I dangled it from my fingertips. “A letter, Stoker. From your eldest brother, I believe.”
He said something mercifully muffled by the sawdust of the Bactrian, but I caught enough to know he did credit to the reputation of naval men for fluency in the art of the profane.
“What did you say?” I called sweetly. “It sounded like something about ducks.”
He pulled his head from the camel’s backside, showering sawdust to the floor. His long black locks were liberally powdered with the stuff, and I felt the urge to laugh. I smothered it as soon as I saw his expression. He was white-lipped with anger, and plucked the letter from my hand without a word. He did not open it, merely consigned it to the fire and turned back to his camel.
I opened the second letter as it was addressed to both of us. I needn’t have bothered to read it. I knew what it was going to say as soon as I saw Sir Hugo Montgomerie’s name.
“Stoker, do stop fondling that camel and go make yourself presentable. We have been summoned to Scotland Yard.”
• • •
We said little as we made our way to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police and less still as we waited for Sir Hugo. I had expected the head of Special Branch to leave us cooling our heels for quite a while, but it was a matter of mere moments before his junior, the charmingly ambitious Inspector Mornaday, was sent to fetch us.
“Miss Speedwell,” he said, coming forward with a broad smile. “I did not think to meet you again so soon. The last time I saw you, you were preparing to leave for the South Pacific.”
I gave him a thin smile of my own. “Plans, unfortunately, have changed. I am in London for the foreseeable future.”
His brows lifted in interest. “Really? If that is the case, perhaps we—”
“We have been summoned to see Sir Hugo,” Stoker put in flatly.
Mornaday gave him a cool nod. “Templeton-Vane. Always a pleasure.” He rested his merry dark gaze upon me, barely suppressing a smile. “Sir Hugo is ready for you.”
We followed him up a flight of stairs and through corridors that twisted and turned. In spite of his elevated status as the head of Special Branch, Sir Hugo preferred to keep an inconspicuous presence at the Yard.
“I am surprised at Sir Hugo taking the time to see us,” I told Mornaday. “I expect he is quite busy.”
“Quite.” The syllable was clipped, but Mornaday tossed a grin over his shoulder. “But you ought to know that he would never dare leave you waiting out there amongst the rabble. He is afraid of what you might say.”
I snorted. Sir Hugo made no secret of his wariness where I was concerned. It still troubled him that I had refused a generous payment from the royal family to keep the truth of my birth secret. To me it stank of bribery, and I would not have a penny from them. But to Sir Hugo, it meant trusting me to keep my promise that I would never reveal it myself.
Mornaday brought us to Sir Hugo’s door and scratched lightly. “Come!” Sir Hugo barked.
Mornaday opened the door for us and closed it quietly behind us. I fancied he would stay outside until our interview was concluded, playing Cerberus at the door to bar interruptions—as much to preserve our privacy as to keep our visit as discreet as possible.
Sir Hugo was sitting behind his slender Regency writing desk, a graceful piece of furniture curiously at odds with the power of his position. He rose as we entered, fixing me with a stern eye.
“Miss Speedwell, I would be lying if I said this was an unmitigated pleasure. Templeton-Vane,” he added, inclining his head to Stoker.
He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk and we seated ourselves. “I will not offer refreshment,” Sir Hugo informed us, “because I do not wish to prolong this meeting.”
I gave him a look of gentle reproof. “That is decidedly unfriendly on your part considering how cooperative I have been.”
His brows darted upwards. “Cooperative? You have never once done a single thing that I asked. How precisely do you imagine that I would ever characterize you as cooperative?”
“I may do things in my own fashion, Sir Hugo, but our aims are not incompatible,” I reminded him gently.
He sighed. “That may be true. And you have managed not to flog your story to the newspapers, so I suppose I ought to be grateful for that much. Now then, I presume you know why I wished to see you today.”
“I cannot imagine,” I said, widening my eyes for emphasis. “Stoker, have we engaged in any felonious activity recently? Have we robbed a bank? Kidnapped a countess?” I oughtn’t to have teased Sir Hugo; he was clearly in no mood for it. His expression immediately turned thunderous.
“You are here because of the Ramsforth business. I am given to understand that Her Royal Highness saw fit to involve you.”
“You gave her my name,” I pointed out.
“She already knew your name,” he told me, then instantly looked chagrined.
I tipped my head thoughtfully. “Did she indeed?”
He sighed again and I began to worry for his digestion. “Very well. I should not have been so indiscreet, but yes, she did. She is close to . . . him,” he said, carefully refraining from naming my father. “Princess Louise is something of a confidante to her brother. He wanted to unburden himself after that nasty business during the Jubilee,” he added with a shudder of remembrance.
“I can understand that,” I said, although I most certainly did not. If my father wanted to unburden himself about that “nasty business,” then I was the most logical candidate. But he had made no effort to reach out to me, and I hoped he understood I would never presume to make the first move. My pride was worth more to me than a prince’s acknowledgment.
