“I still do not understand you. How did you know it would work? You laid on the flattery with a trowel.”
He gave me a pitying look. “Royalty are no different from the nobility, and you forget, I was reared amongst them. I am one of that benighted tribe, as much as I deplore it. I know what they think—and how.”
“And what does the princess think?”
“That she is the center of the universe, of course. They all do. God’s in his heaven, the queen’s on her throne, and all creation bends a knee to them, with apologies to Browning,” he told me. “It is impossible to flatter them too much. They understand nothing of true suffering or hardship or pain, so if you make them believe you think them martyrs to such emotions, they decide you are the only one who truly understands them. In the meantime, try talking to them about the plight of a Yorkshire coal miner and see how far it gets you,” he added with a gesture of disgust.
“That is the most cynical thing I have ever heard you utter,” I told him.
His smile was quick. “Then by all means, stay with me. I shall surprise you yet. In fact, I think I shall astonish you with this,” he added, whipping a postcard from his pocket.
“What is that?”
“A scene of Bournemouth,” he told me. “I stole it from the princess’s mantelpiece.”
“How very edifying,” I pronounced.
“Turn it over, my skeptical friend.”
I did as he bade, giving a crowing sound of triumph. “Stoker, you utter genius.” The postcard was an afterthought, a hastily scribbled note of just a few lines addressed to Louise by a friend on holiday. But they were enough.
“Julian Gilchrist’s handwriting,” I breathed.
Stoker produced the blackmail note and we held them side by side. “Not a very clever chap, is he? He managed to alter the capitals only slightly, but his E absolutely screams the truth.”
“So Gilchrist is our blackmailer as well as the author of our threat and, I suspect, the eyeball as well. All tricks to put us off the investigation.”
“How do you like him for a murderer?” he asked with a forgivable air of satisfaction.
“It is possible,” I temporized.
“Possible!” His lips thinned in irritation. “Veronica, I have just presented you with evidence as prettily tied up as any Christmas parcel. What more do you want?”
I shook my head slowly. “I cannot say. But we must have more proof than this. If we go to Sir Hugo with a scribble on a postcard and a threatening note, he will laugh us out of his office. It may be that Julian Gilchrist is our murderer,” I said quickly, seeing his face harden. “But what we have now is not sufficient evidence to link him to the crime. He might have had nothing to do with Artemisia’s death but be perfectly willing to watch Ramsforth hang for it.”
“Why, precisely?” he demanded in a clipped voice.
“Jealousy,” I returned. “Gilchrist was the person who enjoyed Artemisia’s attentions before Ramsforth. Perhaps he could not bear the thought of losing her, of sharing her with Ramsforth. He mightn’t have acted upon that feeling, but it would account for him being thoroughly happy to see Ramsforth hang for her murder.”
He stopped in the middle of the pavement and stared at me. “Do you believe that? Do you believe it is possible to be so connected to another person that the very idea of losing them could drive you to watch an innocent person die without lifting a finger to stop it?”
“If I thought that person had killed them, then yes,” I said levelly. “I would knot the noose with my own hands. Tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”
He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. We were silent as we walked, constrained.
“Do you think Louise will come forward if we cannot catch the murderer?” I asked at length. “Or will she let Miles hang to spare herself the scandal?”
“She will have no choice,” he said, an unholy light glinting in his eyes. “If she does not come of her own free will, we will go to Sir Hugo and tell him the truth.”
“Again, it will not work. Without the ledger, we cannot prove Miles Ramsforth’s alibi. It will be our word against hers, and precisely no one will believe us. I do not trust her to choose his life over her reputation.”
“Blast,” he muttered, but his failure to pursue the argument said he knew I was right. “Then we will have to catch the murderer,” he said finally. “It is the only way to ensure that Miles Ramsforth doesn’t hang.”
We walked in silence for a long moment. “Stoker? Louise was there when we told Ottilie Ramsforth about finding the ledger. She had no way of knowing we had not seen her name. Why did she not suspect us of orchestrating the blackmail plot against her?”
