His experience as a tracker stood us in good stead. Besides listening intently to gauge our follower’s pace, Stoker occasionally flicked his eyes sideways when a large expanse of window glass reflected our quarry. We continued on our way, vigilant but with every appearance of nonchalance. We paced the length of the street until at last we came to the corner that marked the boundary of Bishop’s Folly. Without discussion, we turned the corner and plunged instantly into the shrubbery, forcing our way through a modest break in the foliage. We crouched on the other side, waiting, peering through the leaves of the evergreens for our pursuer.
The fellow rounded the corner at a brisk trot, no doubt fully winded by now, exhaling in great gusts. He pulled up sharply at seeing an empty street. He stopped, openmouthed in astonishment, turning his head from side to side. The hole in the shrubbery was quite low, and it was nearly impossible to find unless one knew to look for it. Our pursuer did not. He stood, his face in deep shadow, turning in a slow circle to make certain he was entirely alone.
As soon as his back was turned, Stoker launched himself through the shrubbery. I was hard upon his heels, issuing a fair impression of a Maori battle cry while Stoker preferred to attack in a rush of menacing silence. He seized the villain by the throat and lifted him clear off his feet.
The booted feet fluttered for a moment. Then one snapped forwards, connecting with a rather delicate part of Stoker’s anatomy with a vigor I could only admire. Stoker gasped and opened his fist, dropping the fellow to the ground, where he landed hard upon his posterior.
“Bollocking hell!” the villain exclaimed. In the moment of shocked surprise that followed, the blackguard leapt up and charged down the street. Stoker was in no fit state to follow, but I gave chase, pounding the pavement as I ran.
I am, as anyone who has met me can attest, accounted fleet of foot. But I was hampered upon this occasion by my sex, dear reader. Could I have overtaken our miscreant and emerged the victor in our little footrace? Certainly, were it not for one fact: I was wearing a dress. Garbed for a polite social call at teatime, I was harnessed and corseted and knotted into submission. Even the dainty heels of my boots, so fashionable when glimpsed from under the froth of my petticoat, hindered me. My prey eluded me by the simple expedient of trousers and flat boots, taking the opportunity to jump onto the back of a passing hansom and trot smartly away as I stood watching in impotent fury.
I returned to where I had left Stoker and found him gingerly attempting to stand upright, his mouth set in a grim line. He did not have to ask. My expression told him that I had been unsuccessful.
“Well, that’s an unexpected development,” Stoker said mildly. “I thought you were the only woman in London who wore trousers.”
CHAPTER
7
I rose the next day in a state of decided satisfaction. We had scarcely begun our investigation into John de Morgan’s disappearance, but we had clearly agitated someone if we were being followed. And to what purpose? Our shadowy female friend could hardly have intended violence. She had been obviously unprepared for any sort of physical confrontation. Her surprise at Stoker’s attack and her instinct to flight spoke to a lack of experience. (The fact that she had temporarily incapacitated Stoker before taking to her heels was the rankest luck.) Hitching herself onto a passing hansom had been a telling move. It revealed her as being audacious and opportunistic, but we might have guessed those things by the simple act of a young woman assuming male guise to follow us.
The question was, why? Was she an agent of Caroline de Morgan, intent upon discovering the whereabouts of an errant husband? Was she a private detective, secretly engaged by Sir Leicester to recover his priceless diadem? Curiosity seeker? Subordinate of Sir Hugo Montgomerie, sent to keep a weather eye upon us?
I considered the possibilities as I made my way to the glasshouse. The heating now regulated, it was a lush paradise, the air thick with the green scent of leaves slowly unfurling themselves from slumber.
