A Curious Beginning (21 page)

“And very, very ruthless,” I added. “Imagine, courting Lily Ashbourne, the loveliest actress of her time, and then leaving her so coldly when she got with child. She was clearly devastated.”

Stoker's voice was thick with constraint. “He might have been as well, you know. If she was correct, then he did love her, at least for a while. Perhaps his family made him marry this other woman.”

“And so he cut off Lily—and his own child—without a word? That does not sound like the action of a feeling man.”

“Sometimes the deeper a man's feelings, the less able he is to act upon them,” he said hoarsely. “Or speak of them.”

I finished off my share of the aguardiente. “I shall not ask about your devils, Stoker.”

He gave a shrug and poured more of the liquor for himself. “They have been my closest companions for five years now. We're old friends, the devils and me.”

I looked at the packet of papers still sitting upon my lap. “It looks as if I have devils of my own now.”

“Do you?”

I nodded. “Yes. Because everything in that packet shows that it is entirely possible my father murdered my mother.”

“Veronica—”

“No, hear me out, I beg you. He wanted free of her and of me. She wasn't going quietly. There were letters to Max—perhaps more than this one. Perhaps she made threats even. She was well-known. The newspapers would have trumpeted this story to the skies if they had got hold of it. We know he had a new wife to shield, a name to protect. We know my mother died very suddenly when she was scarcely twenty. And we know she could not have been a suicide, as she was buried in hallowed ground. Tell me it is not at least possible that my father murdered her.”

Stoker gave me an even stare. “It is possible,” he said finally.

“Could you at least pretend not to agree? I find myself in need of a devil's advocate.”

He moved as if to touch my hand, then seemed to think better of it. “You have never struck me as the sort of woman to give way in the face of something difficult. Don't tell me I have misjudged you.”

“Of course not,” I said, squaring my shoulders.

“It is a terrible thing to believe your father capable of such a thing. But there is another fact which points to some difficulty from your father: your aunts were afraid, deeply so, if they changed their names and left Ireland.”

“It explains so much,” I mused. “We moved so many times when I was a child—and never for any good reason that I could discover. I would go off hunting, chasing after my butterflies, and when I came home, the aunts would have us half-packed and that would be the end of it.”

“It must have been difficult to make friends.”

“I wish you and I had met as children,” I told him suddenly.

“I don't. You would have dragged me behind the nearest hedgerow and had your way with me before I sprouted hairs on my chin.”

I smiled at him and he almost, very nearly, smiled back. “I think I should like to sleep now,” I told him.

He rose then and tugged my feet until I was stretched upon the sofa. He tucked a blanket around me and bent to stoke the fire. When he had finished, he took another blanket and made a makeshift pallet upon the rug, taking the flask of aguardiente with him.

“There is always Wellington's campaign bed,” I reminded him.

“I would rather be near to the fire.”

“In the interests of propriety, you ought to be at least on another floor of the Belvedere,” I teased.

“I do not care. I am staying with you until this business is finished.”

“Lady Cordelia will think—”

“To the devil with what Lady C. thinks.” He settled himself heavily onto the blanket and removed his boots. He took no pillow but folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, taking the occasional deep draft from the flask. “I like Cordelia but I shall bloody well be damned if I do anything just because she might have thoughts she oughtn't.”

I smiled into the silence that followed this pronouncement.

“Veronica?”

“Yes, Stoker?”

“I know you are resilient as India rubber, but when the lot of this hits you, it will come like a brickbat. Trust me.”

I thought of the secrets he carried, the pain that bedeviled him—pain of which he could not yet bring himself to speak. “And what should I do when that happens?”

“Do not keep it to yourself. Someone reminded me of the story of the Spartan boy and the fox. Someone who ought to take her own advice.”

With that he fell silent, and soon his breathing was deep and even and he slept, while I lay wakeful long into the night, thinking of all we had learned.

T
he next morning I woke to find Stoker had risen and gone, the flask of aguardiente entirely empty. He must have wakened some time in the night and finished it off, but I did not mind.