He thought a moment then shrugged. “Perhaps she believes an aristocrat would never attempt to blackmail a princess. Or perhaps she thinks a woman of semi-royal blood would never do anything so dishonorable.”
I mulled over the likelihood of both as we walked. “Or perhaps she lacks the imagination ever to have considered the possibility,” I said finally.
Stoker snorted. “Your prejudices are showing, Veronica. It is appallingly clear how little you think of her.”
I shrugged. “She is arrogant and difficult and, my God, but she always thinks she is right.”
Stoker gave me a measured look from hatpin to hem and then smiled. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
He was still smiling when I pushed him off the curb.
CHAPTER
24
Calling a temporary truce, we crossed Kensington Gardens, turning our steps towards the south.
“Of course,” Stoker said in a speculative voice as we fell to discussing the case again, “it may be that Gilchrist is not working alone in this. He might have a companion, someone cleverer than he who also lives and works at Havelock House.”
“You suspect Emma Talbot!”
“Why not? Now that we know a woman might have done it, she is certainly an addition to the list of possible suspects.”
I snorted. “If you believe that, why not add Ottilie Ramsforth’s name to the list? Or don’t you suspect devoted wives?”
Too late, I realized the barb was sharper than I intended. He did not put his hand to his scar or make a sound, but I knew he was thinking of the time his wife nearly cost him his life in Brazil. Caroline. The name pierced me like a lance, but I refused to speak it aloud.
“I would apologize if I thought it would help,” I said after a long moment.
He gave me a faint specter of a smile. “I am not spun of candy floss, Veronica. I can take whatever pricks you choose to administer.”
“I am certain you can,” I said, but it was a lie and it was bitter on my tongue. He had loved her once, and he loved her still, of that I was sure. Why else cry out her name with his lips warm upon my flesh? But it had not been a cry of undiluted pleasure, that much I knew. And there was no pain sharper than that of loving someone when you would do anything to stop it.
I cleared my throat and assumed an attitude of briskness. “In any event, Ottilie is quite out of it. Remember, she was wearing white that night, and there was no trace of blood upon her. But if we are determined to consider the women, what of Louise’s suggestion of Cherry?”
“Motive?” he asked, and to my relief his voice sounded almost normal.
I shrugged. “Thwarted love affair? The relationships at Havelock House seem convoluted as those of the Olympian gods, everyone sampling the connubial delights together.”
He shook his head. “I cannot see it. Miles Ramsforth might be a sybarite, but he lacks imagination. He acquires beauty, and the girl is not striking enough to tempt him.”
“Is Emma Talbot?” I retorted.
He considered this, his eyes crinkling thoughtfully at the corners. “She does have a certain arresting vitality. That might be enough.”
; My lips pursed of their own accord. “Do we know what she was wearing the night of the murder?”
“Black,” he replied promptly. “At least I assume so. During my last sitting, Cherry came in with what is apparently Emma’s only evening gown and got an earful for leaving a shiny mark upon it with an iron.”
“Black would certainly hide the blood,” I admitted.
“Furthermore, what would Cherry have been doing at an entertainment of that sort? She is the maid at Havelock House, not one of the artists.”
“She might have been engaged to help serve, and if she were, she too would have been wearing black,” I added with a snap of the fingers.
“All right, I will grant you that. Let us consider the men. Frederick Havelock,” he pronounced. “I like him a good deal as a murderer.”
“Again with the notion of that charming old man! You must be mad.”
“Charm is the most effective veneer for the sinister,” he told me.
“Sinister—he is in a Bath chair,” I said in scornful tones.
“In a Bath chair, not restricted to it,” he corrected. “You have seen with your own eyes that he can get about without it.”
“With the aid of walking sticks!”
“One of which might easily hide a blade. No, I very much like this theory.”
