A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I did as he bade, pressing the paper to the glass until it stuck nicely. I stepped back and nodded to Stoker who handed me the ledger. He stripped off his coat, wrapping it about his hand. One quick blow and it was done. The glass broke silently, the pieces held fast by the sticky paper. I slowly pulled it free and was about to place it on the ground when Stoker stopped me.

  “An animal might step on it and be harmed. ’Tis sticky as glue and full of glass,” he reminded me as he took the piece of paper with its glittering shards. He turned it over and weighted the thing with a rock, only then putting his arm through the hole we had made to work the lock. It proved more difficult than we expected, and Stoker had recourse to use one of his blades before he was able to flick it open and ease the door wide. He paused to replace his knife and slip his arms back into his coat. Those few seconds were our salvation. I am not certain what we heard first—the slavering growl of the mastiff or the sleepy shouts of the watchman roused from his slumbers. The sudden cacophony rent the night, and Stoker reared back, slamming the door as we took to our heels.

  We fled, across the terrace and around the pond. The shutting of the door bought us only a few seconds, for no sooner had we gained the far side of the pond than the door was flung back on its hinges and the hound burst forth. Behind it came a volley of shots, shattering stone from the edge of the terrace wall as we darted and dodged. I looked back only once to see an elderly fellow silhouetted in the doorway, the white of his nightshirt and cap stark against the dark shadows of the house. He was content to stand there, blasting away on his shotgun and hurling abuse, but his dog was not so reticent. The creature tore after us, baying with murderous intent. The soft thud of his paws was gaining on us, each stride of his powerful legs narrowing the distance between us.

  “Stoker!” I panted. “We cannot outrun him!”

  “No,” he returned, reaching into his pocket. “But we can slow him down.”

  “For God’s sake, you aren’t going to hurt him?” I managed between breaths. I ought to have known better. For all his facility with dead animals, he was endlessly sentimental about living ones. He drew from his pocket a small parcel tied with string and flung it behind him. It struck the dog full on the snout, bursting open and spilling its bloody contents.

  “What was that?”

  “Calf’s liver,” he said, reaching for my hand as he grinned into the darkness. I marveled at his forethought. Ottilie Ramsforth had mentioned a dog, and Stoker had taken it upon himself to come armed with a meaty little distraction.

  I blessed him for it as we continued to run, but I quickly realized that a calf’s liver was not diversion enough for so enormous a dog. He devoured it swiftly and set off again in pursuit, tracking us through the gathering fog. Stoker, whose long strides could have easily outpaced me, refused to leave me behind and instead matched his speed to mine. The dog gained upon us, snarling as he snapped at our heels. With a single vault, Stoker was atop the wall, putting out his hands for mine. At a dead run I planted the sole of my boot on the wall, launching myself upwards as I raised my hands to grasp his.

  Too late, I realized my mistake and the ledger, unwieldy and slippery, slid from my grip, tumbling to the ground.

  “No!” I cried, turning to go after it, but Stoker kept a subduing arm tight about my waist. The mastiff stood upon his hind legs, his massive jaws very nearly but not quite reaching the toes of our boots as we stood atop the wall.

  “The ledger is gone,” I protested. “I dropped it.”

  “Then it will have to stay gone,” Stoker said, nodding towards the direction we had come. A lantern glowed through the mist. The watchman had come after us, guided by the sound of the dog’s vicious barking.

  I eyed the distance to the ground. I could just see where the ledger had come to rest. The mastiff stood between me and it, but I was determined. I turned to fling myself just as another shot rang out, this one chipping the wall at Stoker’s feet.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. With one graceful motion he swung me up into his arms and jumped to the lane side of the wall, landing us in a tussock of long grass. I put my hands to his chest and pushed hard.

  “Why the devil did you do that?” I demanded. “I was about to retrieve the ledger!”

  “I know,” he said coldly as he rolled to his side and gave a great wheeze. “My God, the next time do try not to land on my stomach. I think I am going to disgrace myself.”

