A Curious Beginning

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  His nostrils flared like a bull’s, and he seemed to grow even larger as he stood over me, hands flexing on his bath sheet. But when he spoke, his voice was controlled. “What do you mean ‘curiosity’?”

  “I mean that we have been so busy running hither and yon we have not considered the baron’s murder properly. Murder is an act of chaos. It lies with us to bring order and method to the solution of the deed. We are scientists,” I reminded him.

  “I am a scientist. You are a dilettante,” he returned with as much hauteur as a man in a bath sheet could manage.

  “I am perfectly happy to stand my professional credentials against yours any day, my dear Mr. Stoker. But I am not the one dripping upon the carpet. Now, please go and finish your bath, and when you return we will proceed in an orderly fashion and prepare for the performance—a performance which you neglected to inform me would put my life in danger,” I added with a narrowed gaze. I went on. “The professor has made it quite clear that if we do not have an act, we will not have a place here, and I quite agree with you—this traveling show offers an excellent chance to consider our options. So our first order of business is to formulate an act that will satisfy the professor and the punters. But not until you have finished your bath,” I repeated. “And you will want to shave off that monstrous beard. At present you resemble one of the less domesticated varieties of yak.”

  He stroked his chin. “I rather like it,” he said stubbornly.

  “No, you don’t. You are forever tugging at it and scratching. You wear it because you have been too distracted by your work to shave, but you have nothing like that excuse now. Besides, if anyone manages to follow us here, it will help to disguise you if you remove that atrocity.”

  He considered this for a moment.

  “Very well. I will go and have a shave. And when I return, we can practice for the act.”

  “An excellent notion. Is there anything I ought to do to prepare?”

  His smile was thoroughly nasty. “Yes. Paint a bull’s-eye on your chest. I shall be throwing knives at you and I should hate to miss.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr. Stoker returned in due course, hair untrimmed and dripping but smelling deliciously of fresh soap and clean male animal. He had not touched the beard as of yet, and I raised the point with him.

  “I was about to take care of it when Leopold offered to shave me later. He is quite experienced, you know.”

  “I should have thought the one thing of which Leopold had no experience was shaving.”

  “In that case, you would be wrong. He accepts himself for what he is, but he has upon occasion shaved the whole of his face.”

  I paused, struck by the enormity of such a thing. “And those are the only times he has seen his own face. I cannot imagine it.”

  “Yes, well, faces change,” he said softly. I did not look at his scars, but I knew he was thinking of them, for his features had taken on a faraway and tortured expression. Before I could ask, he caught sight of the garment in my hand. “In the name of bleeding Jesus, what are you sewing? Is that my shirt?”

  “It is, and I must say, it is in a deplorable state. But at least the material is quite good and will stand up to proper mending. Unfortunately, mending is not one of my skills,” I said, holding up the shirt. Somehow I had managed to attach it to my own skirt, and I took up scissors to snip it free. Mr. Stoker was not so patient. He grasped it and jerked it loose with a single wrench, the stitches popping as he brandished it at me.

  “But this is the shirt from my bag. Where is the shirt I was wearing?”

  “Hanging out to dry, along with your stockings. They were both filthy and smelled vile. I washed them and hung them out so I didn’t have to smell them any longer. It is a lovely sunny day, so they ought to dry quickly. I found this in your bag and thought you could wear it today, but it wanted mending, so I was attempting it as a sop since I knew you would be outraged at my washing your things.” I nodded towards his other garments. “Your suit is terribly rusty. I brushed it, but it looks as though you have put on quite a bit of weight since you bought it. I daresay the seams will have to be let out.”

  He fixed me with a venomous look. “Did you just call me fat? And did you clean the caravan?”

  “I offered no observation upon your physique, but since you ask, if I were to make a comparison, Cabanel’s Fallen Angel comes to mind.”

  His brow furrowed. “I am not familiar with it.”

  “Aren’t you? You ought to look it up sometime. Quite his best work, I think. A trifle sullen, but I am sure you will see the resemblance,” I said sweetly. Cabanel’s Lucifer was indeed sulky, his painted eyes filled with tears of rage at his fall. But the rest of him . . . the memory of that long shapely thigh and beautifully muscled chest sent a delightful frisson down my spine. “And yes, I may have tidied up a little.”

  I had done a good deal more than that. I had moved the chairs and plumped the cushions, cleaned out the stove and laid a fire, and picked a few sprigs of wild hyacinth to stand in a little jug upon the table. The windows sparkled, and the brass rails of the caravan gleamed. I was well pleased with my efforts.

  He curled a lip. “What a lovely wife you make.”

  “How revolting. I didn’t do any of this for you, you impossible man. I did it for myself. I prefer to be surrounded by order and cleanliness. And as a scientist, I can only say your penchant for filth is deplorable.” He was still staring at the shirt in his hands. “It isn’t the Shroud of Turin, Mr. Stoker. There are no religious mysteries to be found there. It is a shirt.”

  “It is a symbol of your interference,” he said stubbornly. “I had no notion when I brought you away from London that you would be so . . . so managerial.”

