Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (5 page)

“I love you.” He kissed me softly, once on each eyelid. “Whatever
family you claim is mine as well. I’m with you no matter what.”

I spoke thirteen languages, and yet I had no words to
express what his presence meant to me. Griffin seemed to understand anyway.
Wrapping me tight in his arms, he held me until sleep took us both.

~ * ~

The next morning found us on the sidewalk of Whyborne House
once again.

Had it been an ordinary house in mourning, there would have
been black crape tied with a white ribbon onto the doorknob, to warn away any
callers. But of course such a display was out of the question, so long as we
maintained our fiction of a sudden illness.

Fenton answered our knock without his usual supercilious
sneer. He looked not to have slept any better than me, the lines around his
eyes more pronounced than usual and a certain weariness around his mouth. But
his collar was starched and his suit as crisp as ever. “Allow me to take your
coats.”

A maid appeared a moment later, silently taking our coats
from Fenton and vanishing again. “Your father is in his study,” Fenton said to
me. “This way.”

The ordinary sounds of the servants going about their duties
echoed from various rooms, but they seemed muffled this morning, as if the house
was indeed in mourning. Our shoes tapped unnaturally loud against the marble
floors. As we crossed the foyer, the rustle of skirts sounded from the stairs.
Mother descended slowly, leaning on the arm of a maid.

“Mother?” I asked in surprise.

Her face was pale, but she had dressed and had the maid
arrange her hair. “I kept watch out the window,” she said. “I didn’t wish to
miss you.”

In case Father decided she had no place in this. But
Guinevere had been her daughter as much as his. “Of course.”

Griffin hastened to offer her his arm. “Thank you, Griffin,”
she said, and I suspected she meant for more than just the support.

Fenton’s lips thinned slightly, but he made no comment, only
led us the rest of the way to the study. “Mrs. Whyborne, Master Percival, and
Mr. Flaherty here to see you, sir,” he said, and took his leave.

Father sat behind his massive mahogany desk, papers spread
before him. He looked to have aged a decade in a single night, the lines more
deeply graven on his face, the set of his jaw less firm. “Heliabel? What are
you doing?”

“I assume Percival and Griffin are here to begin their
investigation,” she replied, taking the seat Griffin guided her to. I quietly
fetched a third chair from the corner. “I’ve come to hear what they intend to
do.”

Father scowled. “Bel, this is too upsetting for you. Return
to your room and I’ll come later to tell you—”

“What you wish me to know?” she cut in. “My daughter is
dead, Niles. What could be more upsetting than that?”

“Forgive me, Heliabel,” Griffin said. “Ordinarily, I would
agree. But murder investigations are never pleasant even when one doesn’t know
the victim. This will be very difficult for everyone.”

Mother’s shoulders went back, and she gazed coolly on
Griffin. “Do not speak to me of difficulties, Mr. Flaherty. I could count
myself fortunate to have mourned only two children. Many women face far worse.”

“Of course,” he said, before I could protest her harsh words
to him. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Please, take my desire to spare you
any pain as an indication of affection rather than contempt.”

No one pointed out he hadn’t protested so with Father. Then
again, none of us were under the illusion he felt any affection for Father,
either.

Her expression softened. “Yes. Forgive me, Griffin—my
weariness has made me ill-tempered.”

“If my wife insists on staying,” Father growled, “then let
us get on with it.”

Griffin nodded. “Yes, sir. I apologize for the indelicacy,
but…has anyone made a close examination of Lady Gravenwold’s body?”

She’d been so limp in my arms. So pale.

Father’s lips pressed tightly together, then relaxed. “No.
She has remained undisturbed. Unwashed.”

“A closer examination might tell us something about the
murder,” Griffin said apologetically.

Mother turned her face away from us, as if to hide her
expression. “Then I-I shall do it.”

“Bel—” Father began.

“Who else is there?” she asked fiercely. “The servants can’t
know.”

“I must ask your forgiveness again, Heliabel.” Griffin bowed
his head slightly. “But in a case such as this, the painful emotions such an
examination would bring up in a family member might lead to important details
being missed. I know this is a matter for utmost discretion, but I would like
to bring Dr. Putnam here to make the examination.”

“Christine, of course,” I said, feeling sudden relief. “I
don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

Father’s brows drew down. “No. This cannot go beyond the
family!”

“Christine is—” I started hotly, then caught myself.
My
sister,
I’d been about to say, because she was closer to my heart than
either of my true siblings. But it would be too cruel a truth to speak aloud
under these circumstances.

“Christine has already proved her discretion,” Griffin said,
unruffled by Father’s anger. “The business with the Brotherhood and in
Threshold should have proved it to your satisfaction.”