“‘Take it,'” I muttered, thinking of Sir Philip Sidney, “‘thy necessity is greater than mine.'” I refilled the flask with plain whiskey from the store cupboard—not half as potent, but useful in a pinch, I decided—and still there was no sign of Stoker. The little room for washing was empty, so he must have already attended to his ablutions. I did the same, pleased to find that my arm was stiff but there was no sign of incipient infection. Whatever his professional faults, he was a gifted doctor. I dressed myself with a little difficulty and opened the door upon a June morning dazzling enough to lift the dourest spirits. Flowers bloomed around the door of the Belvedere, and drifts of early rambling roses were just unfurling their petals, filling the morning with their fragrance. I stood upon the step, drawing in great lungfuls of the air, as good as any to be found in London.

Just then I heard a wet snuffling sound as the bushes gave an ominous rustle. Before I could whisk myself back into the Belvedere, the beast was upon me. A massive creature of bunched muscle and long fur hurled itself aloft, knocking me squarely to the ground before coming to sit firmly upon my chest. A wet, lolloping tongue caressed my cheek, and hot breath redolent of meat blew into my face. I thanked heaven for the thickness of my Psyche knot, which had taken the force of the creature's violent affections and softened my landing. Doubtless it had saved me from a nasty blow to the back of the head.

“Betty! I say, Betty, come back here!” A man broke through the bushes and stopped short. “My dear lady, I am most heartily sorry. Betty! Betony, desist this instant!” He accompanied his order with a sharp tug to the beast's collar, and she withdrew from my person, sitting next to me with an adoring expression.

The man came forward to help me up, and I saw then he was a gentleman, dressed in a country suit of rugged tweeds. I took his hand and got slowly to my feet.

“I must apologize again. I do hope Betony has not hurt you. She is a puppy, really, and poorly trained.”

“She is charming,” I said, almost meaning it. I patted my head. “And I think my hair took the worst of it.” I felt for my pins, but they were secure, and I dusted my skirts, wincing only a little as my arm gave a sudden throb of protest.

“You are hurt,” he said. “We must determine how extensive the injury is.”

“It is nothing,” I assured him. “At least nothing that the dog has done, I promise you, my lord. You
are
Lord Rosemorran?”

He blinked several times, as if trying to recall something. “Rosemorran? Oh yes. That's me. I say, have we met?”

“I am afraid not. My name is Veronica Speedwell, and I am trespassing.”

“Trespassing? How very original. We do get the odd vagrant creeping about the place from time to time, but never a woman, at least not a clean woman with good vowels who could spot a lord at five paces. Any particular reason for trespassing here?”

“It is my fault, milord,” came a voice from behind him. Lord Rosemorran turned just as Bet launched herself again, this time at Stoker. “Down,
down
, you ridiculous creature,” Stoker ordered, his affectionate tone belying the command. Bet ignored it, planting her hind feet upon the ground and resting her front paws on Stoker's shoulders. In spite of his height of some six feet, she topped him by inches, and he ruffled her ears, earning himself several long licks for his pains.

“Stoker? Good to see you. How is my elephant coming along?”

“Not very well,” Stoker said, his voice muffled by the dog's thick fur. I noticed he had resumed his eye patch and his voice was rough. He looked every inch the ruffian, no doubt the aftereffects of too much aguardiente.

“Stoker is in hiding from the Metropolitan Police,” I volunteered.

“Indeed? What do they want with him?” Lord Rosemorran was as unflappable as his sister, it seemed, and I decided to tell him the truth.

“It has to do with Baron von Stauffenbach's murder.”

“Ah yes. Dreadful business, that. Frightful shame. He was a good fellow, the baron. One of the best. Borrowed my Thucydides. Suppose it's gone forever now,” he said, his tone abstracted. He fell silent a moment, his expression vacant, then collected himself. “So, what do the police think he had to do with the murder?”

“They think he might have killed the baron, which of course he did not. I know this for a fact,” I assured him.

