“What sort of danger?”
“If Special Branch meant to clear up this particular indiscretion, the only way to do the job thoroughly would be to eliminate me before the Irish could take me in hand. And we have given them the perfect scapegoat.”
“What on earth are you—” He broke off as the truth began to reveal itself to him. “Kill you and lay the blame for it at my door,” he said flatly.
“Exactly. They could manufacture a dozen motives. Lovers’ quarrel, a falling out over money, some fever of the brain. Don’t you see? It answers all of their requirements. It removes me as a threat and it eliminates the one other person who knows the truth—you. And they daren’t leave you alive for a trial. They cannot risk the truth about my birth coming out in the testimony. They will have to kill you as well. A prison suicide—taking your own life in remorse or a thwarted attempt at escape. And everyone will believe it because of your reputation.”
He said nothing, but his complexion had gone very white.
“Stoker, I know you do not wish to discuss your past, but—”
“But you’re quite right,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “According to public record, I am a violent man—at least if you believe what the newspapers have said about me. Half of society thinks I am mad and the other half thinks I am the devil. They could not have chosen a better villain for their melodrama.”
He faltered then, and I put a hand to his arm, rousing him from the painful reverie into which he had fallen. “What shall we do?”
“We might take Mornaday’s advice and flee,” he said slowly. “We could go abroad, somewhere on the Continent, and from there make our way around the world, as far from here as possible.”
“And run for the whole of our lives? Stoker, we would never be free of them. Can you really imagine a life like that? Jumping at shadows and wondering, every moment, if it would be our last. I could not live such a farce, and I do not believe you could either.”
“Even if it saved your life?” he demanded.
I shook my head. “Not even then.”
“Veronica,” he said quietly. “Do not think that I was suggesting anything improper in urging flight. If we leave together, I will not tarnish your reputation further. I will marry you.”
I tipped my head. “Stoker, I have received seventeen marriage proposals and that is by far the most halfhearted.”
“I mean it. I will take care of you,” he said, tugging a little at his collar.
“Generally when a gentleman proposes marriage he looks rather less like he’s awaiting the tumbril to carry him off to the guillotine. You may put your mind at ease. I have as little inclination to marry as you do. Nor do I intend to flee. But I believe you will be just as much a victim of this malicious plot as I will. And I cannot have that.”
I drew in a deep breath of the damp river air and blew it out slowly. “I have a little money put by in the bank. Not much,” I warned, “but it is enough to see you out of the country and well on your way. Madeira, perhaps. Or the Canary Islands. From there you can work your way to Africa and eventually Australia. Australia is full of unsuitable people—you will fit in beautifully. And just think of all the lovely animals you can stuff. You should go there for the platypus alone,” I said with considerable more brightness than I felt.
“And what do you intend to do?” he asked slowly.
“Stay and fight them, of course,” I replied.
He did not answer for a long moment, but when he did his voice was chilly with the coldest rage I had ever heard. “In spite of what society believes me capable of, I do not strike women,” he said, each word clipped and hard. “But I can tell you if anything drove me to it, it would be precisely that sort of insult to my honor.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he went on, each word as pointed as a sword. “I am many things, Veronica Speedwell, and most of them I take no pride in, but I am still—and will ever be—a gentleman and a former sailor of Her Majesty’s Navy. And the one thing a sailor does not do is desert his comrades under fire. If we stay, we go down together, and we go down fighting.”
I put out my hand. “There is no one I would rather have at my back. To the end, then.”
He grasped my hand and shook it. “To the end.”
• • •
Of course, as had become our habit, we quarreled over what the end should be—or at least Stoker quarreled and I carried on doing precisely as I wished.
“We must return to your workshop to set our plans in motion,” I informed him.
“What plans?”
“To flush them out,” I declared. “All of them. I am going to bring them to us, the Irish, Mornaday and his superiors, all of them.”
His voice was strangled. “Do you mean to get us killed?”
I spoke with grim finality. “No. But I mean to be free of this once and for all. And to do that, I must bring them all together at one time.”
“And how precisely do you propose to do that?”
“Why, by sending them invitations, of course. Steel yourself, Stoker. Veronica Speedwell is about to introduce herself properly.”
Stoker was every bit as tiresome about the plan as I expected. He raised objections on the grounds of my safety, his safety, common sense, and half a dozen other topics that I dispatched with a coolness that would have been a credit to any battlefield commander. If my knees trembled a little, I dared not show it to Stoker. I had little doubt he possessed a predator’s sense for weakness. If he smelled it upon me, he would not stop until he had forced me to give up my plan, and that was something I could not afford. I must bring an end to this matter, once and for all, no matter the cost.
It was not until I calmly informed him that I would go without him that he capitulated with very bad grace. He brooded for the rest of the day, and it occurred to me that a man as large as Stoker in a foul mood was a formidable creature indeed. But if we were to have any sort of working partnership moving forward, he would have to learn that I could not be cowed by any display of masculine posturing. Nor could I be moved by appeals to logic, emotion, or femininity, all of which he tried, and all of which I rejected. I had discovered that, in light of his stubbornness, the most expedient way of dealing with him was simply to do as I pleased and trust he would follow. His own innate sense of chivalry as well as his natural curiosity would make certain of that.