  I opened my mouth, preparing to deliver a scathing retort, but with a great effort he pushed himself to his feet, pulling me up. “Not now, Veronica. You may abuse me at your leisure, but right now we need to get away.”

  From the other side of the wall I could hear the dog, his howls turned to whimpers of frustration now, and the watchman, calling all varieties of insult down upon the heads of miscreants and villains who would break the peace of an old man’s slumbers. He discharged the shotgun again for good measure, and I threw up my hands, admitting defeat. We might have hid for awhile until the old fellow returned to his bed, but it was just as likely he would leave the dog running loose or that he would find the ledger.

  “Come along,” Stoker ordered. He walked a few steps then turned, waiting, fog swirling about his legs. I sighed and swallowed my defeat. I might deplore the loss of the ledger, but Stoker would never admonish me for it. Together we walked down the lane and into the safety of the covering darkness.

  • • •

  We reached Bishop’s Folly and let ourselves in through the garden gate, taking the long path through the grounds so as not to disturb anyone in the main house. By silent accord we made for the Belvedere. Stoker would want a drink, and I did not want him to imbibe alone. The lamp at the door of the Belvedere had not been lit, and as we made our way in, I tripped over something on the threshold.

  “What is it?” Stoker demanded, his tone irritable.

  “A parcel of some sort. Perhaps our anonymous benefactor has struck again,” I remarked lightly. I would not taunt him over the fact that the sender of the key had most certainly not attacked us or locked us in and left us for dead, but I would definitely think it.

  I picked up the small parcel and carried it inside while Stoker made directly for the snug, poking up the fire and pouring out two hefty measures of whiskey.

  I eyed the glass. “If you’re looking to get drunk quickly, you ought to have got the aguardiente instead of the whiskey. This is going to be a waste of good single malt.”

  “There is no such thing as a waste of good single malt,” he told me, swallowing his in a single draft. He poured another measure for himself while I plucked the strings on the little parcel. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and addressed in a nondescript hand. There was no postmark, so it had been delivered by messenger, I realized as I pulled away the paper. Inside was a simple pasteboard box and inside that was a nest of cotton wool.

  “I wonder what it could be,” I said as I burrowed into the fluffy cotton wool.

  “Perhaps a jewel from an anonymous admirer,” Stoker said nastily.

  I pulled away the last of the cotton wool and stared into the box.

  “What?” Stoker demanded after a long moment. “Not a jewel?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, steeling myself to touch the object inside.

  “What, then?” he said, his irritation clearly rising. He was in no mood for games, so I would give him none.

  I reached in and pulled out the object, tossing it to him in a smooth arc. “It is an eyeball.”

  To his credit, Stoker caught the eye without crushing it in his surprise. He held it cradled in his palm as he bent to the light. “It is not human,” he said quickly.

  “Any fool could see that. It is far too large and the pupil is elongated. One of the ruminants, I should think.”

  “A sheep, to be precise,” Stoker informed me. “Of the most common domestic variety. Ovis aries.
The sort you would see in any butcher’s shop between here and the Hebrides. But why?”

  “It is another threat. The meaning should be obvious, and if it were not, here is a note,” I said, pulling a scrap of paper from the parcel. In block capitals were the words

  KEEP OUT OF THIS OR YOU’RE EYE IS NEXT

  I peered closely at the letters. “They seem to be in the same hand as the first note. Something peculiar about the letter E.”

  Stoker curled his lip. “We need to be menaced by a better class of criminal. This one cannot spell.”

  “Or wants us to believe he cannot,” I countered. “And clearly it is someone who does not know us well, or he would never think we could be unhinged by an eyeball. There are whole jars of the bloody things about the place,” I said with a wave of the arm. Stoker did keep a frankly irrational number of body parts stashed in glass bottles and cases. I was forever opening a drawer to find a disembodied eye staring up at me.

  I took up my glass and settled into the chair next to Stoker while he rolled the eyeball in his fingers. “It is fresh,” he told me. “If it were not, it would be soft. This one is quite firm and bounces back a bit when you press it. Like a hothouse grape.”

