Chapter 28
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
If you fear the wolf,
Do not go into the forest.
—Russian Proverb
Brisbane had hailed a hansom and was waiting for me at the kerb.
He handed me in and gave the direction of Grey House to the driver.
I fussed with my reticule, pretending to search for a tin of lemon pastilles, then my handkerchief.
Anything to avoid revealing to Brisbane what Mrs. Birch had disclosed… .
I had just begun burrowing about for a bit of lip salve when his nerve broke. “All right, I know it must be something fairly awful. You might as well tell me now.”
“I’m not entirely certain that I can. How do you know it is awful?” I asked mildly.
“You’ve fidgeted so violently that you have managed to rip the cording of your reticule completely off. Tell me.”
“Very well, but you must look out of the window.”
I sensed his eyes rolling in exasperation, but I would not turn my head.
“I beg your pardon?” His voice was even—quite a good effort, I thought, given how annoyed he must have been at this point.
“I simply cannot say it if you are looking. I know that we are supposed to be quite grown-up about such things, but I cannot help it.”
“About what such things?” he asked with deliberate patience.
“You are still looking at me.”
This time the eyes definitely rolled, punctuated with an audible sigh. But he turned, edging his broad shoulders toward me, his gaze clearly fixed out of the window.
“I am not looking now, nor shall I.”
I cleared my throat. “Very well. Mrs. Birch said that when she washed Edward she noticed that there was some discoloration—some rather violent discoloration.”
“What sort of discoloration?”
My cheeks were warm and I fanned my face with my hand.
“How explicit must I be? Something was not the colour it should have been. It was discoloured.”
“I am conversant with the meaning of the word, my lady. I am inquiring as to the location and the extent of the discoloration,” he said coldly. “In plain words, what part of his body and in what manner discoloured?”
“Oh, you are beastly. Very well, if you must know, it was his—his manly apparatus.”
Brisbane gave a little choking noise. I do not like to think that it might have been a laugh.
“His what?”
“His penis, Mr. Brisbane. His stem of fertility, his manly root.”
By this time his shoulders were definitely shaking, but to his credit, there was not a trace of amusement in his voice.
“She is quite certain? I mean, it is quite customary for the, er—manly apparatus to be of a different coloration than the rest of a gentleman’s skin.”
“Is it quite customary for it to be the colour of a vintage Bordeaux?” I asked venomously. “Mrs. Birch has washed more bodies than you or I have had hot meals. I take her opinion as the valuation of an expert.”
“No doubt,” he said gravely. He fell silent, ruminating as I recovered my composure.
My cheeks felt marginally cooler, and by the time he straightened in his seat, gripping the head of his walking stick, I was almost myself.
His face was lit, his expression rapturous, like St. Paul’s on the road to Damascus, I imagined.
“What? What are you thinking?”
He was fairly quivering. The hound had once more picked up the trail.
“That was how the poison was introduced.”
I stared at him, not bothering to conceal my scorn.
“You are barking mad. How could someone possibly introduce poison to a man’s…well, his…person without his knowledge?”
He gave me a slit-eyed stare. “Perhaps it was with his knowledge.”
“Are you saying it was suicide? That I find very hard to believe, and I must warn you that if you intend to pursue that particular line of investigation, I will stop this hansom right now and leave you here before I will have my husband’s good name—”
He grabbed at my hand, squeezing hard, then dropped it suddenly, as if remembering himself. “I am suggesting nothing of the sort. I believe Sir Edward was murdered by a person with whom he was intimately connected.”
“Oh, God, you think I did this!” I sagged against the seat, regretting with every atom of my being the day I had engaged him on this case.
“You will have to learn not to take such flying leaps of imagination if you ever hope to make an investigator, my lady,” he said, rubbing at his temples.
“I believe it must have been someone who knew his most intimate habits. It is the only way it all makes sense. He must have used a contraceptive machine—a sheath. A condom.”
I was finally beginning to grasp what he was saying.
“And this sheath was poisoned? On the inside?”
“Precisely. It would account for the discoloration of his genitals, while no other part of his body bore traces of poison.”
“What sort of person would do such a thing? Could do such a thing?” I murmured.
Brisbane shrugged. “Someone who hated him, that much is obvious. Someone who knew he would possibly use a prophylactic device during his amours. His valet, possibly, but far more likely it was a lover.”
