The Butterfly Conspiracy

by Vivian Conroy

  THE BUTTERFLY CONSPIRACY

  A MERRIWEATHER AND ROYSTON MYSTERY

  Vivian Conroy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As always, I’m grateful to all agents, editors, and authors who share online about the writing and publishing process. A special thanks to my amazing agent, Jill Marsal, whose enthusiasm for the zoology aspects of this series shone through from our very first conversation about it; to my wonderful editor, Faith Black Ross, who made the whole process from manuscript to published book so smooth and easy; and to the talented crew at Crooked Lane Books, especially cover designer Melanie Sun for the evocative cover.

  The first seed for this series was planted when I read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes story The Speckled Band and realized the amazing potential of animals and natural history for murder mysteries. Further inspiration came from watching Sir David Attenborough’s Natural Curiosities, where he draws on many exciting sources—biographies, treatises, encyclopedias, correspondence, and so forth—to explore misconception, confusion, and conscious deceit in the development of zoology. My mind spun with what-if scenarios, and the Royal Zoological Society was born—a fictional society comparable to real-life institutions founded in the nineteenth century dedicated to the study of natural history—along with my heroine Merula Merriweather and her colorful allies who confront mysterious deaths connected to novel discoveries in the field of science.

  Researching the Victorian age through the modern conveniences of the Internet is a joy in itself, as I was one moment watching footage of a still-operating Victorian sweets machine and the next reading up on lethal wallpaper, a subject both intriguing and terrifying, as people did die, even children, although researchers still debate whether the wallpaper was really to blame or not. That inhalation of only a few particles of an agent one is severely allergic to can kill is proven by many contemporary scientific studies, and the interest in adverse responses to foods, but also to fur, pollen, and so forth, began to soar in Victorian times, making it likely that Galileo would know about this and could arrive at the conclusions he did—although he couldn’t use the word “allergy” to denote the condition, as it hadn’t been introduced yet (Galileo’s remark that “we have to find a word for it” is actually a playful reference to that!). And, yes, there was a very real, very large vegetarian movement in London at the time, even though, after reading the recipes of those days, I’m not too sure those dishes were as healthy as people believed at the time.

  But before I lose myself in too many details of Merula and Raven’s world, I want to thank you, reader, for entering it with me and invite you to join us on our next adventure in misty coastal Dartmoor, where a creature of legendary proportions is rumored to spread death from the deep.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Merula!” Julia DeVeere’s voice resounded from the other room. “Come in here and work your magic on my unruly locks.”

  Merula Merriweather leaned toward the mirror, half standing at her dressing table, putting a pin here and there in her exuberant dark hair. Whereas she had the patience to turn her cousin’s hairdo into a real masterpiece, she didn’t like to spend more than a few minutes on her own appearance.

  Her chances for being the belle of the ball were minimal on most occasions, as she was untitled and a bit odd at that, an orphan with a shady past.

  Merula only knew that her mother had run away from home and that five years later a baby girl had been delivered to her mother’s family in London. That family, her mother’s sister Lady Emma DeVeere and her influential husband Rupert, had taken great pains to convince the outer world that the baby had been born in wedlock, and on Merula’s dressing table stood a silver-framed photograph of a smiling young woman and a stern man with light hair.

  But when Merula looked at her own face in the mirror, at her features and her raven hair, she didn’t believe the man in that photograph was her father. She wasn’t even sure that the woman pictured was her mother.

  Her head was full of questions about her family and the past, but she never asked. The truth might be worse than anything she could ever speculate about.

  “Merula!” Julia appeared in the doorway, half dressed and with her hair done up on one side but not the other. “This new maid is abusing me in the most horrible fashion. Half my locks are either pulled out or scorched…” Julia fell silent as her gaze traveled from the feather-adorned comb in Merula’s hair to the golden locket on her neck and down over the fiery-red dress with an edge of golden embroidery.

  “You are going out!” she exclaimed. “Oh, you will be the night’s sensation.”

  “Wrong, my dear,” Merula responded at once, grabbing her black lace stole from the bed. “That honor will belong to Attacus atlas.”

