A Curious Beginning (29 page)

De Clare's face went utterly blank as the shock of his loss settled upon him. In that instant, reason deserted him. He went for Stoker, his hands at Stoker's throat. The surprise of the attack had caught Stoker off guard and bowled him over onto his back, my uncle throttling him as they went down heavily. Stoker drove one knee upward into my uncle's chest, sending him flying backward through the air and squarely against the cauldron. My uncle dangled a moment above the flames, flailing wildly. Stoker made a grab at him, catching de Clare's waistcoat in his fist and pulling him from danger, but it was too late. The trailing tails of his coat dragged through the fire, igniting instantly. Stoker released him and de Clare staggered back against the cauldron.

He pushed himself free unsteadily, the fire a ghoulish nimbus as he staggered towards the windows. His progress was jerky, like that of an automaton whose clockworks have begun to fail. He stopped and started, careering from table to shelves, grasping at anything in his path—furniture, mounted animals, teetering stacks of books. I like to think it was horror that paralyzed Sir Hugo, for he was closest and might have stopped my uncle and smothered the flames. But he stood motionless, watching, mouth agape, along with the rest of us, as Edmund de Clare flung himself out the window and into the fetid green waters of the Thames. We heard the splash as he entered the water, and then a terrible silence.

Before Sir Hugo or Mornaday could stop them, the rest of the Irish seized their chance, bolting out the window after Edmund and diving straight into the river. But the escape of the miscreants was the least of our worries. Edmund's frantic stagger through the workshop had set piles of papers and tanned skins alight, and the flames raced along, seizing specimens and books and newspapers in their greedy grip.

Stoker turned to me. “Get out, now! The whole place is going up!” The Wardian cases began to explode from the heat, shattering glass and chemicals over everything, the specimens dying a second death as the sawdust within them—saturated in flammable solutions—ignited with a fury.

Stoker shoved me at Mornaday and the detective responded, wrapping his arms about me to hurry me from the burning building, with Sir Hugo hard upon our heels. We reached the pavement outside to find the neighbors emerging from their lodgings, faces either aghast or avid with interest as they realized the warehouse was on fire.

I gulped in deep drafts of the smoky air as I did a swift inventory of my person. Appendages and hair were unscorched, although my costume was a little the worse for wear, streaked with soot and singed a little at the hem where my skirt had brushed a burning stack of natural history journals on the way out.

I turned to Stoker, when I realized he was not beside me. I whirled to see him making his way back into the burning building.

“Stoker!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

He gave me one last look. “I am going back for my bloody dog!”

Terror gripped my throat as Mornaday and Sir Hugo thrust me further into the crisp, clear evening air, where we were attended by Sir Hugo's men. They were dressed in plain clothes, not the proper uniforms of police officers, but they were obedient to Sir Hugo, bringing blankets and nips of whiskey from pocket flasks and asking repeatedly if they should attempt to summon the fire brigade. Sir Hugo instructed them against it. He watched in perfect composure as the building burned, his lips pressed together in an expression of detached satisfaction. I could understand why. This was a preferable solution to the problem of Edmund de Clare. A trial for the baron's murder would have meant publicity. This way, Edmund de Clare would vanish into the waters of the Thames, and his plot would disappear with him. Whether his claim of having a host of men waiting outside had been a prevarication or the truth, we would never know. No one came forward, and in other circumstances I would have been amused to think that Edmund de Clare had bluffed the head of Scotland Yard.

I knew precisely how to puncture Sir Hugo's sangfroid. “You are content to let Stoker's home burn?” I asked, not troubling to conceal the acid in my tone.

“There are greater considerations afoot,” he replied with maddening calm. He had a neat little beard of the sort that Stuart kings used to wear, and he stroked it, no doubt in satisfaction.

I gave him a grim smile. “Yes, well, mind you have your men trawl that section of the Thames for Edmund de Clare's body, although they shan't find it. It's rather shallow just there. I daresay he managed to get away quite handily.”

