A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I narrowly managed not to roll my eyes at that piece of fiction. But Mrs. Ramsforth swallowed it whole and favored him with a smile of arresting sweetness. Stoker pressed his advantage. “Mrs. Ramsforth, we have no wish to grieve you, but we do very much want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “The bottom of this?” She looked from Stoker to me with an expression of such naked anguish that I caught my breath. “Have you not grasped the truth yet, Mr. Templeton-Vane? You cannot grieve me further, for I have made my peace with the worst of it.”

  “The worst of it?” Stoker echoed.

  “You have come here because you wish to prove that my husband is innocent. But that is impossible.”

  I gaped at her. “Mrs. Ramsforth, do you mean to say—”

  “Yes, Miss Speedwell,” she cut in with more firmness than she had yet demonstrated. “He murdered Artemisia. And very soon he will hang for it.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  A palpable silence filled the room after Ottilie Ramsforth’s statement. It was left to me to break it.

  “But Princess Louise,” I began.

  “Her Royal Highness is a loyal friend, to me and to my husband,” Mrs. Ramsforth said calmly. “She wishes to believe he is innocent because she cannot countenance that anyone for whom she cares would be capable of such an atrocity.”

  “But you think he is?” Stoker put in with lightning swiftness. Ottilie Ramsforth inclined her head.

  “Mr. Templeton-Vane, I have known my husband for many years—since long before our marriage. I have known him as a boy and as a man, and I can tell you that, God forgive me, I have seen weakness in him. You cannot know how it pains me to tell the truth, but I cannot lie. I have protected him from misdeeds in the past, harmless things,” she said, waving a hand as I would have interrupted. “Indiscretions that would only burden a wife. He was frequently unfaithful, and that was something I was perfectly happy to accept.”

  “Happy!” I exclaimed. I could not imagine any woman being content to have the man she loved warming another’s bed.

  Her smile was fatigued, and it was the fatigue born of years. “You have never been married, Miss Speedwell. You do not yet know what it means to love someone more than yourself. I have no pride left, no delicacy. I cannot afford it. So I will tell you the truth: I wanted his happiness above all things. Unfortunately, my disappointed hopes of motherhood meant that I was unable to accommodate him in the marriage bed,” she added with a studied avoidance of Stoker’s gaze. “His friendships with other women were passing infatuations. Only I mattered to him, and a woman may forgive quite a lot when she is the queen of her husband’s heart. I ruled alone there.”

  “Even when Artemisia caught his eye?” I asked. I hated the question, but it must be posed, and to her credit, she did not flinch. She spoke calmly and with perfect conviction.

  “Artemisia was a lovely girl, but she was merely the latest in a long line. Miles admired her for her talent, and he was diverted by a pretty face. He would have tired of her in the end, as he did all the others.”

  “But there was a child,” Stoker put in quietly.

  “There was,” she acknowledged. “And we would have done right by her and the babe. They would have been cared for, as a gentleman’s mistake ought to be.”

  “Then what happened?” I demanded. “Why would he have killed Artemisia?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her lips tight. “I wish I did. Was it a passing madness? Was it some silly game gone awry? A prank got out of hand? If only he would say.”

  “But he will not,” I reminded her.

  “No, he will not,” she burst out, “and that is why I have to think it is possible that he is guilty.” She drew in a deep, shaking breath. “He always confessed his peccadilloes to me. We used to laugh about them. He was like a naughty child seeking absolution. He never felt truly at peace until he told me whatever he had done. But he will not speak of this. He will go to his death with it on his conscience, and I cannot absolve him of that. Only God can.”

  “What if there is nothing to absolve?” I asked.

  She took another breath and the smile trembling on her lips turned sweetly seraphic. She rose and I realized our interview with her was at an end.

  “Is it possible for us to visit Littledown?” Stoker asked. “Seeing where it all happened might be beneficial.”

  “Of course. It may take a few days,” she said in an apologetic tone. “I came away quite suddenly. The newspapermen were such a frightful nuisance, and then the gawkers began to arrive—all those strangers pressed against the gates. A few of them even made it inside the grounds and came right up against the windows. I was terribly upset.”

