She nodded and warbled a few bars of a popular tune.
“‘Elsie from Chelsea’?” I asked.
“Fitting. Elsie’s my name,” she replied with a wink.
Stoker thanked her and turned to the back door of Karnak Hall, kneeling down as Henry Stihl raised the lamp. Elsie took a lingering look at Stoker’s backside and the hard length of his thighs before leaning near me with a conspiratorial leer.
“I said tuppence, but if he wants a go, make it a florin.”
I raised a brow. “You have just raised your prices by a factor of twelve,” I noted.
She grinned again. “I reckon a fellow that good-looking has had his share for free. It might make a change for him to pay well for it.”
Stoker smothered a laugh and removed a set of slender metal tools from his pocket and set to work.
“You know how to pick locks?” Henry demanded.
Stoker shrugged. “I am an experienced surgeon and a taxidermist, lad. Nimble fingers have a number of uses.”
Elsie made a noise that could only be rendered as “Ooh-er.”
I pressed another coin into her hand. “Have this instead. A peg of gin will keep you warmer than he will. I am afraid he is shy.”
Stoker snorted as the woman pocketed the coin. She tipped her plumed cap. “Pity, but truth be told, I’d rather have a peg o’ gin in any event. Thank you kindly, missus. I’ll keep an eye at the end of the alley, then.”
“You’re a good soul, Elsie.”
She guffawed. “Don’t you believe it, missus. But I’m not as bad as some.”
With that she went on her way, picking a path over lettuce leaves and puddles with the grace of a duchess.
“I rather like her,” I said to no one in particular.
With a jaunty nod, she headed down the street, positioning herself at the end of the alley as she tucked the evening’s earnings away in a pocket beneath her petticoat.
Henry Stihl turned to me, his eyes wide. “Was that a fallen woman?”
“I should rather call her an entrepreneur,” I told him seriously.
We chatted for some minutes while Stoker worked, sharing a frank exchange of views on the state of the current prostitution laws and comparing them with those of ancient Egypt. Young Mr. Stihl was informative—rather too much so. I suspected him of having an unhealthy preoccupation with ladies of limited virtue. But before I could provide him with a lecture upon the subject, Stoker interrupted.
“I am in,” Stoker called softly.
Henry stared at him in frank admiration. “You must teach me how to do that,” he said.
“No time,” I answered, pushing him after Stoker into the darkened building. I paused to wave to Elsie, who returned the gesture, moving briskly off into the night as we pulled the door closed behind us.
Deserted, the lavish lamps extinguished, Karnak Hall was an atmospheric place. The very air seemed expectant, and I was deeply conscious of the eyes watching us—painted sculpted eyes of every description peering out from the vitrines as we passed from shadow to shadow. The light from the single lantern scarcely penetrated the gloom, but it was enough to illuminate Henry Stihl’s white face.
“Steady, Mr. Stihl,” I said softly.
He nodded once, squaring his shoulders. He was a stalwart fellow, young Henry Stihl, and I hoped his nerve would not desert him.
The dais was empty now, the princess’ sarcophagus having been moved.
“She’ll be in the storage room,” I told Stoker, motioning for him to follow. I led the way to the corridor where I had first encountered her. The door, not surprisingly, was locked, but Stoker bent once more to employ his larcenous talents, and we were soon inside. The sarcophagus rested on trestles, its surface glimmering in the fitful light. Next to it, propped against the wall, stood a sturdy wooden packing crate spilling forth a heap of excelsior, its lid askew. I stooped to read the label affixed to one of the boards.
“This is the sarcophagus crate. The label on it says that the mummy case came through Dover,” I told Stoker, not even daring to voice the rest of my suspicion.
I did not have to. With that curious sort of telepathy that we shared upon occasion, Stoker intuited my thoughts. He sighed and stripped off his coat. “I will find a crowbar,” he said.
“What is it?” Henry asked in mystification.
