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

“And greater ones?”

Her expression soured. “There is a doctor in Pencarron who is summoned for matters beyond my ability.”

I looked her over from square, capable hands to clear, unlined brow. “I cannot think there is much beyond your ability.”

For the first time in our short acquaintance, Mertensia Romilly smiled. Her teeth were small and white and even, just like her brother’s. “There is much I am not permitted since I have never studied formally. But the old ways are not forgot, not on this isle.”

Abruptly, she gestured towards my dress. “That is clever,” she said, peering closely at the curious arrangement of my costume. On the right-hand side, from just above the ankle to just above the knee, a deep pocket had been stitched, just wide enough to permit a furled umbrella to be tucked neatly away, ever at the ready should I require it but without encumbering my hands.

I spread my fingers. “A butterfly hunter needs her net,” I reminded her. “Mr. Templeton-Vane devised this for me so that I can secure my umbrella when I am on the hunt. But I have found it generally useful in keeping one’s hands free.”

“And you carry no reticule,” she noted.

I demonstrated the further modifications to my ensemble, interior pockets fitted into the seams of my dress, deep but easily accessible, and one secret compartment located just under my modest bustle. “And if I button back the skirt, you will see that I am wearing trousers underneath.” I showed her. I had a few variations on my hunting attire but all modeled on the same basic principle: a narrow skirt, slim trousers, and a fitted jacket of serviceable and handsome tweed. Underneath was a well-tailored white shirtwaist, and my legs were protected from brambles by flat leather boots that fitted like a man’s and laced to the knee. The original design had been my own, but the pockets were entirely Stoker’s doing, both in conception and in execution. He had learnt to stitch as part of his training both as a surgeon and as a taxidermist. The fact that he occasionally used those skills to alter or mend my clothes was a particular pleasure to me.

“It’s the cleverest thing I have ever seen,” she pronounced. “At first glance, you look like any other countrywoman, but you can move like a man in it.”

“I can move like a scientist,” I corrected. “And that is more to the point.”

She smiled again, and I sensed a softening in her. Mertensia had put me in mind of a hedgehog before, prickly in her defenses, but she had clearly found in me a kindred spirit.

“I could send you the specifications, if you like,” I told her. “Any competent dressmaker could run it up for you.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I would like that.”

I took advantage of the moment of rapport to put a question to her. “I was surprised to hear of the disappearance of your brother’s bride. What do you think became of her?”

Her face shuttered immediately. She picked up a shovel, clutching it with practiced fingers. “Speculation is the refuge of an idle mind and mine is seldom without occupation. Forgive me, Miss Speedwell. I must get on.”

“Veronica,” I corrected. “After all, you do not stand on ceremony,” I added with a smile.

Mertensia did not smile back.

CHAPTER

5

Mertensia recovered enough from her momentary brusqueness to walk with me to the edge of the terrace, pointing out the path that would lead me eventually to the little village nestled at the foot of the castle. Patches of fog had drifted inland, draping wisps of gossamer mist over the trees. “If you mean to go to the village, go now. There will come a storm later and you won’t enjoy the walk back if it’s raining. Do stop in at the Mermaid for some cider. We grow the apples here in the lower orchard and it is like nothing else you will ever taste,” she promised. “Mind you do not go into the pubs,” she added. “Their trade is with the sailors who call in on their way to Ireland. The inn is the only suitable establishment for unaccompanied ladies.”

The grounds were cleverly laid out so that they seemed quite private right until the end, the path winding through copses thick with trees in the full glory of their late summer foliage, dressed in coats of glossy green in every shade imaginable. The air was humid and heavy, pressing close against me as I walked, drawing beads of perspiration from my temples. I picked my way down the path, into the mist-shrouded trees. The formal gardens gave way to orchards and then to wilder patches of forest, little copses that had been so cleverly planted they gave the impression of much larger woods.

I kept to the path and in a very short time found myself at the foot of the mount on the main street of the village. It was a bustling little place, boasting a shop, a church, three schools, an inn, a trio of pubs, and a smithy, all dating from the Tudor period to judge from the architecture. The half timbering was old, but the plastered bits had been freshly whitewashed, and the windows in each were gleaming. It had a tidy, prosperous look. The blacksmith was busy at his forge, shoeing a horse whilst a farmer waited. A few of the island’s women were gathered at the shop, purchasing stamps or exchanging gossip as they waited to be served, falling to interested silence as I posted my letter to Lady Wellie. Strangers were clearly a matter of note in so small a place, and I gave them a cordial nod as I emerged from the shop. Down the street a buxom maid poured a pail of water onto the steps of one of the pubs, sluicing it clean. In a patch of sunlight in