A Curious Beginning (15 page)

“You have been unconscious for two days,” Mr. Stoker informed me.

I looked to the little armchair where he sprawled. His eyes were sunk in exhaustion and ringed with grey shadows. “You look a fright,” I told him.

“Yes, well, I still look better than you. Could you take some soup? There is a little on the hob and you ought to have some nourishment.”

I nodded and he busied himself, returning in a moment with a battered tin cup and a spoon. The steam from the cup was fragrant and my stomach growled in anticipation. Stoker nodded.

“That is a good sign.”

Tenderly as a mother hen, he spooned soup into my mouth until the cup was empty.

“More?” I asked hopefully.

“Not just yet. Let that sit awhile, and if you manage to keep it down, you can have more in an hour.”

I turned my head to the windowsill to see that my jar was empty. “Where are my butterflies? The
Vanessa
and the
Gonepteryx
?” I demanded.

“I let them go. They were drooping and I felt sorry for them. Now, be still.”

He felt my brow then, impersonally, and when he had finished reached for my hand. He kept his finger on the pulse at my wrist for some seconds, then settled back with an air of satisfaction.

“How long have you had malaria?” he asked in a conversational tone. He was clearly pleased with himself for making the diagnosis, and for that he deserved the truth.

“Three years. How long have you been a doctor?” I wanted a little truth of my own.

He gave me a smile that was no less charming for his obvious fatigue. “Considerably longer than three years. And strictly speaking, I am not a doctor. I am a surgeon. How did you know?”

I gestured towards his right arm. “Your tattoo. The asklepian—a serpent twined around the staff of Asclepius. No one but a medical man would suffer to get that. And given the anchor upon your other arm and the Chinese dragon upon your back, I would say you were once a navy man as well.”

“Surgeon's mate aboard the HMS
Luna
. We sailed the tropics mostly, although I saw a bit of everywhere.”

“And that is how you recognized the symptoms of malaria.”

“I noticed the bottle of Warburg's Tincture in your bag when you took out the oil of calendula. Bitter stuff, that. Most commonly used for tropical fevers—and the most common tropical fever is malaria. I have been watching for the symptoms ever since I found the bottle among your things.”

“Yes, well, I have had no recurrence for almost a year. I had rather hoped I was finished. The tincture was simply a precaution.”

“Pity you didn't take a few more precautions,” he said meaningfully.

“You mean like telling you,” I countered. “It's very simple, really. I didn't want you fussing over me. I wanted to be treated as an equal.”

“And it never occurred to you that you might begin by treating
me
as an equal? Veronica, you cannot expect confidences if you will not give them.”

I closed my mouth, struck by the truth of it. I gave him a nod. “A palpable hit, Mr. Stoker. Very well, I will trade you confidences, tit for tat.”

“All right. What do you want to know?”

“Why do you hide your identity?” I asked.

His face went quite still, as immobile as marble under a sculptor's hand—and just as pale. For a long moment he did not speak, but then he gave a gusty sigh and the fight seemed to go out of him. “How did you know?”

“The letters on the Wardian cases in your workshop. There are few natural historians with the initials R.T.-V. For Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. The cases were from an expedition, were they not?”

“If you know my name, you already know the answer to that.” His voice was clipped and cold. Our exchange of confidences was clearly not proceeding as he had anticipated, but I thought I would push my luck just a bit further.

“The Templeton-Vane Expedition to Amazonia: 1882 to 1883. For the purpose of cataloging the wildlife of the Amazonian rain forest,” I recited from memory.

“How noble you make it sound!” he mocked. “That's what the newspapers and scientific journals called it. Really we were after hunting jaguars. As you can see, I found one,” he added with a flourish towards the scar upon his face.

I attempted a different tack. “Why do you no longer use the name Templeton-Vane?”

He gave me a smile that was half a snarl. “If you know the name Templeton-Vane, no doubt you know the answer to that question as well.”

I smoothed the bedcovers, pushing back the memories that threatened to engulf me. “I was on an expedition of my own at the time—in Java. You will understand why my grasp of news from the rest of the world is somewhat faulty.”

His brows lifted in astonishment, some of his bitterness falling away. “Java? Good God. You were there? When Krakatoa erupted?”

“Yes. I had the good sense to get as far away as Sumatra, but as it happens it was not nearly far enough. Things were . . . difficult.”

“I can only imagine.”