  “I can imagine,” Stoker said by way of consolation.

  “When I came here, I closed up the house—had it shuttered and bolted and sent the key to my husband’s solicitors. They have set a watchman at the place, only an elderly local man and his dog, but it is better than leaving the estate unattended. I will have to write to the solicitors to request they return the key. They may not attach much importance to such a request, what with Miles having only a few days left—” She broke off, then gathered her composure once more. “I will do my best.”

  She walked us to the door and shook each of our hands in turn.

  “This is all so strange, I pray you will understand. I wish you the very best of luck in your inquiries, but I cannot believe you will establish his innocence, indeed, I dare not think it possible. You see, it hurts too much to hope. I must think of him as already dead, for that is what he will be, and I fear even you cannot save him.”

  “We will try,” I promised her.

  Sudden tears sprang to her eyes. “God help you, Miss Speedwell. God help you.”

  • • •

  “A very interesting lady, Mrs. Ramsforth,” I remarked as Stoker and I wended our way slowly down the stairs. He grunted by way of agreement, and without discussion we turned our steps to the drawing room where the food had been laid out. We each filled a plate as an excuse to linger, and as we nibbled at lobster patties and cold turkey, we wandered the periphery of the room, studying the art. There was a statue of Achilles as a boy that I found quite arresting, but it was an enormous canvas stretching the length of the far wall that demanded attention, a painting of no little skill and signed with a swirl of gilt paint with the name Artemisia.

  The subject was the death of Holofernes at the hands of Judith, and the execution of it was utterly mesmerizing. The arms of the victim were thrown out in sleep, the head fallen back so that the long, sensual column of the throat was vulnerable. In contrast, the arms of his assassin were taut with intent, her expression purposeful, from the narrowed eyes to the tip of the little pink tongue caught between her teeth as she advanced upon him. Artemisia Gentileschi had painted the same scene, but unlike her predecessor, our Artemisia had chosen the moment just before the act. No violent spray of blood, no arms corded with homicidal effort, no rictus of pain and fear from the victim. This was a moment in which nothing had yet happened, the last instant before crossing the Rubicon. Artemisia had captured her when she might yet turn back, when she had not made a murderess of herself. That choice rendered the painting all the more powerful and poignant. It was as if the viewer, seeing it clearly, could pry the knife from her hand and guide her out of the tent, back to safety, back to innocence. The eyes were not yet those of a killer.

  I scrutinized it from edge to edge and back again, from the lavish tent folds on the right-hand side of the painting through the figures and down to the tips of Holofernes’ fingers, relaxed in sleep, the curving forefinger pointing to her signature, a flourish of golden paint against the white of his bedsheet. It was a clever trick; it forced the viewer to notice the signature, but in a way that was a natural extension of the work itself. Artemisia was subtly reminding everyone who saw the painting that
she was as much a part of it as Judith and Holofernes, that this moment had been conjured by her and no one else.

  “Stupendous,” Stoker breathed, and I realized suddenly we were not alone. Standing at my elbow was a diminutive sprite of a young woman who scarcely reached my chin. She had a firm, square jaw and the most strongly marked brows I had ever seen, combining to give her a look of almost pugnacious self-confidence.

  “We do not stand on ceremony here,” she informed me as she thrust out her hand. “I am Emma Talbot.”

  “Veronica Speedwell,” I replied, shaking hands. “Do you live here, Miss Talbot?”

  “I do. I am a sculptress under the tutelage of Sir Frederick.”

  She turned to greet Stoker, and from that moment on, I might as well have been invisible. She had eyes only for him, and I was not surprised. His piratical appearance had been carefully cultivated, both as a tribute to his time served in Her Majesty’s Navy, and as a means of putting off unwelcome female attentions. The poor fellow never understood that it had precisely the opposite effect. When a gentleman of excellent breeding and perfect vowels assumes the guise of a ruffian, women are frequently reduced to a state of helpless infatuation. I had seen it numerous times, that glazed look of bewilderment in a female’s eyes as her interest was kindled, almost against her will. Stoker himself never took notice unless I pointed it out, at which he invariably blushed an enchanting shade of rose that only highlighted his allure. To his credit, he never abused his talent. He might have bedded half the aristocracy with his irresistible combination of good looks and brooding bad temper, but he restricted himself with the asceticism of a monk.