To my enormous pleasure, Sir Hugo blinked. “Shallow?”

“Deep enough to prevent him from sustaining further injury from the jump, but not so deep as to present any real danger of drowning is my guess,” I elaborated. “He has a boat, you know. And while he may not be the cleverest of criminal masterminds, a man with even rudimentary common sense would have taken the precaution of arranging his means of leaving our little rendezvous tonight. What better route than the river? You did not expect it, I daresay. And with Silent John and those other two ruffians to aid him, I suspect he is already halfway down the Thames.”

Behind him, Mornaday hid his smile behind a hand at his superior's discomfiture. Sir Hugo's nostrils flared slightly. It was an elegant nose and he used it to good effect.

“My dear Miss Speedwell, I hardly think—”

“I'm only surprised Inspector Mornaday did not tell you all about it.”

“You knew he had a boat?” Sir Hugo whirled on Mornaday and fixed him with a cold eye that promised retribution of the most painful sort. I turned away. As much as it would please me to see Mornaday get his comeuppance, I could no longer hide my concern for Stoker's fate. He had been in that burning building far too long. I kept my eyes fixed upon the door, watching the smoke billow forth and the hellish flames grow higher and higher. I heard the riverside wall give way, bricks and beams tumbling into the Thames just where my uncle had gone in, and another woman might have prayed. But I could not. I looked down at my hands and saw crescents of blood, the relics of my fingernails digging into my palms.

My focus narrowed onto the smoke that rolled and hissed like a living thing, and then it parted a moment, and a figure emerged. It was Stoker, a little the worse for wear, but cradling a yawning Huxley, who was snuffling about in search of a sausage.

My knees threatened to give way. “Fool,” I muttered.

Stoker shrugged. “He is family.”

The undercover police officers kept the peace, pushing the avid spectators back as the fire burned itself out. Because the warehouse was detached, no other businesses or lodgings were put in danger, and in due course, Sir Hugo permitted the fire brigade to be summoned to finish off the job.

I turned to see Mornaday looking distinctly cowed after his upbraiding and Sir Hugo staring at me in something like disbelief. I had the feeling that very few people ever surprised him.

“That was your only chance to claim a throne,” he said.

“That was never what I wanted.” I pulled the blanket closer about my shoulders. “I think we can agree that I am no longer a threat? To the Crown or to your master?”

He hesitated. “In spite of my better judgment, I will do my best to be persuasive upon the point to the parties most concerned. We will speak again tomorrow. I will send word of the time,” he said, dismissing me with a flick of the finger. It was then I realized instinctively that Sir Hugo had always known my whereabouts. Whatever games he played, they were deep ones, and I wondered precisely how far his tentacles could reach.

Whilst Sir Hugo was directing his men, Stoker and Huxley and I slipped away. “He said he wants to see us again. You left without giving him our direction. He shan't like that,” Stoker noted as we trudged through the darkening streets on weary feet.

“He will know where to find us,” was my only reply.

I
collapsed into bed without washing, the smell of smoke heavy in my hair, soot still staining my hands. I was more exhausted than I had ever been in the whole of my life. The revelations of the past few days finally came crashing down upon me, and when I woke it was to find the late morning sun streaming across the floor of the Belvedere. Stoker handed me a cup of tea, bitter and dark.

“You look like hell,” he said quietly. For his part, he was washed and dressed as tidily as I had ever seen him. I sipped at my tea, grateful for the warmth of it seeping into my bones. His expression was inscrutable. “I have seen Lady C. and told her we are back.”

“For the moment,” I said waspishly. For the first time in my life, having no fixed home was something thorny and unpleasant, but it was nothing compared to the guilt I felt over having played a part in destroying his.

Stoker did not respond to this. He merely gave me a long look. “Finish your tea and then have a wash. It is time to go.”