In one corner, a little apart from the warmer regions of the glasshouse, sat a tiny copse of potted hornbeams. Nestled amidst the leaves were a series of papery cocoons, bronze-brown and wrinkled like decaying nuts, all about the length of my thumb. Each was frilled with a bit of hornbeam leaf, the last meal of the bright green caterpillars before they spun the enclosure that would shelter their metamorphoses. The caterpillars—and their costly hornbeam perches—had been a gift from Stoker’s eldest brother, the Viscount Templeton-Vane. They had arrived most unexpectedly with a note inviting me to the opera and signed, “Affectionately, Tiberius.” I had refused the invitation, but Stoker’s order to return the caterpillars to his brother had caused me to nurture them as if they were my own children. I had always scorned moths, but I had to admit that in their larval form, they had been winsome little fellows and provided me with a great deal of unexpected amusement. I had fallen into the habit of visiting them on a daily basis, eagerly awaiting the moment they would eclose and step onto the branches, damp-winged and trembling.
“Actias luna,” I murmured. “Good morning to you all.”
“Are you talking to the trees, miss?” George asked, emerging from the misty reaches of the glasshouse.
“Indeed not. I was greeting my collection of cocoons, George.” I pointed to the little colony. “These are specimens of Actias luna, the luna moth. When they emerge, they will be pale green moths as big as Mr. Stoker’s hand.”
I spread my hands to indicate the size of a fully grown imago, and George’s eyes widened.
“Do they bite?” he asked warily. Like most city children, he had an unhealthy fear of nature.
I suppressed a sigh. “They do not. Actias luna, in its adult form, has no mouth.”
“How does it eat?”
“It doesn’t,” I informed him. “It only lives a week, and its purpose is purely procreative.”
“Come again?”
I paused, uncertain of how extensive George’s knowledge with regard to the birds and bees might be. “They exist only to make other luna moths.”
He seemed satisfied with that explanation and came to the point of his errand. He brandished the newspaper, and I saw that The Daily Harbinger had outdone itself. The headline was larger than usual, and Stoker’s name had been spelt out in all its formality, including his honorific.
“Bollocking hell,” I muttered as I hurried in the direction of the Belvedere.
The first order of business was to show the article to Stoker and weather the inevitable display of temper that would follow, but as I handed over the newspaper and braced myself, he merely sat quite still and read for some minutes. When he finished, he folded the newspaper neatly and laid it aside.
“We knew it was coming,” was all that he said.
He walked out of the Belvedere, and I trotted after, following him to a broad sward of lawn, where he set to work on his latest project—restoring a Montgolfier balloon. Vibrant blue and spangled with the golden emblems of Bourbon kings, it had been commissioned by Louis XVI after several other successful flights had persuaded him of the promising potential of manned flight. It was not to be. Revolution intervened and the royalist balloon had been abandoned before it had ever flown. The king had lost his head, and the balloon had been sold to a Rosemorran earl who had been passing through Paris during the Terror. It had remained at the Belvedere ever since, the wicker gondola providing a commodious bed for the dogs. But Stoker had other ideas, and he had taken to tinkering with the thing, even managing to launch it for a memorable flight above the kitchen garden that had caused the scullery maid to shriek and hide in the coal cellar for the better part of a day. His lordship was particularly enthralled with the project, giving Stoker carte blanche to order whatever supplies and materials he required for its reclamation.
As I stood in silence, Stoker busied himself sorting various ropes and lines, his time in both the navy and a traveling circus s
tanding him in good stead as he knotted and arranged the rigging. Spread onto the frost-withered grass, the brilliant azure of the balloon was shown to splendid effect. The later Montgolfier balloons had been larger and grander, but I preferred this smaller version of the Aérostat Réveillon.
“You’re making quite good progress,” I told Stoker by way of greeting. “Now, if you could persuade Betony to stop using the gondola as her dog basket, you might offer balloon rides for tuppence each.”
He quirked a brow but did not look up from his stitching. “In point of fact, I have already spoken to his lordship about using it as a means of illustrating the properties of flight when the museum opens. For instance—” He launched into a highly technical explanation of lift and the relative density of heated air and heaven knows what else. He broke off midsentence. “You are not listening.”
“Of course I’m not,” I agreed. “I am thinking about our pursuer last night and the article in the Harbinger this morning.”