  I sighed at the inevitable and performed the introductions.

  “Mr. Templeton-Vane,” Miss Talbot said, clasping his fingers in hers, the tiny hand closing carefully around his. “How enchanting to make your acquaintance.”

  “The enchantment is entirely mine,” came the gallant reply. I rolled my eyes heavenwards, but neither of them paid me the slightest attention. I fancied I heard a slight titter of amusement from the veiled professional mourner standing against the wall, but when I shot a glance her way, she had assumed a posture of dejected sorrow.

  “What brings you into our little group this evening?” she asked. “Were you a friend of Artemisia’s?”

  He adopted a pained expression. “Alas, I never had the pleasure. But I understand she was an artist of considerable gifts, and we are the poorer for our loss whilst heaven must rejoice at the prospect of so glorious an angel.”

  “My God,” I muttered. I had wondered if it might be a bit too much, and to my delight Miss Talbot snorted.

  “Artemisia was as original an artist as the lowest hack sketching Christmas cards for tuppence a dozen,” she replied crisply. “She had talents, but her greatest by far was persuading powerful men to make much of her.”

  I decided I liked Miss Talbot then, but before we could question her further, she circled Stoker, eyeing him as closely as any coper at Tattersall’s looking over a stallion.

  “You will do quite nicely,” she pronounced finally. “I should like to see your thighs before I make a final decision, but I think you would do quite nicely indeed.”

  “My thighs? I beg your pardon,” Stoker managed, goggling at her.

  “Don’t be obtuse, Stoker,” I prodded. “Miss Talbot obviously wishes you to pose for her in what one can only assume will be a state of seminudity.”

  “Semi? My dear Miss Speedwell, I have in mind to sculpt him as Perseus at the moment of the Gorgon’s defeat. He would be entirely nude,” she corrected, her expression quite serious.

  “Entirely nude?” Stoker repeated dumbly.

  “Except for the sandals,” Miss Talbot amended. “Perseus did wear the most adorable winged talaria.”

  “I am familiar,” he told her in a clipped tone. “I suffered a Classical education.”

  “I think it is a marvelous notion,” I said quickly. I gave him a meaningful look over Miss Talbot’s head. If ever I craved the gift of telepathy, it was in that moment. If we were to poke about Havelock House, how much better to have the added excuse of a modeling engagement from one of the artists? We had no way of knowing which of them had been informed of our true purpose in being there, but the more innocuous we seemed, the better.

  Before Stoker could reply, the air was rent with a wail that would have done a banshee credit. We turned as one to see a man standing in the doorway, and I felt a rush of blood straight to my sit-upon parts. He wore a jacket of peacock blue—no doubt to draw attention to his remarkable eyes, eyes that were filled with crystalline tears. His hair was not blond but gilded, as if by the hand of a Renaissance master. The cheekbones were as sweetly molded as a seraph’s, giving way to a perfect jaw and a pair of rosebud lips that simply begged to be kissed, while his ears, delicately pointed at the tips, lent him the air of a young satyr waiting impatiently for his first debauchery. Clasped loosely in his hand was a bottle—of gin, it seemed—and the greater part of it had already been drunk. As we watched, the beautiful lips parted and another wail sounded, more piteous than the last.

  Stoker poked me pointedly in the ribs. “For God’s sake, you’re staring at him as if it were the fourth year of a famine and a loin of beef just walked in the door,” he muttered.

  “He is very . . . noticeable,” I replied faintly.

  “He is a coxcomb,” Emma Talbot said sourly. “No doubt he means to indulge in a performance.”

