A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

“Romillys have smuggled and pirated in these waters for centuries and the mainlanders know nothing of it.”

Caspian came to his aunt’s side in support. “At least in this we are on the side of what is right, even you must admit that,” he challenged, lifting his chin as he regarded Tiberius.

“I must admit nothing,” he countered coldly. “You forget yourself, Caspian. And you forget the most important thing in this business. Rosamund. She was the beginning of it all, and she has no proper burial. I will report this to the authorities,” he promised.

Helen came forward, joining her son and her sister-in-law. “I understand that you have suffered,” she began gently. “But must we all go on suffering? Think of the scandal it will cause. For you as well as for us. There will be no escaping it.”

Tiberius drained off the last of his drink. “I will report Rosamund’s murder and I will insist on a search being made for her body. I will take this island apart, stone by stone, until she is found. And if there is nothing left of St. Maddern’s Isle or the Romillys or the Atlantic Ocean itself by the time I am finished, I don’t bloody well care.”

Caspian stepped forwards, standing toe-to-toe with Tiberius, sloshing a bit of brandy out of his glass as he gestured theatrically. “I will not let you harm my family,” he said, his voice cracking only a little.

Tiberius slanted him a thin smile. “My dear boy, you cannot possibly stop me.”

He set his glass down with great care and stood, shooting his cuffs as he surveyed the aghast faces. “I will be leaving on the morning tide,” he said. “Consider this my farewell to you all.”

He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Helen gave a low sound of protest while Mertensia uttered a swearword she might have learnt from Stoker, so eloquently profane was it. Caspian went to set his glass upon the mantel, but it slipped through his nerveless fingers, dripping amber liquid onto the hearthstones. Past caring, he threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“We are ruined,” he said.

“You tried,” his mother said by way of consolation. “And it was a valiant effort, poppet. I have never been prouder of you. You stood up to a peer of the realm!”

“What difference does it make?” he demanded, dropping his hands. “I say, we are ruined.”

I stared at the hearth, watching the brandy puddle on the dark stone, thinking of Mrs. Trengrouse. Stoker came to stand at my side.

“It seems such a short time ago that I stood with Mrs. Trengrouse, sipping brandy and talking about ghosts,” I mused.

“Fortune’s wheel turns on a—did you say sipping brandy with Mrs. Trengrouse? She was teetotal.”

“She liked a little stiffener,” I confided.

“But she avoided the island wine,” Stoker pointed out. “Even to test the quality of it before she added it to the barrel in the cellar.”

I stared at him. “Do not even suggest it,” I hissed.

He grabbed my hand, heedless of the stares of the others. I clasped his as we proceeded at a dead run through the kitchens and to the ironwork door giving onto the cellars. He stopped, cursing. “Locked and no doubt Mrs. Trengrouse still has the key.”

I fetched two hairpins out of my Psyche knot and handed them over. He fitted them to the lock and with a moment’s deft manipulation had the thing opened.

“You are going to teach me how to do that,” I warned. He opened the door and I hurtled through, leading the way down the stone stairs to the cellars, Stoker hard upon my heels. We stopped just short of the great barrel, staring at it in mute horror.

“I cannot bear to think of it,” I managed at last.

“It is the only place we have not looked,” he said simply. “And Mrs. Trengrouse was tasked with searching for Rosamund in all the nooks and crannies of the castle. Including the cellars.”

“She could have taken her body out to sea and dumped her,” I argued.

“It is too far. She might have been seen,” he countered.

I sighed and gestured towards the axe hanging on the wall. “You will need that.

“The notion of being seen did not seem to trouble her when she sent us to our doom,” I said as he retrieved the axe.

“It was dark and the mist was rising and it was the day after a heavy storm. There was little danger of her being seen,” he pointed out. “Rosamund vanished on a bright summer’s day.” He took a firm grip upon the axe and paused. “Veronica,” he said, and I turned, seeing the expression of anguished reluctance on his face.

“I know.” I stepped back and gestured towards the largest of the wine barrels. “Do it.”

He hefted the axe and swung it over his head. It took three blows before he shattered the side of the barrel. There was a pause, a breathless moment where nothing happened, and then the wine burst forth, rivers of it as darkly scarlet as old blood, pouring onto the floor. After that came the arm, a slender limb wrapped in bridal satin, stained the color of grapeskins. At the end of the arm was a graceful hand, and on the fourth finger of the hand, a ring—a slim band of gold—shining dully in the shadows.

“My God,” Stoker breathed. And I knew that for once it was not a curse. It was a prayer.

•   •   •

We did not tell Tiberius until we had removed her from the cask, laying her out and straightening her wedding gown as the last of the wine dripped from the barrel. I wiped her face and arms with a clean cloth dipped in vinegar and Stoker found a sheet to cover her to the neck. Her hair was sodden with wine and badly stained, but what was left of her expression was calm.

I do not like to think of the next