I lifted my eyes from the cup. “Montgomerie?”

He nodded and we said no more. I washed and dressed and finished my tea, and Stoker and I presented ourselves at police headquarters for our interview with Sir Hugo. I had expected endless miles of corridors and functionaries to navigate, but we were met at an unmarked street door by one of his men and whisked up a private stair and directly into Sir Hugo's office—as discreet an entrance as it was possible to make at Scotland Yard.

Sir Hugo was settled behind his desk, and I was surprised to find he used a slender Regency writing table instead of a more traditional—and expected—barricade of mahogany. The effect was one of intimacy. Even opposite him, we were seated near enough that I could make out the lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked a little fatigued, but not much the worse for wear after our ordeal. His beard was neatly groomed, and his clothes were expertly tailored. I suspected Sir Hugo of having a private income as well as his stipend as head of the Yard—or perhaps his shadowy master rewarded him handsomely, I reflected with some cynicism.

Mornaday stood quietly in the corner, his posture not entirely relaxed. I wondered how harshly he had been disciplined for his easy treatment of us. Stoker sat in a chair scarcely large enough to contain him, and I perched on the edge of mine, tipping my head inquiringly at Sir Hugo.

To my astonishment, he smiled, a rather beautiful smile, and when he spoke, it was with something approaching sincerity. “Miss Speedwell, it might surprise you to know I am pleased that you emerged unscathed from the activities of last night.”

“It would,” I acknowledged.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, his tone warmer than I had yet heard it. “In fact, we have a thing or two in common. For instance, I am a butterfly collector myself. Inspector Mornaday tells me you have a very fine ring net, although I must say I am partial to a clap net myself.”

I returned the smile. “Sir Hugo, I know when a man wants something from me. You needn't exercise your charm on my account—particularly as I suspect that only my destroying those papers prevented you from taking my life.”

He gaped at me. “My dear Miss Speedwell—”

“You deny it? Was there really no plot at all to kill me and lay the blame squarely upon Mr. Stoker? Forgive me, Mr. Templeton-Vane, as you know him,” I amended.

Sir Hugo continued to gawp as I went on in the same gentle tone. “I believe there was. Furthermore, I believe that only my prompt action last night prevented you from carrying it out.”

“I am a gentleman,” he returned coldly. “I would never have gone through—” Too late, he realized he had acknowledged the plot. I dared not look at Stoker.

Sir Hugo cleared his throat and began again. “Miss Speedwell, I do not deny that there were certain parties that believed only your complete removal would ensure the security of this nation, and indeed the empire itself. I disagreed, most strenuously,” he said with special emphasis, “and I would never have countenanced such an action, either from myself or any of my subordinates.”

He fell to silence and I let his words sit for a moment between us. At last, I gave him a grudging nod. “My instincts seldom fail me, Sir Hugo, and I believe you to be a man of honor who would balk at murdering a woman whose only crime is an accident of birth.” His stiffness eased a trifle, but I leaned forward, skewering him with a glance. “I also believe that you are very glad I destroyed those proofs so you did not have to test your own conscience.”

Before he could respond, I sat back, folding my hands in my lap. “Now that we have dispensed with the pretenses, why don't you tell us what you want with us.”

His mouth slackened. “Very well. I will be as forthright as you wish, Miss Speedwell.” He opened the blotter on his desk and removed a piece of paper, folded over. He slid it across the desk towards me.

I opened the paper to find it was nearly blank. Except for a figure penned in neat, exact numbers. “What is this?”

“Your pension. I have spoken with my superior,” he said, his mouth twitching upon the word. Clearly he remembered my taunts of the night before—remembered and resented. “Destroying the proofs of your possible legitimacy was taken as a gesture of good faith,” he told me with deliberate stress upon the word “possible.” “You must consider this a reciprocal gesture of goodwill.”