I gave him a pitying look. “I suggest you take out your handkerchief, Mr. Stihl, and tie it, bandit-fashion, about your nose. This is not going to be pleasant.”
“What isn’t?” he demanded. “What have you found?”
Stoker reappeared, tool in hand, and applied himself. It took considerable effort, and in the end Henry and I both had to throw our weight against the lid of the sarcophagus to help budge it. When we did, a noxious odor rolled out, and Henry reeled away, gagging like a cat.
“Good God! What is that terrible smell?” he asked between heaves into one of the potted palms.
“That,” I said simply, “is what is left of John de Morgan.”
• • •
I had not considered what it might mean to Stoker to uncover the remains of his former best friend, and there was no time to consider it after. “Well,” I pronounced, “this is all the proof we need. We will go directly to the Metropolitan Police and tell them what we have discovered. Surely that will be enough.”
Just as Mr. Stihl collected his composure, there was a sharp intake of breath from the doorway. We turned as one to see Patrick Fairbrother standing there, a lamp held high in his hand. How grotesque the scene must have appeared to him! We had set our lantern on the floor, and the shadows it cast onto the ceiling were enormous. We stood crowded around the mummy case, its lid askew, and the odor of John de Morgan’s decomposing corpse filling the air. Without a word, he backed away, throwing the door shut.
Before we could spring into action, we heard the sound of a key in the lock.
“Hell and damnation,” Stoker swore. He turned to me. “I believe we have just lost the element of surprise.”
“What now?” Henry Stihl asked, his eyes rounded. “Can you pick the lock?”
Stoker gave him a kindly smile. “Rather pointless from this side.”
I eyed the ventilator high in the wall. “That is the only way. A boost, if you please, Stoker.”
He set his foot on a crate, providing me with the sturdy length of his thigh as a perch. I mounted it, pushing myself to my full height until my fingertips reached the grate covering the ventilator. I wrenched it free. “Catch, if you will, Mr. Stihl.”
Young Henry caught it, watching in rapt fascination as Stoker hoisted me higher, pushing firmly on my posterior as I inserted myself into the passage of the ventilator.
“Is there sufficient room, Miss Speedwell?” Henry called.
“Perfectly. It is so capacious, I might just set up housekeeping,” I called, more out of bravado than truth. If I am honest, the space was narrow enough to cause my chest to tighten uncomfortably. The passage itself was not so small as to constrict me, but the feeling of imperfect liberty was alarming. I had little experience of caves—butterfly hunting, of necessity, takes place in meadows—but I was not certain a familiarity with enclosed spaces would help. Only resolve and discipline would carry the day, I reflected.
I put my head down and crawled, as quickly as I could manage, wedging myself through a bend in the shaft until a lacy pattern of light showed that I had come to another cover. I punched it hard, dropping it to the floor below, and hesitated. If it led to another locked storeroom, I would be no better off and indeed worse, for I would be separated from my companions with no means of communicating with them. But every second’s lead Patrick Fairbrother had upon us was another second lost.
I turned myself, with a great deal of trouble and fluent swearing, until my feet were above the ventilator. With a murmured prayer,
I kicked hard, forcing it loose. I dropped through the opening, clasping the edge of it as my body dangled free. A quick glance revealed I was in the corridor and Patrick Fairbrother was nowhere to be seen. I dropped to my feet, hurrying to the storeroom where Stoker and Henry were still imprisoned.
“I am free,” I called.
“I presume the devil has taken the key,” Stoker replied, his casual drawl muffled by the stout door.
“Yes, and I don’t suggest you try to batter your way free. This door is proper oak, nothing like those flimsy things upstairs.”
“I have already made that observation,” he countered. “Now, take out two hairpins and I will explain to you exactly what to do next.”
The process was not so straightforward as either of us would have liked. Stoker’s instructions were hampered by the sound-smothering quality of the door, and it was several minutes before we realized that his directions were transposed in my hands.
“Of all the wool-headed, cotton-witted stupidity,” he grumbled. “Of course you ought to have reversed the instructions.”
