As I had anticipated, the invitation, coupled with the action of throwing open the door of the Belvedere and offering a welcoming smile, unsettled them both. The fellow looked doubtfully at Stoker, but he must have realized that following me into the Belvedere would at least get him further than standing upon the doorstep. I showed him in, turning up the gaslights as I went. Stoker trailed behind, hands thrust in his pockets, a sullen expression on his face.
I led the way to the upstairs snug so we might sit comfortably, but I did not offer refreshment. Stoker was clearly annoyed his brother had made an appearance and I knew I should have to answer for inviting him in. No sense in compounding my sins.
I gave the visitor a cordial look. He was dressed like a parson, but untidily so. His hair was a tumbled mass of ruddy waves and his cuffs were impressively smeared with ink and a substance that looked suspiciously like yellow custard. Spectacles perched low on his nose and he peered over them with a charmingly owlish expression. The scattering of freckles across his cheeks spoke to time out of doors, and with a connoisseur’s practiced eye I detected a fine breadth of muscular shoulder and thigh under his unfortunate clothes.
He was staring at me in open-mouthed scrutiny, and I waited him out, saying nothing, until he collected himself with a shake and a thoroughly enchanting blush. “I say, that was terribly rude. You must, that is—I am speaking to Miss Veronica Speedwell, am I not?”
“You are,” I affirmed.
“My brother Sir Rupert Templeton-Vane has described you. In exacting detail,” he added in a strangled voice.
“Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting Sir Rupert a few months ago. He was very helpful in a professional capacity.”
“Was he? He never said,” the youngster replied, at which I felt a marginal sense of relief. Stoker and I had consulted with Sir Rupert on a matter of tremendous import and the greatest secrecy. It was comforting to know he regarded the incident as confidential.
The younger Templeton-Vane fell to silence again, staring at me, and I turned to Stoker. “Shall we ask what he wants?”
Stoker shrugged. “You invited him in. That makes him your guest, not mine.”
I tipped my head as I regarded the fellow. “Is he often prone to fugue states? He looks a little slow.”
Again, our caller gave himself a little shake and blushed. “I am sorry. It is only that I have never met a bad woman before.”
I could not suppress a snort of laughter, but Stoker surged forward, lifting his younger brother up by his dog collar. Merryweather’s feet kicked out and he grasped Stoker’s steely forearm, but to no avail. Stoker was not much his superior in inches, but his strength was prodigious. He lifted the boy as if the youngster were made of thistledown.
“Apologize, you little carbuncle,” Stoker instructed in a low voice. There was a strangled sound, and Stoker gave him a shake. “I can do this all day, Merry. You, I suspect, cannot.”
Another strangled sound and the fellow nodded as well as he was able. Stoker merely opened his grip, dropping him to the chair where he gasped and wheezed for some minutes before he could speak. When he did, it was with considerable effort and an obvious terror of his brother.
“I . . . ap-apologize,” he managed.
“Think nothing of it,” I returned cordially. “But I am curious about the source of your information.”
“I’m not,” Stoker put in. “No parson would dare be that sanctimonious. I can smell the stink of our eldest brother all over that particular remark.”
I turned to our guest. “Oh? Does the new viscount have a low opinion of me?”
The parson straightened his dog collar, now unfortunately crushed beyond all repair. “Tiberius—Lord Templeton-Vane now—has a curious sense of humor, I am afraid.” He eyed me curiously. “I must say, you are taking this all awfully well.”
I shrugged. “Can his lordship reconcile the competing theories of evolution proposed by Darwin and Lamarck?”
The fellow shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I am certain he could not.”
“Then he is by far the least interesting of the Templeton-Vane brothers to me. His opinion therefore matters not at all,” I assured him as I tossed Stoker a quick smile. Stoker had written a paper upon that very subject that was still the finest I had read. He might have spent the better part of the past four years burying himself in drink and the taxidermic arts, but I had hopes of resurrecting his career as a promising natural historian with or without his cooperation.