“It is not a theory, it is a piece of embroidered nonsense. Sir Frederick is far too feeble to caper about murdering strapping young women.”
“Now,” he added. “But what about before his last apoplexy? He attended that evening, not in a Bath chair, and we’ve been told his condition deteriorated greatly after Artemisia’s murder. We have no way of knowing precisely what it was before she died. And do not dismiss the fact that she was drugged. That would not benefit only a smaller woman, but a less than athletic man,” he finished with a self-satisfied air.
“Fine.” I begrudged him the point, but I had to concede it. “But I cannot fancy him as the person who pinned the threat to our door. Furthermore,” I said, warming to my theme, “I do not expect he will tip-tap his way down to the Elysian Grotto tonight to collect Louise’s emeralds. If he is involved, he must have a co-conspirator.”
“Bollocking hell,” Stoker said. “Just when I was convinced of it. Still,” he added cheerfully, “he might be the mastermind. And in that case, I shall propose Julian Gilchrist for his puppet in light of the handwriting on the note. You liked him as the doer of deeds rather than the plotter. Why not the artist and his mentor for co-conspirators?”
“I will grant you Gilchrist as a likelier man of action, but what possible reason could he have for doing Sir Frederick’s bidding?”
Stoker shrugged. “Sir Frederick could have made him promises with regard to his career. He may know something compromising about the fellow from their mutual adventures in the grotto and be holding it over Gilchrist’s head.”
“He could hardly do that without implicating himself,” I countered.
“The reason doesn’t matter,” he replied with maddening calm. “Whatever links conspirators is not as significant as the fact that they are linked.”
“And if it is not Gilchrist acting as Sir Frederick’s monkey, then perhaps it is Cherry. Or Miss Talbot,” I said, forestalling the inevitable. “The only way to unravel this is to get into Havelock House again and search. If we find the ledger, we will have something tangible at last.”
He reached slowly into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. “This arrived earlier.”
“What is that?” I demanded as I opened it. The note was written in a firm, masculine hand, but a glance at the signature told me the author was Emma Talbot. It began without preamble. “Come pose for me today, I beg you. I am desperate to work. Bring the Speedwell if you must.”
“What impertinence,” I tutted. “You are willing to pose for her again? Even with the possibility that she might be a murderess?”
“Well, I don’t fancy standing around nearly naked,” he said laconically. “But it will get us in the door, and while I am with La Talbot you will have the chance to poke your nose about and perhaps sniff something out.”
I swallowed hard. I could not immediately identify the emotion welling within me. It was something akin to gratitude, but far richer. I had expected him to put himself forward, to insist upon taking the lead in the search. Instead, he had made the sacrifice of sitting out.
“How long have you had that note?” I asked as we reached the far side of the park.
“Since the second post this morning.”
“Were you going to mention it?”
“No.”
I gave a mirthless laugh. “At least you may count honesty amongst your virtues. What changed your mind?”
He stopped walking and gave me a look that turned my bones to water. “Seeing how Louise treated you. If we don’t finish this, you will always regret it, not just because your family have let you down, but because we will have failed to save Ramsforth. I know what that sort of weight can do to a person. It crushes the soul, grinds it into the dirt until you no longer know where the gutter stops and you begin. I don’t want that for you. I won’t have that for you.”
It was a long speech by Stoker’s standards, particularly as it touched upon something he was always so careful to keep concealed from me. As if embarrassed, he turned away and walked quickly down the street. I followed, slowly, watching his broad back as he moved. He was a curious sort of champion, I reflected. But a champion he was.
• • •
We reached Havelock House a short while later. Cherry admitted us and sent us directly to Emma Talbot’s studio. The artist was sitting on a virgin block of marble, smoking feverishly. As soon as she saw us, she jerked to her feet, tossing the cigarette aside. “Thank God!” she exclaimed. “I was about to run mad.” She favored Stoker with a heartfelt smile, and even her greeting to me seemed sincere.
