The maid guided me past the statue of Echo where a gentleman in a Bath chair waited, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. She fell back a respectful distance as my host beckoned to me.
As promised, Frederick Havelock was a force of nature, even in his state of infirmity. His hands were gnarled as old oak, but his entire manner was one of great vitality only lightly subdued. His hair and beard had grown together, touches of black still threading through the silvery white locks, and under his beetling dark brows, the bright eyes missed nothing. There was power in him yet, and I realized with a start that he was looking me over with the practiced eye of an artist—and seducer.
My expression must have betrayed me, for he gave another laugh and waved one of his knotted hands. “You are in no danger from me, child. I haven’t been able to defile a woman properly for years. But I can still appreciate the Master’s hand at work in the sculpting of a comely face,” he added gallantly. “If I were able, I would strip you naked and pose you as Galatea just sprung to life under my knowing hands.”
“If you were able, I would let you.”
He laughed again and waved me to a cushion perched on the edge of the fountain. After Mr. Gilchrist’s theatrics, the rest of the party seemed to disperse to the smaller rooms leaving us alone in the reception hall.
“Tell me your name, child.”
“Veronica Speedwell.”
“You are Louise’s friend,” he said with a nod. “She warned us you would come poking about into this business with Miles Ramsforth. Are you that rarest of birds, a lady detective?”
“I am not. I am a lepidopterist by trade.”
“What ho! An educated female. Now that is an interesting creature.”
“As is the artistic male,” I replied.
“I presume you know who I am?” His bright eyes twinkled a little, and I could easily see him coming of age in the glamorous, feckless court of the tsars. He must have broken dozens of hearts in his day, for even now he reminded me of nothing so much as a magnificently grizzled old lion. He might be winding down, but life was not yet finished with him.
“I do. You are my host.”
He raised his hands in mock horror. “Child, never call me such! Makes me sound like a sacrament. You may call me Frederick,” he said with the air of one bestowing a singular honor. I wondered if he would be as quick to treat a male guest with such intimacy, but it did not matter. Like Stoker, I was not above using whatever advantages Nature had given me.
“And you may call me Miss Speedwell,” I said primly.
He burst out laughing and nodded towards his pretty Echo. “D’ye see that little nymph? I sculpted her over the course of two months in the winter of 1859. It was bitterly cold that year—nothing to do but stay inside and make mischief.”
“I don’t remember,” I said with a glance from under my lashes. “I was not yet born.”
“Oh, the cruelty!” he chided. He reached out and patted my hand. “Don’t draw away, child. I only hold hands these days, but it gives me comfort.” He turned them over, scrutinizing my palms carefully. “You work with these hands.”
“Lepidoptery is an exacting business.”
“As is art,” he told me, still holding my hands in his withered ones. He nodded again towards Echo. “I knew when I sculpted her I wanted a very special setting for my pretty jewel. I could not imagine how the thing was to be done, for I had conceived of the impossible—to put my little Echo in a room that would actually echo. I carted her around for years until I happened to be in St. Paul’s one day, sulking at God. And then I had it—a whispering gallery,” he said, gesturing expansively towards the circular hall that surrounded us. It is how I hear many things I am not meant to hear,” he confided. He raised his ruined hands for my inspection. “I cannot make art these days, so I am forced to other occupations, mostly gossip and meddling.”
I shrugged. “In preliterate societies, gossip is the only means of transmitting vital news and information.”
“And this lot is barely lettered,” he told me. “But they are my little lambs and their shepherd loves them dearly.”
“I had the pleasure of meeting your sister-in-law earlier,” I told him.
He gave me an enigmatic look. “And was it a pleasure? No, do not answer that. Politeness might require you to lie.”
“I liked her,” I told him truthfully.
“Yes, you would. Ottilie is easy to like. I think of women as elemental, Miss Speedwell. Their company is as necessary to me as air, and I have come to know them. Some women are fire, some are earth—Ottilie is water. Calm and omnipresent.”
He gestured with his ruined hands to a painting hanging just under the stairs. “I painted her once. Go and see if you think it a good likeness.”
I rose and went to the little niche under the stairs. The painting there was poorly lit, and the shadows that played over it seemed to change the mood. One moment it glowed with a sort of unholy light, the next it was beset by gloom. But one thing did not change—the rapt expression of the subject. If Frederick Havelock had not told me it was Ottilie Ramsforth, I would never have known her. She was wearing a loose robe of some dark stuff, and her hair was unbound, rippling over her shoulders. Her head was thrown back, eyes wide with a vision only she could see, lips parted as if caught in a sigh. One graceful hand lay draped in her lap while the other caressed a golden spear that pierced her just below the heart. The entire effect was one of arrested pleasure, the most exquisite bliss, a transient and beautiful thing, now fixed for eternity.
I returned to my perch on the edge of the fountain.
“What did you think of it?” he demanded, watching me closely.
“It is hard to say. It reminded me of one of my butterflies—something that is beautiful for only a moment. You have pinned her up for display as I might pin one of my beauties.”
He gave me a slow nod of approval. “Yes. Yes. That is the essence of painting, child. To capture something utterly temporary and conjure permanence. That is the gift of the artist.”
