Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn

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      “Rather like Cleopatra,” I returned tartly. “What exactly is the point to all of this?”

      “I told you, it is the beginning of our investigation.”

      He busied himself taking a notebook and pencil from the drawer of the table beside him. “I know it seems unorthodox, but I need information from you, and I believe that the more relaxed a person is, the more information he or she will relate.”

      “You believe. Is this your normal practice? Do you do this to all of your clients?”

      “No, because most of my clients would not consent to it.”

      “What makes you think that I will?”

      “You already have, my lady. Besides, you are a rather special case.”

      I felt a warm flush of pleasure. “I am?”

      “Yes,” he replied absently. “Most of my clients are far more conscious of their dignity to permit such an experiment.”

      The flush ended abruptly. “Oh.”

      “But I have great hopes for you, my lady,” he continued. The flush began again, a tiny, creeping wave this time, but at least I did not feel quite so low. “I have read a great deal about the techniques used by the police and by those who practice psychology. Some of them seem quite suitable for use in my own work. It is just a theory at this point, but I have had some success in the past.”

      Of that I was certain. I wondered how many other ladies’ ankles he had handled, and promptly dismissed the thought as unworthy of me.

      “Begin then, before my neck takes a cramp,” I ordered him crossly.

      He opened his notebook and made a few comments before he began his questions. When he spoke, his voice had gone soft and mellow, like sun-warmed clover honey. I wondered if he was conscious of it.

      “My lady, I need a bit of background information from you. We need a place to begin. So, I am going to take you through some of what Sir Edward told me, and I need you to confirm or correct it.”

      I nodded, feeling a little sleepy and as relaxed as if I had just had a glass of Aunt Hermia’s blackberry cordial.

      “Sir Edward told me last year that he had been married to you for five years. Is that correct?”

      “Yes,” I murmured.

      “How did you meet?”

      “His father bought the estate next to my father’s in Sussex. We knew each other from childhood.”

      “Was the marriage a happy one?”

      I fidgeted a little. My body felt restless, but my limbs were languid, almost too heavy to move. “Happy enough. We were friends.”

      “There were no children?” he asked, his voice mellower still.

      I shook my head sleepily. “Not from me. I could not have them.”

      “Did he have children by anyone else? Natural children?”

      I tried to shake my head again, but now it felt too weighty.

      “Just lie back against the cushion, my lady,” he instructed from far away. I did as I was told, perfectly content to lie there forever.

      He made a few notes while I drowsed against the cushions, thinking of Odysseus and the Lotus-eaters. I felt very thirsty, but it seemed far too much trouble to reach out my hand for my teacup. Then I remembered that he had moved it across the room and decided I would wait until he had finished.

      “Sir Edward had little family left by the time of his death,” he commented.

      “Only his first cousin, Simon. He inherited the baronetcy from Edward.”

      “And you,” Brisbane prodded gently.

      “I was not Edward’s family,” I replied. “I was his wife.”

      “Tell me about your family.”

      “I have quite a lot of that,” I said, feeling a ridiculous and inappropriate urge to giggle. With a great effort, I suppressed it. “My mother died when I was a child. I have nine brothers and sisters. Father is in town just now, at March House in Hanover Square. He lives with Aunt Hermia.”

      “Indeed. Do any of the other members of your family live with them?”

      “None. Most of them live in the country. My eldest brother, Viscount Bellmont, has his residence in London. So does my sister Portia, Lady Bettiscombe.”

      “Did Lord Bellmont get on well with Sir Edward? Were there problems between them?”

      “Only about politics. Monty is a Tory. Edward was apathetic. Used to call each other names. It meant nothing.”

      “What of Lady Bettiscombe? Did she get on well with Sir Edward?”

      “Well enough. Portia does not like many men. She lives with her lover, Jane.”

      There was a long pause, but Brisbane made no comment.

      “And who else lives in London?”

      “Valerius, my youngest brother. Lives with me.”

      Even through the lassitude, I could feel him prickle with interest.

      “Tell me about Valerius.”

      “Wants to be a doctor. Fought terribly with Father over it. That’s why he lives with me. He came after Edward died, with the Ghoul.”

      “The what?”

      I explained, in great detail, about the Ghoul, little of which seemed to interest Brisbane.

      “Who else lives at Grey House?”

      “Simon. Very ill, poor darling. Been bedridden for a year. Inherited nothing but the title and the old house in Sussex. It’s almost a ruin, you know. Owls are nesting in the picture gallery.”

      “Did Simon get on well with Sir Edward?”

      “Like brothers,” I said dreamily. “But everyone liked Edward. He was charming and so handsome.”

      “What of your household, the staff? Who lives in at Grey House?”

      I sighed, feeling far too tired to give him the particulars. He peered at me closely, then rose and took a handful of dried leaves, this time from a mother-of-pearl box, and threw them onto the fire. They burned orange, with a clean, spicy smell, and after a moment I began to feel a bit livelier.

      “Your staff,” he prodded gently.

      “Aquinas is the butler. You know him.”

      Brisbane nodded, writing swiftly. “Go on.”

      “Cook. СКАЧАТЬ