“And someone didn’t take it well,” he finished.
“But his wife? His brother-in-law? Surely they would wish him to be exonerated! You forget, Havelock House is the nexus of the entire affair. Miles Ramsforth was a patron of the place, the dead woman lived there. Presumably her friends and most intimate connections live there as well. And Ottilie Ramsforth has come there to live since her husband’s arrest. Somehow, Frederick Havelock’s little commune is where the answers may be found.”
“And someone there wants sleeping dogs left to lie,” Stoker remarked.
I smiled. “I can think of no finer beginning to an investigation than being threatened with bodily injury,” I told him. “Arcadia Brown could ask for no better.”
• • •
I would have liked to have begun our inquiry at the scene of the crime—the Ramsforth estate at Littledown—but permission would have to be granted from Ottilie Ramsforth, and I must confess to a singular curiosity about that lady. I spent the day unpacking a selection of crates from the third earl’s expedition to the Himalayas while Stoker energetically buffed his crocodile. After waiting as late as I dared, I lured Stoker from his work with the promise of a ham roll and a cold beef pie sent down from the Folly kitchens before sending him off to neaten himself into something approaching respectability for the entertainment at Havelock House. Shortly after the hour struck eight, we were in a hired hansom, trotting briskly towards Holland Park.
Stoker was in a predictably difficult mood. He had finally made significant progress with his crocodile, and I had dragged him away from it on what might well prove a fool’s errand. I knew he did not approve of my determination to see this thing through to the end, but it was a mark of his loyalty that he was at my side, grumble though he might.
“They’ll be nothing but a heap of bored aristocrats and aspiring Bohemians, and I am not certain which is the most tiresome,” he warned me. “Both kinds are prone to making wild pronouncements simply for the purpose of shocking other people, and neither have the moral courage of a mouse.”
In spite of his ill temper, Stoker was fairly vibrating with impatience as we approached Havelock House, quivering with the pent energy of a hound before a hunt. He might cavil at my penchant for involving us in investigations, but he was every bit as enthusiastic about the pursuit as I was. Yet even he paused on the doorstep, rocking back upon his heels as he considered Havelock House.
“It is a monstrosity,” he breathed. “A very grand monstrosity.”
He was not wrong. In Frederick Havelock’s entry in Notable Britons there had been a paragraph describing the building of the place, an enterprise that had taken him the better part of a decade and the entirety of his father’s fortune. At first glance it seemed a fairly plain and functional dwelling of red brick and Bath stone facings dotted here and there with mullioned windows in the Tudor style. But a closer look revealed unexpected embellishments. There were balconies and crenellations, and—looming over the east façade—a tower surmounted by a pointed roof, the witch’s hat of the sort so often favored by whimsical French architects. A tiny lagoon in front of the house boasted a miniature gondola, and the portico housing the front door was hung with a series of Chinese lanterns.
Stoker’s expression was rapt. “Forget what I said,” he murmured. “There’s genius at work here. Wild dogs couldn’t drag me out of this investigation.”
I grinned and we approached the open door, not surprised to find the entertainment under way. There was no servant at the door, for it was obvious Frederick Havelock did not dwell upon ceremony and all were welcome. The mood inside the house was nothing to what I had expected. Although the trappings of mourning were in evidence, a sort of carnival atmosphere prevailed. Interior doors had been thrown open and people drifted from room to room, conversing in low tones punctuated by the odd bit of muffled laughter.
The house had been built around a central hall fitted with tiles from the East, and a fountain tinkled under a gilded dome that soared overhead. A series of galleries ran the circumference of the hall, leading off in various directions to separate wings, each with a different color scheme—here Pompeiian red, there Genoan green. Only the reception hall bowed its head to the East, conjuring images of a thousand and one nights beneath an Arabian sky, for the dome was painted with a celestial scene complete with silvery constellations. In the center of the fountain, a little incongruously perhaps, stood a marble statue in the Greek style of a maiden with her hands cupped around her mouth as she gazed backwards over her shoulder. A bronze plaque at her feet was inscribed simply ECHO, and I was struck by the pathos of the nymph, for she was a masterpiece of emotion.