Against Stoker’s better judgment we repaired to his workshop. I had argued successfully that it was far closer to the Tower than Bishop’s Folly and had the added benefit of leaving the Beauclerks entirely out of it. Our things had been left at the Folly, but at least we retained possession of the most important—the packets of information that proved my true identity. I rewrapped them together carefully, using a piece of plain brown paper from Stoker’s supply to bundle them all. I tied them with a bit of butcher’s twine as Stoker coaxed up the fire in his stove. Absently, I crumbled a bit of the broken sealing wax in my fingers.
“Don’t,” he ordered. “It is getting on the floor and Huxley oughtn’t eat it.”
I was not surprised he had turned pernickety. The specter of impending death will do that to some people. In my case, it made me rather fidgety, and I paced the room, picking up specimens and putting them down again.
“This plover is molting,” I told him.
He removed it from my grasp and brushed the feathers from my fingers. “A plover is a nonpasserine. This is a cuckooshrike. And you could have seen it is a passerine from its toes if you had cared to look.”
I pulled a face at him but left him to his wretched cuckooshrike. I never much cared for birds anyway. Instead I plucked one of his ancient newspapers at random and began to read.
We had been there only a short while when Badger arrived to look in on Huxley. “Mr. S.! I didn’t look to see you back already.”
Stoker gave the boy a smile. �
�Neither did I. Miss Speedwell has a pair of notes she would like for you to deliver. And a shilling for your trouble. Any questions?”
The boy’s eyes shone. “Nay.”
“And here is a little something more. We shall need food for tonight and tomorrow. Nothing tricky—just a few meat pies and a bit of cheese, maybe some oysters. Bring a loaf and a few bottles of beer as well.”
“Aye, Mr. S.” He tugged the brim of his cap and disappeared, taking Huxley with him for a walk. We did not speak while he was gone. Stoker worked at his elephant while I returned to his stacks of outdated newspapers, assembling everything I could find on Special Branch, Irish separatists, and the men who concerned themselves with directing the business of the court.
Badger returned in a few hours’ time with a basket of food and Huxley, now thoroughly exercised. I put down a dish of fresh water and the dog drank deeply, thrusting his entire face into the bowl, then flopped down onto the floor, where he promptly went to sleep.
“Any trouble?” I asked.
“No, miss. I handed one over at the Empress of India Hotel, the other at Scotland Yard,” he told me with an avid gleam. Clearly his trip to the Yard had impressed him mightily.
“Excellent. Thank you.”
He turned to go, and Stoker put a hand to his shoulder. “Badger, thank you for your care of Huxley whilst I was away. He looks fit.”
The boy grinned. “It weren’t nowt,” he assured Stoker.
“Just the same, it is appreciated.”
He hesitated then, and I saw genuine regard for the boy on his face. “Tonight, lad. Don’t come here.”
Badger’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”
“It may not be safe.”
Badger’s pointed little chin seemed to sharpen. “I’m good in a fight if you need a fellow to stand at your back.”
Stoker turned to me with anguished eyes. I stepped forward.
“You are a stalwart companion,” I told him. “But this is something Mr. Stoker and I have to do alone.”
“All right, then,” he said, but with a grudging air.
He left then and Stoker’s shoulders sagged. “Bloody hell. That about did me in. Such a small fellow for such a stout heart.”
“He will grow up to be a man like you,” I told him. “Loyal above all else.”
Stoker turned his back and returned to his elephant. I was not surprised. We like to believe it is the power of language that gives us superiority over animals, but words have their limitations.
For the rest of that day we carried on, Stoker with his elephant and notebooks, me with the newspapers, each of us piecing together the disparate parts. While Stoker stitched and glued his pachyderm and devoted hours to writing up his notes, I assembled a portrait of the men who were likely at the heart of the plot against us. Mornaday had been mentioned in the newspapers a number of times, and it was apparent from his various successes that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was clever and resourceful, often using disguises in the quest to run his prey to ground. I clucked my tongue in annoyance at this. I had rather liked him for a villain, and here his credentials were firmly established. He was a proper detective, blast the man. But I consoled myself with the notion that he could be both detective and blackguard, using his position to accomplish dark deeds in the service of some shadowy overseer. He had been promoted as a result of unmasking the Kennington Slasher, and there was a photograph of Mornaday standing at the gallows when the fellow was hanged—next to his superior, Sir Hugo Montgomerie.
I handed the paper to Stoker. “It appears that Mornaday is indeed a detective,” I told him. “He has received commendations.”
He scrutinized the photograph. Like all newspaper likenesses, this one was blurry and indistinct, but it was enough. It was clearly Mornaday, but it was not this familiar face that caused Stoker to curse. “Bloody hell. Sir Hugo Montgomerie. Head of Special Branch.”
“You know him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he said darkly. “Our paths crossed once. Many years ago.”