“Percival holds Dr. Putnam in high regard,” Mother said. “I
trust his judgment.”

Father sat back with an angry frown. “Very well. I’ll have
Fenton fetch her in the motor car.”

“Allow me to write a note for him to take,” Griffin said.
“Otherwise, he’ll have a hard time convincing her to come.”

“Yes. She’s one of those obstinate modern women, isn’t she?”

“Be glad of it. Otherwise your son and I would be dead
several times over.”

I doubted saving my life was much of a recommendation in
Father’s eyes, but he only passed paper and pen to Griffin. Fenton answered the
bell and took the note, along with instructions to bring Christine as quickly
as possible.

Once Fenton departed, Griffin sat back and folded his hands
in his lap. “It seems to me there are two possibilities. Either Lady Gravenwold
was the victim of opportunity—that is, someone saw her walking alone and
attacked her—or she was murdered to prevent her from talking to
Percival.”

It was strange to hear my first name from Griffin.
Ordinarily he called me Whyborne, but I supposed in this case it might seem a
bit odd. And Ival was certainly too private to use in front of my parents.

“I don’t understand why she would walk alone.” I’d been so
sure she wouldn’t, I’d never seriously entertained the idea something might
befall her on the way to the saloon.

And the whole time, she’d been lying the alleyway, alone and
cold and dying…

“Either way, whatever she had to say was important enough
for her to risk being seen in an unsavory part of town,” Griffin went on. “Even
wearing the clothing of a laboring woman, she couldn’t be certain no one would
recognize her likeness from the newspapers.”

“Who gave her the clothes?” I asked.

Father glanced at me. “Fenton is making discreet enquiries
among the staff. We’ll find out.”

Griffin nodded. “Good. In the meantime, I’d like permission
to search her room. Perhaps she left something behind that will tell us what
she no longer can. A diary, or some other clue.”

“Very well,” Father said. “We’ll await Dr. Putnam’s arrival,
then I’ll take you there.”

Christine arrived soon thereafter. Griffin, Father, and I met
her in the foyer. “Whyborne,” she said, crossing directly to me with her hand
out. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

She clasped my hand—then pulled me into an awkward
embrace. I hugged her back, my relief at her presence startling. Of course,
she’d lost her own sister under circumstances even more horrible just a few
months back. But beyond her sympathy, I was simply glad to have her here with
me. “Thank you for coming.”

She let go of me. “Never fear,” she said a bit gruffly.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this. Just tell me what I can do.”

Griffin took her aside and spoke quietly for a few moments.
She nodded her understanding. Fenton indicated she should follow him, and they
disappeared in the direction of the kitchens, where the door to the lower
cellars lay.

“What terrible manners,” Father growled.

I shrugged. Christine didn’t give a fig for Father, and had
no qualms when it came to making her opinion clear.

“She’ll do the job,” Griffin said. “It calls only for
respect for the dead, not manners for the living.”

Father didn’t look particularly mollified, but led the way
up the stairs to the third floor. Guinevere had stayed in the room she’d lived
in as a young woman, once she outgrew the nursery. Stopping at the door, Father
took a key from his pocket. “I’ve kept it locked since last night. Just as a
precaution.”

“Won’t the servants wonder?” Griffin asked in a low voice.
“First she takes suddenly ill and is whisked away in the dead of night. Now her
door is locked and everyone forbidden to enter. Surely it must seem suspicious
at the least.”

Father unlocked the door. “All who serve in this house have
been with the family for a long time. Many, like Fenton, have a parent who
served in the same position. They know not to ask questions. Any who have ever
attempted to betray the family in the past have been dealt with swiftly.”

And probably fatally, especially if intruding on the
Brotherhood’s secrets. I kept the opinion to myself, however, instead adding,
“And Miss Emily has been with Mother since they were both girls.”

“Indeed.” Father reached for the door to open it, then
hesitated. For an instant, the stern expression on his face wavered. Handing
the key to me, he said, “Lock up when you’re done. I’ll return to the study and
keep your mother company.”

I listened to his footsteps retreat quickly along the hall.
When I turned back to Griffin, he gave me a sad half smile. “I know I shouldn’t
feel sorry for Niles, not after everything he’s done. But still, losing a
daughter must be a blow to anyone.”

I opened the door and gestured for Griffin to precede me.
The room was decorated in blue and gold, every surface ornamented and gilded,
from the delicate legs of a small table, to the bedposts. Fine carpets muffled
our steps on the floor, and blue satin covered the walls.

The bedcovers lay thrown back, waiting for a return which
would never come. The ghost of Guinevere’s lilac perfume lingered, as if she’d
stepped out only a little while earlier and might return at any instant. Her
nightdress and dressing gown lay carelessly tossed across a chair, and the door
to the dressing room stood open.