I pushed the paper back across the desk and rose. “Thank you, Sir Hugo. But you may inform your superior that I do not require hush money. I burned the papers to prove I have no intention of pressing a claim. My word should be good enough.”

He rose swiftly to his feet, as did Stoker. “Miss Speedwell, I am not a man who likes to revisit his opinions. I form them swiftly and they are invariably correct. But Inspector Mornaday has been eloquent on your behalf. While I must question your judgment in the company you choose to keep,” he added with a flick of a glance towards Stoker, “I would like to believe you do not mean to bring harm to the family.”

“Then believe it.”

He touched the page. “Accepting this token of their gratitude would go a long way towards accomplishing that.”

“No, Sir Hugo. It would go a long way towards putting me in their debt—a position I have no intention of occupying.”

He looked appealingly at Stoker. “Can you not exercise some influence in this?”

Stoker shrugged. “I could sooner influence the sun to set in the east, Sir Hugo. She is entirely her own woman.”

The rush of gratitude I felt for Stoker's understanding nearly made me dizzy. Never before had I encountered a man so willing to abandon his allegedly God-given right to dominion over the fairer sex.

Sir Hugo returned his attention to me, raising an imperious brow. “Without your cooperation in this matter, I do not know how far I can go towards ensuring the continued goodwill of my superior.”

I lifted my chin and gave him my most imperious stare. “I am willing to take my chances, but know this, Sir Hugo—if there are any further acts of hostility, you may rest assured they will not begin with me.”

I turned on my heel and walked out, calling over my shoulder, “Adieu for now, Sir Hugo.”

Mornaday hurried to show us out, shepherding us down the staircase and opening the door that led onto the pavement. “That was unexpected,” he told me with a grin. “But I have come to expect the unexpected from you, Miss Speedwell.”

I put out my hand. “Thank you, Inspector Mornaday, for all your efforts on our behalf.”

He took my hand, shaking it slowly. His look was inscrutable and he gathered Stoker in with it. “I do not know how bad this is all going to get. I believe you are safe for now. Just, keep yourself quiet, will you? The less you draw attention to yourselves, the sooner they will feel secure and the sooner they will believe you mean them no harm.”

Stoker gave him a searching glance. “I still owe you a thrashing, Mornaday. But I am prepared to forgo the pleasure in exchange for a bit of information.”

Mornaday's eyes widened a fraction as they settled on Stoker's shoulders, broad and set as they were with murderous intent. “I am listening,” he said quickly.

“I would like to know who is sitting in the shadows watching all of this. Tell us the name of the fellow giving Sir Hugo's orders. We might like to look out for him.”

Mornaday cast a look back over his shoulder, shaking his head. “More than my job is worth, man. More than my
life
is worth. But I can tell you this—you have it wrong. There is no ‘him.' It is a ‘her.'”

With that he retreated into the building and pulled the door shut behind him.

•   •   •

Stoker and I spoke little upon our journey back to Bishop's Folly, and when we reached the estate, a heaviness had settled upon us both. I felt tired down to my marrow, a weariness so deep the sleep of a hundred years seemed inadequate to remedy it. I was aware with creeping horror that the lowness I felt was not simply because our adventure was at an end, but because so much was left imperfectly finished. There would be no justice for the baron's murderer, at least not at the present. Whatever my father's presence in my life had been hitherto, it was now clear that his interest in me would never extend to a meeting. I realized then that he was the person to whom Max had referred when he said the secrets were not his to tell. He intended to consult someone, and who besides the prince himself would command Max's discretion and loyalty? Perhaps the baron had even planned to arrange a meeting between us. I could imagine him accomplishing this rapprochement. If anyone could have persuaded the prince to come face-to-face with the daughter he had abandoned, it would have been the baron. But with the loss of this sole intermediary to remind him of his hapless youth, the prince could put it behind him, leaving the uncomfortable knowledge of my existence to Special Branch to mind for him—perhaps with an annual report he might skim and then toss aside before he settled to a good roast beef dinner and a game of whist.

