Bonfire Night

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Mr. Sanderson hastened to reassure him. “They are not lengthy periods, sir. A fortnight only at each of the customary rent days. It has always been the custom at Thorncross for the master to accept the rents.”

Plum perked up. “Brisbane, you’ll be a feudal landlord.”

“Rents are due on quarter days,” I said, thinking aloud. “Michaelmas was last month, so we would not have to take possession until Christmas. That would give us two months to make arrangements.”

Mr. Sanderson coughed gently. “It is the tradition in other places for rents to be paid upon quarter days,” he corrected. “It has always been the way at Thorncross for the rents to be paid upon cross-quarter days. In the old parlance, Candlemas in February, May Day, Lammas in August, and All Hallow’s Eve.”

“All Hallow’s Eve! That’s in two days,” I protested.

Mr. Sanderson gave me a lugubrious nod. “Indeed, my lady. Now you will understand my haste this evening. I am afraid the papers pertaining to this bequest were mislaid for a few days, and when they were unearthed, I discovered that Mr. Brisbane was in grave danger of losing his bequest unless he travels down to Thorncross at once.”

“And what happens if I lose the bequest?” Brisbane inquired. “What if I refuse to go?”

Mr. Sanderson blanched. “Unthinkable,” he said hoarsely.

“Let us think about it anyway,” Brisbane prodded. “What would become of Thorncross?”

Mr. Sanderson tugged at his collar. “It would be torn down.”

“Torn down! Are you quite certain?” I asked.

“I am afraid so, my lady,” he assured me. “Mr. Thornhill was quite specific upon the point. If Mr. Brisbane will not be master of Thorncross, no man shall.”

* * *

Mr. Sanderson departed some short time later, still visibly shaken by his errand, but looking much happier now that he had accomplished his business. Brisbane walked with him to the door, then closed it behind him, turning to face the three of us with a curious expression, very like a schoolmaster addressing rebellious pupils.

“All right, you lot. Why were you tormenting that fellow?”

Plum shrugged and pointed to Portia and myself. “Because they were, and it looked like fun. But I’ve no idea why they took against him.”

Portia spread her hands. “Ask Julia. She’s the one who disliked him the moment he came in. I merely abetted her.”

Brisbane lifted a brow at me, and I raised my chin in defiance. “He tried to get rid of us. It was rude. It was for you to say if your business was to be shared with us, and no man has the right to turn me out of my own rooms. If it was so dreadfully important and secret, he ought to have summoned you to his chambers.”

Brisbane nodded slowly. “Quite right. So why didn’t he?”

I blinked. “You agree with me?”

Brisbane resumed his chair, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. “Entirely. I had no intention of seeing him alone since he came to our home. Private business ought to be conducted in a solicitor’s chambers. So why didn’t he summon me there? Or write ahead to request an appointment? Instead he calls after dinner when he had every expectation we might be entertaining, behaving furtively and giving us that ridiculous story of a legacy from a grateful client.”

“You don’t believe it then?” Portia asked.

Brisbane ignored her and cocked his head at me. “Do you?”

I thought a moment. “No. Although I can’t imagine why. It seems plausible enough. But everything about the man was just slightly off somehow. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe him.”

“Neither do I,” he said firmly.

“You’re a damnably suspicious pair,” Plum said, helping himself to a rose water biscuit. “It is possible that some generous old fellow was sincerely grateful for your aid, Brisbane. You have rescued any number of perilous situations from disaster.”

“Yes, but I am more often responsible for putting people in gaol than keeping them out of it,” Brisbane retorted.

“Can you think of a case where you might have earned the gratitude of a lady?” Portia asked.

“That’s the crux of it,” Brisbane responded thoughtfully. “It might be any case. It’s far too vague to indicate any particular investigation. Did I restore a family treasure? Return a cache of stolen love letters? Destroy a purloined photograph? And it might have been any time in the past twenty years. That’s rather a lot of ground to cover.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How many women do you suppose are gadding about with good reason to feel indebted to you?”

He assumed an expression of innocence. “Just in London or on the Continent, as well?”

I tossed a cushion at him which he caught neatly and slipped behind his head. “No, there’s no way of knowing which case, which lady. It’s all too vague.”

“Deliberately so,” I added.

“Piffle,” Plum put in. “You’re just too cynical, the pair of you. You are looking a very generous gift horse in the mouth, if you ask me.”

“In my experience,” Brisbane said seriously, “gift horses are usually the ones with the most dangerous bite.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_4ee2cf07-dfea-537e-93c4-bf9e7c4fffb9)

The next two days passed in the twin pursuits of anticipation and preparation as we readied ourselves to travel to Thorncross. Garments and books were flung into trunks with little regard for system; cases were packed and unpacked in white-lipped fury as it became clear that vital items had gone missing only to be unearthed in unlikely spots. I found my best evening slippers in the dumbwaiter while Morag ran Little Jack’s favourite stuffed rabbit to ground in the coal scuttle. He was brushed off and returned to his master, a little the worse for wear, but by that point I had lost all patience with domestic irregularity. Aquinas had left for a long-overdue holiday, and as a result, our pets were in an uproar, the baby shrieked his head off from morning to night from the appalling noises in the cellars, and my newest lady’s maid had quit without notice.

“I have to go to my sister. In Middleham,” she said sulkily as she carried her bag down the stairs.

“You are an only child,” I reminded her coldly. “And you are not from Yorkshire. You’re a Cockney.”

She had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll not be talked around, my lady. This house is Bedlam, and make no mistake.” The front door banged behind her, and I turned to Brisbane.

“It’s because we let Aquinas take a holiday,” I told him with dark certainty. “Butlers should never be given holidays because everything falls to pieces.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “Aquinas has not had a holiday in nearly a decade. He was due. Now, we shall be gone tomorrow, putting all of the noise and mess behind us. Morag has the charge of Little Jack. We will find you a new maid, and the country air will restore all of our tempers.”

I slanted him a suspicious look. “I suppose. But I still don’t like it. Not after—” I broke off. We did not often speak of Brisbane’s ability, but his flashes of precognition were alarmingly accurate. He had wakened me in the middle of the night, thrashing in his sleep, murmuring of portents and danger, chasing after something that threatened his peace. I had touched his shoulder to waken him and the nightmare fled. It was the first nightmare I had known him to have during our marriage, and it left him pale and a little unwell, a migraine hovering on the edge of his consciousness. He wore his shaded spectacles, his only concession to the malady. He would not ask for his own sake, but I knew the trip to the country was important to him. For all his love of London and his insistence upon living in the city, he was still half a Gypsy; his blood cried out for open spaces and fresh air in a way that a city-born man’s would never do, I sometimes fancied.

I put a hand to his cheek. “You’re quite right, of course. I must see about engaging another maid before we leave. Morag would never be able to manage on her own.”

He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of...the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”

I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”

Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”

“Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”

“I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”

“An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”

One black brow winged up. “Oh?”

“Stewed bananas.”

* * *

In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.

“For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.

“Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”

Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.