“How?” I demanded. “And no more of your evasions. I have let you keep your secrets, but not this one. It might be pertinent.”
“It isn’t,” he insisted. But he began to tell me the story anyway. “I was rather unhappy as a boy, which you may well understand having met my brother.”
“I can see the two of you are not close,” I temporized.
He gave a snort. “If I were to avail myself of a coat of arms, it would feature a black sheep rampant. In any event, after one particularly gruesome scene, I left home.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven, twelve,” he said carelessly. “I’ve forgot.”
“And that’s when you went to the traveling show,” I supplied, putting the pieces together at last.
A whisper of nostalgia flickered over his features. “They were kind enough to take me in. The professor was not such a tightfisted bastard in those days,” he added. “I learned conjuring tricks and knife throwing and a few other useful things.”
“Like the carnal pleasures,” I put in, thinking of Salome’s revelations. “Goodness me, Stoker, at eleven or twelve? You were a prodigy.”
“May I finish?”
“Do carry on,” I urged.
“In any event, I stayed with them for some time, almost half a year before my father’s pet detective managed to track me. It was Montgomerie. He was not with the Yard at the time, and he bloody well wasn’t Sir Hugo. But it explains how quickly Scotland Yard got onto me as a suspect in Max’s death. Montgomerie was a meticulous sort of fellow. I’ve little doubt he kept his case notes from my disappearance—and when Max was murdered it would have been short work to discover that I had been one of his associates.”
“And easy to confirm that you were still in contact as soon as they waded through the baron’s business papers and realized you were his tenant.”
I glanced around the workshop. “You said he intended to leave his fortune to one of his favorite institutions? What will they do with it?”
Stoker shrugged. “I am sure they will sell it off to someone or other for use as a warehouse again. The river is badly silted up at the dock, but that can always be dredged.”
“And you will lose your home.”
“This is not home, Veronica,” he said in a hollow voice. “It is merely a place where I live.”
He returned to his elephant then, hammering ferociously at one of the supports, and I thought of the first time I had goaded him out of his silence by pricking his temper. But it was not his rage I wanted then. For the first time in a very long time, I wanted something quite different from another human being—and as I explored that want I recognized it as a longing for reassurance.
“Stoker.”
Something in my tone must have conveyed itself, for he put down his hammer and turned. “Yes?”
“Do you ever think about death?” They were not the words I intended to speak, but they would do to begin. Huxley climbed into my lap and I petted him, running my fingers through his coarse hair.
He spread his hands, encompassing the whole of his workshop. “Every day. I am surrounded by it.”
“I mean your own.”
“I have. I’ve come closer than most,” he reminded me.
“In Brazil?” Huxley gave a damp snuffle and settled onto my lap.
“And other places,” he told me. “Have you thought about it?”
“Never. Not in Corsica or Mexico or Sarawak. Not even in Sumatra when that bloody volcano was erupting. I always thought everything would be all right. I always believed when I closed my eyes at night that I would wake again in the morning. I knew the sun was just over the horizon, and I believed I would live to see it rise again. I suppose you think I’m very stupid,” I finished, trailing off.
“On the contrary, Veronica.
I think that is the only way to live.”
If only his voice had not been quite so gentle; if only he had comprehended me just a little less. I would never have voiced my doubts. It is easy to stiffen one’s upper lip and carry on when you dare not share your cowardice for fear of being misunderstood. But it is a difficult thing to heft one’s burden alone when there is someone willing to share it.
“Stoker, what if I’ve blundered?” I asked suddenly, the words bursting out in a torrent. “What if I’ve miscalculated and it all goes awry? They might—” I did not say the words. I could not.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They might.”
“And that doesn’t frighten you?” I demanded. My voice rose and Huxley shifted, grumbling a little as only an annoyed bulldog can.
“It scares the bloody hell out of me, if I’m honest,” he replied. “But you cannot think like that. You’ve made your gamble. You’ve thrown the dice and now we wait to see if you’ve won.”
“But if I’ve lost—” I broke off and tried again, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “I accused you of being rash when you fled London after the baron’s death, but I am no better. I have risked both our lives in this and I had no right to bring you any further into this fight.”
“I have been in it,” he reminded me. “From the first. And I will be there at the last. Whatever happens.”
He dug in his pocket for one of his scarlet handkerchiefs. “Here, use this before you give Huxley pneumonia from wetting him with your tears.”
His tone was mocking, but his gaze was unperturbed. A calmness had settled over him, a serenity that I had never seen.
“Is this what it’s like? Before a battle, I mean. You must have seen a few in the navy.”
“A few,” he admitted. “There’s always a moment, after the frantic preparation and before the firing, when everything goes quiet. You can feel the men around you praying. I never could. For me there was only the silence.”
“What did you do with your silence?”
He gave me a small smile. “What do you think? I recited a few lines of Keats to myself. I thought of the life I might never live, the life I wanted to live. And I thought of my commander, the man into whose hands I had entrusted my life.”
A Curious Beginning Page 30