“Would you prefer the dressing room or the bedroom itself?” Griffin
asked. “Or, if this is too difficult…”

“No.” I took a deep breath, seeking to dislodge the weight
pressing against my chest. “I owe it to her.” Ignoring his worried glance, I
added, “The bedroom, I think. What am I looking for?”

“Correspondence. Her diary. Anything out of the ordinary,
which might give us some hint as to what had her so concerned.”

I went to the writing desk, and Griffin vanished into the
dressing room. A neat stack of letters lay there, and I began to rifle through
them, hoping for some clue, however small.

The desk yielded nothing—just the ordinary
correspondence between friends and family members. The letters she’d never had
a chance to post were all written in a light, airy style, save for the
occasional cutting remark, usually aimed at someone’s sense of fashion or
behavior. There was no hint anything troubled her. None of the letters
mentioned sorcery or the derelict ship, or anything else suspicious.

I moved on, examining every piece of furniture, opening
every drawer. I even looked under the bed, but found nothing.

Curse it all. Why couldn’t she just have told me what was
wrong the night of the party? Was she afraid of being overheard? But by whom?
The servants? One of the guests? Father? If a guest, then why hadn’t she just
asked me to return here the next night, rather than meet in some wretched
saloon?

I picked up the dressing gown, intending to make certain it
and the nightgown weren’t draped on top of a book or diary left on the chair.
Something crinkled under my hand. Paper?

The dressing gown possessed a small pocket, inside of which
I found a sheet of paper, folded into a small square. I opened it to reveal a
terse note, without either address or signature.

Dismiss me to your own peril. Your family won’t be able
to save you, should I choose to act.

I stared at the unfamiliar handwriting. Was this why
Guinevere had wished to speak to me—because someone was threatening her?
But why? And what did it have to do with the
Norfolk Siren?

I hurried to the dressing room door. The room was a
confusion of silk, satin, and lace, dominated by a vanity with legs carved into
the shapes of swans. Griffin crouched in front of a trunk. A second, smaller
one sat beside it.

“I found something,” I said, holding out the note.

He took it from me, reading the words with a frown, then
carefully inspecting the paper. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

“No.”

“The paper is of good quality. No letterhead or crest, but I
recognize the stationer’s watermark. Where did you find it?”

I told him. With a frown, he handed it back to me. “Keep it
for now, and we’ll show it to your father when we’re done. Perhaps he’ll
recognize the handwriting.”

“Have you discovered anything in here?” I asked.

“Not so far. There’s nothing concealed behind her clothes.
And none of her jewelry chests have a false bottom or back.”

“Oh.” It wouldn’t have occurred to me to look for such a
thing.

Griffin lifted the lid of the larger trunk, revealing an
interior filled with books. “Help me sort through these—perhaps her diary
is in here, as you didn’t come across it in her bedroom.”

The top layer of books consisted mainly of the most tedious
sort imaginable: histories drained of all the blood and passion that might have
made them interesting, advice to wives on the proper running of a household,
and a collection of the most patronizing sort of sermons. Beneath those,
however, lay a wide assortment of fiction, from Dickens to the sorts of dime
novels no respectable lady would ever admit to reading. As for the bottommost
layer…

“I thought this had been banned, and every copy seized and
destroyed,” Griffin remarked, flipping through the pages of one of the books.

I picked up another, opened to a random page, and flinched
at the illustration thereon. “Dear heavens! This is pornography!”

“But very artistically rendered.” He reached over my
shoulder and turned the page. “Although I’m not certain how comfortable the
position could be for either participant.”

I shut the book firmly, my face on fire. “It’s clear there’s
nothing of interest here. I mean, to our case. I mean…blast it.”

As we were alone, he leaned over and kissed my burning
cheek. “Let’s see what the last trunk holds.”

Griffin examined the smaller trunk while I put the books
back, careful to keep the respectable ones on top. “Locked,” he murmured. “But
not for long.”

He drew a slim leather case from his inside pocket, which he
unrolled to expose a set of lock picks. Within a matter of moments, there came
a soft click, and he withdrew the picks and tucked them back away. “Given what
we’ve already seen, there may be some very personal items in here. Would you
prefer to examine the contents without me?”

“Rather the other way around,” I said wryly. “But no, we’ll
sort through them together.”

Various keepsakes greeted us when I swung open the lid. A
picture of her husband, Earl Randolph Gravenwold, and another of a baby in an
enormous christening gown, which I assumed must be her young son.

Had Father sent word to England already, telling the earl of
Guinevere’s fictional sickness? Was the man even now worrying over the health
of a wife who would never return to him? And what of her son, doomed to grow up
motherless? Would the earl find a second wife, and if so, would she care at all
for the child of her predecessor?