“No one would ever believe he did,” he replied stoutly, and I decided in that moment that I liked him. He was younger than I had expected, barely clearing forty, I should have guessed, and though his appearance was somewhat untidy in the manner of all distracted scholars, his manners were gentle and his face surprisingly attractive. He had his sister's kindly dark eyes and a twist to his mouth that spoke of good humor.

“Yes, well, the police do not see it that way, at least not yet,” Stoker told him, pushing the dog firmly to the ground. She gave a low groan, as if sulking, but sat at his feet and he dropped a hand to her head. “I should like very much to prove it. In the meantime, I have taken refuge in the Belvedere without your leave—so unsporting, no apology could possibly suffice.”

I noted his careful omission of Lady Cordelia's role in securing our bolt-hole, and he flicked me a quick glance to warn me to give nothing away as his lordship began to speak.

“Well, but if Miss—er, I am sorry, I have forgot your name.” Lord Rosemorran looked to me.

“Speedwell.”

“Speedwell. Like the plant? Charming. If Miss Speedwell can provide you with an alibi, then surely you are in the clear.”

“It is entirely likely that the police will not be satisfied with my assurances,” I said.

“Ah well, that is a pity. Surely it will all come right in the end,” he said, cheering himself with his platitude. “And you're quite welcome to stay here as long as you like. You shan't be in anyone's way. Now, let us go into the Belvedere. I've had a rather good idea for the elephant's trunk, Stoker . . .”

I marveled at his lordship's easy acceptance of a fugitive finding sanctuary on his property, but he seemed entirely unruffled as he led the way into his collections, tossing questions behind him with little expectation of replies. “Have you found it comfortable in here? I must say, I shouldn't like the notion of sleeping amidst all of this death and decay. Of course, we've never had talk of ghosts in this part of Bishop's Folly, but one never knows. Have you seen ghosts since you have been here? No, of course not. Do hope you've had a good rootle around the old collections. Miss Speedwell, is there anything in particular here you would like to take a closer look at whilst Stoker and I talk?”

Stoker spoke up. “Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist.”

“A lepidopterist! Why didn't you say so? You'll want the Butterfly Cabinet,” he said, changing course as erratically as a bee. He plunged down one aisle between his collections to make for an enormous piece of furniture that had been built to fit snugly between two of the great columns of the room. It was securely locked, but the key was hanging from a tassel that had been slung over a ram's horn nearby. His lordship opened the cabinet and stood back.

“Not a bad little collection,” he began.

He said other things after that, but I did not hear him. From the tail of my eye I had seen it, beckoning, shimmering just at the edge of my vision. I moved on sleepwalking feet, ignoring my host entirely. He and Stoker must have fallen into conversation, for I heard the rise and fall of their voices, but I had no care for anything but
him
.

I stopped a scant inch from the glass and put out a finger. I heard a low moan and realized it had come from my own throat.

“Miss Speedwell? Is everything quite all right?”

“Trogonoptera brookiana,”
I said reverently. “Rajah Brooke's Birdwing.”

His lordship came to stand at my elbow. “Ah yes. Lovely, isn't it?”

It was stunning. Seven inches across and shimmering with light, the creature had wings as black as night blazed across with a streak of emerald green richer than any jewel in the queen's possession. A neat ruby head surmounted it all, and from this sprouted a pair of slender black antennae, curved as delicately as lace. The green slash ended in points, like feathers, and the vivid color was threaded with black capillaries, as though someone had drawn them in ink with the finest nib. It was this spectacular butterfly that had driven me to Sumatra in spite of the rumblings of Krakatoa. Such a small and fragile thing to have changed my life, I reflected.

I paid homage to his stilled beauty while his lordship went on. “From Sumatra, you know. Alfred Russel Wallace.”

“Yes, he discovered and named it in 1855,” I told him.

“Yes, I think my father acquired it from him in 1860 or thereabouts.”

I turned slowly to face him. “You mean
this
specimen—”

“Came from Sumatra with Wallace, yes. Wallace brought a few home with him, and my father bought one. Capital fellow, isn't he?”