“It might have behooved you to mention that sooner,” I countered icily. “And perhaps you could be a trifle more gracious when I am in the process of a rescue.”
With that, I set myself once more to the task of liberation, and within a considerably longer period than I would have preferred, the lock yielded.
“At last,” Stoker said, brushing the dust from his sleeves with studied nonchalance.
“Quiet, or I shall bolt you back in.” Our eyes locked. “To the Sudbury?” I asked.
“Where else?”
• • •
Unfortunately, it was the time of day when the streets are most mightily clogged with traffic, hansoms and hackneys jostling with dray wagons and omnibuses as the population of London moves hither and thither. We attempted for some time to hail a cab, but in the end we were forced to make our way on foot, arriving at the Sudbury breathless and in some disarray.
Lady Tiverton opened the door of the suite, her expression grim. “Thank God you’ve come,” she said fervently. “Help us, I beg you.” Figgy stood behind her, pale and distraught.
“Where is Patrick Fairbrother?” I demanded. “He is responsible for the death of John de Morgan and we mean to see justice done.”
“Then you must hurry,” Lady Tiverton said.
“You have to do something about Father!” Figgy burst out. “He’s gone mad!”
“He has not gone mad,” Lady Tiverton corrected with some severity. “But he is not himself.”
“What has happened? We cannot help if we don’t know exactly what’s gone on,” Stoker told her calmly.
She made an effort to compose herself. She turned to her stepdaughter. “Figgy, ring for tea, please.”
“I don’t want bloody tea!” Figgy yelled, stamping her foot.
“Iphigenia,” her stepmother said in a commanding tone I had never heard her use before. “You will control yourself and be useful or I will slap you. Hysterics will solve nothing. Tea. Now.”
To my astonishment, Figgy obeyed. Henry hurried after her, and that left Stoker and me to learn what we could.
“Figgy has told me some of what has passed, and I know she suspects me of complicity in this plot. I can tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. I only today learnt the full extent of what has been happening when my husband and Patrick nearly came to blows not an hour ago in this very room. They have gone to the country house, to Surrey,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I believe something terrible is going to happen.”
“To which of them?” Stoker asked shrewdly.
She flinched. “To my husband. He is not a criminal. He is not hard,” she protested. “Patrick will harm him. Right now Sir Leicester believes he has Patrick in his power, but I know Patrick will find a way to turn the tables on him.”
“Fairbrother means to double-cross him?” Stoker suggested.
“That’s what Sir Leicester believes,” she said, her lips tightening. “They were equal partners in the scheme, but my husband has come to think that Patrick means to cheat him of his share.”
“Why does he believe that?” Stoker asked.
“I went to Patrick’s room,” she said, forcing the words through stiff lips. “I searched his things and among his papers I found a ticket on a steamship leaving tomorrow. He means to go to South America, the Argentine. I also found a packet of powder,” she added, her dark eyes enormous in her face. “I think it might be a poison of some sort. Heaven only knows what he did—or means to do—with it.”
I turned to Stoker and mouthed the words “Jonas Fowler?” He gave a single sharp nod of the head.
Lady Tiverton went on. “I took the ticket and the packet to my husband to persuade him that Patrick was working against him, to show him what Patrick really was. I told him we could confront Patrick together, force him to give up his share and go quietly without making a scandal, but Sir Leicester would not hear of it. He left his sickbed and took a revolver to force Patrick to go with him to Surrey.”
“Why Surrey?” I inquired.
“Tiverton Hall is my husband’s country house in Surrey. That is where the rest of the artifacts are being kept, the ones they intend to sell,” she explained swiftly. “Sir Leicester thinks the inventory may have been cleared away and he wants to see for himself. You must stop him before he does something rash!”
“We will pursue them,” Stoker promised.
“But they left on the last train,” she said, spreading her hands. “There is not another until morning.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I muttered. “We are no rescue mission! On this investigation, we have already been half-drowned, very nearly burnt to death, and almost suffocated in a sewer.”