  “You ought to have,” I pointed out. “I did much the same in your workshop, and I would do the same at Buckingham Palace if I found arrangements did not suit me. I think better when I am in motion and things about me are orderly.”

  “And what do you have to think about?” he demanded.

  “This business with the baron—” I began, but I had no chance to finish. A knock sounded at the door of the caravan. It was open, and the visitor had rapped at the doorjamb before putting her head inside.

  “Good morning,” said Salome. Her lips were twitching with amusement, and I wondered how much of our conversation she had overheard.

  Mr. Stoker, still half-naked, promptly thrust his arms into his still-torn shirt.

  “Good morning,” I told her. “Do forgive my husband. He is being shy this morning. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you, but no,” she said, lingering in the doorway. “I merely wanted to extend an invitation to you.”

  “To me? How very kind.”

  Mr. Stoker made a strangled sound.

  “Not at all,” Salome continued smoothly. “It occurred to me that you traveled only with a very small bag and likely do not have a costume for participating in Stoker’s act. Come to my tent later. I will make certain you are properly attired.” Her ebony gaze swept me from top to toe.

  I thanked her warmly and offered her some refreshment, which she promptly declined. She left then, and I noticed the smell of her musky perfume lingered. I moved to open the windows further to let in a little of the freshening breeze and banish the heavy scent.

  Mr. Stoker gave me a level look. “She wants something,” he said. His voice was oddly flat and his color was once again high.

  “Of course she does,” I agreed. “No doubt she wants to have a nice cozy chat about you.”

  He blinked furiously. “What do you mean?”

  I waved him out of the way and drew the curtains back to air them out.

  “The lady is naturally curious about your bride, and one cannot blame her. Obviously there has been a relationship of some significance between you—and a decidedly carnal one unless I miss m
y guess.”

  He choked a little. “How can you possibly know that?”

  I gave him a pitying glance. “For a natural historian, you know surprisingly little about the facial expressions of higher-order primates. Remind me to find a copy of Darwin’s book upon the subject for you,” I added, thinking of how useful the work had proven in my encounter with Mr. de Clare.

  “I have read the bloody book,” Mr. Stoker countered. “I simply did not realize you were studying me like some sort of specimen.”

  “I wasn’t,” I corrected. “I was studying her.”

  He had made a hash of putting on his shirt, so intent had he been upon my observations. I gave the shirt a sharp tug and it fell into place. “That’s better. I will leave you to finish dressing on your own, and then we must prepare for the act.”

  • • •

  Mr. Stoker spent the rest of that morning sharpening the set of knives Rizzolo had left behind and practicing his aim by throwing them at an apple box. I did not watch. When he had finished plying his blades, he set to altering his black suit. He had indeed been a much smaller fellow when he had last worn it, and there was scarcely enough fabric in the seams to permit the alterations. The waist was largely unchanged, but it appeared he had developed the muscles of his back and thighs admirably. He ordered me about, instructing me to fix pins where he could not reach.

  “The shirt is improved since you mended it, although I must say it is a bit tight across the back. Perhaps you ought not to throw knives in it. I daresay the extra effort will cause it to split. Have you a neckcloth?”

  He rummaged in the pocket for a moment, then drew out a pathetic little scrap of black silk.

  “I have pen wipers nicer than that. Never mind. I will attend to it.”

  “Help me out of this coat,” he ordered. “I feel as if I were in the grip of a lethargic anaconda.”

  “Goodness, how you complain! Here, only be careful of the pins.” The warning had come too late. In attempting to shrug off the coat, he had driven half a dozen pins directly into his shoulder, and he howled in outrage.

  “Get it off!”

  “Heavens, Androcles didn’t have this much trouble with his lion. Very well—hold still!” I ordered. He opened his mouth to rage some more, but I stood toe to toe with him and he subsided, clamping his mouth shut. “Now, ease yourself down onto the chair, and I will be able to see what the trouble is.”

  He did as I bade, and I bent to extricate him. “The pins have gone all the way in. All I can see are the beads, so hold very still. I will be quick.”

  He said nothing, and I plucked a dozen pins from his shoulder. At the end of each trembled a drop of blood. Carefully, I pulled the coat away, extricating him from the rest of the pins. I removed the waistcoat as well, not surprised to find sizable spots of blood dotting the creamy white cambric of his shirt.

  “Remove your shirt, please. I have just the thing.”

  I rummaged in my bag for my medical kit and extracted a small bottle.

  “Oil of calendula. Frightfully old-fashioned, but Aunt Lucy swore by it,” I pronounced. “It will stop any chance of infection from those filthy pins.”

  He had removed the shirt and was sitting gingerly—no doubt because the trousers were snugly pinned as well. I poured a little of the oil onto a handkerchief and applied it to the punctures and the few scratches I found. While I attended him, he amused himself by rummaging through the little collection of bottles, examining the various oils and tinctures. He said nothing, but his expression was thoughtful.

  “I daresay you find this silly after what you have endured,” I said with a nod to his scars.

  He gave a tentative shrug. “Yes, but I will admit I prefer your ministrations. At least your preparations smell better. I think the Brazilian fellow who stitched up my wounds used dung to poultice them.”