  As Miss Talbot suggested, the wailing continued until he had gathered the attention of everyone in the room. There was a hushed thrill of expectation as the assembled crowd watched him. Content at last that he had drawn every eye, he moved slowly towards the table, swaying only a little as he did.

  “Drunk again,” Miss Talbot remarked.

  “Who is he?” I inquired.

  “Julian Gilchrist, portraitist and ass,” she answered.

  Without great deliberation, Julian Gilchrist made his way to the buffet table and proceeded to climb onto it. He walked down to the middle, stepping over cruet sets and candelabra until he stood astride the punch bowl, surveying the room. His shoes had left muddy prints upon the white damask of the tablecloth, like the dirty fingerprints of an unkempt giant. “Here we are,” he began, lifting the gin bottle like a torch.

  Stoker snorted. “What the devil is happening? All he wants is a nice pair of breasts and he would look like Liberty Leading the People.” Emma Talbot gave a sharp bark of laughter, like the quick sound of a fox, but I pursed my lips.

  “Hush,” I said softly. “No doubt you will hurt his feelings if he hears you. He clearly thinks he is being dramatic.”

  “Dramatic people give me a pain in my backside,” he retorted.

  Without further ado, Mr. Gilchrist launched into a sort of eulogy for Artemisia. At least, that is how it began. Only a few sentences in, it became a diatribe against the girl. He berated her talent, her eye, her morals, and would no doubt have gone further had not Emma Talbot stepped forward.

  “Oh, do shut up, Julian,” she ordered. “God knows I was not her greatest admirer, but she was twice the artist—and man—you will ever be.”

  “Viper!” he thundered, pointing a finger at her. “You are a viper in the bosom of this place, and I wish to God it had been you instead of her. Perhaps it will be,” he said, leaning forward and very nearly, but not quite, toppling off the table. The professional mourner against the wall gave an audible gasp of horror and started forward, but a glare from Emma Talbot halted her in her tracks.

  A lesser woman might have paled under the implied threat of Julian Gilchrist’s words, but Miss Talbot merely curled a scornful lip. “You are only raging at me because it is true. You will never be half the artist she was and you know it, you little pustule!”

  Gilchrist would have launched himself, but he tripped over an epergne, sending wat
er and lilies cascading over the edge of the table.

  “You bloody bitch,” he began, waving a finger again at Emma Talbot.

  I looked meaningfully at Stoker and he gave a sigh, stripping off his coat in one fluid motion. He strode to the table, grasped the tablecloth in his fists, and jerked hard. Punch bowl and platters and candelabra went flying—as did Mr. Gilchrist. He landed with a sharp thud of his beautiful head against the table, slumping instantly to unconsciousness.

  Stoker reached out and easily flipped the fellow onto his shoulder. He turned to Miss Talbot, who was staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

  “Where shall I put him?” Stoker inquired casually.

  She shook herself as if to collect her wits. “He has rooms upstairs. I will show you.”

  She hurried out, beckoning to Stoker to follow, and he did, Mr. Gilchrist’s head lolling behind.

  It was the professional mourner who broke the silence. “Now, this is turning into a jolly party,” she said, casting back her thick veil to reveal a wide smile. She gave me a wink. “I’m Cherry, the maid here. Come on then, miss. It’s time you met the master.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  As we crossed into the reception hall, she fanned her face with the edge of her veil, scattering little pearls of perspiration from her hairline. “It’s fair smothering under this lot,” she complained. “But the master asked special. Said it would give the affair a bit of grav— What’s the word? Sounds like gravy.”

  “Gravitas?” I suggested.

  “That’s the one. He likes an atmosphere, the master does,” she told me with a fond smile. “And when he does a thing, he does it right. Hired this from Bunter and Weedman,” she added with a gesture that encompassed her ensemble. I had not heard of the establishment, but it required little imagination to understand that it was one of the enormous warehouses of doleful apparel that had sprung up in the wake of the violent mourning the queen had displayed upon the death of her husband. Prince Albert might have been dead for a quarter of a century, but the industry of death showed no sign of slowing.