“No,” I said reasonably. “You cannot. No one can. I certainly couldn't. That sort of horror is unimaginable, even for the most morbid of us. In a curious way, it proved Aristotle correct—‘In all natural things there is somewhat of the marvelous.' If you use ‘marvelous' in the strictest sense, as describing something that causes astonishment. I have never been so little, nor the wonders of the world so vast, as in those hours when the whole of the earth seemed to crack open.” I paused, then resumed my discourse with an air of brisk detachment I did not feel, could never feel about that time. “News from home was scarce. It was months before I saw an English newspaper. I only ever heard that your expedition was unsuccessful and that you disappeared for some time into the jungle.”

“And that is all that you heard?” he asked, his eyes bright with interest.

“I told you, I was familiar with the name and that you undertook an expedition to the Amazon which was not a triumph. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

“Well, that explains why you remained in my care even though you knew who I was. Anyone else would have run as if they had seven devils on their heels.”

I gave him a jocular smile. “Come now, how bad can it be?”

“As it happens,” he said, not returning the smile, “very bad indeed. I lost my marriage, my honor, and damned near my eye as well. The newspapers called me villain and scoundrel and monster and printed a hundred stories of the evil I have done.”

I shrugged. “You know what newspapers are. They forever make mistakes.”

His gaze was dark and fathomless as a midnight sea. “Yes, they do. In my case, they did not tell the half of it.”

A
fter his dramatic pronouncement, I was silent a moment, then shook my head.

“I do not believe it. I should like to hear the truth. From your own lips.”

He spoke slowly, as if chipping each word out of ice. “The truth is a hard mirror, and I am in no mood to look upon my reflection.”

“I can well understand that, but you would do better to remember the story out of Plutarch about the Spartan boy and the fox.”

“The Spartan boy and the fox?”

“Yes, the lad stole a fox pup but the Spartans had very strict rules against thievery. He hid the animal in his cloak, and rather than allow his misdeed to be found out, he let it gnaw out his vitals while he kept his silence.”

“And your point is?” he asked acidly.

“Simply this: that truth is like that fox pup. If you suffer its ill effects in silence, it can do irreparable harm. Perhaps even kill you.”

He opened his mouth, and I waited for the blast of temper. But it did not come. Instead, he gave me a level, appraising look, and I thought of Keats' description of Cortez staring at the Pacific “with eagle eyes.” He had eagle eyes, sharp and perceptive. “I know. But not yet. Just not yet.”

It was more than I had dared to hope for. It was enough—for the present.

The thought of Keats sparked a memory and I smiled at him suddenly.

“What?” he asked, his tone suspicious.

“I have just remembered that Keats was a medical student. I am no longer surprised at your fondness for him. You walk common ground, Stoker.” For the first time, I dropped the honorific and addressed him familiarly. It seemed we had come that far at least.

He gave me a tired smile. “Common ground indeed, but with rather less consumption on my part,” he returned.

“Give it time.”

•   •   •

The next few days were pleasant enough. I went for walks, building my stamina, and Tilly had taken it upon herself to “feed me up.” She was forever sending over pies and hams and other assorted treats, and by the third day, I was feeling very much my old self.

But the more I seemed to gain in health, the more bedeviled Stoker seemed. I attempted more than once to shake the truth out of him, but he withdrew even further, until I was forced to go behind his back and sleuth out his troubles on my own. The first clue came when we were sitting companionably in the caravan. He was on the steps, smoking one of his wretched cigars, while Salome read aloud to me from the casebook of Arcadia Brown. It was a sore trial to listen to her—she stumbled over every other word—but her sluggish pace made it easy for me to let my mind wander. It was in the course of my mental perambulations that I noticed Leopold approach bearing a wooden box. He paused at the steps to exchange brief words with Stoker. I caught only snippets of their conversation, but it was clear to me that Leopold was troubled by his errand, an instinct confirmed by his repeated and fervent apologies.

He left the box with Stoker, hurrying away under Stoker's baleful gaze. I expected him to open it, but he did not. After a long moment, he extinguished his cigar and rose, putting the box to the side. He strode after Leopold, in the direction of the professor's tent, his shoulders set, his hands working themselves into fists.

“Salome,” I interrupted. “Please be so good as to bring me that box.”

She laid aside the book and did as I asked. The box was polished wood, nearly two feet long. I put a hand to the clasp, and Salome gave me a reproachful look.

