“And de Clare was only too happy to have someone new to recruit to his cause,” Stoker guessed.
“My dear fellow, the matter was settled over a bottle of good Irish whisky and a handshake.”
“He is an unrepentant lunatic,” I said succinctly.
“What a very hurtful thing to say about one’s blood relation,” he said thoughtfully. “I prefer to think of him as dogged in his pursuits.” He paused. “He rails quite a lot—gets into these dark moods where he sits up all night, nursing a bottle of rather fine, peaty whisky and saying decidedly unkind things about you. He has spent the last months in a fever of frustration because he had no idea where you were. He had a dozen plots to kidnap this one and torture him into talking,” he said with a jerk of his head towards Stoker, “and you can thank me for putting him off that idea.” He paused, but when no sign of gratitude was forthcoming from Stoker, he shrugged and went on. “He was ripe as a plum when I found him, ready to fall in with my plans at the first approach.”
He rose then, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Now then, I merely wanted to look in and make certain our charges were of good cheer. I will return later.”
He edged towards the door, and that was when they made their mistake. Quiet Dan and his companion withdrew first, leaving Archibond exposed.
Stoker surged up from the bed in a single, fluid motion, taking up one of the chairs and smashing it in a single blow so that he held a piece in each hand, brandishing them like a lion tamer. He started forwards, making straight for Archibond. The inspector stepped back swiftly, letting Quiet Dan move to the fore. The Irishman raised his gun but Archibond gave a shout of alarm.
“Don’t shoot, you cretin! If you miss it will ricochet,” he protested. Quiet Dan resorted to his fists, swinging wildly, but Stoker never paused in his implacable advance. He dropped to his knees, slashing with the spindles at the Irishman’s knees, bringing him down hard. Quiet Dan howled, but the noise was cut off as Stoker slammed one spindle into his solar plexus. The fellow pitched forward, and Stoker cut up sharply, putting all of his strength into a blow that snapped the fellow’s head back so hard, I could feel the crack of it in my bones.
From the doorway, Archibond raised his own revolver, aiming carefully at me and stopping Stoker squarely in his tracks. “On your knees, Templeton-Vane,” he said through gritted teeth.
Stoker hesitated and Archibond cocked the pistol. “I am not de Clare,” he said, his voice cold as a winter wind. “Believe me when I tell you that you care far more than I do if she dies. On your knees.”
Stoker complied this time, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“Now on your face,” Archibond instructed.
Stoker lay facedown and gave me a long look of resignation. I gave him a nod in return to show that I understood, and before he could respond, Archibond circled around and lifted his boot to aim a careful kick at Stoker’s jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head but Archibond kicked him once more for good measure. Thoroughly and obviously shaken, Archibond signaled angrily to a staggering Quiet Dan and his companion. Together they scooped Stoker up under the armpits and dragged him from the room.
“Where are you taking him?” I demanded.
Archibond gave a thin smile as he left, banging the door behind him.
I slid back down to the bed as the key turned in the lock.
Eddy made a sympathetic noise. “Poor brave fellow. God only knows what they will do to him. He oughtn’t to have gone for them. It was a foolish thing to do.”
I turned to him, torn between pride in Stoker and scorn for Eddy’s lack of perception. “Foolish? He has just got himself out of this room without picking a lock. While he is gone, he will assess the conditions outside and will know the best course of action when he returns. To my way of thinking, we have just doubled our odds of escaping,” I informed him.
His expression was pitying. “He mayn’t even survive. We don’t know them, Veronica.”
I twisted my hands into fists, stubbornly clinging to my optimism. “You don’t know Stoker.”
* * *
• • •
Without Stoker’s reassuring presence the next few hours dragged. Eddy and I did our best to pass the time, but I was preoccupied with the nuances of Archibond’s visit and what they implied. He had not answered when Stoker inquired about the finer points of the plot, but it was not difficult to imagine the broad strokes. Archibond, with his mission to burn down the world he knew, had searched long for just the right match to put to the tinder. In me, he had found it, knowing the scandal that erupted from my story would sweep the Empire. Using my uncle’s scheme as a starting point, he could disgrace the current royal family and set off a crisis of confidence in the monarchy, to expose them as disreputable and amoral, the antithesis of the virtuous and Christian model of propriety they had so often claimed to be.
Then, when the Empire was still reeling from the shock, he would allow de Clare to present me with my credentials to the world, proclaiming me queen. That would plunge Ireland into chaos, with the Roman Church and its thousands of adherents across the globe taking the position that I was the legitimate queen. The Empire would fracture, and other lands would seize the chance to shape their own destinies, breaking with London in order to strike out for independence.
As soon as that happened, stronger nations like Germany and America would involve themselves, swooping like birds of prey to pluck the vulnerable and promising pickings, quarrelling amongst themselves to divide the spoils. In the end, Archibond would get what he wanted: anarchy. A world on fire where a man’s birth meant nothing compared to what he could do.
