A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

Malcolm intervened. “It has been three years since that dreadful day, but to me, it is as if it were yesterday. I think of her constantly. And always there remains the question, ‘What became of her?’ Did she wander off and lose her way? Did she fall into the sea? Did she run away?”

Helen’s expression was patient, as if she were speaking with a backwards child. “I thought it was quite agreed that she left the island of her own accord. It is not pleasant to think that she might have changed her mind about the marriage, but it is the only reasonable explanation.”

“That is what I believed,” Malcolm replied. “And it is that belief that has tortured me for three years. Why did she leave me? It was the most logical if painful explanation. I endeavored to accept it. I tried to reconcile myself to the fact that she would rather flee with no money, no prospects, than remain here and be my wife. It is a bitter thing for a man to believe,” he added with a thinning of the lips. “I knew that is what the gossips believed. It is certainly what the scandal sheets printed often enough. And these last years that has been my torment. Until now.”

He rose and went to the sideboard. One compartment of it was locked and he produced a key, fitting it to the door. From inside he drew an unwieldy bundle wrapped in a length of cloth.

“Mertensia, ring for Trenny.”

He held the bundle cradled in his arms as his sister did as she was bade. When Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, his instructions were brief. “Have the table cleared, Trenny.”

She gave a doubtful look to the bundle held tightly against his chest but nodded, gesturing to Daisy to whisk away the porcelain and cutlery.

“The port,” Mrs. Trengrouse began.

“The ladies will not withdraw tonight,” Malcolm told her. “And you ought to stay, Trenny. You are a part of the family, after all.”

She shepherded Daisy from the room and took a post near the door, closing it against prying eyes or ears from the rest of the staff.

Malcolm stood at the head of the table, looking us over as we watched with expectant eyes.

“I presumed Rosamund ran away, as much as it destroyed me to believe it. I was led to this conclusion by the fact that she took her traveling bag, a small affair of scarlet carpetwork. It was the same bag she had brought with her when she first arrived on the island. She had marked it with her initials, and there was no other like it in the world. The fact that the bag disappeared when she did seemed incontrovertible proof that she had taken it and run away.”

He opened his arms, letting the fabric slip aside to reveal a scarlet traveling bag. The initials R.I.A. were worked in white wool just beneath the handle. It was moldering, with a thick coat of lush green mildew staining the sides, but there was no mistaking the bag.

Mertensia’s expression was almost angry. “Where did you find that?” she demanded.

“In one of the priest’s holes,” he told her.

I sat forward in my chair, gripped by excitement. Priest’s holes were common in Catholic households during the time of the Elizabethan priest hunters. Fitted in such a way as to escape detection, these tiny secret chambers could hold a man, perhaps two, for weeks at a time as agents of the Crown searched for them. All the most interesting ghost stories featured priest’s holes, I remembered.

“Why on earth would you be poking about the priest’s holes?” Mertensia asked. “I thought they were all blocked up or refashioned years ago.”

“I was preparing to write a new version of the history of St. Maddern’s,” he explained. “I didn’t tell anyone because I was not certain I could bring it off.” His expression was slightly abashed. “I am no man of letters, after all. I thought I would have a look through the priest’s holes, perhaps take some preliminary notes, and then settle to writing over the winter. But I found this instead,” he finished, his gaze fixed upon the bag.

Helen Romilly’s eyes were wide in her pale face and her son looked bewildered. “What does this mean?” he asked.

He had put the question to his uncle, but it was Tiberius who replied. “It means that Rosamund Romilly never left this island alive.”

“That seems a stretch,” Caspian protested.

Tiberius regarded him dispassionately. “Is it? If a lady runs away, she takes a bag. Even Miss Speedwell, who has traveled the world five times over, always takes a bag.” He flicked a glance to me and I nodded slowly.

“I cannot imagine a lady embarking willingly on any sort of voyage without even the most modest assortment of possessions.”

Tiberius went on. “So let us carry it out to the logical conclusion. If she left and took no bag, she did not leave of her own free will. Or she never left at all. Either possibility points to foul play.”

Mrs. Trengrouse covered her mouth with her hand as Mertensia gave a little moan. “It cannot be,” she murmured. She reached out blindly, her fingers groping for some comfort. It did not escape me that they landed upon Stoker’s sleeve.

“What do you want from us?” Tiberius asked Malcolm.

A brief smile touched our host’s mouth. “I should have known I could count on you for plain speaking, Tiberius. I need your help in discovering what became of Rosamund.”

“You want us to help you hunt a murderer,” Tiberius replied sharply.

At this Helen Romilly shrieked a little and half rose. Stoker patted her hand and she resumed her seat. Mrs. Trengrouse shook her head sadly while Mertensia regarded her brother with horror.

“Malcolm, you cannot be serious,” she began.

“I am, I assure you, entirely in earnest,” he told her. “This bag means that Rosamund never left the island alive.”

“But murder—” Mertensia said.

“What else can it be?” Tiberius asked softly. “If she never left, taking her wretched little bag