“It is private.”

“It is not locked,” I pointed out. “Furthermore, if he didn't wish me to open it, he ought not to have left it lying around.”

She could make no argument to that, and since she was as curious as I, she said nothing further as I turned again to the clasp. It gave way easily.

“How curious,” I said, reaching into the box. I extracted an item the likes of which I had not seen since I had left South America.

Salome peered at it. “It is a whip.”

“Specifically, it is a
rebenque
,” I told her. “Used by gauchos. Cowboys,” I explained, seeing her look of perplexity. “It is for the enthusiastic encouragement of livestock, usually cattle and horses.”

I ran my fingers over the
rebenque
. It was a rather fine specimen of its maker's art. Designed for discipline rather than damage, it was not as long or as vicious as a coachman's whip. But anyone who had seen one used on a man would know better than to discount its ability to deliver pain. The handle of this one was perhaps a foot and a half long, covered in rawhide. From it depended a single thong, also of rawhide, two inches in width and some eighteen inches long. The end was not tapered, for it was not meant to draw blood but to deliver a stinging slap. I gave it a single flick and it responded with a sharp crack.

“Stoker is no keeper of livestock,” Salome pointed out. “What need does he have of this?”

“What need indeed?” I echoed grimly.

I put the whip back into its box and sent Salome away. I blew out the lamp before Stoker returned, and when he did, I turned my face to the wall and pretended to sleep. For a long while Stoker lay wakeful in the dark, and at length I could bear it no longer.

“That is a rather fine
rebenque
,” I began.

He made a noise that was a cross between a growl and a sigh of exasperation. “Leave it, Veronica.”

“I shan't ask you to explain. I already know,” I said.

“The devil you do,” he said sleepily.

“You think I am bluffing merely to draw you out?”

“That is precisely what I think. Now, go to sleep.”

“Very well. I will not explain that I am familiar with the
rebenque
because of my own travels in South America. There is also no point in my sharing with you that I am well aware the professor will not let us remain here if you cannot earn our keep. With no target for the knife-throwing act, you would be forced to acquiesce to whatever scheme he devises—even something as torturous as a public fight for pay with a
rebenque
.”

It was a long moment before he spoke. “Well, I am glad you did not explain all of that. It would have been boring in the extreme.”

“Would it also bore you to know that I have deduced he means you to fight Colosso?”

He remained silent and I went on. “You, I have little doubt, are skilled with the whip, but Colosso is a full head taller than you and outweighs you by an hundredweight. The
rebenque
is the only way to create a semblance of a fair fight. Have I got it right?”

“Yes,” he sighed.

“When is it to be?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Good. I should hate to miss it.”

And to his credit, Stoker laughed.

•   •   •

In the interest of further restoring my strength with fresh air and a little fortifying exercise—as well as providing a distraction for Stoker—I insisted upon walking out the next afternoon, thrusting a hamper of sandwiches at Stoker as I took up my net. We passed through the village so he might call in at the post office to see if his friend in Cornwall had sent along the latest London newspaper. He emerged a moment later, his hands empty, but his air was one of deep satisfaction, and I noted the edge of a thin parcel peeping from the top of his pocket.

“Come along,” he said, taking my elbow. “I know just the spot where we shan't be overheard.” We walked some distance out of the village, passing a few prosperous farms and an aggressively ugly Norman church before crossing the churchyard and into the copse beyond. I stopped short as he closed the gate behind us.

“A bluebell wood!” I exclaimed. “How lucky we are to find them in bloom so late. Is there anything so lovely?” A river of bluebells flowed through the trees, carpeting the ground and filling the air with sweet, subtle perfume.

I spread a rug in a patch of gilded sunlight and stretched out, watching a pretty little
Hipparchia janira
—a common Meadow Brown butterfly—flap slowly amid the milkwort and oxeye daisies. Stoker took out his knife and applied himself to a pair of apples, removing the peel from each in a single long russet curl.

“That must serve you well as a taxidermist,” I noted, taking a healthy bite of the apple. “It takes real skill to have the skin off in one unbroken strip.”

“A thoroughly unladylike observation,” he returned.

“Yes, well, being a lady is a crashing bore, or hadn't you noticed?”

He shrugged. “You seem to enjoy it.”

“As you pointed out, I am not exactly a lady.”