  “So our miscreant is a shepherd or farmer?” I hazarded.

  Stoker shook his head. “I think not. Any butcher would have a fresh sheep’s head lying about. It would be the work of seconds to get an eye out—in fact, I rather think this was the work of seconds. It’s not been taken out neatly as a surgeon or butcher would do it. It has been gouged quite ham-fistedly. See the jagged end of the optical nerve?” He gestured to an uneven bit of white matter hanging from the back.

  “Stoker, just because an eyeball does not cause me to swoon and reach for my vinaigrette does not mean I want to examine it whilst I am trying to enjoy my drink,” I told him.

  “Fair enough.” He dropped the eyeball back into the box, turning his attention to the note and wrappings. “No postmark, no watermarks, nothing significant in any way save the resemblance to the note last night. It could be anyone.”

  “Even your brother,” I said, taking a deep draft of whiskey and holding it on my tongue. When I swallowed, it burned all the way to my stomach, lighting my chest with the fire of its peaty warmth.

  “Even Tiberius,” he agreed.

  “You surprise me. I thought you would fight me tooth and claw,” I told him.

  He shrugged. “What would be the use? His name is in the ledger. At the very least he knows something about the Elysian Grotto. At the worst—” He did not finish the statement. The possibility that Tiberius Templeton-Vane might be somehow implicated in the murder we were investigating was too ghastly to contemplate.

  “What are the viscount’s interests?” I asked casually. “Is he a patron of the arts?”

  “Theater,” Stoker said in a distracted voice. “He does not care much for painting and such. He prefers performance. Why?”

  “No matter. It just occurred to me that the players most closely involved with this little drama are artists and their patrons. We might exclude his lordship from suspicion if he does not frequent the Havelock House set.”

  His only reply was a noncommittal sort of grunt, what Keats might well have called a “little noiseless noise.” His business with the wrappings complete, Stoker returned to his whiskey. I waited until he was well into his third glass before broaching a necessary subject.

  “It was most likely someone at Havelock House who sent us this pretty present,” I said in a decidedly neutral tone with a nod towards the eyeball. Stoker said nothing and I went on. “Naturally, the best way to prove that would be to visit Havelock House again and have a good nose around. Of course, it would be best to have a reason for our presence.”

  Stoker gave a gusty sigh and drained his drink. “Fine. I will take my bloody clothes off and pose for Emma Talbot whilst you play detective.”

  I saluted him with my whiskey. “I have no doubt you will make a fine Perseus,” I said with mock solemnity. “I cannot wait to see your pretty winged sandals.”

  In one fluid motion he swept up the eyeball and threw it at me.

  • • •

  Stoker was a man of his word. He rose early to look in on his sweet little dermestid beetles and scrawled a note to Emma Talbot telling her he would present himself for the purpose of being sketched. Before we could make our way to Havelock House, we received a summons. In few words, on crested paper, in an imperious hand. Princess Louise wanted a report on our progress and we were to call upon her at Kensington Palace. She provided directions to her apartments within the palace and specified that we were to be there at eleven sharp.

  Stoker was irritated beyond measure. Having made up his mind to pose for Miss Talbot, he wanted nothing more than to get on with the business. He adopted an air of noble suffering, like a French aristocrat climbing into a tumbril, but I was rather more pleased. Nothing put me more on my mettle than being challenged, and Her Royal Highness had rubbed me up the wrong way.

  The palace was set behind tall and imposing gilded gates, but its charms were of the homely, redbrick variety. The inner court was quite small, and we followed the directions without difficulty, presenting ourselves at the door as instructed.

  A very superior butler admitted us, but before we could be announced, the princess herself appeared. “I am glad to see you count punctuality among your virtues,” was her greeting. She was pale, with violet shadows under her eyes, and her movements seemed taut, as if only the force of her will kept her in a state of composure.

  Before either of us could respond, a gentleman dressed in a rather ill-fitting expensive town suit descended the stairs, giving us a half-smile as if trying to place us.