And as the architect of the chaos, Archibond would be perfectly poised to catapult himself into power. He might rail about the downtrodden and the disadvantaged, but I had traversed the globe and met few saints upon the way. Archibond was like every other fanatic I had encountered: fixed upon his own ambitions while cloaking them in a mantle of beneficence. The slender compensations of life in public service, even if he rose to the pinnacle of Special Branch, would never satisfy his aspirations. He, like so many other greater men before him, longed to leave his mark upon the world, and he cared nothing for the devastation that might ensue.
As I pondered the unthinkable, Eddy managed to piece together the implications of one rather chilling omission on Archibond’s part.
“They haven’t sent a ransom note,” he said quietly. “That means they intend to kill me.”
“You cannot know that,” I told him in a harsher tone than I meant. “Besides, you are not going to die here. I forbid it.”
“You are a very managing sort of person,” he said with a courageous attempt at a smile. “I would fear to disobey you.”
“See that you don’t,” I told him.
His smile faltered then. “I can’t believe they really murdered her. She was a lovely woman,” he lamented. “Kind and generous, well-read, witty.”
“You were fond of Madame Aurore.”
He gave a little shrug. “I suppose. I was not in love with her,” he said quickly. “You must not think we were more than friends.”
“Most gentlemen of her acquaintance were more than just friends of hers,” I observed.
He blushed a little. “I know. And I spent time in her rooms, private time. But only for conversation! She was very easy to talk to.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “Is that really the extent of your endeavors there?”
“It is!” he insisted. “At least, that is all I did with Aurore. One couldn’t very well go to such a place and not have a sporting time,” he added seriously.
“I wonder what your Princess Alix would make of such activities,” I jibed.
He drew himself up. “It is a gentleman’s obligation to be experienced in the marriage bed. Naturally, I would not continue such activities once we were wed.”
; “Then you would be a distinct departure from the rest of your family,” I told him. I returned to the subject of Madame Aurore. “What kinds of things did you talk about?”
He laced his long fingers together. “Mostly Alix. She was advising me on how to woo her properly. She was very kind.”
“I rather liked her myself,” I told him. “We were not so very different.”
“We used to play cards,” he confessed. “Usually two-handed whist. For ha’pence a point. I owed her rather a lot of money at the end.”
“If you were only friends, why did you give her the star?” I asked.
He shrugged. “She needed money, she said. Running her establishment is terribly expensive. Only I couldn’t give her money outright because I haven’t any, not enough to help her, at least. Papa keeps me on a bit of a short lead,” he said, his moustaches quivering a little.
“How did you expect to pay for the diamond star?”
“Oh, well, Motherdear has an account at Garrard. I thought if I just ordered a trinket there, then Aurore could sell it at her discretion and they would send the bill along and Motherdear’s solicitor would see it paid.”
He seemed so cheerfully unaware of how ridiculous it was to expect his mother to pay for a jewel for his friend that I did not have the heart to mock him for it. Instead I smiled by way of consolation. “You have a generous heart, Eddy.”
He blushed again, this time in pleasure, I think. “Motherdear often says so. Papa has a less flattering opinion of me.”
“Do you not get on with him?”
He struggled to find the words. “I’m not sure anyone really gets on with Papa. He’s frightfully intimidating in person.” I had only seen my father once, from a distance, but it was enough to know that Eddy’s assessment was correct. “Of course, one of his lady friends has nicknamed him Prince Tum-Tum,” Eddy confided with a grin. “And when I think of that, it makes him less terrifying.”
“I am sure he does not mean to terrify you,” I assured him.
“Oh, I don’t know. He is petrified of his own mama, and I think he has some idea that is how things are supposed to be. Even George is frightened of him and he isn’t frightened of anyone.”
“George? Your brother?”
“And my best friend,” he said swiftly. “He’s a good chap, our George. He is cleverer than I am, better at his studies and things. He is quite popular too. People always like him,” he added with a wistful look. I felt a rush of sympathy for this kindly young man, sandwiched as he was between a dynamic father and an outgoing younger brother.
“People don’t always see me, you know. Not really. They see the Prince of Wales’ son, the future king. Most people don’t see Eddy.”
“I do,” I assured him.
“Yes, well, we are locked up together, so it makes it rather easy,” he returned with a self-deprecating little grin. He sobered again. “If they do mean to kill me, I hope you will tell the family that I faced it like a gentleman,” he said.
“Eddy—”
“I mean it,” he told me, seizing my hand in his. His palm was warm and broad, the fingers long and graceful where they curved over mine. “I have made no mark on the world, Veronica. If I die, how I face it will be the only story I have. I will endeavor to make it a good one.”
I gripped his hand in reply. “We will not permit that to happen, Eddy. You have my word.”
CHAPTER
16
Some hours later, the door opened and Quiet Dan and his compatriot returned, an unconscious Stoker slung between them. They dropped him to the floor and carried in a tray of food.
I went to where Stoker lay bleeding. He was breathing evenly, but there was a nasty lump on his head and the stitches on his arm had torn further asunder. I rounded on them in fury. “You might at least bring some water and bandages, you wretches,” I said in icy tones.