His gaze sharpened. “You believe they are connected?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I told him truthfully. “But there are half a dozen possibilities as to the identity of our miscreant. We cannot possibly examine them all ourselves, so we must have the most current information as to the state of the investigation. We must discover who might be connected with this case and also interested in our movements and whereabouts. And since you have now been exposed as connected to this scandale, time is of the essence. The sooner we tear the mask from the face of this mystery, the sooner we can restore your name.”
I had expected my overblown prose to raise a smile, but he gave not even the merest twitch of the lips in reply.
After a moment he nodded. “I suppose you are right. You mean to consult Mornaday?”
“He is our best option for information,” I said mildly. “He is fond of me.”
“He hates me,” Stoker countered. “That might be enough to stopper his tongue.”
“I think you underestimate my charms.”
• • •
We presented ourselves at Scotland Yard and were swiftly shown to Sir Hugo’s office, where we were received by Inspector Mornaday, a waggish fellow with handsome hands and merry brown eyes.
“Well, ’tis always a pleasure to see you, Miss Speedwell, and that’s the truth. I wish I could say the same for your pet wolf,” he said with a glance to Stoker.
“Stoker, do stop looming. You’re alarming Mornaday.”
Mornaday and I exchanged a grin as Stoker gave a low growl. He and Mornaday frequently brought out the worst in one another, but the inspector was clearly in too exalted a mood to be cowed by Stoker’s intimidation. That his high spirits were due to Sir Hugo’s absence was all too apparent. He lounged behind his superior’s desk with his booted feet resting atop, hands laced behind his head. He had leapt to his feet upon our arrival, but I waved him back. He was enjoying himself far too much for me to let good manners intrude upon his pleasure.
“What service may I perform for you, my glorious Miss Speedwell?” he asked with a waggle of his brows. Mornaday’s eyebrows were a gift of Nature, well shaped and more expressive than the rest of his features combined. He used them to great effect, conveying interest, curiosity, skepticism, and credibility with equal skill. With me he frequently used them to indicate passionate flirtation. How sincere he was I had yet to determine, but the question did not keep me wakeful at night.
“We have come to discuss the disappearance of John de Morgan,” I replied promptly.
He shook his head. “I am afraid your timing is unfortunate. His Superiority is home abed with a nasty catarrh,” he told us with an air of satisfaction. I resisted the urge to look at Stoker. We had agreed to proceed with Mornaday as if we were unaware of Sir Hugo’s indisposition. Mornaday loved nothing more than feeling as if he knew more than other people, and this seemed an innocuous way to get into his good graces.
“How unfeeling you are,” I remarked. “Sir Hugo is, for all his faults, a man of good principles and your mentor. I am surprised to find you taking pleasure in his ill health.” I gave him a repressive glance, and he put a hand to his heart.
“Pleasure! Nothing could be further from the truth,” he said, but his lips twitched.
Stoker chose that moment to ease himself onto one of the small chairs Sir Hugo kept for visitors. The writing desk was a slender Regency affair, and the matching chairs were designed for elegance rather than substance. It was only after my third or fourth interrogation that I realized they had also been selected for maximum discomfort, no doubt to encourage his visitors to keep their visits brief and their answers truthful.
The chair gave a little groan of protest at Stoker’s considerable weight, and Mornaday shot him a worried glance. “Steady, old man. I shouldn’t like to explain to Sir Hugo how his chair ended up a pile of splinters.”
“Because you aren’t actually supposed to be in here,” Stoker hazarded.
Mornaday looked uncomfortable. “Well, that is a matter of debate. Sir Hugo did ask me to conduct business as usual.”
“With your boots on his desk and sipping his best single malt?” I asked sweetly.
Without a word, Mornaday poured a measure of whisky for me, sliding the bottle and a glass to Stoker as an afterthought. “For your silence,” he said thinly. “Now, what do you want?”
“We have questions about the Tiverton Expedition. Specifically, about the disappearance of John de Morgan, the expedition photographer.”
“The expedition thief, you mean,” he corrected.
I inclined my head and Stoker said nothing, sipping deeply from his glass.