“You are when it suits you. You are fortunate that in our world those ladylike trappings provide you with a bit of protective coloration to hide what you really are.”

I tipped my head thoughtfully. “And what am I really?”

“Damn me if I know,” he replied. “I have been attempting to discover that since the moment you dropped into my lap, but you are as elusive as those wretched butterflies you hunt.”

“I am an open book,” I assured him.

He gave a snort of derision and rummaged for the parcel he had retrieved from the post office. He extracted a newspaper and a letter—a note from his friend, no doubt.

As he read, I reclined against a tree, twisting a curl of apple peel around my fingers. The air in that perfumed field was intoxicating, and it roused instincts within me that I seldom permitted myself to let slip the lead—at least not in England. I had no intention of acting upon them; that was strictly forbidden under the rules I had set and of which I reminded myself sternly and often. But it was pleasant to ponder the possibilities. “That groom, Mornaday, is rather handsome, wouldn't you say?” I said, thinking aloud.

He peered at me over the newspaper. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Veronica, I realize you are accustomed to exercising your affections with a certain degree of freedom, but you cannot go about the countryside seducing assorted strangers. We are attempting to preserve the fiction of a happily married couple.”

“Piffle. We gave a poor picture of it when you permitted Salome to—well, perhaps we had best draw a veil over that incident,” I said, arching a brow at him. “And you have no fear I will misbehave with Mornaday. I only ever indulge my baser requirements when I am abroad. But if I did, Mornaday would serve quite nicely. He is a perfectly attractive fellow. He has lovely hands.”

Stoker refused to rise to the bait. He resumed his newspaper, turning the pages with an outraged snap.

“Too lovely,” I said slowly, sitting up.

“Hm?” He was busy reading again and paying me scant attention.

“For a groom, Mornaday has very soft skin. I noticed it when we first shook hands. His palms were very smooth, free of calluses. Have you ever known a man who works with horses to have tender hands?”

“No, they have hands like shoe leather,” he said, peering intently at the newspaper.

“Then what is he playing at in taking a job as a groom? He claims it is his regular employment, but that must be a lie.”

“We have more considerable problems than the softness of Mornaday's hands,” he said tightly. He thrust the newspaper into my hands. “Read.”

I skimmed the article, horror mounting in a cold wave. I read it again, slowly this time, but the facts did not change. The verdict in the inquest had been murder by person or persons unknown. That much we had expected. We knew the baron had been murdered, and it had been an unlikely hope that the authorities had already apprehended his murderer. But the rest of the article revealed a far greater calamity. Besides reporting the verdict—and the fact that the baron had instructed via his will that he was to be privately interred with no formal ceremony—the newspaper seemed to relish relating that in a related matter, the Honorable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, youngest son of Lord Templeton-Vane, was currently being sought by the Metropolitan Police to assist them with their inquiries into the murder of the Baron von Stauffenbach.

“Stoker, they cannot possibly mean—”

“They do,” he said grimly.

He was right, of course; there was only one possible interpretation to the article: I was traveling with a man wanted for murder.

I skimmed the rest of the article, but it gave few details. “How do you think they came to connect you to the baron?”

He thrust his hands into his hair. “I rented the warehouse from him. There would be a record of the payments in his ledgers.”

“You mean the baron owned the warehouse where you live?” He nodded in the affirmative, and I carried on. “The police would have discovered this when they looked through his papers. They must have called upon you only to find you missing.” He groaned, and I knew I was on the right path. “Naturally, it would seem suspicious to them that you should disappear at the same time the baron was murdered. And with the inquest verdict of ‘murder by person or persons unknown,' they have settled upon you as the likeliest candidate. This article gives only your name, but it is simply a matter of time before they circulate your photograph and description.”

He lifted his head, his expression one of abject misery. “Why? Why did I not think of this when I left London?”

“Not to be critical at a difficult moment,” I put in hesitantly, “but why did you not seek out the police as soon as the baron was murdered? It does seem the most logical course of action, doesn't it?”

“Not helpful,” he said sharply.

“You did not answer my question then, but I should very much like an answer now.”

He paused, and I realized he was making up his mind whether to trust me at last.

“Because in the eyes of polite society and no doubt those of Scotland Yard, I am already a murderer.”

I stared at him, and he gave me a bitter smile. “Well, well. I have managed to render you speechless at last. I should think that calls for a drink.”