Chapter 6
In which a butler is bashful
The guile of Diplomacy is insidious: sometimes, we are so taken by it that even when we know it is there, we do not object.
— from Lady Avely’s Guide to Guile and Peril
“A Diplomacor?” Judith put her cup down in surprise.
“Mrs Ulrich didn’t strike me as such.” Diplomacors were usually charming sorts, able to finagle friendship out of anyone with their amenable air, while Mrs Ulrich had seemed closed and aloof.
Perhaps that was why Judith had felt suddenly disheartened in the drawing room: the housekeeper had deliberately cast a pall over her!
“She’s a miserable one, I grant you,” agreed Miss Onslow. “I don’t think she takes much joy in her Gift anymore.”
Judith slathered another chudleigh with jam, both cross and thoughtful.
Perhaps that was what Trebellow had meant when he implied that Mrs Ulrich was depressed: her magick had gone sour.
It could explain why the front lintel of the castle cast such a heavy mantle over visitors: it was hung with a different sort of spell, to frighten people away.
Diplomacy could influence the temper of a room, create a sentiment, and change a mind.
Judith glanced around, suddenly perceiving another reason for the pervasive and soothing sense of ease.
“Is there a Diplomacy enchantment on this parlour?”
Miss Onslow shrugged. “Possibly. You mean the sense of safety and comfort? It has always been like that, since I arrived. I suspect that it is an old, powerful spell, and not the doing of our delightful Mrs Ulrich.”
With much to ponder, Judith soon excused herself from the Tea Tower, even though a part of her wished to simply curl up on the settee by the fire, open a book, and stay there until nightfall.
The allure of the Diplomacy charm, perhaps, or simply her own fatigue.
But she had Marigold to think of, who was no doubt rather squashed by now in her pocket, so she pulled the bell, and when Trebellow appeared, asked to be taken to her room.
Following him down the tower stairs, the thought of Dacian’s plight also lurked painfully.
How could she revel in cream tea while he was being kept captive and confused?
Worse, Ltn Greene’s words echoed in her mind.
The lieutenant had implied there was some sort of in extremis to Dacian’s capture, and she could not think what that could mean.
After all, Dacian had been in exile for nine years on the continent.
His crime had been committed long ago. Why the sense of urgency now to bring him to trial?
Had someone else taken a hand in it, bringing the duke to the attention of the Custos? And why?
Trebellow led her in a confusing circuit, around and up again, and finally hesitated before a thick door.
“Ma’am, I have placed you in the room traditionally occupied by the Lord or Lady of the castle.
I thought that was the most appropriate course of action, given that you are now Marchioness of Lanyon, but you may find the accommodation rather eccentric. ”
Judith perceived that her butler seemed to be embarrassed for some reason. “Oh?”
“It’s called the Captain’s Cabin, ma’am. It was refurbished by a long-ago Lord Lanyon who had a fancy for the sea.” Trebellow pushed the door open with a flourish. “You perceive.”
Cautiously, Judith stepped past his extended arm and looked around in amazement.
The room before her was certainly much larger than any cabin on a ship, but it was furnished in a similar fashion, with warm wooden panelling over the two opposing walls, complete with in-built shelves and dark-panelled cabinets.
Rows of books were held in check by a narrow lip along the shelf, and an ornately carved sea-chest at the bottom of the bed depicted a ship sailing under a full moon.
The bed was enormous—quite the size of a boat itself—and covered in a dark green quilt.
The sturdy headboard depicted dolphins paying court to Poseidon and Amphitrite, amid waving fronds of coral.
Opposite this, the true glory of the room: ceiling-high windows facing the ocean, with an entrancing view of sea and sky.
The windows were pleasingly rounded at the top, though the panes were dirtied and crusted with salt on the outside.
A narrow rug of faded green and gold ran along the length of the windows, and an old telescope sat propped in the corner, next to a large silver bell.
She turned around slowly, taking it all in. A rope hung like a pulley across from the bell to the bed, and she wondered if it had served in the past as a perch for vampiri. It was certainly a very large bell, suitable for the captain of the castle, but she couldn’t quite imagine pulling it herself.
Walking across to the furthest window, she admired the substantial writing desk placed to catch the light, set with brass fittings and a gimbal-mounted inkwell, now dry of ink.