I glanced again to the painting. “Perhaps, too, the gift of the artist is to see what others do not. I should never have imagined Mrs. Ramsforth could look so . . . so—”
He grinned. “Exactly. I was inspired by Bernini’s sculpture of Saint Teresa, that moment of exquisite ecstasy when she is lanced by the divine spear. It was heady stuff for a young artist. I would never have connected it with Ottilie myself but for a look I saw in her one day. She was newly betrothed to Miles Ramsforth. They had known each other since childhood, you understand. The match was a good one. The Troyon property had been entailed in the male line, so neither my wife nor her sister inherited the land, but the estate marched next to Littledown, the Ramsforth seat. It was a splendid house in its day, and Miles needed Troyon money to rebuild it. He also needed someone calm and settled to rein him in. Ottilie seemed the perfect choice. Augusta and I thought she would be the frost to his fire.”
“And was she?” I asked.
He pursed his lips. “Not as I had expected. During the party announcing their engagement, they slipped away for a moment, stealing a kiss in the garden or some such. Miles was called for and he left us, but as he walked away I saw her watching him. It was then I saw the resemblance to Saint Teresa—a martyr who has just glimpsed her heaven. And I knew I had to paint her.”
He fell silent, no doubt reminiscing, until I ventured a question.
“This must be a difficult time for her.”
He nodded. “Yes. She is bearing up well, but I expect once it is finished and she has got right away to Greece, she will have the most marvelous crack-up. I wish I could say Miles Ramsforth was worth the grief she will feel, but I shall not pay you the insult of lying. This will ruin her life, and it will be one more bit of carnage to his credit,” he finished bitterly.
“You do not care for him?”
&nb
sp; He shook his head, tossing his lion’s mane. “I would rather set my beard afire than spend an hour in conversation with the fellow,” he told me. “We were friendly once, but I tired of him and his ways. He is the most childlike grown man you could ever meet. His enthusiasms are exhausting, and he is optimistic to the point of stupidity, always bounding from project to project. Candide would have thought him too much. He likes to be the center of attention, forever bouncing around like a jackanapes.”
I could hardly point out that a craving for the limelight was clearly a quality he shared with his brother-in-law, so I said nothing. Frederick Havelock’s expression sharpened.
“Did you ever meet Artemisia?”
“I did not have the pleasure. But I saw some of her work tonight. A tragic loss.”
“She was a genius,” he said simply. “She did not know it yet. It doesn’t do to tell them too soon what they are capable of. If they are gifted, they will wreck themselves trying to make success happen. If they aren’t gifted, you stifle the spirit when they might have had one good work in them.”
It was a surprisingly perspicacious speech from an old roué. I regarded him with fresh appreciation. “You must be an excellent mentor.”
“Mentor! D’ye know your Greek history, child?”
“When Odysseus left for the Trojan War, he gave the care of his son Telemachus to his friend Mentor, who governed the boy wisely and well,” I recited.
“And no doubt had a good sniff around Penelope’s skirts as well,” he finished.
“No doubt,” I agreed with a smile.
He regarded me from under the heavy brows. “When one is as old as I am, it is amusing to shock people, but you do not seem perturbed by anything. I shall call you the Unflappable Miss Speedwell.”
“I am shocked by murder,” I said simply.
“Decency must always be shocked by the indecent,” he replied. The vitality seemed to ebb a little, his color turning ashen.
“Shall I call someone, Sir Frederick?” I suggested.
He waved a hand. “Not yet. Ottilie will be along shortly to fuss over me, but there’s no call to weave my shroud just yet.”
“You have suffered a tremendous loss,” I said.
“Yes, quite,” he replied, clipping off the words sharply. “I was still walking when she was alive,” he added, and I knew he meant Artemisia. “I have been wasting away for years with this blasted affliction,” he told me, raising his knotted hands, “but the day after she died, I suffered a fit. The shock of it, the doctors said. I was comatose for some days, and when I recovered consciousness, I found I could no longer walk, and my hands were barely more than useless.”
There was no self-pity in his voice, and I liked him for that. He tipped his head as he studied me. “I do not regret the feebleness of my hands. I have worked hard to conquer my regrets. But there are moments still when I curse God that I can no longer paint. Seeing your face is one of those moments,” he said. “Such coloring is rare. I have only seen violet eyes once before, and I have never painted them. I would not have got them right, but dear God, I should have liked to have tried.”
“You are very kind, Sir Frederick.”
A flicker of animation kindled in his face. “You were supposed to call me Frederick,” he reminded me.
I smiled. “And you must call me Veronica.”
“Veronica Speedwell! Ha—someone has a sense of humor,” he observed. The fact that my name was a botanical pun frequently amused those who understood it. He patted my hand. “You are a kindly creature. I do not expect you will discover anything about this business with Artemisia, but it is good of you to indulge Louise and poke about.”
“You do not think Mr. Ramsforth is innocent?”
He considered that a long moment, and when he spoke, he measured his words carefully. “I do not think you will be successful in your quest to exonerate him.”
“That is not the same thing,” I pointed out.
