A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “But it wasn’t her betrayal that stung the most, was it?” Stoker prodded. “It was his willingness to give up what you had built together, to include her.”

  “He would have made a laughingstock of both of us,” she hissed. “And he did not even care, he was so happy. He thought I would be happy.” Her voice rose on a sob. “That is when I realized he never knew me at all. All these years of giving up so much for him, and he did not know the slightest thing about me.”

  “That is when you decided he had to die,” I surmised. “And how better to wreak your vengeance than to kill his mistress and child and watch him hang for their murder.”

  “It was an elegant solution,” she said. “Killing him outright would be too quick. And Artemisia would still be there with his child, a monstrous reminder. I wanted them obliterated, all of them.”

  “How did Gilchrist come into the plot?” Stoker asked.

  “Artemisia left him for Miles. We consoled one another, as friends,” she clarified quickly. “We were never lovers, although he offered.” Her lips tightened in distaste. “That is how I got him here tonight. I told him I wanted to bed him, that it would be a fitting end to our partnership. Poor fool. He was stripped and onto the chair without the slightest hesitation. I told him to close his eyes while I took off my clothes. I said I was shy,” she said, her voice breaking on a mirthless laugh. “He opened them when I cut his throat. He looked so surprised. Not like Artemisia. She never even stirred when I cut her.”

  “Because you drugged her first. How did you manage that?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “A dose of laudanum in her punch. As soon as she began to feel tired, I showed her up to Miles’ room to lie down for a little while. It was a crush that night, and no one noticed us slipping up the back stairs. I took her to his bed, and I helped her to lie down, and when she was sleeping, I picked up his razor from the washstand and cut her throat with it. It was so much easier than I expected.”

  “You were wearing white,” Stoker remarked. “How did you keep from getting blood all over yourself? It must have been a very tidy murder.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was messy, horribly messy. But I had prepared for that. I was wearing an evening gown, so my arms were bare. All I had to do was stand behind the bed curtains and reach my arm around to do the deed. They were thick and crimson, and when the blood splashed upon them, it did not show, at least not enough to notice. I stepped out from behind the hangings without a trace upon me. Only my slippers were soiled when I trod in the blood.”

  “Which you noticed at once. So you gave the slippers to Gilchrist for safekeeping,” I said.

  “Yes. I put them into the box they came in. Emma Talbot saw me with it that night, but it meant nothing to her at the time. When she saw you today with the same box under your arm, she suddenly realized what must have happened. I said I was coming here to pack a few things I wanted for Greece. She followed to confront me. I told her it was a simple misunderstanding and that Julian was the villain. I told her I had lured him here to expose him and that I was glad of her help. Then I sent her down here to wait, knowing she would discover him and then she would know the truth.” She paused. “It is not a pretty way to die, is it? I will never forget the look of horror on his face the night of the murder, when I gave him the bloodied slippers and told him what I had done. He thought we had been building castles in Spain when we talked of it, plotting their deaths. He said he didn’t realize I actually meant to do it. But by then it was too late. He was my accomplice.”

  “Because if he had failed to do your bidding, you would have simply told the police that he had conspired to the murder with you. He could not implicate you without implicating himself,” Stoker reasoned.

  “Exactly. It nearly broke him. Men are not as strong as we are, Miss Speedwell,” she told me with a confiding nod. “They so often let us down when we need them most. But Gilchrist delivered the threat that I told him to write, and he attempted to seduce Miss Speedwell to see how much she discovered, although he was rather a failure at that, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “It was not entirely his fault. I have preferred dark gentlemen to fair. I also require significantly more intelligence in a man.”

