Stoker’s gaze flicked to mine. Mertensia seemed entirely unaware that she had just confessed to a powerful motive for murder. I gave an almost imperceptible nod and he moved forward slightly, careful not to touch her, pitching his voice to a soft, honeyed tone that had always sent shivers down my spine.
“She must have broken your heart,” he said. “You could not leave St. Maddern’s. You are as much a part of this place as the sea itself.”
She gave a slow nod, the pestle slipping once more from her hand. Tears stood in her eyes and she turned, almost against her will, it seemed, burying her face in his shirt. Stoker embraced her, settling those muscled arms firmly about her as one large hand cradled her head. He murmured something soothing, I could not hear what. The words were for her only. She sobbed for a long while; then her shoulders stilled and she relaxed into his grasp.
“I am sorry,” she said brokenly, trying to regain her composure.
But Stoker kept one arm securely about her as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, one of his enormous affairs of scarlet linen. She took it with a grateful, watery smile. “I am sorry I was so rude to you,” she said. “I do not really believe you are her creature.” She did not even look at me as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed adoringly on Stoker.
“I am very much my own man,” he assured her.
I tasted sourness and said nothing.
“Did you ever confront her? Tell her how you felt?” Stoker asked.
She nodded. “Precious little good it did. She merely laughed and said I was being ridiculous, and then she made some casual remark about things changing for the better on St. Maddern’s. And I went off to have a good cry in the garden. Helen found me there and I told her what had happened. She took me along to Trenny, who gave me warm milk and put me to bed. She said it was all a tempest in a teapot and everything would seem better with a good night’s sleep.”
“Excellent advice,” Stoker told her.
The feeble smile deepened. “I suppose. The wedding was fairly miserable for me, pretending to be happy for them. But then she disappeared and it was so much worse! I thought the most difficult thing would be for Rosamund to live here, but that was nothing compared to the suspicion, the whispers, the newspapers. The not knowing was diabolical.”
“It seems to have affected Malcolm quite badly,” Stoker offered.
At the mention of her brother, her face shuttered. She pushed gently out of Stoker’s embrace and picked up her pestle. “I am certain Veronica has better things to do than listen to me moan about my family,” she said with a forced smile.
“Not at all,” I replied. “I am persuaded that Malcolm’s disappearance is connected to Rosamund’s. If we discover the truth about her whereabouts, no doubt we can do the same for him.”
“I hope you are right,” she said. She said nothing more and that seemed our cue to leave. As we made our way from the stillroom, I saw the corner of the scarlet handkerchief peeping from her pocket. Her finger reached out to stroke it as we closed the door behind us.
• • •
“Well, that might have gone better,” I said in some irritation.
Stoker shrugged. “We learnt a little of Rosamund’s ability to manipulate thanks to that scrap of letter. And we confirmed there was a quarrel. Whether Mertensia is telling the truth about the fact that it ended remains to be seen, but I am inclined to believe her. She is a simple, forthright woman. I think she has no talent for deceit.”
“And with only herself and the missing Rosamund to witness it, we shall never know.”
His expression was reproving. “Can you find no charity in your heart for her? Mertensia is a sterling character.”
I made no reply to this. I started off down the corridor, the tiny heels of my slippers ringing irritably on the stones. Stoker caught up to me, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. “Where are we going now?”
“To find Mrs. Trengrouse,” I told him. “She saw Mertensia after the quarrel with Rosamund. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”
“Excellent,” he said, patting his flat belly. “I could do with a bite of something.”
“If you’re hungry, you needn’t have come with me,” I told him irritably. “Go and stuff yourself like a Michaelmas goose for all I care.”
“Because you can do this all on your own,” he replied, stopping short in the corridor.
I turned to face him.
“Forgive me. I quite forgot your refusal to accept anyone else’s help, your insistence upon never needing anyone, ever, for any purpose. Very well. I have a few things to investigate on my own.”
“Such as?” I demanded.
“Do not concern yourself about it,” he instructed, the muscle of his jaw tight as he ground the words through clenched teeth. “But I think it is time we held my brother’s elegant feet to the fire.”
With that, he turned smartly on his heel and left me staring after. “Whatever has got into him?” I muttered.
Just then Daisy turned the corner, her arms full of freshly laundered sheets, smelling—one thanked the Almighty—not at all of chicken manure. “Oh, I beg pardon, miss. Was there something you needed?”
“I was looking for Mrs. Trengrouse,” I told her. “I had a question about Miss Rosamund.”
“She is about somewhere, no doubt,” Daisy assured me. “Probably looking in on the dinner preparations.” She paused, giving me a close
