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

“It appears your efforts are in vain,” Tiberius said, inspecting his fingernails.

“And I was so certain,” I muttered. As I had in the music room, I kicked lightly at the baseboard, a thick panel of stout oak almost a foot high. Suddenly, the panel swung out noiselessly.

“Which of us shall go in?” Stoker asked. I did not bother to reply. The entrance was too tiny to admit a man of his inches comfortably. Besides, the discovery was mine. I would have sooner cut off my own arm than let him precede me.

“Excelsior!” I cried, diving into the dark space headfirst. A strong arm about my waist pulled me back. “Unhand me, Stoker,” I instructed.

“Not until you promise not to hurl yourself into trouble,” he replied. “That panel may have been closed for centuries. Even if it has been opened recently, the air will still be bad. There is no ventilation and no light. Give it a moment to air out and at least take a candle.”

I pulled a face at his precautions but he was entirely correct. In my haste to explore, I had failed to make even elementary preparations, and I was chagrined at my own recklessness. “Very well,” I said meekly.

The minutes ticked by slowly, but after a quarter of an hour, I took the candle that Stoker had obligingly lit for me and folded myself once more into the tiny space. The air was, as he had predicted, thoroughly foul. It was cold and smelt of old stone and something else I could not place, a dankness, a rankness that offended my nostrils. I clapped a hand over my nose and peered into the shadows. The candle gave enough illumination to reveal that I was crouched in a space even smaller than I had imagined. The opening behind me was the entirety of the panel—three feet high by two feet wide, barely large enough to permit me to enter while bent double. The back wall was another paneled affair, some three feet from the front, giving approximately the dimensions of a very small coffin. I shuddered. I knew that priests had often spent weeks in their sad little hiding places. I could not imagine any man lasting more than a few hours in such confinement without going entirely mad.

As I raised the candle, the shadows in the corner revealed a dark bundle. I retrieved it and stepped backwards out of the filthy little hole.

“That was vile,” I said, brushing myself off. It was a futile gesture. The priest’s hole had been free of cobwebs. It was only the atmosphere of the place that clung to me like a spider’s silk. I blew out the candle and handed it to Tiberius.

He stared at the bundle clutched in my arms. We had none of us examined it properly when Malcolm had presented it—an eventuality I could attribute to my own delicacy in asking for the thing and a decision I regretted—but we had the chance now and we took our time. The fabric was wool, or it had been once. It smelled like something wet that had never properly dried, no doubt the source of the dankness I had detected. I opened it carefully, but the sodden fabric fell to shreds in my hands. Inside the bundle was the traveling bag.

He had been expecting it, but Tiberius still reared back as soon as he saw the case. I traced the initials worked into the wool with a careful fingertip.

“R.I.A.,” I said.

Tiberius managed a nod. “Rosamund Isabelle Aylesworth.”

I flicked a glance towards Tiberius. “We ought to examine it.”

“Do it,” he ordered, his mouth grim.

With as much care as if I were mounting Priam’s Bird-wing, I opened the bag and extracted the items inside. A toiletry case marked with the same initials, some underclothes, beautifully embroidered, and two dresses. A pair of shoes and a florilegium of Restoration poetry. The things were all damaged, the clothing stained and smelling of damp, the book pulpy, the soles of the shoes coming away from the leather. I peeled back the cover and saw a signature inscribed in a flamboyant hand. Rosamund Aylesworth.

Tiberius said nothing and I repacked the bag silently. When I had finished I sat back on my haunches.

“It would appear Malcolm told the truth, at least with regard to the traveling bag,” I said gently. “This is indeed proof that Rosamund never left the island on her wedding day.”

Without a word, Tiberius strode to the door, closing it quietly behind him. I think I would have preferred if he had slammed it.

CHAPTER

16

Malcolm had still not made an appearance by teatime, and as we gathered about once more in the drawing room, we were a solemn group. Helen made no appearance at all, sending word that she preferred a cup in her room. Mrs. Trengrouse, pale and fretful as a mother hen, had ordered heartier fare than usual, fruitcake and sandwiches thick with roasted beef to stand with the scones and pastries, and she lingered as Tiberius, Stoker, Mertensia, Caspian, and I settled to it. The rest of us seemed to have little appetite, but Stoker helped himself to a liberal assortment of sandwiches, giving a happy sigh as he bit into the first.

“Is there anything else you require, miss?” Mrs. Trengrouse asked Mertensia. Caspian might be the heir presumptive, but her loyalty clearly lay with her master’s sister in his absence. Mertensia flicked her eyes to Caspian, but he seemed lost in thought.

“I don’t think so, Trenny,” Mertensia replied, giving her a little gesture of dismissal. As Mrs. Trengrouse closed the door gently behind her, I turned to Caspian.

“Has there been any word from Malcolm?”

He shook his head. “No, but I am certain he will turn up. The locals said he is forever wandering about the island. It is part of his responsibility as master of St. Maddern’s,” he said.

“Is it part of his responsibility not to sleep in his own bed?” I