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

of the music room, leading us as he held the lamp aloft. In the center of the room stood a harpsichord, the lid lifted, music scattered upon the floor. Attached to the harpsichord was a bracket for a candelabrum fitted with slim white tapers. The scent of blown candles filled the air and a slender wisp of grey smoke spiraled lazily upwards. Stoker put his finger to the smoking wick.

“Still hot,” he murmured.

“What does that signify?” Malcolm demanded.

Stoker opened his mouth to speak, but paused as Tiberius came forward. He moved like a sleepwalker, slowly, inexorably towards the harpsichord. He put out his hand and lifted something from the seat, turning towards Malcolm with an expression I had never seen before.

Clutched in his fist was a single striped rose.

He held it up, but Malcolm did not touch it. He stared in horror, his white lips parted, his breathing heavy. Suddenly, with a choking gasp, Helen slid to the floor, crumpling into a heap of black taffeta.

Caspian bent to his mother just as Mrs. Trengrouse bustled into the room.

“Mr. Malcolm, I am sorry. I’m afraid the storm—” She broke off at the sight of Helen Romilly huddled on the Aubusson.

“Fetch a vinaigrette, Trenny,” Malcolm said wearily. “I think it is going to be a long night.”

CHAPTER

10

By unspoken agreement, we reassembled in the drawing room, where a fire had been kindled against the rising storm. The draperies were drawn to shut out the pounding rain, but a restlessness seemed to have settled over the group. Helen had been roused from her swoon and was settled on a sofa, a rug over her knees. Caspian disappeared and returned a few moments later with her cat, Hecate, dropping the animal onto his mother’s knee. The creature turned a few times, kneading its claws, before gathering its legs underneath and assuming a posture of watchful rest upon its mistress’s lap.

“Thank you, darling,” Helen murmured to Caspian. He shot her a fond smile and then ducked his head, as if embarrassed at being caught in the act of a kindness.

The rest of us said little, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackle of the flames, and after a long while, Mrs. Trengrouse reappeared, leading Daisy and another maid bearing platters of sandwiches, bread and butter, and bouillon cups of steaming beef tea. There were pots of strong black tea as well, and Mrs. Trengrouse set the maids to serving. “Mind you all have a cup of the beef tea. It is sustaining and should prevent anyone else from succumbing to shock.”

“Strong drink, you mean,” Mertensia put in. She was seated on a sofa next to Helen, not touching her sister-in-law but keeping a curious eye upon her. Whatever fright Mertensia had taken during the séance, she seemed determined to recover herself. I knew well the inclination to explain away the inexplicable. It was easy to forget the things that waited in the dark when one was warmed by the light. But there was a tautness to her expression that made me wonder if she had been more frightened than she would like to remember.

“Mertensia!” her nephew called sharply.

His aunt shrugged, and Helen bestirred herself. “Never mind, Caspian. It is true that I drink more than I ought. It is the only thing that quietens my head.” She trailed off, letting her words hang in the air.

“Be that as it may, no one can deny that what happened tonight was sufficient to disturb the stoutest constitution,” Malcolm said evenly. “I confess that I myself was startled.”

“Startled!” Caspian’s handsome mouth curled in scorn. “You looked as if you had seen a ghost. That is—” He stopped abruptly, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks. “You never expected that, did you?” he demanded. “You thought Mama’s gifts were a joke, but now the laugh is on you because she did conjure something.”

“Something? Or someone?” Mertensia asked softly.

Silence blanketed the room save the sound of the crackling fire and the rising wind and Stoker, munching happily at a slice of cake he had unearthed behind the sandwiches. I pulled a face at him, but I knew better than to remonstrate with him when he was indulging his sweet tooth.

“I presume Rosamund played the harpsichord,” I said to Malcolm. He turned to me in surprise.

“Why, yes. She was quite accomplished. It was an old-fashioned pastime for a modern girl. She took no end of japing about it, but she refused to give it up. She could be stubborn like that,” he added, his expression faraway as he no doubt thought of his beautiful bride.

“And that was her instrument?” I pressed.

He nodded absently. “It was a wedding gift, I don’t know from whom. She demanded that it have pride of place in the music room. The evening before the wedding, when there was a reception for our guests and a dinner to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, she spent it in there, playing hour after hour. The same Baroque melodies.”

“Like the one we heard tonight?” Stoker asked.

Malcolm nodded again. “I think so. They all sound alike to me,” he said, his manner slightly abashed. “I am afraid I don’t understand music. Never did.”

“The Romillys, none of us, are musical,” Caspian put in. “Which is why the music room is usually shut up.”

“Is it?” I asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “There are instruments in there that my grandparents played, badly, I recall. But after their time, no one took an interest save Lucian. My father had been made to practice as a boy and loathed it, so when he inherited the castle, he left the room shut and that was the end of it apart from Lucian noodling away as a boy. He was the only one of us who had any sort of feel for music. I don’t suppose I have been in it more than a dozen times in the whole of my life.”

“Until tonight,” I observed.

“Until tonight. I certainly never went in there after Rosamund . . .”