Quiet Dan had the grace to look abashed, and although he left, he returned quickly with a pitcher of water. He drew a nasty-looking handkerchief from his pocket and offered it.
“Thank you, but I would rather not give him septicemia,” I replied. “Go away now.”
He did as he was bade, shuffling away and locking the door behind him as Eddy stared at me in disbelief.
“He did what you told him,” he said in awed tones.
“A woman who knows her mind is a surprise to a certain type of man. They do not know how to react to it, so they generally obey,” I said in some distraction as I examined Stoker for further injuries.
“If this is your idea of seduction, I am doomed,” he murmured.
“You are conscious, then?” I asked, nearly light-headed from relief.
“I am unlikely to be anything else with your ham-fisted poking,” he complained. “I would have enjoyed a few more minutes of senselessness, you know.”
“I know,” I said, my eyes suddenly awash. I had time to dash away the unshed tears and compose myself before he looked at me.
Eddy crept near. “Do you require anything, Templeton-Vane?”
“A bit of morphia and a nice single malt would be just the thing,” Stoker replied. “And some cake.”
My laugh was mirthless and brittle. “Well, we haven’t any of those, but once we are out of here, I promise you a plateful of cakes, the best Julien d’Orlande can bake.”
“I shall hold you to that,” he said, slipping away again.
“Stoker,” I called softly.
He opened his good eye and held my gaze with visible effort.
“What have you discovered? Is escape possible through the rest of the warehouse?”
He shook his head slowly and gave a low growl of pain. “No. At least four locked doors between us and the street. Find another way.”
He gave a deep groan and rolled onto all fours and was lavishly sick. I put out my hand for the cloak Stoker had given Eddy and he handed it over without a word.
“Empty the food from one of the bowls and bring it here,” I instructed. Eddy obeyed with alacrity, and it occurred to me that, for all his lofty position, he was accustomed to following orders. Grandmother, father, tutors, commanding officers in army and navy—all would have dictated to him.
“Wrap the bowl in the cloak and then break it,” I said. He blinked.
“The cloak will muffle the sounds of the breakage,” I explained in some exasperation. “We do not want them to know we have fashioned a possible weapon.”
“Oh, that is clever,” he said. He did as he was told, with excessive enthusiasm, I reflected, as he presented me with a pile of shards. He had broken the bowl so comprehensively that only a few pieces large enough to be of use remained. He gave me an eager look, like a puppy that has just sat upon command.
“Very good, Eddy,” I said. I plucked the largest piece from the cloak. The remaining splinters of china were embedded in the fabric.
“That was silk,” he said mournfully. “And the only thing I had for warmth.”
“I don’t care if it was woven by virgin nuns sitting on the pope’s lap,” I told him. “He needs it more than you. Give me that water.” My handkerchief had disappeared somewhere during the evening’s adventures, and so I used the shard of broken bowl to start a rip in the fabric, then tore a long strip free. I wetted it and wiped away the worst of the blood and the sick.
Stoker roused himself then and quietly cataloged his injuries, supervising our basic treatment. We had little to work with, and no doubt to him our efforts were almost as unpleasant as the beating itself. He looked even worse when we had finished, bruises and rivulets of dried blood festooning his face.
Stoker lay quite still when we had completed our acts of ungentle mercy. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was even.
“Is he unconscious now?” Eddy asked curiously.
“I do not know. Better for him if he is since we’
ve nothing for the pain,” I pointed out.
Stoker’s head was heavy in my lap, but I would not move it for all the world.
Eddy settled near us, shivering a little, his slender chest mottled with cold. I noticed then the tattoo upon his arm, and he held it out for inspection. The image was a Jerusalem cross, a central equilateral cross with four smaller ones set in each quadrant. Surmounting the arrangement were three crowns.
“George and I got them in Jerusalem. Papa got the same on his tour of the Holy Land so we thought it would be a lark to have them done.” The notion of both of my half-brothers choosing to adorn themselves with the same tattoo our father had was oddly moving. I had little doubt that Eddy struggled to find approbation in our father’s eyes. Had he hoped this gesture would help?
He turned, displaying his back. “George and I had these done in Japan,” he told me. Inked across his skin was a large red and blue dragon embellished with fire.
“Very handsome,” I said.
He turned back, his expression wary. “Mind you don’t tell Motherdear. She doesn’t know, you see, and she mightn’t approve.”
I did not bother to explain to Eddy that my opportunities for conversation with Her Royal Highness were limited in the extreme. He shivered then, and I held up my arm, opening my cloak. “There is room enough for you to warm yourself here if you don’t mind sitting quite close.”
He moved to my side, settling himself under my arm as I wrapped the cloak around us both, Stoker’s head still on my lap. We were still sitting thus when Archibond appeared, looking a trifle haggard.
“You seem discomposed, Inspector,” I said coolly. “But I expect managing a madman must be a bit tiring.”
His smile was thin. “Miss Speedwell. I see you and your companions have made yourselves comfortable.”
A Murderous Relation Page 18