A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Sir Hugo gave us a long, meaningful look. “Go back to Bishop’s Folly and change. You would not like to be seen in your present condition, I am certain.”

  He inclined his head the barest inch, and I saw him then. Standing just outside his carriage, surrounded by a knot of people. The carriage was marked with his badge, the trio of white plumes, the ostrich feathers that were the unique emblem of the Prince of Wales. He was not a tall man, my father. I judged him some five feet eight inches or thereabouts. His features were unremarkable, although I could see from his smile and the brightness of his eyes that he must have had great charm. Without knowing him for a prince, one might have made the mistake of thinking him a prosperous man of business. But he was a prince, and that made all the difference. The unmistakable glamour of royalty drew one’s attention, as a sun will draw planets into its orbit. He did not look my way. I pulled the blanket, sodden with sewer water, more tightly about me.

  Sir Hugo tactfully turned away and began issuing orders.

  “I think we have all made an enemy in Inspector Archibond,” I observed, turning deliberately to Mornaday.

  “None more than me,” Mornaday said cheerfully.

  Stoker, as wet and filthy as I, moved aside to accept a blanket offered by one of the policemen. I took the opportunity to speak quietly to Mornaday.

  “Does Sir Hugo know that you were the source for J. J. Butterworth’s exclusive information?”

  He flushed deeply to the roots of his hair. “I think he suspects. How did you know?”

  I shrugged. “Caroline Templeton-Vane left Society after her divorce. Few people knew she married John de Morgan, and those who did would not have made the connection between him and Stoker. There were only a handful of people who might have shared that information with Miss Butterworth, and once I met her, I realized you were the likeliest. You have always had a keen appreciation for attractive young women,” I added meaningfully.

  He flushed again. “It is not like that,” he insisted. “Archibond has been trying to push his way to the top ever since he arrived. He’s the Home Secretary’s godson. With Sir Hugo ill, it was his best chance to shove me out of the way and undercut Sir Hugo’s authority. He thought if he could solve the case, it would pave the way for him to be made head of Special Branch. I could not let that happen. I used Miss Butterworth to keep stirring the pot, hoping her stories would shake loose some vital clue. I hoped someone would get nervous enough to trip up and I would be there when it happened. But with Archibond keeping me occupied with mundane work, I couldn’t be on hand. Miss Butterworth suggested that she make herself useful as a sort of reconnaissance agent, keeping an eye upon all the principals in the case.”

  “And in return you fed her information about Stoker, tethering him to the post like a scapegoat,” I accused.

  He held up his hands. “I know I ought to be sorry for that, but you cannot blame me. The fellow monopolizes the only woman I truly care about.” He gave me an intent stare and I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Mornaday, you are a liar and an opportunist, but you have done your best for Sir Hugo, and I am inclined to believe that it is better to dance with the devil you know.”

  “In that case, I will tell you something for free,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the Hall. “Sir Leicester Tiverton has suffered an apoplexy.”

  I turned just in time to see Sir Leicester borne out of the Hall upon a stretcher, insensible, his color high. Lady Tiverton was at his side, clutching his hand, and Patrick Fairbrother hurried after, his expression grim.

  “Stoker,” I said, calling his attention to the little drama playing out before us.

  “I am not surprised. The whole affair must have been a dreadful shock,” he remarked. Just then Horus Stihl emerged from the Hall, followed hard upon his heels by Henry. Both looked subdued, and they made no movement to follow the Tivertons, going directly to their own carriage and departing with all speed.

  Last of all came Figgy, following slowly, nearly forgot in all the commotion, staring after her stricken parent with an inscrutable expression. At the last moment, Lady Tiverton turned back, beckoning to her in the crowd and guiding the girl into their conveyance.

  Stoker touched my shoulder. “I think we ought to go. Sir Hugo has arranged transportation for us.” He gestured the long way around, a path that would take us behind the prince’s carriage and keep us to the shadows.

  “I do not think so,” I told him. I clasped the blanket around me as if it were a court robe and lifted my head. “Pardon me,” I said to the nearest courtier. “Make way if you please. I am passing.”