He seemed to have forgotten entirely that I had been Edward’s wife.
We were colleagues now, and I was not certain if I minded this or not.
“His amours. That is quite a leap, is it not? You assume that he had mistresses, but you have no proof. Your entire theory hangs on the question of my husband’s fidelity. ”
Brisbane turned to me, his eyes cool and pitiless. “I do not suppose it, my lady. I have proof. I have had ever since you gave me the inventory of his rooms.”
I returned the cool stare. “Of what are you speaking, Mr. Brisbane?”
“The inventory listed one object that proved your husband had carnal relations with other women.”
“Impossible. What object could possibly reveal that?”
A smile crossed his lips. It was feline, almost cruel, and I knew he was thinking of the case and not of me at all.
“There was a small porcelain box, painted with the image of Pandora, opening her own legendary box, the gift of the gods.”
My lips went dry. “What of it?”
“If it is the one I suspect, I know those boxes. They are made to order for one of London’s most notorious brothels. And they are only given to the most illustrious and profitable of patrons.”
I said nothing. He settled back against the cushion, basking a little in his brilliant deduction. I felt my upper lip begin to grow moist. I blotted it discreetly with my gloved finger and waited for what I knew must come next.
“All we need do now is retrieve Sir Edward’s box from Grey House, and I will use it as entrée to the brothel, where I shall discreetly question the inmates.”
I swallowed hard and steeled my nerve. “Except that the box is not at Grey House.”
He went very still. “Where is it?”
“I gave it to Magda. I knew she did not kill Edward, the very idea was ludicrous, and yet I feared you meant to hang her. I sent her away.”
“With the box.” His even, measured tone was far worse than any shout would have been.
He reminded me of a cat that Cook had kept at Bellmont Abbey when I was a child.
It would sit for hours, quite still, quite harmless-looking, but always watching with ravenous eyes.
The poor, doomed mice never even saw the pounce. I licked my lips.
“And a pair of Sèvres candlesticks. I did not have any cash to hand and I knew she would need money.”
“So,” he said in a dangerous, silky voice, “your Gypsy laundress has taken our single best clue and pawned it, somewhere in a city of five million people.”
I gave him my most abjectly sorry look. “I do apologize. I see that I have made rather a muck of things. But you must understand, I only did it to save Magda. I knew she was innocent, but I heard the way she spoke to you, the way she taunted you. I feared that you would be less than impartial.”
“You mean that you did not trust me,” he said flatly.
I lifted my chin. “No, I did not. But it cannot matter that much. You believe that you know the source of the box. Surely you do not require the box itself.”
“That box is evidence, and I will have it.”
“I cannot think how,” I pointed out reasonably. “After all, London is a rather large haystack, and Magda such a small needle.” I gave him a feeble smile, which he quite rightly ignored.
He did not speak until we drew up in front of Grey House. He alighted and held the door, but just as I made to exit the cab, he pounced, thrusting his arm across the opening, barring my path.
“That needle has, I imagine, hidden herself in a very small, very specific part of the haystack,” he said, his voice low. “Do not underestimate me, my lady. I will have that box.”
He had not taken his eyes from mine, and I understood from that unflinching gaze that we were no longer partners in this endeavor. He would know exactly where to find Magda, of that I had no doubt. What I did doubt was his ability to recover the box with his limbs intact.
He stepped back sharply, dropping his arm.
“Good day, my lady.”
I gathered up my skirts and my dignity and swept past him and into Grey House. It was not until I had gained the privacy of my own home that I picked my skirts up into my hands and began to run.
Through some miracle that I still cannot credit, Valerius was at home. I found him in his room, his nose buried in a book, idly feeding the raven titbits from the tip of a pencil. I burst in without apology.
“Val, you must help me. He’s going to the Gypsy encampment on Hampstead Heath. He’ll be killed, I know it.”
Val rose, sending the raven scuttling off irritably to the bedpost, where it glared down at us, muttering. Val put an arm around me, leading me to a chair. I did not sit.
“Julia, calm yourself. Who is going to the Gypsy camp?”
I took a deep breath, pressing my hand to my corset. “Mr. Brisbane.”
Val’s eyes widened, in fear, I thought. “Nicholas Brisbane? You know him?”