His voice was blandly cheerful, but when I flicked a glance to Stoker, I saw from his expression that he understood. The Earl of Rosemorran was a kindly man and perhaps even a devoted scholar, but he had not the slightest comprehension of the magnitude of his collection. I turned again to the butterfly, realizing with a start that it was merely one of a few hundred pinned specimens. They were mounted with Continental pins, my own preference, for the longer pin permitted a more thorough label to be attached, although the next to catch my attention was sadly anonymous.

“Lycaena dispar,”
I said, my voice somewhat strangled. “The Large Copper. This butterfly has been extinct for the better part of thirty years.”

“Has it indeed?” his lordship asked. “I'm afraid many of the labels have come off, and I don't know much about them. Interested in butterflies, are you, Miss Speedwell?”

Stoker took pity upon my nearly speechless state. “Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist by profession,” he reminded the earl.

His lordship's brows lifted. “Yes, I recall now you said so. Why, that is most intriguing. A lady scientist,” he said in a tone of wonderment. “What will they think of next?”

“There have been ladies interested in science since before Mary Shelley,” said a slightly astringent voice behind us. We turned as one to find Lady Cordelia, her expression carefully neutral. Only the sharpness of her tone betrayed any impatience. But it was an impatience tempered with real affection as she looked at her brother. “I see you have discovered my guests, Ambrose.”

“Your guests? They didn't say. Miss Speedwell told me they were trespassing.”

“Miss Speedwell no doubt thought to shield me from the consequences of harboring a fugitive from justice,” she said with a touch of her previous warmth. “But she and Stoker are here at my invitation.”

“And mine now,” her brother returned. “D'ye know, Cordelia, Miss Speedwell knows butterflies. That might be handy. We have said for ages we needed to catalog these fellows,” he added with a nod to the lepidoptery collection.

Lady Cordelia inclined her head. “It would indeed be kind of Miss Speedwell to lend her expertise, but I am afraid there are more pressing matters to contend with, Ambrose. You see, Stoker—”

“Is wanted by the police to help with their inquiries,” he finished irritably. “I know that. Damned insolent of them, if you'll pardon the language, Miss Speedwell.”

“Certainly. And I agree. Insolent indeed. But the police will pursue him until they find him. They are convinced of his involvement in the baron's murder.”

“Did you find anything in his house?” Lady Cordelia asked.

I opened my mouth, but before I could reply, Stoker responded. “Nothing of note,” he said flatly.

She clucked her tongue. “Pity. I had high hopes that you might discover something that would implicate another or at least provide a motive for his murder.”

Stoker did not elaborate, and if his lordship wondered what we had been doing in the house of a murdered man, he did not ask.

“Well,” Lady Cordelia said briskly, “as the secret of your presence here is out, you are welcome to remove your things to the guest rooms in the main house. We have plenty of space.”

Stoker held up a hand. “Very kind of you, my lady. But I think Miss Speedwell and I would be more comfortable remaining here.”

“Of course,” she conceded gracefully.

“So long as his lordship approves,” I put in quickly.

The earl gave a nod, clearly uninterested in mundane arrangements, and after a lengthy discussion about his enormous elephant trophy, he took his leave to return to his study while Lady Cordelia pleaded domestic responsibilities. I turned to Stoker.

“What was your purpose in that?”

“Hm?”

“Lying to Lady Cordelia about what we found in the baron's study.”

His brow was furrowed. “Too soon to share. We have made no sense of it yet. All we have discovered is that you are the daughter of an actress—”

“And illegitimate,” I threw in.

“It is not gentlemanly of me to stress the point, but yes, illegitimate to boot. And we know that somehow the baron was involved in acting as go-between in this liaison. We further know that at some point your mother died, possibly by your father's hand, possibly not. But her death left you in the care of the Harbottles, women who were so afraid that they changed your name and moved you from place to place.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Do you suppose they killed your mother in order to keep you for their own?”

I narrowed my gaze into my severest look. “Do not be daft. Those gentle old women—it's unthinkable. And neither do I believe the baron's involvement in covering up my birth was a motive to murder him. It is all quite ancient history, after all. It happened a quarter of a century ago.”