  “Poor Julian. But he was too greedy for his own good. I knew the ledger existed, but I had never seen it. Miles was careful about that, curiously so. I did not even trouble to look for it after he was taken by the police. It did not matter to me. I almost didn’t even look at it when that poor fool of a watchman sent it along to me. You gave him quite a fright, you know,” she added with a touch of reproof. “He discovered it the night he chased you off. He wrapped it up most carefully and dispatched it to me at Havelock House. He said he was afraid it might be something important of the master’s, and that I ought to have it. I opened it out of nothing more than idle curiosity. Imagine my surprise when I read the last entry. I never understood why Louise was so convinced of Miles’ innocence. But there it was, staring me in the face.” She fairly bit off the last word, her eyes gleaming with anger. “It was the worst sort of betrayal one woman can commit against another.”

  “The princess says they were not lovers,” I told her mildly, but her eyes flashed with anger.

  “That hardly matters, does it? She came down here with Miles. She knew how much I loved him, how much our life together meant to me. But she came anyway, improper as that was, and God only knows where it might have led in time. When I told Julian about Louise’s name being in the ledger, he did not say much. He merely went away and said he had thinking to do. Today he told me he had sent her a note demanding her jewels. He said she ought to be made to pay, but I knew it was not my pain he cared for. He simply saw an opportunity to make himself rich—and get away. He meant to take the jewels and leave England. He thought he could escape me, escape what he had done. But there is no escape, is there? Not for any of us.”

  Her speech had had the air of a clockwork automaton winding down. She was finished. She gave a deep sigh of resignation and steadied her gun hand as she leveled her weapon at me. “Well, it is time.”

  Several things happened in an instant. Stoker, seizing his chance, reached for the knife in his boot as he lunged forward with a growl, drawing her fire. Ottilie turned the revolver to Stoker, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The noise was deafening in the stone chamber, echoing over and over again like a cataclysm. As it beat upon my ears, I bent, slipping my knife from its sheath and flinging it with the piercing howl of a Fury. It caught Ottilie full in the breast and she dropped the revolver, bringing her hands to the hilt with a look of astonishment on her face. A slow stain of crimson began to spread around the blade buried in her chest, flowering over the pale flesh of her hands. She slipped to the ground in perfect silence.

  I turned to Stoker; his eyes were wide with surprise as he slowly moved towards me. Without a word, he fell heavily to his knees, and I did not understand what ailed him until he turned his head. A crimson sheet of blood cascaded down the side of his face.

  I vaulted over the recumbent figure of Miss Talbot to reach him before he finished falling. I put an arm to his chest, supporting him, feeling the wet scarlet warmth of his blood seeping through my sleeve.

  He sagged against me, and I forced his head back. “Do not do this,” I ordered him. “Do you hear me, you stupid man? You are not allowed to die.”

  He opened his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes like bits of a Giotto sky. His look was one of perfect tenderness, and his hand gripped mine with all the strength he was capable of. “Veronica,” he said, in a low voice that throbbed with emotion.

  “Yes, Stoker?”

  The grip upon my hand tightened, and he gave a great shudder. “The bloody bitch shot me.” And then his eyes rolled white and he pitched forward into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER

  27

  The scene was something conjured out of a nightma
re. The lantern images of couples disporting themselves continued to play about the room, whirling with dizzying speed. Shadow then light passed over Stoker’s face in turn, illuminating the blood in stark crimson, then blackening it to ink. The blood covered my hands in a warm, sticky flow and for an instant I felt the strong urge to succumb to hysterics.

  “This will not do,” I told myself severely. I felt a rustle of movement behind me, and without forethought, my hand reached for the blade in Stoker’s boot. I whirled upon my haunches, leveling it at the surprised face of Emma Talbot.

  “You have recovered yourself at an opportune moment,” I told her.

  “I have not recovered myself at all,” she corrected coolly. “I was not in a swoon. I simply thought it was an expedient way to remove myself from the line of fire.”

  I gave her a long look. “I am not certain whether to slap you or congratulate you, but you can tip the scales by helping me. Find something to bind his head with.”

