“She is marvelous,” I said in perfect sincerity.
“She is Artemisia,” the princess replied. “That is why I wanted you to see her. I sculpted that from life, and that is how she was, tall, vigorous, full of vitality and movement. You will hear many stories of her as you investigate. Artists are famous liars,” she told us with a thin smile. “But this is the truth of her. You must not forget it.”
We were still standing and admiring the statue when the door opened and Ottilie Ramsforth entered.
“Loosy, the butler said you were here—” She broke off, at the sight of Stoker and me, I thought, but she was looking past us to the statue.
She came forward, her eyes alight with emotion. “Loosy! You’ve finished her. She’s marvelous. I could almost imagine she would speak,” she said, her voice breaking.
Princess Louise put an arm around her, and they clung together a long moment. Ottilie looked up, giving us a small, sad smile as tears trembled on her lashes.
“I do apologize. I did not mean to be a watering pot,” she said. “It is just that seeing her there, looking so lovely and so very alive . . . sometimes I cannot quite believe things have come to this.”
She broke down then, weeping on Louise’s shoulder, and it was not until Stoker stepped forward with his own enormous red handkerchief that she left off. She gave a timid little laugh.
“Again you have come to my rescue, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” she told him, wiping at her eyes. “You are very kind.”
As ever, when someone remarked upon his better qualities, Stoker blushed and said nothing. The princess clasped Ottilie’s hands. “Better now?”
Ottilie nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good,” the princess said in a decisive tone. “Because I did not ask you here merely to see the statue. I have asked Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane to deliver a report upon their progress.”
“Oh!” Ottilie Ramsforth’s face lit with interest. “You have discovered something.”
“Not precisely,” I said quickly. I had no wish to give her false hope; that would be too cruel. But I could tell her what we knew. “At first, we were inclined to the view that Her Royal Highness was engaged in a bit of wishful thinking, that she did not want Miles Ramsforth to be guilty of Artemisia’s murder. We now believe she might be right to trust in his innocence.”
Ottilie swayed a little and Stoker leapt to put his hand under her elbow, holding her steady.
“Thank you, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” she murmured. “I cannot take this in.”
“It is quite true,” he told her gently. “Before we even visited Havelock House, we were sent a threatening message.”
“A threat!” The princess’s eyes went wide. “What sort of threat?”
“A note pinned to the door of our workplace warning us to stay away. Or else,” I supplied. “And last night, after we did a bit of investigative work, we were given another.”
I withdrew the small box from my pocket and handed it to the princess. “Do not show it to Mrs. Ramsforth,” I told her.
She gave me an imperious stare as she opened the box. A single glance inside was all it took. She shrieked, dropping the box and letting the eyeball roll under a table.
Ottilie clutched at Stoker’s arm. “What was that?” she asked in a low, trembling voice. “It looked like—”
“Never mind,” he said soothingly. “It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say that it came with a promise that mutilation would ensue should we continue our efforts.”
Princess Louise made no effort to retrieve the eye, so I crawled under the table in considerable annoyance. I popped it back into its nest and replaced the box in my pocket. The princess was giving me a look of frank dislike, but I did not much mind.
“You might have warned me,” she said coldly.
“I thought you were a student of anatomy,” I replied. “Most artists are.”
She said nothing to this but turned her attention to Stoker. “Is that all?”
“No,” he told her. “We have apparently acquired not just an enemy, but a guardian angel of sorts. We were sent a key which we discovered fitted a very particular lock at Littledown.” He watched Ottilie closely, and she pulled away, coloring a little.
“The grotto,” she whispered.
“You know about it?” I asked.
She groped behind her for a place to sit and perched upon the edge of a plinth, heedless of the white dust marking her black skirts. “Of course. It is part of the history of Littledown, after all. Miles was—is,” she corrected fiercely, “is so proud of the estate. The first Ramsforth was in the Domesday Book, you know. They were always reckless and lucky, the Ramsforths, always throwing the dice and landing on a winner,” she said with an indulgent smile. “They have kept that bit of land since the Conquest. At least six different houses have been built there. But the last was Littledown, and Miles loves it so. I cannot tell you what it meant to him, to us, to rebuild it. We brought it back to beauty,” she said with pride. “And when Miles discovered the grotto and read up on the history of it, he thought it would be a grand joke of sorts to refurbish it.”
“It looks as if it has been a bit more than refurbished,” I said gently.
Ottilie colored again. “I think we can have no secrets now, if you have seen the grotto,” she said with a tight laugh. “I have already told you that childbearing was not easy for me.” She flicked a glance to Louise who was standing stiffly to the side. “You know, my dear, the heartbreak of that kind of failure.”