A sudden movement in the doorway caught my attention.
“Please,” Figgy begged, tears springing to her eyes as she came forwards. “You must help. He is my father.”
Her voice broke on the last syllable, and I knew better than to fight. Stoker could resist many things, but a desolate girl trying to save her father from himself was not one of them.
“Very well,” I consoled her. “We will do something. But what? Hired carriage?”
“Horses will never beat the train,” Stoker said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But I know something that will.”
• • •
I stared at the Montgolfier balloon. “You must be joking.”
“I am not,” Stoker said with maddening calm. “It is ready to fly. I meant to take it up and test it again this week in any event. And it is our only chance to reach the Tiverton house tonight. We even have the wind on our side, and that is miracle enough.”
I looked to Henry Stihl, who had blanched to marble-white in the moonlight.
I sighed. “Come on, then. If we are to die, let us do it like men, and Englishmen at that.”
We decided to bring Henry because he knew the whereabouts of the Tiverton country estate, and Figgy’s desperate pleading had roused Lady Wellie to action. She turned every able-bodied male servant at Bishop’s Folly out of bed and directed them with all the august authority of her namesake, ordering them to follow Stoker as if he were leading a charge. While the men assembled, Stoker and I hastily dressed in our warmest garments, precaution against the chill of aeronautic flight. Over the top of my costume, I wrapped a shawl, tucking the ends firmly into my belt, and Stoker unearthed an unlikely bit of bearskin for Henry Stihl to wear like a cloak.
Once we were kitted, Stoker organized the workers into groups to man the ropes and smooth the envelope of the balloon. He climbed into the gondola, directing Henry and me where to stand so that the weight would be evenly distributed with the clever addition of appropriately positioned sandbags. Stoker and Henry fired up the brazier themselves, pouring coal into it until slowly, alm
ost imperceptibly at first, the balloon began to fill. The silk moved slowly, coming to life as the air moved into its great lung, drawing in the warmth that would cause it to lift. I watched, gripping my hands together in suppressed excitement as it grew, rising and rounding until it rose above the treetops, a grand spectacle of a balloon emblazoned with the ciphers of a long-dead king, a ghost of Versailles rising above the heart of Marylebone.
The gondola stood expectantly on the grass, quivering in anticipation, and I climbed into the basket with Stoker and Henry. At a signal from Stoker, the lads on the ground let go of the ropes and the basket rose, slowly and gracefully as a dancer. The fellows below waved their caps and cheered and Lady Wellie waved her walking stick. Next to her, Figgy did not move, her pale face upturned to watch us as we drifted away. Stoker made a few adjustments and we were turned towards the south.
Cruising above the sleeping city, we sailed noiselessly through the night sky, to the river and past the Houses of Parliament. The face of the Great Westminster Clock glowed white in its golden tower, and high above it hung the Ayrton Light, its green glitter proclaiming that Parliament was still sitting. We sailed past it, silent as a ghost in the clear star-flung night.
Over the River Thames and above the south bank, we glided until we came at last to the countryside, a vast stretch of darkness rippling below. It was punctuated here and there with shimmering dots of the firefly lights of a town, but for the most part, all was quiet and dark, rural England tucked peacefully into bed on a late-winter night. The air was bitterly cold, and I was grateful for the warmth of the brazier. The chill of the February air gave us good lift, and occasionally, Stoker and Henry paused in their frenetic feeding of the brazier to watch as England unfurled below us, illuminated by the gentle glow of the full moon behind us. From time to time the air in the balloon would cool, causing us to drop suddenly, and my stomach would swoop within me, creating a rush of exhilaration like that of riding a fast horse or standing on the deck of a boat with full-bellied sails. I loved every minute of that strange adventure, and more than once I looked across to find Stoker grinning at me in the hellfire of the brazier. I smiled back at him, reveling in our new adventure.
A Treacherous Curse Page 28