Apparently as welcome as anyone else, we took our time wandering about the reception hall and poking into the various workshops and studios that lined the back of Havelock House, each fitted with floor-to-ceiling windows that had been flung open to the air of the gardens, drawing in the scent of late roses and the unexpected narcotic heaviness of tuberose. Enormous bouquets of lilies had been gathered into vases that stood like fragrant sentinels at each door, and in the main drawing room a buffet of cold meats had been laid. There was a ready supply of intoxicants of every variety, and Stoker poured us both a glass of surprisingly elegant red wine as we surveyed the crowd.
And quite a crowd it was. I could not decide if the event was meant to be a sort of wake or an exhibition. A juggler vied for attention against the strains of a group of musicians playing exceedingly mournful dirges, and a contortionist twisted herself into fantastical shapes in front of a veiled and silent professional mourner draped from crown to hem in deepest, impenetrable black. I was just admiring the contortionist’s flexibility when I felt the hairs upon the back of my neck prickle.
A woman dressed entirely and expensively in black glided up to us. She had a face that would never have been beautiful; the irregularity of her features would not permit it. Her nose was a trifle long, her eyes set slightly too far apart in a face so pale it reminded me of new milk. But her hands were lovely, the fingers long and tapering like a violinist’s. Her hair, a dark chestnut hue shot through with grey, had been plaited and pinned into a heavy coil at her neck, and her only jewels were a slim gold wedding ring and a pair of shimmering jet earrings that trembled when she turned her head. She approached, her slender mouth parted into a modest smile of welcome.
“I think—pardon me if I am mistaken, but you must be Miss Speedwell, are you not?” Her voice, I realized, was her true beauty. It was low and soft, with an attractive musicality.
“I am.”
The smile hesitated, then deepened. “I am Ottilie Ramsforth. Her Royal Highness said we might expect you. And your friend,” she added quickly with a tentatively welcoming glance at Stoker.
He inclined his head. “Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, Mrs. Ramsforth.”
“I know. The princess discussed you at length.”
I suppressed a smile. Only the assurances of a princess could have persuaded anyone he was anything other than a buccaneer. Claiming that his eye—once the site of a grievous injury—was fatigued, Stoker had put on the eye patch that was his occasional habit, but I suspected it a gesture born of mischief. Stoker was the dedicated black sheep of the Templeton-Vane family and kept himself aloof from society whenever possible. Being thrust into the very heart of it would no doubt bring out his worse instincts for waywardness. In this case, it meant flaunting his rather alarming resemblance to a prosperous pirate, complete with overlong locks and golden earrings glinting in his lobes. The fact that the numerous tattoos acquired on his travels were hidden by his clothing was no doubt a source of great irritation to him, but the knowledge that his physique was shown to excellent effect by his tailoring must have been a consolation. It seemed to unnerve Mrs. Ramsforth, for she darted him a number of hesitant looks during our conversation.
“This is a far grander entertainment than I was anticipating,”
I told her. “I hope we are not intruding.”
“Oh no!” she said earnestly. “Sir Frederick likes to host these gatherings a few times each month. It is an opportunity for the artists to show their work informally, to meet new patrons and models. Anyone is welcome. The affair will last far into the night, growing rather more riotous with the late hours, I am afraid,” she added with a touch of asperity.
“You do not care for the exhibitions?” I asked.
She shook her head, the little jet beads at her ears clicking as they danced. “It isn’t that,” she protested. “These events are quite necessary for the sort of work my brother-in-law does. He has been very generous in finding his protégés suitable commissions. It is only the timing and the theme one finds difficult.”
I looked from the crêpe-draped looking glasses to the ornamental professional mourner and was forced to agree. It was in questionable taste with Miles Ramsforth scheduled to hang in a week. As I watched, the professional mourner edged a little closer, clearly bent upon listening to our conversation.
