I made a quick but thorough search of his effects.
I learned that he was a lapsed Roman Catholic, which I had always suspected, and that he was a widower, which I had not.
I found a bit of newspaper in an envelope in his washstand drawer, its edges soft with age, detailing the acrobatic exploits of the Amazing Aquinas and his beautiful wife, Gabriella, of the Gioberti troupe of Milan.
There was a sketch below it, crude but recognizable, of Aquinas balanced atop a wire with Gabriella perched on his shoulder.
There was a second clipping as well, this one almost too painful to read—a gust of wind, a bit of ribbon snagged onto the wire.