“In any event, he was most impressed with your own role in the affair, and yours,” he added, gathering Stoker with a glance. “No doubt his feelings made an impression on the princess when he discussed the matter with her. When this dreadful affair transpired and Her Royal Highness became convinced of Ramsforth’s innocence, she asked me about you. I was bound to tell her the truth, although I did not precisely encourage her to approach you,” he finished.
“Well, she did. And I wondered if you would be kind enough to share any information you might have about Artemisia’s death—anything that mightn’t have made it into the newspapers.”
He was too self-possessed to gape, but his nostrils flared and he made an obvious effort to hold on to his temper. “No. Everything of relevance is in the newspapers because the newspapers reported the correct verdict—murder at the hands of Miles Ramsforth. Nothing else matters. It is unpalatable and the princess does not want to believe it, but there it is.”
“And you are content that you are going to hang the right man?” I asked.
“I am.” The words were clipped and cold. “The Yard has investigated the matter thoroughly.”
I canted my head. “Did they?”
To my astonishment, Sir Hugo softened a little. “Not as thoroughly as I would have liked, if you must know.” He paused, and I gave him a brightly attentive look, encouraging him to go on. He puffed out a sigh. “This estate, Littledown, it is buried in the countryside, one of those odd little corners of the Home Counties where nothing of note ever happens. The local constable was summoned when the murder was discovered. He is an elderly fellow, quite elderly, in fact. He has no experience of murder, and it rather got the better of him. Somehow, he let the reporters in and they trampled all over the scene like a pack of rabid wolves. There was virtually nothing left to examine.”
“That is why the newspaper illustrations were so detailed—they were not working from descriptions,” I worked out. “They had actually been in the room.”
“For hours,” he lamented. “I have already seen to it that the constable in question has been forcibly retired, but if word got out that the poor old devil mishandled things so badly, he would lose his pension. It s
eems rather hard to drive a man to the workhouse simply because he found himself out of his depth,” he added. He seemed uncomfortable at being found to have a compassionate side, so I let it go.
“But you must admit,” I began reasonably, “if the murder could not be properly investigated, it is wrong to hang Miles Ramsforth.”
He recovered his usual sternness, pointing a hectoring finger at me. “It matters not one jot Miles Ramsforth has no alibi.”
“The princess seems quite persuaded,” I began.
“The princess is rather accustomed to getting her own way!” he replied sharply. He clamped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth together. After a moment, he spoke, his voice calm and his manner controlled. “Miss Speedwell, I understand Her Royal Highness rather better than you. After all, it has been the task of this office to ensure her safety and that of the entire family for quite some time. Princess Louise can be highly strung, nervy even.”
“You sound as if you were describing a horse,” Stoker put in.
A fleeting smile touched Sir Hugo’s lips. “Your father used to race horses, Templeton-Vane. I am certain you understand what anxious bloodstock is like. The princess’s temperament is excitable and she has been indulged, allowed to think of herself as an artist and associate with a certain raffish element,” he added, pursing his lips. “This has not always been in her best interests. She is headstrong, and at this moment, she has the bit between her teeth and is running away from all common sense. She needs time to accept what Miles Ramsforth has done and that her own judgment has been flawed.”
“How so?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “She considered him a friend, and he was not worthy of her friendship. To someone like the princess, accustomed to getting her own way, having obstacles smoothed before her, it rankles even worse than it does for the rest of us when things go awry. She has come to see me on several occasions on this matter, and each time, she has seemed worse, more agitated. She wanted me to reopen the investigation—an eventuality which is entirely out of the question. But I wanted to help her,” he said, and I saw a sudden kindly light kindle in his eyes. For all his bluster, he did care about the family he was sworn to protect.
“The princess asked about engaging a private inquiry agent,” he went on, “which I could not permit. But when she raised your name, I had already thwarted Her Royal Highness so often, I could hardly discourage her. In the end, I told her how to find you, but I made it apparent that I had reservations, and now I will make them clear to you,” he said, leaning forward and gathering us both with an imperious look. “You will not meddle in this. You will not speak to the press, and you will not pervert the course of justice. Do you both understand me?”
I rose. “As you wish, Sir Hugo.”
He leapt to his feet. “Oh no, you don’t! I understand you well enough to know that meek acquiescence is never a good sign.”
I shrugged. “And I understand men well enough to know that it is seldom profitable to argue with one who has made up his mind.”
“If you choose to pursue this, I can have you stopped,” he said, lowering his head like a bull.
“You can try,” I said quietly.
He turned to Stoker. “Can you not talk sense into her?”
Stoker gave him a pitying glance. “If you wanted her to leave this alone, you should have ordered her to investigate. And then offered to pay her.”
We left Sir Hugo sputtering. Mornaday escorted us out Sir Hugo’s private entrance, giving me a wink as he closed the door behind us.
“I don’t like that fellow,” Stoker said as we emerged onto the pavement. The morning rain had subsided to low, threatening cloud.
“Which one? Sir Hugo or Mornaday?”
“Take your pick.” He rummaged absently in his pockets for something sweet. He turned up a twist of peppermint humbugs, tearing open the packet and crunching happily into one. The sharp, cool scent blended with the aromas of sweating horse and rotting vegetables and unwashed Londoners. Over it all hung the dank green smell of the Thames, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for this city I had adopted as my own.