  She did not hesitate. She went directly to the pile of clothing discarded by Julian Gilchrist in his haste to copulate and retrieved his neckcloth and shirt. I used Stoker’s blade to cut the shirt into strips to form a sort of padded bandage and wound the neckcloth tightly to keep it in place, securing it at the ends with the minuten from my cuffs.

  “It will have to do until we can fetch help,” I said more to myself than to Emma Talbot. She was not beside me, and I looked up to find her standing over Ottilie Ramsforth.

  “My God,” she breathed. “You spitted her right through the heart. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Is she dead?” I asked, fashioning my words of flint.

  “She is.”

  “Good.” I wiped my gore-streaked hands upon my skirt. “He is too large for us to move easily and I fear he will lose too much blood if we attempt it. Take a lantern and go to the front gate. If you are athletic enough, scale it. Otherwise, open it by whatever means necessary. What time is it?”

  She glanced at the little watch pinned to her bodice. “It lacks twenty minutes to midnight.”

  “Blast. Too long,” I muttered.

  “Too long for what?” she demanded.

  “The cavalry. Gentlemen from the Metropolitan Police will be arriving at dawn if we do not appear, but that is far too long to wait. Is there anyone else here? The watchman, perhaps? Did she keep him?”

  Emma shook her head. “No one. She said she let him go, I suspect so she could do away with Julian without witnesses. So she could do away with all of us,” she added with a shudder.

  I gave her a close look. “Do not make me strike you, Miss Talbot. The temptation is almost more than I can bear. Now, walk down the lane until you find a house—a neighbor will do. Rouse them and find the nearest police station to organize a rescue. Or if you spy a passing bobby upon his watch, hail him. Either way, you must send for Sir Hugo Montgomerie, the head of Special Branch.”

  “Special Branch!” Her eyes were wide in the fitful light. “You do have an interesting acquaintance, Miss Speedwell.”

  “Go,” I told her. “And don’t dare to come back until you bring help.”

  She did as I bade her, leaving me alone with two corpses and Stoker. The smell of blood hung heavy in the confined space; I could taste it upon the air. The minutes ticked past and still the couples cavorted upon the walls. Stoker breathed, slowly and more shallowly than I would have liked. After some time—how long I could not say—he roused a little.

  He put out a hand, and I caught it. “I am here,” I told him.

  “What happened? Where are we?”

  “You attempted to play the hero and got yourself shot for your pains,” I told him severely. “Your stupidity knows no bounds.”

  “Why is my face wet? Veronica, are you weeping?”

  “Don’t be daft. It must be blood,” I said sharply. “Ottilie Ramsforth tried to kill you. Before I sorted you out, you were bleeding like a stuck pig from a wound in your temple.”

  “I can feel it,” he told me. “It burns like the devil. I cannot remember what happened then.”

  “I am not surprised. You went down like a ninepin.”

  “At the risk of sounding ungrateful,” he drawled, “I wonder if you might explain why we are lingering here in this appalling cave instead of seeking medical attention?”

  “We are waiting for Emma Talbot to return with assistance,” I assured him. “But this blasted place is too remote to make it a quick proposition. We are simply going to have to stay warm and quiet until help arrives.”

  “Like hell we will,” he said, attempting to sit up.

  I pushed him back with the flat of my palms. “Stop that or you will start the hemorrhage up again, and you have already bled on me enough for one night.”

  “Very well,” he said in a deceptively meek voice. “But I should at least like to assess the damage.”

  “I suppose,” I conceded. “Tell me what to do.”

  The next few minutes were unpleasant. Under his direction, I unwound the bandage, careful not to dislodge the delicate clots that had formed. “Get your flask of aguardiente,” he ordered. I retrieved it and he splashed a good bit over his hand. As I watched in horror, he took his wet fingertips and ran them over the edges of the wound. “Deeper than I would like,” he murmured, his face very white. “It will be difficult to stitch. I can’t”—he broke off, taking a deep breath as he palpated further—“I can’t feel pieces of loose bone. Do you see any?”