“You might be too clever for your own good,” he said, giving me a penetrating look. “Whatever you do, be careful. Murder is a dangerous business, sweet Veronica. And shadows are all around.”
CHAPTER
9
I rose from my seat at the edge of the fountain as Stoker approached with Miss Talbot.
“Splendid news, Sir Frederick,” she said, coming to stand by her mentor. “This is Mr. Templeton-Vane, and he has agreed to pose for me. He will complete my gallery of Greek heroes with his Perseus.”
Sir Frederick gave Stoker a long look. “How wonderful, my dear. I hope he will be able to accommodate you while he undertakes the rest of his obligations here at Havelock House.”
Emma Talbot’s expression was mystified. “Obligations?”
“Yes, child,” Sir Frederick said calmly. “He is here with Miss Speedwell to ask questions about Artemisia’s death. They believe they can exonerate Miles Ramsforth.”
I had heard of the blood draining from one’s face, but I had never actually witnessed the phenomenon. All the color faded from Miss Talbot’s visage, even her lips went white, and she seemed to have lost the power of speech.
“Miss Talbot?” I asked. “Are you quite well?”
She gave a sharp, angry shake of the head. “Exonerate Miles Ramsforth? It is not possible,” she breathed.
Her small hands were curled into fists at her sides, and she looked at us with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
“This is the first you have heard of it?” Stoker inquired, doubtless thinking of Princess Louise and her announcement at the previous evening’s supper.
“No, I was there when the princess told us. I thought she was exaggerating,” she said flatly. “It cannot be done.” Her grey eyes flashed with something like contempt. “If you wish to pose for me, you are welcome at any time. Otherwise, you ought to go. You should leave this place and forget what you have been asked to do. It is impossible,” she finished, turning upon her heel and leaving.
“That was rather a dramatic exit,” I remarked.
Sir Frederick was smiling a secretive half smile. “I do love to rile them up. It makes them indiscreet,” he said by way of explanation. He gave his hands an admiring glance. “They are not good for much these days, but they can still jerk the strings of the puppets.”
He beckoned to Cherry, moving towards us in her funereal garb.
“About time,” she grumbled. “Mrs. Ramsforth said I was to put you to bed,” she told her master.
He waved a vague hand. “Put me to bed! That makes me sound like a lettuce.”
“Lettuce or no, bed is where you’re bound,” she told him, giving me a wink.
“I will go, but in good time. First, I wish you to take Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane to Artemisia’s rooms.”
Her face took on a shuttered look. “Those rooms are locked.”
“For which we have a key,” he replied firmly. “Go, girl.”
She did not like it, but she did as she was bade, retrieving a key from somewhere in the domestic offices and returning to guide us up the staircase. It wound around the dome, forming a sort of gallery in places, each tiled in a different pattern of blues and golds. She led us to the floor above Ottilie Ramsforth’s rooms and down a corridor painted in Venetian red.
“Here,” she said, putting the key to a lock and flinging open the door. “We haven’t been inside since she was buried,” she told us. Stoker and I moved slowly over the threshold, but the girl lingered in the corridor.
“Are you afraid to come in?” I asked.
She hesitated. “They do say that those that have been murdered don’t rest easy,” she admitted. “I reckon if she has come back, Miss Artemisia would come back here.”
“Why not Littledown?” Stoker inquired. “Surely she would visit the scene of her death.”
Cherry gave a shudder. “I don�
��t know about that. I do know she was happy here.”
“Was she?” The question was a rhetorical one on my part, and the girl took it for such. She lingered outside the door, darting glances at Stoker. Apparently Miss Talbot was not the only one who found him interesting. I jerked my head towards the door as I moved further into the room, and he obliged, finding a coin and slipping it into the girl’s palm.
“Thank you for acting as our guide,” Stoker said, flashing her a devilish grin.
“Oh, oh,” she murmured. She looked up at him, pointing with a tentative finger to his eye patch. “I know it’s not my place, sir, but I am ever so curious. What happened to your eye? Did you lose it in a swordfight?”
Stoker was sweetly patient with the girl. “I haven’t lost it at all,” he said, flipping up the patch to show his eye, whole and undamaged save for a thin silvering scar that ran from his brow, across the lid, and down his cheek to the strong bone of his jaw.
“Then why do you wear that?” she asked, moving forward half a step.
“Because although the eye itself has healed, it is prone to fatigue. If I am too long about the fine details my work requires, its strength is taxed. It must be rested, and the patch does that.”
“Fancy that,” she said in a breathy voice.
Stoker did not move towards her, but his voice was warm and intimate, coaxing even. “Now that I have answered your questions, perhaps you will be good enough to answer mine.”
“Oh, anything, sir!” she replied.
“Thank you. I think you are a smart girl, Cherry, and a sharp one too. I imagine little happens in this house that gets past you.”
She gave him a narrow look. “Nor does it get beyond me. Thank you for the coin, sir,” she said, bobbing a hasty curtsy and taking her leave.
I threw him a repressive glance. “You are losing your touch if you can’t pry a little indiscreet information out of a girl like that,” I told him.
A Perilous Undertaking Page 9