She directed Stoker behind the screen to attire himself as Perseus while she bustled around, collecting her paper, charcoal, and props.
“You seem discomposed today,” I told her. She pulled a face.
“I am desperate. I want to get this sketch finished before I depart.”
“You are leaving Havelock House?”
“I am,” she said with some bitterness. “Mrs. Ramsforth has invited me to travel with her to Greece. She needs someone to oversee the final arrangements of the decoration and art, and there is precious little for me here, at least not now.”
“Now? What has happened?”
She hesitated a moment, then burst out. “Gilchrist! He knew I was about to secure a commission to sculpt a statue for a private gallery in Birmingham. He used me to gain an introduction to the committee that oversees the place. I thought it was simply to make his name known to them for future work, but before I knew what was happening, he had persuaded them to change their minds and commission a painting instead of a sculpture.”
“A painting he will execute,” I guessed.
“Precisely. The little devil snaffled the job from under my nose. I will never forgive him for it. It is not uncommon in our circles, but that does not mean I have to countenance such underhanded behavior. I have no desire to remain under the same roof as the little swine.”
“What did Sir Frederick have to say upon the matter?”
Her expression softened. “I couldn’t tell him.”
“Miss Talbot, you astonish me! Such an act of duplicity, Sir Frederick ought to be told that one of his pets has behaved badly.”
“I suppose. The trouble is, I have a terrible soft spot for the old fellow. I cannot bring myself to disillusion him. Gilchrist is his beloved protégé. It would hurt him.”
She fell silent, gripped by genuine emotion, and against my will, I found myself in danger of liking her. For a potential murderess, she was rather engaging.
But then, wit
h a chill, I realized there might well be another purpose to her story of Gilchrist’s treachery. It provided a perfect justification for her leaving Havelock House after Miles Ramsforth’s execution. If she had plotted his judicial death, how clever of her to use his own widow as a means of getting away. She would need a convincing story as to why she had left the country, and Gilchrist’s theft of her commission was a perfect one—except that she could not afford to share it with Frederick Havelock. Faced with the tale of his favorite’s underhandedness, he would undoubtedly confront Gilchrist, the one course of action that Emma could not afford if it were a lie.
It was an intriguing theory, and I filed it away to share with Stoker once we were alone.
I gestured towards the block of marble. “That is extraordinary. Do you mean to use it for your Perseus?”
She grimaced. “That was my hope. But I shall not have time. I will have to complete the statue in Greece.”
“I do envy you, Miss Talbot. I have never been, although Mrs. Ramsforth speaks so highly of it, she has quite persuaded me I must rectify the omission.”
Her smile was vague. “Yes, she has persuaded me as well. I cannot quite believe she means to go there without—him. It will be a tremendous loss for her,” she said slowly, a fierceness coming into her dark gaze. “She will walk the grounds of that villa knowing he walked them. She will sit on the furniture he chose. She will watch the sunsets he imagined. She won’t go alone, you see. His ghost will be there at every turn. I think it must be a mad sort of comfort to her.”
Her tone and expression were so full of emotion, I hardly knew how to respond. There was a sharpness to her I could not understand, but it occurred to me that she was under a terrible strain, like a bowed branch just before it cracks.
“Only a woman who truly loved Mr. Ramsforth would subject herself to that sort of haunted existence,” I told her in a low voice. “But how fortunate for you, being on hand to work in the place where your statues will actually be installed.”
“Yes,” she said, coming back to herself. “I think it will make a real difference to the composition. I will have the figure decided in advance based upon my studies of Mr. Templeton-Vane, but the landscape, the feel of the thing—I am quite looking forward to seeing how Greece inserts herself into the piece.” She gave me a sudden sharp look and raised her voice. “Mr. Templeton-Vane, you have been quite gentlemanly about waiting until we finished our tête-à-tête, but I know it does not take that long to put on a loincloth. Come out, please.”
A Perilous Undertaking Page 28
