Chapter 6 #3
I looked at her closely. Morag could often be cajoled into acquiescence, but once she had reached her limit, there was only one method by which it was possible to persuade her.
“I will pay you four shillings and will thank you for picking my pocket.”
Morag was nothing if not avaricious. She gave me a thin-lipped smile and scooped up the dog, tucking Florence under her arm. “Come on then, ye wee rat. Let us take the measure of you and fit you for your wardrobe.”
When I left the room, I took the opportunity to examine the spot at the end of the gallery where the ghost had disappeared.
The egress was easy enough to find provided one knew where to look.
The statue of Diana, poised on one foot, bow uplifted, obscured the view of the tapestry’s edge.
Not much, but enough to confuse the eye, particularly on a moonlit night with ghostly draperies fluttering about.
With apologies to Venus and Adonis, I slipped behind the tapestry and found a solid stone wall, or at least the appearance of a solid stone wall.
This was no simple case of a doorway that had been covered over for the sake of convenience.
This was a proper secret passage, with a mechanism that had been oiled recently from the smell of it.
I reached up to the single stone carved with the tiniest of March hares and pushed.
The door swung back soundlessly. The passage beyond was black as pitch and freezing.
I paused, listening intently, but of course I heard nothing.
I stepped back and swung the door shut, moving out of the way as it slid into place.
I stood behind the tapestry, considering the matter carefully.
The passage, although quite antique, had been well maintained, and the little hare had been carved by the family to clearly identify the key stone.
Presumably the monks were cleverer than the Marches, and had found their way without such aides-memoire.
The passage went some little way, then terminated in a flight of tight, twisting stairs up to a suite of lumber rooms. Originally a row of cells used as scriptoria by the monks, they were terribly useful for storage.
The little passage itself had been occasionally used to move carpets or tapestries, but its dimensions had not permitted its use for anything more substantial.
It was useful for the maids, for their rooms were in the attics, divided from the lumber rooms only by a short corridor.
We children had used the passage when playing sardines or other such games, and I remembered sulking there once or twice when I did not wish to be found.
I had not used it in a dozen years, and I did not think Morag even knew of its existence.
Who, then, did? My brothers, naturally, and Father and Portia.
But try as I might, I could not imagine any business that would necessitate any of my family wandering the Abbey in the guise of a ghoul.
There was Aunt Dorcas, of course, but I snickered when I thought of her attempting to negotiate the snug little staircase with her bulk.
That still left the guests, any one of whom might have heard of the passage from a member of the household and decided to do a bit of exploring. Harmless enough, but why in the form of a spectre?
Interesting questions indeed, and I pondered them as I descended to breakfast. My little detour had taken longer than I thought, and by the time I reached the breakfast room, it was empty and most of the chafing dishes had been scraped clean.
Aquinas entered with a steaming pot of tea and a rack of fresh, crisp toast as I peered at the sideboard, frowning.
“Do not tell me I have missed Cook’s kedgeree,” I said mournfully.
“I took the liberty of putting a bit back for your ladyship.
I have been keeping it warm in the butler’s pantry. I will fetch it now.”
I seated myself and sighed. There are few greater pleasures in life than a devoted butler.
I counted myself very fortunate to have secured Aquinas.
I had offered him an outrageous sum to leave his previous employer, an act that had stricken me from that particular hostess’ guest lists for eternity.
It was a small price to pay for such competence, I reminded myself as he served a generous portion of the delectable kedgeree.
While I ate, Aquinas busied himself at the sideboard. I had just popped the last bit of buttery toast into my mouth when I had a thought.
“Aquinas, did Uncle Fly and Mr. Snow spend the night, or did they return to Blessingstoke last night?”
He lifted my plate and whisked the toast crumbs into his little silver pan. “I called the carriage for them at midnight, my lady. His lordship offered them rooms for the night, but the Reverend Mr. Twickham was feeling a trifle unwell and wished to sleep in his own bed.”
I looked up sharply. “Uncle Fly was ill? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Not at all, my lady. If I may speculate, I believe Mr. Twickham indulged himself a bit more than is his custom.”
I burst out laughing. “He was drunk.”
Aquinas looked mildly shocked. “I should be heartily sorry if I suggested such a thing, my lady. However, if I were to observe that he seemed to have a bit of difficulty putting on his coat, and that entering the carriage proved so treacherous he nearly ended up in the moat, these would not be exaggerations.”
“Poor Uncle Fly. His head will be sore as a bear’s this morning. And we lot are supposed to descend upon him for luncheon! How ghastly.”
Aquinas agreed and removed my empty plate. I sat over the last few sips of my tea, making note of the fact that Uncle Fly and Lucian Snow could be eliminated from the list of possible miscreants who had donned the ghostly garb.
But instead of simplifying matters, it muddied them. Snow had a sort of puckish charm, and Uncle Fly had always been good for a joke, particularly of the elaborate and practical variety. If I numbered gambling among my vices, I would have wagered handsomely on one of them being our prankster.
Still, it left me with several interesting questions yet to be answered, including the one that intrigued me the most: what had Brisbane been doing when the clock struck two?