How would I feel if Griffin died, alone and far away from my
side? If never got to see his face again?

“How are you managing, my dear?” Griffin asked softly.

The scars on my right hand pulled, and the pictures frames
cut into my fingers. I’d been clutching them, one in each hand, staring blankly
down at the sepia figures. I forced myself to set them aside. “I don’t know.”

“We’re almost done,” he said gently. Reaching into the
trunk, he took out a small object wrapped in cloth. As the cloth fell away, the
electric lights caught the gleam of gold.

It was a bracelet, or perhaps an armband, but of no style
I’d never seen before. Fully revealed, I reassessed my earlier impression:
perhaps it was a gold alloy of some kind, for the luster brought forth by the
light struck me as not quite right. Some incredibly skilled artisan had cast
it, and high reliefs showed all along the outside. Most consisted of
geometrical shapes, but others clearly represented marine animals, although the
stylized fashion depicting them came from no tradition I recognized. Large
black pearls had been set into the bracelet at regular intervals, interspersed
with smaller white ones.

“It looks old,” I said, turning it over in my hands. “But
I’m no expert on jewelry.”

“I wonder why it was in the trunk, instead of with her other
ornaments,” Griffin mused.

I snorted. “Because it’s…well, not hideous, but utterly
outside of today’s fashions. She wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing it.”

“Then why bring it with her?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? “A memento? Or perhaps she
didn’t bring it. Maybe she obtained it after returning to America.” I set it
aside with the photographs. “Is there anything else?”

“One more item.” Griffin drew out another object wrapped in
black silk. A corner of the cloth fell away, and I heard…singing.

I blinked and shook my head. No. I didn’t hear singing. And
yet the song was still in my mind. Too distant to make the words out, but
there. “Griffin…” I said, but it came out a whisper of breath.

“What the devil?” he murmured, pulling aside the silk. A
small black stone lay in his palm, a design carved into its surface.

The song swelled into a command. I had to touch it. Had to
trace the design and find its beginning and end. Had to.

I reached for it. The man—what was his
name?—holding it pulled it away irritably. “Hold up, I’m trying to
see—”

“No!”
I shouted, and lunged for the stone, knocking
us both to the floor.

~ * ~

“Whyborne! What are you doing?”

The words were meaningless—I had to get to the stone,
had to touch it, had to, had to, but he kept it from me. I tore at his clenched
fingers, snarling like an animal.

“Ival!”

No. Something was wrong.
I
was wrong.

I took a deep breath, even though the need to touch the
stone crushed the air from my lungs. For a moment, my brain spun like a machine
with a slipped cog, frantically going nowhere. The words, what were the words?

“Griffin,” I whispered, and concentrated on the word. The
name. Yes.

What came next? Griffin meant love. Safety.

Safety. Home.

I closed my eyes, clung to the vision of slamming shut a door
and locking it, drawing the curtains over the windows. Nothing could come
through. Nothing could get to me now.

The unearthly song faded away. I sat back, scrubbing at my
face. To my horror, I saw I’d wrestled Griffin in my inexplicable frenzy to
reach the stone. We’d made quite a mess, knocking over a chair and pulling down
several dresses.

I didn’t remember any of it.

“Oh. Oh God.” I clasped my hands in front of my mouth.
“I-I’m sorry. You didn’t…you didn’t hear it?”

Griffin sat up, watching me warily. Retrieving the black
silk, he hurriedly rewrapped the stone. I didn’t dare watch, but instead
focused on his face. Thank heavens he didn’t seem hurt.

When he was done, he put the stone aside and crouched in
front of me. “Whyborne?”

I nodded mutely.

He touched my hands, tugging them down. His thumb ran over
the scars on the right, a soothing gesture. “What happened?”

“There was…singing. Coming from the stone.”

Griffin frowned. “Singing? In your mind? As with the dweller
in the deeps?”

Ice crystals grew in my veins. “God, I hope not. But it is
magical, whatever it is. It…it didn’t affect you at all?”

Griffin shook his head grimly. “No. Not in the slightest.
Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I swallowed. “Once I realized what was happening, I
managed to strengthen my mind against it. What
is
it?”

“I don’t know.” Griffin let go of my hands and sat back,
staring at the silk wrapping as if it concealed a dangerous spider. “Nor do I
know what such a thing was doing in your sister’s possession. But I rather
think we’d best find out.”

~ * ~

Griffin tucked the stone and bracelet into his coat pocket,
and we both set the dressing room back to rights. “You don’t have to worry,” I
told him, shame-faced. “It only caught me by surprise.”