Mornaday rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Like Stoker, he eschewed facial hair. Stoker had shaven off his beard during our first investigation and left it off as a matter of habit. Mornaday, I suspected, shaved closely in order to flaunt the rather adorable cleft in his chin.
“Ordinarily, the investigation would not fall under the aegis of Special Branch,” Mornaday began, imitating Sir Hugo’s plummy tones. “But in this case, the stature of Sir Leicester Tiverton, as well as other considerations, means that reports have been made to this office.”
“What other considerations?” I asked quickly.
He gave a sharp shake of the head. “That is not for me to say.”
I suppressed a sigh. “Very well. What do your reports say?”
He tipped his head in recollection. “Almost nothing. The Tiverton Expedition was enjoying its most successful season in Egypt, having secured the tomb of a previously undiscovered princess of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Unfortunately, they were beset by illness and accident, as well as the death of the expedition director, a Mr. Jonas Fowler. Fowler’s death was not unexpected. He had a well-known heart condition. But the timing of his demise only added to the sensationalist stories, and rumors began to circulate of a curse placed upon the expedition by the restless spirit of the disturbed princess.”
“Horsefeathers,” Stoker said succinctly.
Mornaday shrugged. “I am merely repeating what the reports say. Once the suspicion of a curse took root, every incident or accident, no matter how mundane, was ascribed to its malign influence. The last victim was John de Morgan, who fell ill but recovered his strength enough to leave the dig abruptly with his wife, Caroline. At the same time de Morgan left, a priceless diadem belonging to the princess’ cache of grave goods went missing.”
“And you are convinced de Morgan took it?” Stoker asked.
Mornaday shrugged. “What other conclusion is there?”
“Then what about this business of his disappearance?” I asked.
“I can give you a dozen reasons, but the likeliest is to be found in the person of his wife. According to rumor, their relationship was a tempestuous one, demonstrably affectionate in good times, loudly disruptive in less good times.”
“So you believe he took the diadem with an eye to financing his escape from his marriage?” I supplied.
“His marriage, a job to which he was unsuited, England—take your pick. De Morgan has been unsuccessful at most of his ventures. He has no capital of his own and has been dependent upon the generosity of others to supply him with opportunities. This was, finally, a chance for him to be his own master and rid himself of a wife who had—by some accounts—possibly become a millstone.”
“Whose accounts?” Stoker asked in a quiet voice.
Mornaday roused himself to look at Stoker. “Come again?”
“Whose accounts? You say Mrs. de Morgan was a millstone around her husband’s neck. Someone must have suggested it to the police. I doubt you’d have got there on your own.”
Mornaday spread his hands. “It was corroborated by several members of the Tiverton Expedition. De Morgan had a temper and apparently Mrs. de Morgan gave as good as she got.”
“Then why take her with him?” I asked swiftly. “If de Morgan stole the diadem to underwrite his flight, why not leave his wife in Egypt?”
“What sort of blackguard would leave his unprotected wife in a filthy foreign land?” Mornaday countered.
“Egypt,” Stoker pointed out acidly, “is not filthy. It was once the cradle of civilization. I would suggest you read a book, but I am not entirely certain of your ability to do so.”
Mornaday dropped his feet to the ground, half rising from his chair. Stoker did the same, and I hastened to intervene.
“Boys!” I said sharply. “There will be no brawling with your shirts on. Kindly remove your upper garments and give them into my keeping.”
Both men turned to look at me, wearing identical expressions of astonishment.
Mornaday spoke first. “I beg your pardon?”
I adopted my best nanny tone—one that I had used with excellent results to bring unruly suitors to heel. “You cannot strike an opponent properly while hampered by a tight coat,” I pointed out. “Or a fitted waistcoat. And white does show the blood so badly. The shirt must come off as well.” I put out my hands. “Come on, then. Shirts off, both of you. Shall you fight to first blood or unconsciousness? I always think first blood is a little lacking. Let’s go until one of you is entirely senseless, shall we?”
A Treacherous Curse Page 10