Louise said nothing, but her eyes were avid. She swallowed hard and gave a sharp nod. Ottilie reached out and curled her fingers around Louise’s hand. “Yes, you know. Only a woman who wants desperately to give her husband a child and cannot could understand.” She gave Louise’s hand a final squeeze and released it. “The doctors told Miles after my last failure that it was too dangerous to try again. We should have to keep separate bedchambers for the rest of our marriage.” She paused, as if picking her way through a patch of nettles. “I wanted him to be happy. I thought if he had the entertainments at the grotto to keep him diverted, he would not mind so much. And I was right. It was a bit of flummery, nothing more. He was such a boy about his collection,” she said with an indulgent smile. “He thought it all so shockingly naughty. And I saw no harm in it, not really. The women who came were willing and paid well. The men . . . I do not know what prompted them, but I can guess. They were like Miles, in search of some new diversion. And they found it in the grotto.”
“There were quite a few of them over the years,” I commented.
Ottilie gave me a curious look. “How do you know that?”
“Because we found a ledger,” Stoker told her. “A sort of guest book your husband kept.”
“Unfortunately,” I put in smoothly, “we were unable to examine it properly, but the short glimpse we had indicates that Mr. Ramsforth kept careful records of his visitors and their predilections.”
Ottilie paled. “Oh, sweet Miles! He couldn’t have been so foolish!” She reached again for Louise’s hand and gripped it convulsively. “Loosy, what has he done?”
“He has been very stupid indeed,” Louise said flatly, her lips thin with distaste. “What a dangerous thing to keep lying about.”
“Dangerous indeed,” I replied. “It is a rather good motive for letting him hang for Artemisia’s murder,” I pointed out. “If someone had an entry in the ledger and did not want it revealed . . .” I let my voice trail off, but the rest was clear.
Ottilie gave me a horrified look. “You don’t mean that you think Miles was blackmailing someone?”
“It is possible,” I began.
“It is not!” she cried, thrusting herself onto her feet. “My husband is many things, Miss Speedwell, but he is no blackmailer. To accuse him of so sordid and grubby a thing—”
“Mrs. R
amsforth, he is currently awaiting his hanging as a murderer,” I said brutally. “I hardly think entertaining the possibility that he blackmailed someone is much of a stretch.”
“That is enough, Miss Speedwell,” the princess said in tones of chilling hauteur. “Where is the ledger now? Surely you did not leave it lying about.”
“In point of fact,” Stoker said, stepping up manfully, “it has been misplaced.”
“Misplaced?” Louise’s tone was one of frank disbelief bordering upon rage. “Of all the careless, amateurish—”
“I think Your Royal Highness is forgetting that we are, in fact, amateurs,” I replied. “The ledger was dropped on the grounds of Littledown.”
“And you did not recover it?” she demanded, looking from me to Stoker and back again.
“There was a dog, you see,” I began.
She waved an imperious hand in dismissal. “Go. Now.”
I shrugged and turned with Stoker to leave. “Wait,” Ottilie said, coming forward, her eyes blazing. “When Loosy told me what she asked you to do, I did not know what to think. The very idea that Miles could be free, that this nightmare would at last be ended, was almost more than I could bear. I told you it hurt too much to hope you could prove him innocent. But I am past that now. I want you to do it. I see now what it will mean if he hangs. It isn’t just the loss of his life—it is the loss of his reputation. People will think he did this. They will believe the worst of him, that he was a debaucher, a blackmailer, a murderer.” Her voice broke upon the last word.
“Mrs. Ramsforth,” I began, but she cut in sharply.
“No, we have said quite enough to one another. You will do as Loosy asks and you will prove him innocent. And when you do, I hope you have the grace to apologize for your insinuations.”
I looked at the princess, but she said nothing. She merely stood, as cold and unyielding as the statue behind her.
“Very well,” I said, inclining my head. “Good day to you both.”
CHAPTER
14
Stoker did not speak until we were in a cab. “That went splendidly,” he said in a cheerful tone.
“I am in no mood,” I warned him. Mentioning the loss of the ledger had been a crucial mistake, but it was done, and there was little point in treading old ground. He said nothing more until we alighted at Havelock House where Emma Talbot was waiting impatiently.
“Come! I work best in the morning and it has nearly gone luncheon,” she fretted. She propelled him up the stairs to her aerie, calling to me over her shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Speedwell. Cherry will see to you.”
I roamed about the hall, now cleared of all remnants of the entertainment. After several minutes passed with no sign of Cherry, I realized her absence provided me with the perfect excuse for snooping about. I moved quietly along the ground floor, poking into various large reception rooms. Several were empty, but one was occupied by a group of young ladies intent upon sketching a bowl of pallid fruit. Sir Frederick Havelock, dressed in an artist’s smock, was maneuvering himself with the aid of two sticks, making suggestions to alter the grip of a pencil here or the curve of a line there. He caught sight of me and gave a brisk nod.
“No, Miss Bricker, I am afraid that will not do,” he told one of his pupils. “You are drawing a pear, not a hippopotamus. Do try to exercise a little more effort.”
He left his pupil and made his way to me with a sigh, his progress slow but steady. “Miss Speedwell, what a pleasure! Shall we?” He indicated a small settee by the door and we sat, forced by the diminutive sofa to arrange ourselves thigh to thigh.
“You surprise me, Sir Frederick,” I told him. “I did not realize you were able to manage without your chair.”