Stoker did not return the smile. He was too busy staring at his younger brother with an expression that would have given Medusa pause. The boy noticed and swallowed hard. At this rate, he would break his Adam’s apple altogether. I sighed.
“Stoker, do stop looming over him. You have obviously given him a fright. Now, promise you won’t abuse him any more on my behalf.”
He grunted by way of reply, but it was enough to console his brother, and when Stoker took a chair, straddling it like a saddle and resting his forearms upon the back, the younger man relaxed a little.
“I really do apologize,” Merryweather told me. “I have made quite a bad start, and really, it is a pity. I practiced it so many times.”
I felt a smile tug at my lips, but I dared not give it free rein. He was so deliciously serious in spite of his youth. “Tell me, Mr. Templeton-Vane, what is your situation?”
“I am the youngest of the sons of the sixth Viscount Templeton-Vane,” he replied promptly. “I have taken holy orders and I have the living at Cherboys.”
“Cherboys?” I inquired.
“The family seat in Devonshire,” Stoker supplied. “The village just beyond is called Dearsley, and Merry has the living there.”
“How very nice,” I said. “It sounds like something out of Dickens.”
Merryweather pulled a face. “Not really. I don’t much care for the life of a clergyman, you see. But Father insisted. He gave me the living before he died, and now I find I am rather sunk.”
“How?” I asked.
“Tiberius, in his role as the new viscount and head of the family, won’t hear of me giving it up.”
I did not look at Stoker, but I knew he had rolled his eyes heavenwards. “For God’s sake, Merry, he hasn’t chained you to the bloody church. Just walk away.”
Merryweather’s eyes rounded in amazement. “But I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” I inquired. “Is there some other obligation attaching you to this church?”
“What? No, of course not. I am merely the vicar,” he replied in some confusion.
“Then you can leave,” I pointed out.
“Of course I can’t,” he argued. “One does not simply leave a family like ours.”
“Stoker did,” I reminded him.
“But Stoker is—” He broke off, his eyes rolling white as he cast a quick look at his elder brother.
“Go on,” Stoker instructed softly. “Say it.”
He bit at his lip. “I was merely going to say that Stoker is different,” he said to me. “And I am not meant to be here talking about me,” he went on, gaining in confidence a little. “I am meant to be talking to you.” He turned to his brother. “His lordship wishes to see you. And if you will not see him, he requests that you will at least do him the courtesy of responding to the correspondence sent by the family solicitors.”
Stoker roused himself a little. “I have more interest in contracting boils upon my backside than having any conversation with Tiberius.”
The vicar goggled at this but bravely carried on. “Stoker, you cannot just—”
“Yes, I can,” Stoker said quietly. He gave a sigh. “Merry, you’re a good lad. Bloody rude to Miss Speedwell, but you have apologized like a gentleman and if she can overlook it, I will too. Tiberius ought not to have sent you to be his errand boy. If he wants to talk to me, he can come himself.
Otherwise, leave it be.”
There was no anger in his words, but there was also no mistaking the steel girding them. He would not be moved, and the younger Templeton-Vane let his shoulders slump in defeat. Stoker’s eyes shone with malicious mischief.
“How did Tiberius get you to do this? Did you lose a coin toss?”
Merryweather flushed again and tugged at his dog collar. “We cut cards.”
“And I’ll bloody well bet he stacked the deck,” Stoker said amiably. “Haven’t you ever heard that you mustn’t gamble with another Templeton-Vane? They have the devil’s own luck because Old Nick always takes care of his own. He takes care of Tiberius more than most.”
The young parson smiled, then turned to me. “I really am most terribly sorry. Rupert told us that Stoker had called on him in chambers with a friend, a lady. And from his description of you, I am afraid his lordship rather decided to believe the worst.”
“The worst?”
He darted a nervous glance at his elder brother but went on. “That you are Stoker’s . . . well, in Biblical terms, his concubine. His lordship worried that perhaps there might be an entanglement.”