  Seeing my bedraggled appearance, the little crowd parted, murmuring and tittering. I looked neither right nor left, but as I crossed the pavement, I felt my father’s gaze resting upon me. We did not speak; we did not even lock eyes. But I forced him to notice me. It was enough for the moment.

  • • •

  At Sir Hugo’s insistence, we were driven home, but even his generosity would not extend to the use of his carriage in our present condition. We were given the use of the Black Maria, being carried away like common criminals. But it was quick, and we were soon deposited at Bishop’s Folly. In all the confusion, no one noticed the missing diadem—at least none of the Tivertons. Stoker, however, was rather more attentive to detail. He looked once at my bare head and muttered a curse under his breath.

  “I know,” I murmured in reply. “But if it is any consolation, I blame you entirely. This was your idea.”

  “Of all the bloody—”

  I interrupted him then to relate what I had learnt about Mornaday and the identity of our mysterious pursuer. His response, to my astonishment, was a hearty laugh.

  “You think it amusing that we overlooked so obvious a possibility as J. J. Butterworth being our enigmatic female?” I challenged as we alighted and made our way to the Belvedere. A nightcap seemed in order.

  “I think it amusing that she was bold enough to come to the Tivertons’ reception without a personal invitation. What does she look like in a skirt?” he asked in a thoughtful voice.

  “Tall, as you might well remember. Hair with an unfortunate ginger tendency. Horns. Pitchfork. Pointed tail—just as one might expect.”

  “You did not warm to our new acquaintance?”

  “I find her despicable.”

  “Curious. I should have thought you would feel an affinity to a sister trying to make it in the world on her own,” he teased.

  “She is no sister of mine.”

  I had taken up the bottle of aguardiente to pour a nightcap, but I hesitated, my hand wrapped around its neck.

  “I should very much like a drink,” I told Stoker. “But if I spend another second in proximity to you, I believe I shall asphyxiate.”

  • • •

  I retired that night in a sullen mood. It took three plunges in the heated pool and an entire cake of soap before I felt clean again. We had not captured Anubis in the act; we had found nothing suspicious in Lady Tiverton’s actions; and I had lost the Ankheset diadem—a fact I was reluctant to share with the Tivertons, particularly now that Sir Leicester had apparently suffered an apoplexy.

  “Cheer up,” Stoker told me grimly. “Perhaps he will die and you won’t have to confess it.”

  I had shut the door on him then, hard enough to rattle the hinges. I am usually an excellent sleeper. My ability to take my rest no matter how insalubrious the circumstances—along with a sound stomach and excellent legs—accounts for the success of my travels through varied and demanding parts of the world. I slept little that night. Something evaded me, some fact I could not grasp. It danced out of reach, as insubstantial as a will-o’-the-wisp, and the harder I chased, the more elusive it proved. It was not until morning dawned that I realized what it was.

  I had, as was my custom, taken up a book to read when I found sleep
elusive. It happened that one of Lady Tiverton’s volumes was near at hand, and I flipped the pages idly, moving from her lavish descriptions of expedition life to the little pen-and-ink drawings she had included. One in particular caught my attention, and I sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the slender black lines. It was not until I was certain that I rose and washed, dressing with my usual attention to neatness, before running Stoker to ground in the Belvedere. He was stripping rotting sawdust from the inside of his decaying white rhinoceros mount when I found him. His head was stuck deep inside the cavity, and I knocked on the side of the animal to get his attention.

  “Horus Stihl stole the diadem,” I announced without preamble.

  “I know.” His voice echoed from within the beast.

  “How the devil did you know?” I demanded.

  “I realized it after I retired last night—the thing that I had noticed when the lights went out. There was a sudden waft of bay rum. That was when Stihl put out his hand to snatch the diadem.”

  I thumped the rhinoceros hide with a fist and went to my desk. “Braggart,” I muttered as I flicked through the morning’s correspondence. I worked until Stoker saw fit to emerge, shaking the moldering sawdust from his hair.