“Perhaps there is somewhere more private we could talk,” I suggested.
An expression of relief passed over her face. “Yes, that would be best. Won’t you come up to my rooms?”
We followed Mrs. Ramsforth as she led the way through the press of people. She paused partway up the stairs, gesturing towards the statue of Echo. “If you stop at any point upon the stairs, you can hear whatever is said in the hall below,” she told us. “It is a peculiar feature of this place. A whim of Sir Frederick’s.”
I glanced down at the press of people, wondering if any of them might have been our nocturnal visitor.
“Tell me, Mrs. Ramsforth,” I said casually. “Did you have a quiet supper with Princess Louise last night?”
One elegant hand rested upon the banister. “Why, no. Sir Frederick gave a supper party almost as crowded as this one.” She turned and began to climb again while I exchanged meaningful glances with Stoker. If Louise’s conversation had been overheard, as seemed entirely possible in the chaos of Havelock House, any one of the guests present the night before might have slipped away to deliver the threat.
Mrs. Ramsforth led us into the wing painted Genoan green and through a small door set within an ogival arch. “Another of my brother-in-law’s inspirations,” she said, ushering us inside and closing the door softly behind us. We were in a small sitting room, unremarkable in its size, but unlike any room I had ever seen before. It might have been Titania’s bower, for the walls were painted in shifting shades of green, with the ceiling dappled blue and festooned with drifting clouds. The furnishings were crafted of gilded wood in fanciful shapes with Gothic arches a repeating motif, and every cushion had been sewn of green velvet embellished by golden thread.
“How extraordinary,” I breathed.
Mrs. Ramsforth smiled. “Sir Frederick is eccentric, but a genius. And he is very generous to me.” Without asking, she poured us each a thimbleful of clear liquid into tiny crystal glasses.
“Drink carefully,” she warned.
Stoker took a sip and a broad smile spread across his face. “Tsipouro,” he pronounced.
The placid face was lit with pleasure. “You know it?”
“I served in Her Majesty’s Navy for some years,” he told her. “I traveled through Greece on my way home from an engagement in Egypt.”
I sipped cautiously. It was the same sort of liquid fire I had come to appreciate in the aguardiente from South America that I drank, nearly tasteless and lethally potent.
“How did you come to find such a libation?” I asked her.
She had taken no glass for herself, and she folded her hands calmly in her lap, resting the marble-white flesh on the black bombazine of her gown. “My husband and I have often traveled there as a result of his interest in Hellenic art. We purchased a villa during our last visit, and I mean to go there to live when . . . when . . .” She broke off suddenly, her voice tight with emotion.
After a moment she collected herself. “Forgive me. This has been a difficult time.”
“I cannot imagine,” I told her truthfully. “But we would like to help.”
She clasped her hands together. “That is what the princess said. Forgive me, Miss Speedwell, but I do not see how that is possible.”
Her voice was still tight, and something in her manner made her seem brittle, near to breaking. I glanced at Stoker and he gave a single quick jerk of the chin to indicate I should try a different tack. Of the two of us, Stoker had far more experience talking his way around the fairer sex, so I obliged.
“It is indeed generous of Sir Frederick to invite you to reside here, as it is generous of him to let his protégés live here and well.”
She brightened noticeably at the change in subject, her hands relaxing immediately.
“He is the most openhanded gentleman you would ever encounter,” she said with a firmness I had not yet seen in her.
“And this is where the unfortunate young woman—Artemisia, I believe was her name—this is where she lived as well?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her,” I invited.
She was silent a moment, then shook her head slowly. “I am not certain of how to put her into words. She was not what I would call beautiful. But she was striking. Very tall—statuesque,” she added. “She had masses of hair. It was red, which they say is unlucky, but she wore it loose, and it was so pretty. She always gave the impression of great vitality, for she took a keen interest in things.” Her expression dimmed. “She was a gifted artist, Miss Speedwell, a very gifted artist. Her speciality was murals. She had just completed one at Littledown for us when she . . .” She trailed off, then seemed to gather new strength, speaking more decisively. “She had many talents. And her death was shocking.”