I laughed but Stoker shot me a glowering look that might have quelled an army. “Miss Speedwell is no man’s concubine,” he told his brother severely. “In fact, she takes a decidedly modern view of relations—”
“Stoker,” I cut in with a warning tone. “Don’t. You will only startle him and clearly he has delicate nerves.” I turned back to his brother. “You have delivered your message and now you have seen me, which I suspect was a twin purpose in coming here. Please assure his lordship that I am not enjoying the fruits of connubial bliss with Stoker, nor should he expect a claim upon his fortune because I am in an indelicate condition.”
Merryweather’s mouth opened and closed several times in rapid succession.
“Stoker, I think he has forgot how to make words again.”
Stoker shrugged. “Here is one for him to remember: ‘good-bye.’” He strode to his brother, but before he could raise a hand, the younger Templeton-Vane bolted from his chair, calling a swift farewell as he showed himself out.
Stoker followed to make certain he was gone but showed little inclination to continue discussion with me. He went immediately to his Bactrian, immersing himself in his work. It was merely a delay. We would have to discuss what had just happened with his brother—and the revelation I had just discovered from a very telling slip of Stoker’s tongue. But I could wait.
CHAPTER
12
A short time after young Merryweather’s departure, Lady Wellingtonia appeared at the Belvedere, bringing with her the late-afternoon post—a selection of envelopes and parcels that she had ordered the hall boy to carry. Young George nearly staggered under the weight of one of the boxes, and Stoker removed himself from his Bactrian long enough to resume his shirt and liberate the boy from his burden. The youth tugged his forelock to Lady Wellie and hurried back to the main house as Stoker unpacked the parcel.
Lady Wellie gave him a long look of appreciation, making a noise in the back of her throat very like a growl. “That is a splendid-looking man,” she said to me sotto voce. “If only I had met him when I was sixty . . .” She let her voice trail off suggestively.
I could imagine. “It was very kind of you to walk down with the post.”
She waved a hand. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I am curious to see the old place again. I haven’t been here since my coming-out ball in ’thirty-three. What a night that was!”
She looked about, clearly in a nostalgic mood. She lifted her walking stick to indicate the upper gallery. “Is there still a camp bed up in the snug? I misplaced my virtue up there. Dashing fellow he was, a Scotsman, in full clan regalia. I do like a kilt,” she added fondly.
Stoker, who was busy tearing the wrappings off his parcel like a child on Christmas morn, gave a shout. “They’ve come!” he crowed, pointing to a glass case with all the tenderness of a father tending his newborn babe. He bent over the case, slowly lowering in the remains of a desiccated rabbit.
“Who has come?” I asked as I moved near. Lady Wellie wandered off, taking a turn with her memories as she poked and prodded the various artifacts, muttering to herself.
Stoker gave a sigh of pure pleasure. “It is my colony of Dermestes maculatus.” A quick look at the case revealed a swarm of dark beetles happily tending to the unfortunate rabbit.
“Dermestid beetles? Whyever are you letting them dine upon a common rabbit?”
“I am experimenting. Some specimens are more valuable for the skeleton than the hide, and boiling them down to the bones makes an awful stench. So, when Huxley caught this unfortunate fellow, I left him to dry out and ordered a colony of these industrious little dermestids. If I leave these little lads to do their work, they will strip it all, clean as a new pin.”
“How deliciously revolting,” I said mildly.
He reared back, his expression hurt. “It is not. It is nature, red in tooth and claw,” he rebuked. “They’re very tidy, you know—like provincial housewives.”
He bent to watching them again as they studiously began the task of stripping the dry flesh from the bones of the rabbit, and I settled to the far less gruesome chore of sorting the post while Lady Wellie moved to the display cabinet nearest the desk.
She picked up a specimen at random and turned it over, peering intently. “What is this?”
“A coprolite. Fossilized excrement,” I replied helpfully. She made a moue of distaste, replacing the coprolite as I slit open a parcel. It was smaller than Stoker’s beloved dermestids, a pasteboard box just large enough to hold a long iron key.