“We did manage to upset him rather badly,” I began. “If we had told him about someone leaving a threat for us, it might have persuaded him that they have the wrong man.”
He shrugged. “His pomposity needs pricking. I rather like the notion of solving this for him and presenting him with a neatly tied up murderer.”
“So do I. The only question is how to proceed from here.” I cudgeled my brain as we walked, mulling over the various casebooks of Arcadia Brown and considering what our next move might be.
CHAPTER
11
We arrived back at Bishop’s Folly in good time, intending to take tea before settling back to work. But just as we reached the Belvedere, we heard a low groaning sound from just under the shrubbery.
I looked at Stoker. “It is Patricia again.”
“Blast that animal,” Stoker said bitterly. But he accompanied me nonetheless to where the giant tortoise was upended beneath the shrubs, moaning.
“How does she do this?” he demanded.
In fact, there was no simple explanation. A creature of Patricia’s size ought not to have been able to maneuver herself onto her back with such astonishing regularity. The fact that once there, she was utterly incapable of righting herself without assistance did not dissuade her in the slightest. And the fact that female giant tortoises were believed to be mute did not prevent her from giving loud, relentless voice to her distress.
“We cannot leave her,” I reminded him. “Even if it weren’t unkind, his lordship is very fond of the old girl.”
I used the word “old” advisedly. Patricia had been brought from the Galapagos archipelago by Darwin himself some fifty years previously. The eminent scholar had presented a juvenile Patricia as a gift to the present Lord Rosemorran’s grandfather, and she had been slowly roaming the grounds of Bishop’s Folly ever since. Flinging herself onto her back and moaning for help was a new hobby of hers, and one that invariably required many hands to put right.
Stoker stripped off his coat while I attempted to leverage the beast, but we managed only to rock her a bit. “I shall try from the other side. You keep her steady,” Stoker instructed as he disappeared into the shrubbery. The fact that I could hardly be expected to brace an animal of Patricia’s dimensions with my slight frame seemed to have escaped him, but I did my best. I shoved with all my might against her as Stoker did the same from the other end, causing her to groan more piteously than before.
“Oh, hush, no one is hurting you, you daft creature,” I told her severely.
“I say, miss, are you talking to a turtle?” inquired a polite voice from behind me. I straightened to find a young clergyman, hat in hand, wearing an expression of polite wariness.
“No, I am not. I am, in fact, speaking to a tortoise,” I corrected. “A Galapagos tortoise by the name of Patricia—a most trying creature, as you can see. She has only herself to blame for her current predicament and is resistant to our efforts to help. We require another pair of hands.”
I gave him a pointed look and he hurried forward. “Of course. What can I do?”
I directed him to remove his coat and then gave instruction on where to place his grip for the best hope of shifting Patricia onto her enormous feet. The delay must have irritated Stoker, for he gave a low growl.
“What in the name of bearded Jesus is taking so long?” he demanded from the other side of the shrub.
“Assistance has arrived in the form of a clergyman,” I called.
“What clergyman?”
“I don’t know,” I told him with an apologetic look at the young man in question. “He hasn’t given his name, but I rather think the formalities can wait until Patricia is righted.”
The creature issued a groan of agreement, and together the
three of us gave one enormous push. Watching Patricia come onto her feet again was like seeing the earth heave up a boulder, a slow, agonizing, laborious process. When it was finished, Patricia threw us one last look of loathing and began to lumber away in search of some lettuces in the kitchen garden. I dusted off my hands and turned to the clergyman.
“Your help was both timely and appreciated, sir.”
He rubbed his hands frantically upon a handkerchief before taking mine. “I am glad to have been of assistance,” he said, darting a nervous glance at the rustling bushes where Stoker was still concealed. The fellow made no move to tell his name, holding himself warily as Stoker emerged from the shrubbery, his hair lavishly disarranged and littered with leaves and twigs. He took one look at the younger man and gave a sigh—of resignation or disgust, I could not decide.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Stoker challenged.
I clucked my tongue. “Stoker, this young man has just helped us quite handily with Patricia. The least we can do is be courteous.”
He gave me a dangerous look. “You want courtesy? Very well. Veronica, this is Merryweather Templeton-Vane, my youngest brother. Merry, I repeat: what the devil are you doing here?”
The younger man grinned broadly, but the smile was fleeting, and when he spoke, his voice cracked slightly. “Is that any way to greet your brother?”
“I have nothing whatever to say to you,” Stoker told him flatly.
To his credit, the fellow stood his ground, even if his Adam’s apple bobbed a bit as he swallowed hard. “Well, I have things to say to you.”
“Then say them now, and say them quickly,” Stoker instructed. “My patience is at an end.”
The young man looked to me, and it seemed an appeal. I stepped forward to pour oil upon the troubled waters. “Pay no mind to Stoker. He is in a frightful temper, but I am afraid that is often his mood, so there is little point in waiting for a better one. Won’t you come in?”
A Perilous Undertaking Page 11