But above all this was the knowledge that my time with Stoker was finished too, and that realization burned the rest to ash. Unsolved puzzles abounded at present, and Stoker himself was not the least of these. I still had not yet divined the cause of his friendship with Lady Cordelia or his antipathy for his family. I had not discovered his wife's fate or heard the story of the man he had murdered. I was convinced he carried within him a thousand fathoms, and I had plumbed so few. I wanted to know everything about him, but I felt like Schliemann standing upon the buried walls of Troy. The truth was there, waiting to be unearthed. If only I had time . . . We were free to go our separate ways, no longer bound by investigation or curiosity or whatever strange sympathy had held us together. We were free, but this liberty felt like the bitterest imprisonment. The thought of living the rest of my life without his irascible temper to challenge me, his idle verses to cheer me, his pockets full of sweets and his mind full of secrets and sorrows . . . but it would profit me nothing to dwell upon these.

And so I sat down to dinner and made polite chat with the Beauclerks. Stoker and I exchanged glances, both of us keenly aware that our time at Bishop's Folly must be at an end. I waited for him to explain that the investigation into the baron's murder was in abeyance—some prevarication would be required here—and that we no longer required their hospitality. But he said nothing, and the words stuck in my throat as well. His lordship had just received a mummy he was tremendously enthused about, and he was happy to carry the weight of conversation, but Stoker could bear no more company. He excused himself as soon as the sweet was served, and Lady Cordelia rose as well.

“I ought to look in on the children,” she said vaguely, taking herself upstairs and leaving me alone with his lordship.

He shoved the decanter of port in my direction. “I may not be very good with people, Miss Speedwell, but even I could sense an atmosphere tonight. Tell me your troubles, if you like.”

Before I could stop myself, the words began to pour out of me, a trickle at first, then a torrent, aided by a sympathetic ear and quantities of a very excellent port. Naturally, I did not relate the most dangerous details of our adventure, but I told him enough for him to understand we had been in peril of our lives and that the peril seemed to have passed, at least for now. I told him of Stoker's losses and my own dullness of feeling now that the escapade was finished, of my lowness of spirit and my horror at having large ambitions and not a generous enough purse to fund them.

To my astonishment, his lordship proved an excellent listener, and when I had concluded, he ordered strong tea for us both. It had grown late—or early, I realized, as the streaks of dawn had begun to gild the sky. Morning came early at midsummer, and we had talked through the night. But I felt cleansed now, purged of my worries, and as light as ether.

“It was very good of you not to give us away to the police,” I told him. “You are a true friend to Stoker.”

He looked uncomfortable, as all Englishmen do when complimented. “He has been a good friend to me. Or rather, my sister. The precise nature of their relationship eludes me, but Cordelia has informed me Stoker offered her friendship and succor at a time when she was most in need of it. Whatever that means,” he added with a rueful smile.

If I had hoped to hear revelations concerning the origin of their relationship, I was doomed to disappointment. His lordship was not a man to pry—as I had just learned to my own advantage. He had been a restful companion and a good listener as well as kindly.

As if intuiting my questions about why Lady Cordelia had not confided in him, he shook his head. “I am no good with ladies' troubles.”

“You have done remarkably well with mine,” I pointed out.

He flushed a little, the same becoming rose shade as his sister when something excited her emotions. “I find listening to you to be very interesting. I have not much experience with ladies, you know. My sister, of course. And my aunt. My wife. But they were all calm, unruffled. Very capable women. None of them has had need of me to solve their problems, so I have little skill with it. I only hope I can learn before my children require me,” he added with a furrowed brow. I saw then that I had judged him a little harshly. It was not his intention to burden his sister with the care of his children, any more than it had been his intention to leave his offspring too often to their own devices. He lacked the skills to communicate with them, but not the will, and with the will, all else could be made right.