“From time to time. On a good day,” he said. “I try to haul myself about during the classes at least and give the little fledglings their money’s worth. Poor wretches,” he said to me in a low voice. “Their mothers send them to learn the rudiments of ladylike accomplishments, but not a single one of them has any artistic gifts. Their fruit bowls invariably look like compost heaps.”
“I am surprised an artist with your substantial gifts bothers to instruct such unpromising pupils,” I said.
He gave a mournful lift to his brows. “They may be hopeless, but they pay, Miss Speedwell. Handsomely.” He tipped his head, pitching his voice low. “How have you fared in your investigation?”
I shrugged. “We have answers but they have only led to more questions, I am afraid.”
His expression was penetrating, and I was conscious of the tremendous vitality of the man. The smell of him was an attractive combination of male flesh and clean linen and the earthy, metallic odors of the pigments he ground for his paints.
“What sort of questions?” he asked, his breath stirring the hair at my temple.
I slanted him a glance and realized he was watching me intently. There was a guardedness in his gaze and a barely suppressed excitement as well. The edges of his nostrils flared and his expression was one of expectancy. I decided then that a direct approach was the most likely to produce results. I gave him a level look.
“The sort that one finds in a place like the Elysian Grotto,” I said softly, careful not to raise my voice enough to let his pupils overhear.
His mouth curved into a slow smile. “You have been to the grotto? Then you know what an interesting collection Miles has.”
“Most enlightening,” I agreed. “And I was deeply interested to find evidence of your presence there.”
The smile deepened. “I have not participated actively in the grotto rituals in some years, but yes, I will admit to being an enthusiast once upon a time. Nowadays, one likes to watch.”
“I have spoken to Mrs. Ramsforth about the grotto. She was aware of its purpose.”
“Of course she was,” he said roundly.
“Did she ever join in?”
He gave a quick boom of laughter, causing his pupils to look up sharply. “Back to your canvases, my doves. There is nothing to notice here,” he instructed. He turned merry eyes upon me.
“Can you imagine Ottilie joining in those sorts of games?” he asked.
“I cannot,” I admitted. “But she was candid about her husband’s use for the place.”
He shrugged. “Miles is thistledown, my dear Veronica. Blown by the wind in any direction. If he had landed with a different sort of woman, a stronger woman, she might have brought him up to scratch.”
“You blame his wife for the man’s infidelities?” My voice rose on an incredulous note.
He touched my arm with one gnarled, chiding fingertip, and his tone was tinged with asperity. “You are no child, Veronica. Surely you must know that there are men in this world who will only behave as they are expected to behave, men of such malleable characters that they are no better or worse than the company they keep.”
I thought of Stoker, stalwart as stone. “And some who would never be swayed by anyone or anything,” I countered.
“Certainly, but Miles is not one of them. He behaved badly with Ottilie because she permitted it. A woman who demanded his fidelity would have earned it.”
“It is not that simple,” I said.
His mouth twitched in amusement. “Of course it is. I know my sex, child. And there are those among us who will only be as good or as bad as we are expected to be. Ottilie anticipated the worst of him—she abetted it, for God’s sake, by tolerating the grotto and everything that went on there. She not only turned a blind eye to his philandering, she befriended the women he bedded!”
“Surely she did not go that far,” I protested.
“I watched her do it,” he replied. “Over and over again. And as a strategy it has served her well enough. Women might dally with Miles, but if they were friends with Ottilie, they would not bestir themselves to try to take him away. Yes, she is a clever
wife, and above all, she is Miles’ friend. She knows he loves her in a way he would never love the other women with whom he toyed. Of course, if she had been a different sort of woman, she would have thrown him out bag and baggage and he would have crawled back to her over broken glass. My own Augusta told her that, time and again.”
“Did Lady Havelock do that with you?” I asked.
He gave another quick laugh. “Half a dozen times or more. God, the fights we used to have! Battles of the Titans, my dear.” His expression softened at the memory of his dead wife. “Augusta never stood for playing second fiddle, and I respected her for it.”
“But still you were unfaithful to her.”
He shook his head. “Not in my heart. The body, ah!” He made a dismissive gesture. “The body is a willful creature of passions that must be satisfied. But the heart—the heart must only be given to one. That is the sacred bit.”
I pondered this a moment, and the only sound in the room was the gentle swish of the charcoal as his pupils sketched their pictures.
“It sounds a little too easy,” I told him finally. “Convenient excuses for the worst of excesses.”
“It is the truth as I have known it, sweet Veronica. My body lusted after hundreds of women. It still does,” he said, giving me a sweeping look that lingered on bosom and hips. “But those hungers, once satisfied, were fleeting. I remembered none of them. I loved none of them. Only Augusta. Even after she died, the women I held, the women I kissed and petted and made love to, they have been nothing to me, as insubstantial as ghosts. Only the specter of my Augusta is real to me.”
His rationale for adultery was a piece of sophistry, but his emotions were quite genuine. I covered his knotted hand gently with my own. “I think I understand.”
A Perilous Undertaking Page 15