  “It does not matter,” he told me. He threw one leg casually over the camel saddle, perching atop the leather contraption like a lord of creation. “You cannot accuse an American millionaire of theft without proof.”

  “But if he has the diadem in his possession—”

  He held up a filthy hand, the palm streaked with glue and paint and God only knew what else. “Veronica. If you had caught him red-handed, we might have made something of it, and even then it would have been a Sisyphean task. Without that, we have nothing.”

  “We have an obligation to recover the diadem. We were in possession of it when it went missing,” I argued. “Besides which, I know something you most assuredly do not. I know the identity of Anubis.”

  I showed him the drawing done by the first Lady Tiverton, and he grinned in spite of himself. “Of all the devilish—”

  “Exactly. Now you know why I believe with the proper pressure, we can bring Horus Stihl to reveal all.”

  “You really mean to take on a man of Horus Stihl’s stature and influence? Do you know what sort of trouble you’re courting?”

  “Courting?” I gave him a scornful look. “I married it long ago. Come, now, Stoker. As our favorite detective, Arcadia Brown, would say to her faithful Garvin, ‘Excelsior!’”

  • • •

  Unfortunately, Lord Rosemorran arrived before we could depart. He appeared in the Belvedere, waving a bit of metal overhead and exciting the dogs until we could hardly hear ourselves think over the bedlam.

  “How nice to see you, my lord,” I shouted. “Have you come to inspect the progress on the collection? I’ve got a rather nice set of Nymphalidae that have just arrived this week from the estate of the Duke of Shrewsbury.”

  He gave me a vague smile. “Always happy to see your pretty little winged things, Miss Speedwell, but today, today we are about flight! Stoker, I have just received the last part of the Aérostat Réveillon! Come and see. We must fit it at once.” He bustled out again, and Stoker flicked me an apologetic smile. There was no remedy. Whoever holds the purse strings pulls the puppet strings, I reflected grimly.

  While Stoker spent the better part of the day engaged in tinkering with the mechanisms of the balloon, I applied myself to the Nymphalidae. Ordinarily, the sight of their gorgeous jewel-bright wings would have enthralled me, and the differences between imagoes would have provided me with hours of delighted study. But not this day. Instead, I fretted away every minute, cursing the seconds that ticked past as events unfolded without us. I sent to the Sudbury for word of Sir Leicester’s condition and satisfied myself that he was in no imminent danger.

  At length, just after teatime, the ripe curve of the balloon began to fill and Stoker appeared, streaked with glue and other assorted substances which he made a hasty attempt to repair before we set off for the Allerdale Hotel.

  I dressed carefully for our visit to Horus Stihl, donning my working costume. It was an ensemble of my own design, and I was rather proud of it. A pair of slim dark trousers and a shirtwaist formed the base of it. Atop that I buttoned a jacket fitted with half a dozen pockets of various sizes and a long skirt whose clever arrangement of buttons permitted me to wear it modestly or looped up out of the way. Flat boots which laced to the knee and a broad flat-brimmed hat fastened with sharpened pins completed the ensemble. I tucked a knife into my boot for good measure, which Stoker found distinctly unnecessary. We argued all the way to the Allerdale Hotel.

  “We are not going there for a fight,” he reminded me. “We have only a theory that Horus Stihl is involved, but no proof.”

  “Then we will get it.”

  “And you think bearding him in his den is the way to get it?”

  I slanted him a smile. “Never underestimate the element of surprise.”

  At the Allerdale, Horus Stihl opened the door himself with an anxious look. “How is Leicester? He’s not—” He broke off, his mouth working furiously.

  “We have not come from Sir Leicester, but the last we heard, he is resting comfortably,” I assured him.

  Something stiff in his manner eased. “Well, I do not wish him well, but neither do I wish ill luck upon him,” he said. “Come in.”

  We entered the sitting room of his suite to find Henry Stihl pacing before the hearth and Figgy Tiverton huddled in a chair.