  “Oh, hullo, Loosy. Friends of yours?” he asked cordially. He was a tall, fair man, with disordered hair and a rather marked air of untidiness despite the costliness of his attire. He seemed perfectly affable, but his shambling ways made him an unlikely fit for the glamorous princess. She might be an artist with all that implied, but I had noted an inclination towards perfect and expensive grooming on her part.

  “Lorne,” she murmured. She took her husband’s arm and made the introductions.

  “My dear, this is Miss Veronica Speedwell and Mr. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, son of Viscount Templeton-Vane. Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, my husband, the Marquess of Lorne.”

  The marquess acknowledged my nod but thrust his hand towards Stoker. “One of old Reginald T-V’s boys, are you? Met him several times in the Lords when my father was speaking. Always falling asleep during the debates. Frightfully loud snore.”

  “Indeed,” Stoker returned amiably.

  “I say,” Lorne went on, “you’re not the vicar, are you?”

  “No, my lord, that is my younger brother, Merryweather.”

  The marquess gave a rueful smile. “I remember your father had the devil of a time getting that boy settled. Apparently he likes a little flutter on the horses now and again—and a bit of trouble at cards. I hear the lad’s something of a black sheep, but not a patch on his brother, the one who went gallivanting off to—where was it? South America or South Africa? Rotten mess that was,” he added. “Which of the sons was that?”

  Stoker’s smile was feral. “I am afraid I am the blackest of the Templeton-Vane sheep, your lordship.”

  The marquess’s thin, sandy brows shot upwards. “Dear me, how frightfully awkward for you.” Another man might have been embarrassed for himself, but I suspected it would take more than a modest social gaffe to upset the son-in-law of the queen.

  Princess Louise stepped in to smooth the situation. “Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane are connections of Sir Frederick Havelock’s. They have come to see my studio.”

  “Ah, more art folk! Suppose you knew the girl who lived there, the murdered one,” he said. He turned to his wife. “What was her na
me again? Something quite outlandish.”

  “Artemisia,” she supplied. “No, Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane did not have that pleasure.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s best you didn’t know her,” he said to us. “Nasty business, murder. Don’t like to see you upset,” he told his wife gruffly. It was as close as an aristocratic Englishman could come to expressing real emotion, but it was enough for the princess. She pressed his hand.

  “Dear Lorne,” she said.

  The butler came forward on silent feet, handing over his lordship’s gloves and hat. “You caught me just as I was going out. I shall be at the club today, and I’ve a dinner tonight. Will you be around, Loosy?”

  “I daresay,” the princess replied. He brushed a quick kiss to her cheek, shook hands once more with Stoker, and nodded graciously to me before taking his leave. The princess turned to us as soon as her husband had departed. “Come. The studio is the only really private place here.”

  Her Royal Highness conducted us down a corridor hung with a selection of pretty watercolors to a locked door. She produced a key from her pocket and led us through a court and a little garden to a freestanding structure that seemed almost entirely made of glass. She unlocked it and lit a gasolier against the gloom of the dark, fogbound morning. The illumination was feeble, but vast expanses of windows indicated that on bright days the room would be flooded with sunlight.

  “My studio,” she told us. The walls were lined with shelves to hold the various tools of the sculptor’s trade, and the room, a large, open space, was populated with shrouded plinths, like so many patient ghosts.

  The princess led the way to a particular plinth and reached out to twitch aside the cloth that covered it. It hesitated then fell away, pooling at the feet of a statue of a young woman. She was dressed in a timeless sort of costume, a gracefully draped robe that might have belonged to any society in antiquity. But her pose was not that of a Classical beauty in repose, waiting to be admired. This figure was barely paused in the act of motion, her skirts rippling along the muscles of her thighs, the draperies along her shoulders flung back as she lifted her head, her sightless eyes fixed upon a horizon she would never see. One slim hand held the crook of a shepherdess, and I could well imagine the marble flock waiting to be gathered just out of sight. Her lips were parted and her head cocked ever so slightly, as if she heard a soundless call and had been immured in marble just at the point of responding.