  I steeled myself, peering into the wound. “One small chip,” I told him.

  He handed me the flask. “Be quick about it.”

  I splashed the aguardiente on my hand, running the strong spirit over my skin until it stung. When my fingers were as sterile as I could make them under the circumstances, I reached into the gaping wound. As gently as I could, I grasped the tiny bit of chipped bone and pulled it free. I held it up to him and he slowly closed his eyes in approbation.

  “Good girl,” he muttered.

  “What shall I do with it?” I asked, staring at the slender whiteness of the shard against the puddled blood in my hand.

  “Keep it for a souvenir,” he suggested. “You have to wash out the wound now. God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice bit of carbolic. The aguardiente will have to do.”

  “It will hurt,” I warned him.

  He opened one eye. “I should think you would enjoy that.”

  “Stupid man,” I retorted. I poured out the aguardiente in a slow, steady stream, trickling it from one end of the wound down, flushing it as clean as I could. It bled afresh then, but stopped almost immediately, and I wrapped his head with his own shirt turned inside out to make as clean a bandage as possible. He made no sound as I tended him, but his hands were clenched, his knuckles white to the bone, and when I finished, he gave a sigh, his mouth going slack.

  “I forgot to ask—are you hurt?” he demanded suddenly, trying once more to sit up. I pushed at his shoulders with both hands.

  “Lie back, idiot. You oughtn’t to move. If you will give me your handkerchief, I will mop up your face as best I can.”

  He pointed to his pocket and I wiped at his face. The blood was too dry to come away, and the effect was ghoulish, but at least it gave me something to do. I removed my jacket and folded it to make a pillow for his head. I settled him on it and he stared for a long moment at the whirling figures. “They are giving me the collywobbles,” he said in a faint voice. I rose and went to find a lamp, lighting it with a match from the box in my pocket. When it was burning well, I blew out the magic lantern, causing the couples to cease their endless copulating. I came back to Stoker, lamp in hand.

  “What in the name of Satan’s arsehole is that?” he demanded.

  “The genitals of a very healthy young man,” I told him, waving the phallus-shaped lamp.

  He began to laugh then,
a laugh that ended in a wheezing cough. “I refuse to die with that my last sight.”

  “You are not going to die,” I told him severely. “I have already forbidden it.”

  “I will obey,” he said solemnly.

  But I did not like his color. He was a ghastly shade of pale, his lips almost white now, his breathing slow. I put a hand to his cheek and it was cold. I cursed the rock floor upon which he lay. The chill of it was seeping into his bones, I had no doubt, robbing him of whatever strength remained to him. I left him again to find something with which to make him a pallet. I went to the velvet curtains which screened off the passageway to the main house. With hands shaking with rage, I tore them down, bundling them into my arms to make a nest for Stoker. I deliberately did not look at the supine form of Ottilie Ramsforth.

  Stoker was sleeping when I returned, rousing with some difficulty and a little confusion.

  “What is happening?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” I soothed. “But you must be warm.” I arranged the velvet in folds, saving out one panel with which to cover him. When I was done, I coaxed him onto the pallet, heaving him as he was in no state to move himself. I spread the velvet over him, tucking it tightly to hold in his warmth, and then I lay beside him, pressing close.

  He drifted to sleep again but woke a little while later, nearly frantic with thirst. I held the last of the aguardiente to his lips as he drank deeply. I questioned the wisdom of giving him intoxicants, but he was already in so weakened a condition, it could hardly hurt. Besides, I reasoned, it might blunt the edge of the pain in his head.

  He closed his eyes but did not sleep again. Instead, he pushed his arms out of the velvet coverings, muttering about the heat.

  “You must not take a chill,” I insisted. I made to tuck him in again, but he grunted in protest, wrapping his arms about me instead.

  “Stay,” he mumbled. And I did. I stayed, clasped to his chest as a child might hold a beloved toy, closely and with something like reverence.