A ship’s lantern hung above the desk, and old nautical maps were pinned across some of the wood panelling, showing faded, detailed renditions of the Cornwall coast and the Channel.
She did not think this room had a Diplomacy charm on it, despite its eccentric appearance. It felt strangely empty, as if it had been unoccupied for a long time. There was a faint smell of must, and the dark green curtains—currently gathered by a golden rope—were tattered and dusty.
“How charming.” Privately, she thought it was rather masculine, and the olive-green bed-quilt could be changed to a lighter colour.
She turned back to Trebellow. “I will need fresh ink and paper, if you will. For now, could I have some warm water to bathe in?” She eyed the massive sea-chest. “And I don’t suppose there are any old gowns, in the far reaches of the castle?
I am afraid I arrived in rather precipitous circumstances, and my luggage is a few days behind me. ”
Trebellow did not allow himself to express curiosity. “Certainly, ma’am. Are you happy to stay here, then?”
“Yes, indeed.” If she was to be the new mistress of the castle, she might as well try out the Captain’s Cabin, though it was rather large for one person.
She would drown in that bed, by herself.
A pang of longing for Dacian shot through her, and she repressed it.
Beside the bed stood a large wooden wardrobe, which she hoped would soon be a suitable refuge for Marigold.
“Might you need a maid?” inquired Trebellow.
Judith knew this was a rebuke: she, as befit her new station, should have arrived with at least one servant, possibly three.
“I will make do without, for the moment, and perhaps you can arrange one for the future.” She paused, sighing, and sat on the chair, her allotted task ever present.
“May I ask you what you were doing three nights ago, Trebellow? Were you on duty in the castle?”
The butler stiffened slightly. “I am always on duty, ma’am.”
It was a resounding lie. Judith raised a brow. It seemed both the housekeeper and the butler had been otherwise occupied that night. Surely not together? How intriguing. “Yet you must have days off?”
Trebellow coughed. “Sundays, it is true, ma’am.”
“But three days ago was Saturday.”
“Precisely.”
The implication was that he had been at his post. Yet Judith detected his unease. “Did you see anything unusual that night?”
His eyes narrowed. “Is this about the death of Sgt Finlay, ma’am?”
It was most trying when someone answered a question with a question. “Do you know anything about it?”
There was a pause. “I know he was discovered drowned near the causeway, by the mainland.”
“So I have been told several times,” she observed wryly.
“You suspect he was not drowned, ma’am?” Another careful question.
“I worry it. And so does Captain Drumpellier of Fort Pendennis. He asked me to look into the matter, so I am afraid that I must question all the servants here.”
Trebellow’s lips pursed. “Indeed, ma’am. Not the best way to begin your stewardship, if I may say so.”
“I quite agree, but it is not proper of you to berate me thus.” She must not let him grow too familiar too soon: butlers tended to think they were the true rulers of a household, though clearly Trebellow would have to fight Mrs Ulrich for that title.
“Now I will ask you once more, what were you doing on the night of Sgt Finlay’s death? ”
The butler cast a look backwards. Then he ducked to step into the Captain’s Room and shut the door behind him.
For a moment, Judith was apprehensive, being closed in and alone with such a bulky specimen of masculinity.
But the suddenly bashful look on his face stayed her anxiety.
He shuffled on his large feet and hunched his shoulders.
“Ah, the truth, ma’am, is that I was at a wrasslin’ match.”
“A what?” she asked in astonishment.
“A wrasslin’ match. The Londoners like to call it Cornish Hugg-Wrestling. I’m the local champion, see, but I must compete to defend my title.”
“Oh.” Judith stared at him blankly. “I suppose that you are built for it.”
“Aye.” Trebellow blushed.
“Where was this match?”
“In Marazion, ma’am. I crossed over the causeway early, when the tide was out at four o’clock, so I could be there for the evening.” He paused. “The truth is that there was precious little for me to do here, as you had not yet arrived, and I thought to take advantage of the fact.”
She highly doubted that, given the state of the castle, but she let it slide. “So you would not know if Sgt Finlay came to the island that night.”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She glanced at the closed door. “And tell me—is it true you are Gifted with Impacting?” At his nod, she tilted her head. “How does that fare in your wrestling? Surely it gives you an unfair advantage?”