  “Miss Tiverton, this is an unexpected pleasure,” I said, a trifle acidly. “We know that you fashioned the mask of Anubis.” To my astonishment, she burst into tears, weeping incomprehensibly into her sleeve. Stoker took out one of his enormous red handkerchiefs, but before he could offer it, Henry took out his own, a sturdy piece of plain cambric marked with his monogram in solid block letters. Figgy took it and squeezed his hand gratefully.

  Horus gave us a speaking look. “I am afraid you have just arrived in the midst of a confession of sorts, but damn me if I can make any sense of it. Pardon my language, Miss Speedwell,” he said hastily.

  “I think we can help with that,” I told him. We settled ourselves and I began to speak. “Figgy, you needn’t talk. Nor you, Mr. Stihl,” I said to Henry. “Mr. Templeton-Vane and I have worked out most of it. You, Mr. Stihl, played the part of Anubis, stripping to the waist and donning the kilt of the ancient Egyptian, a costume supplied no doubt by your own extensive travels in that country.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but I produced the drawing done by the first Lady Tiverton. “A winsome little sketch, don’t you think?” I asked gently. “Miss Iphigenia Tiverton and her childhood companion, Henry Stihl, playing at one of their favorite games, Egyptian gods. Figgy is dressed as Isis, and you, Mr. Stihl, are dressed as Anubis. Lady Tiverton wrote at length about your pastimes, your inseparable friendship, how you were always together, forever covering for one another when your occasional peccadilloes came home to roost. I found it curious that her account did not tally with what either of you told me about your relationship. You both indicated you had not been in contact for some time. Now, that in itself is not suspicious. Childhood friends often fall out of touch. But why lie about any present connection unless you were up to something you did not want anyone to guess? It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to suppose that on the strength of your long friendship, Miss Tiverton was able to persuade you to don a similar costume once more.”

  He looked to Figgy, holding her glance with his own. He reached out a fingertip and she lifted hers to touch it. “We swore an oath as children,” he said in a dull voice. “We cut open our fingers and held them together so the blood would mix. That made us belong to each other, for life, we said. Whenever one of us needed the other, no matter how long it had been, no matter the situation, we would be there.”


  His expression was slightly abashed, as if he were ashamed to be caught out as having played such childish games, but his father regarded him with warmth.

  “That’s a mighty loyal thing, son,” he said, his lips tight with emotion.

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! It was just a silly game from when we were infants. But Figgy needed me and I could not let her down,” he said. His father put out a hand to Henry’s shoulder. Henry rolled his eyes again but did not shrug him off.

  “You wore garments you had collected upon your travels in Egypt, but your souvenirs wouldn’t have extended to something as curious as the head of Anubis, so Miss Tiverton fashioned one, using her skills with papier-mâché to create the great jackal head for you to wear,” Stoker supplied, picking up the thread easily. “I imagine it had to be papier-mâché in order to make it light enough to wear, a modern-day interpretation of the cartonnage used by the ancients.” Henry nodded his head miserably. “You are to be commended, Miss Tiverton,” Stoker said. “I cannot think that such a thing would be easy to sculpt, particularly on the first try.”

  His gaze and voice were gentle, but Figgy erupted into a fresh bout of weeping.

  “It wasn’t her first try,” Henry said with grim resolve. “She made one earlier, back in Egypt. For Patrick Fairbrother.”

  “For what purpose?” I demanded.

  “The same as mine—to masquerade as the god,” he told us. His hand dropped absently to Figgy’s shoulder. “Her father asked her to do it. He spun her some cock-and-bull story about native superstition and how the workers were getting restless. He told her they would settle down if they feared Anubis, so Patrick was to stalk around a bit and wave his arms and put the fear of the old gods into them. She did as he asked.”

  “Of course she did,” Stoker said. She raised her tearstained face and looked to him.

  “I should have refused,” she whispered.

  “Few of us can resist the persuasions of a beloved parent,” he told her.

  “So Fairbrother wore the first mask to frighten the workers,” I prodded.