“I imagine it was particularly so for Sir Frederick,” I said with a deliberate blandness.
She took my meaning and gave me a sharp look. “You must not think there was anything untoward between them. Frederick has always had an eye for young women, but he confines himself to dallying with the models. He would never interfere with an artist. He believes affairs of the heart can blunt one’s ambitions, drive away the muse, as he would say.”
“And he never thought to drive away the muse from Artemisia? A striking-looking young woman living under his own roof?” I pressed.
She shook her head, the jet beads clacking furiously. “No, he would not. Besides, his health would not permit—that is to say,” she said with a blushing glance at Stoker, “he faces limitations in his pursuits. Since Artemisia’s death he has been confined to a Bath chair. I sometimes wonder . . .”
Her voice trailed off and Stoker leaned forward, his gaze awash with sympathy. “Yes?” he asked in a far gentler voice than he ever used to me. “What do you wonder, Mrs. Ramsforth?”
“Artemisia looked a little like my sister, Augusta. I know it sounds fanciful, but I sometimes wondered if Sir Frederick’s fondness for her was that he saw an echo of the woman he loved.”
“When did your sister die?” I asked. The question seemed to jar her a little. She had edged forward towards Stoker like a flower to the sun, but the sound of my voice caused her to withdraw a little.
“A decade ago. In childbirth,” she said, her demeanor brittle once more.
“Did the child survive?”
“No. None of hers did. Neither did mine,” she answered shortly. “Our family are not blessed with fecundity, Miss Speedwell.”
I flicked a glance to Stoker. My intrusive questions had nettled her; I relied upon him to soothe her back down again.
He rose to the occasion like a hero. “Tell me about Lady Havelock,” he coaxed. “I imagine she was very special.”
“She was,” Mrs. Ramsforth said, her eyes burning with sudden devotion. “She was my elder by only eleven months, and we
were raised almost as twins. Our nanny dressed us alike. Our governess taught us the same lessons. Never was there a treat for Augusta that I did not share,” she added, her voice drifting into nostalgia. “She was my dearest companion. To lose her—was unthinkable.” She paused then, clasping her hands together almost convulsively. “Of course it was worse for Sir Frederick. She was his wife, and he did love her dearly for all their quarrels.”
“They quarreled?” Stoker prompted.
A fleeting smile touched her thin lips. “Constantly. They fought about money, about his paramours. But nothing truly divided them. They were the most devoted couple you could imagine. They throve on the fighting, you see. They were passionate.” She colored again at the last word, as if embarrassed to think of the other ways in which they might have been passionate.
“I do not know how I would have managed when she died if it had not been for my husband,” she went on.
“He was a solace in your grief?” Stoker suggested gently.
“He took me out of myself,” she explained. “He would not let me sit and brood. He made me travel. We spent two years in Greece, scrambling over rocks and ruins, learning the language and chasing myths. It was highly therapeutic. That is why now—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “That is why now, I am planning to return there. It is what he wants.”
“Mr. Ramsforth has told you this?” I put in.
She shied like a spooked horse. “I have not seen my husband in some weeks,” she admitted. “He will no longer permit me to visit him. He sent word through his solicitor that I should quit England to escape the scandal. I resisted as long as I could, but now, as the end grows near—” She broke off again, clasping a hand to her mouth. Instantly, Stoker was on his knees in front of her, offering one of his enormous scarlet handkerchiefs. She took it, pressing it to her mouth as her shoulders shook silently.
After a long moment, she made to return it, but he pressed it back into her hands, clasping them with his. “Forgive the liberty, Mrs. Ramsforth,” he said finally, releasing them and resuming his seat. “I never was able to resist a lady in distress.”
A Perilous Undertaking Page 7