  “Hold this,” I instructed. He pressed the handkerchief to one of the pinholes whilst I bent to inspect his scars. One of them wrapped over the top of his shoulder, neatly clipping the head of the Chinese dragon tattooed upon his back.

  “Rather remarkable,” I murmured. “His poulticing may have been rudimentary, but his stitching was first-rate. Do you happen to know what size needle he used? I should think it was an embroidery needle rather than darning, but I should very much like to be sure.”

  Stoker gave me a sour look. “I believe it was the sharpened quill of a porcupine. Are you quite finished with your inspection?”

  I straightened, brushing off my skirts. “I apologize, but you did introduce the subject yourself. You needn’t hold the handkerchief there any longer. Unless you suffer from some sort of bleeding disorder, I suspect you have clotted by now.”

  He handed back the bloodied handkerchief and I slipped it into my pocket with the bottle of calendula oil. “All finished. I will leave you to remove yourself from the trousers as best you can. On second thought, I had best leave the calendula oil with you.”

  I gave him the oil and the handkerchief with a smile as I left.

  • • •

  Salome’s tent was almost precisely as I could have imagined—a sensuous bower of draped silks heavily perfumed with incense. But I had not pictured the stockings hung up to dry or the litter of dirty handkerchiefs and soiled chemises. A gilt pasteboard box of bonbons stood open on a little divan, the sofa scattered with the remnants of the confections, here a shred of coconut, there a scrap of candied peel. She motioned me to sit, and I brushed them aside to settle next to a heap of crumpled fashion magazines. I was not surprised she harbored a tendresse for Mr. Stoker, I reflected grimly. Their personal habits were frighteningly similar.

  She began to rummage through her trunks. “So, how do you like the traveling life?” she asked. “It must make a change for you.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She shrugged one languid shoulder. “One can always tell a newcomer to this life.”

  “It is interesting,” I told her.

  She lifted her head to give me a scornful look. “I should have known butter would not melt in your mouth. You are not the sort of woman to speak her mind, to speak with passion,” she said, flinging her arms wide in a gesture that Bernhardt herself would have thought overdone.

  I found her assessment of me amusing, but there was little point in disabusing her of it at this stage. I had discovered in my travels that people can seldom resist correcting those they believe to be less knowledgeable than themselves, and it occurred to me I might use this to my advantage to learn a little more about my erstwhile husband and his current predicament.

  Salome was clearly relishing the role of tempestuous lover pitying the placid wife, and it seemed that pandering to her sense of self-importance would be a simple matter indeed.

  “Oh, I beg you will not speak of passion,” I murmured. “I should hardly know what to think.”

  For an instant I wondered if I had laid on the disingenuousness with too heavy a hand, but I was soon relieved upon that score. Salome flicked me another of her scornful glances and even managed to curl her lip. It was an impressive performance.

  “That is because your blood is cold. I cannot believe Stoker has married a woman like you,” she burst out. “A man like that, with so much fire in him, he is like a bull when he is roused, so proud, so sensual.” Her eyes took on a nostalgic gleam, and I smothered a yawn. She was so utterly predictable, I found it impossible that Stoker had not tired of her histrionics within a fortnight.

  But I merely dropped my gaze and darted an innocent glance up at her. “You have known him so much longer than I,” I began modestly. “You must understand him much better than I could hope to.”

  “This is true,” she said, fairly exuding triumph as she bent to rummage in her trunks again.

  “Then you must know what grudge Colosso bears against him,” I ventured, scarcely daring to ho
pe she would take the bait.

  But Salome could not resist the opportunity to flaunt her greater knowledge over me. She rose, one hand to her hip. “Of course I know! It is because of Baby Alice.”

  “Baby Alice?”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Truly, does your husband tell you nothing?” She heaved a sigh. “Stoker was with the show when he was a boy. For half a year he traveled, learning the knives and conjuring. Then he went away for a long time, but always he comes back to see us, particularly me,” she said, giving me a lascivious grin. “The last time he came was four years ago. We had not seen him in a very long while, and when he came, he was so different, we almost did not know him. He was scarred from an accident in Brazil, and he did not know if he would keep his eye. And his spirit, it was broken. He did not even want to see me,” she said, curling her lip. “He kept to himself, juggling Indian clubs and rigging the ropes in exchange for his keep only. He talked to no one except Baby Alice.”

  “Who was she?”

  Salome flapped a hand in a dismissive gesture, a goddess brushing aside a flea. “She was a nobody—a freak born without legs from the knees down. The professor, he dresses her in infant’s clothes and puts her in a pram, and she is billed as ‘Baby Alice, the Adult Infant.’ But Alice does not like this, and she complains to Stoker. One day, when he is fishing in the river, he has an idea. It took him months, but he created for her a tail, like a fish—all silver and green and pink. With it she can swim, she is free, like a mermaid.”

  “How intriguing. Did it work?”

  “Of course it worked! Stoker has gifts in his hands,” she said a trifle dreamily. She was lost for a moment—no doubt in a haze of indecent memories, an impulse I understood only too well.

  I cleared my throat to bring her back to the subject at hand. “It must have changed Baby Alice’s entire life,” I surmised.