“What is that?” Lady Wellie asked, looking over my shoulder. I removed the key from its wrapping of cotton wool, hoping to find a note.
“I cannot say,” I told her. “There is no letter to accompany it. Curious design, isn’t it?” The key was black and as long as a man’s palm. The end of it was heavily filigreed in an intricate design.
I gave a sudden sharp intake of breath, reaching for a magnifying glass.
“What do you see?” Lady Wellie demanded. I did not answer for a long moment as I scrutinized the elaborate design. At first glance it appeared to be leaves, but the longer I looked at the vine, a pattern began to emerge. It was a series of figures, male and female—some of them aggressively male and female—engaged in a number of spectacularly lewd acts.
I handed Lady Wellie the key and the magnifying glass. She subjected it to a thorough examination, grunting once or twice before handing them back. “Reminds me of a fellow I knew in Milan once—a contortionist. He had the most remarkable thighs.” Her eyes were dreamy.
I looked over the box and wrappings once more, but there were no clues as to the identity of the sender or the purpose of the key. I returned to the key itself, making out a set of initials engraved upon the length of it. “E.G.,” I murmured. “What the devil does that mean?”
Lady Wellie blinked. “It’s the Elysian Grotto, of course,” she said, with all the patience once might show to a moderately stupid child.
“The Elysian Grotto? What is that?”
“Oh, this younger generation,” she lamented. “Your youth really is quite wasted upon you. Have you, my gentle child, ever heard of the Hellfire Club of Sir Francis Dashwood?”
“Vaguely.”
“Then I will remedy the defects in your education. Some hundred years before I was born, Sir Francis Dashwood, one of society’s scapegraces with more money than taste, established a club for organized debauchery. He and his fellow clubmen used to cavort there with prostitutes, dabbling in the occult and other mildly fiendish practices.”
I raised a brow, but she waved her hand. “It sounds much worse than it was, I am told. Lots of chanting and conjuring devils but nothing more exciting happened than a few harmles
s orgies and perhaps the odd social disease. There were a number of copycat clubs that sprang up, and one group were the Elysian Grottoes. Where the Hellfire members devoted themselves to dark arts, the Elysians were all about pleasure. They sought to replicate the bowers of the Hedonists, giving themselves up to luxury and gratification. They built a series of grottoes around the country so they could disport themselves in comfort.”
I turned the key over in my hand. “How many were there?”
Lady Wellie shrugged. “Half a dozen? No one knows. They did not last very long. As it happens, grottoes are rather uncomfortable places to pursue pleasure—terribly damp, you know. I think the members all came down with rheumatisms. Most of the grottoes were filled in or redecorated for more mundane purposes. I doubt any survive now, except perhaps the one at Littledown.”
My heart gave a lurch. “Littledown? You mean Miles Ramsforth’s estate?”
She nodded. “That’s the one. Curious coincidence, that we were just speaking of him and now someone has sent you this key.”
“‘Curious’ is not the word,” I replied grimly.
• • •
“We are not using that key to break into Littledown,” Stoker said, folding his arms over his chest.
I had managed to persuade Lady Wellie that I knew nothing whatsoever about the origins of the key—not a difficult task since I was mystified as to who had sent it and why—and with a great deal of careful maneuvering, finally gotten her out the door. I bolted it behind her to afford us some privacy as I coaxed Stoker away from his dermestids and told him of my plan.
“Of course we are,” I said roundly. “We must. What else would we do with the key? We want to see the place where Artemisia died, and if we wait for the Ramsforth solicitors to reply to Ottilie’s request to let us in, we might be cooling our heels for days. This is our way in now.”
“Artemisia died inside Littledown, in the master bedchamber,” he reminded me. “This Elysian Grotto is a very different sort of place.”
“I am sure that it is,” I said soothingly, “but it gets us far closer to Littledown than we have yet managed. We can have a good look around while we are there, perhaps turn up a clue to the real murderer.”
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