  “Who?” Julia queried with a frown that furrowed her otherwise flawless face. She was considered a true beauty, and every morning at breakfast her mother recited that Julia had to snare an earl, at the least, to get herself a title. Lady Emma hungered for her daughter to be called “Lady” as well, as the lack of a title for her only child was the one thing she regretted about her marriage to an untitled gentleman, no matter how much else Rupert DeVeere’s wealth and esteemed position in society had given her. Julia, however, abhorred the candidates in line with her mother’s social aspirations and longed for a dashing young diplomat who’d take her to Paris.

  Merula explained, “My butterfly. It hatched this morning, and tonight I’m going to Sir Edward Parker’s talk on a newly discovered tarantula, for the Royal Zoological Society, to show off the beauty and prove wrong all of those stiff gentlemen who didn’t believe Uncle Rupert when he proposed that an ugly caterpillar could turn into a beautiful butterfly the size of both my hands.”

  Julia shrieked and pretended to be about to faint. “I have no idea how you can stand working with those horrible creatures. They’d give me nightmares.”

  “On the contrary,” Merula parried, “they are the stuff of dreams.” She draped the lace stole around her shoulders and reached for the drawstring purse to complete her ensemble.

  Julia put a hand on her arm and pleaded, “Before you go, at least tell that silly girl how to do my hair. The maids only listen to you.”

  Merula sighed. “There is no secret to it. Since the maid is new here, she will probably do much better if you stop rushing her. Sit still, give her an encouraging smile, tell an amusing story to put her at ease, and you will see her abilities improve considerably.”

  Julia frowned. “Are you certain? Mother always says getting too familiar with the servants will just make them conceited and incorrigible.”

  “I tend to think a little kindness will encourage them to try their very best.”

  Julia shook her head. “Just like the time you gave your last penny to those dirty street urchins who claimed they had a sick mother. They ran straight off to the baker to buy biscuits for themselves. I saw them go in.”

  “They might have bought bread for the family. And even if they bought biscuits, I don’t really mind. Those people have a hard enough life as it is.”

  Seeing such children never failed to remind Merula that if it hadn’t been for her uncle’s kindness, she herself might have grown up with perpetual dirt on her face and hunger in her stomach. Her privileged position hadn’t been earned but given to her by someone who cared.

  She smiled at Julia. “Just give the maid a fair chance and you will look spectacular. Oh, and my regards to Simon Foxwell, should he be dancing with you again all night, as he did last time. I don’t know what you see in him though. The way he moves about the room and studies people, he’s like a tiger sneaking through the high grass to jump the deer when it’s least aware of the danger.”
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br />   She shivered under her recollection of the intense look in Foxwell’s amber eyes. “You think you’re husband-hunting at those parties, but I feel like that man is hunting you.”

  “You can be so odd,” Julia said, flushing. “It is not called husband-hunting. Besides, Simon will inherit his aunt’s entire fortune. He is the prize catch.”

  “I just don’t like him. I’m sorry,” Merula said remorsefully and gave her cousin a peck on the cheek. Her distrust of Foxwell had been sharp and instinctive, like a child recoiling from the buzz of a wasp. But there was nothing to support it, and Julia wouldn’t listen to reason anyway now that she could please her mother and herself by attracting a man who was well respected, rich, and handsome. At last Julia’s dreams of seeing Paris might be within reach, if Foxwell’s rich aunt took a liking to her and provided the young couple with funds to travel to the mainland.

  A little melancholy at the idea of Julia leaving, Merula squeezed her cousin’s arm. “I really hope you enjoy yourself tonight. Tell me all about it tomorrow over breakfast. Now I’m off to my grand reveal.” And with that she dashed out of the room for the double staircase.

  Of course, it would be her grand reveal only to her own mind. The guests at the lecture would just believe she had been allowed to unveil a creation of her uncle’s. All Merula’s zoological accomplishments were credited to him, an arrangement made by her own request, but one she regretted more and more as time went by. However, it had either been that or no research at all, and she had to count herself lucky her uncle hadn’t outright forbidden her to engage in such eccentric hobbies.

  He had even allowed her to make adjustments to the conservatory that was already in place for the keeping of tropical plants to turn it into a breeding place for her butterflies.

  Although Uncle Rupert rarely set a foot inside, he generously paid all the bills sent to him for the changes and regularly asked her if there was anything more she might like. Used to having a demanding daughter who spent too much of his money in Regent Street, he considered it only natural that Merula also wanted things. That they were not dresses and hats but plants and a microscope, he seemed to find refreshing.

  Not to mention how much it had enhanced his status with his peers that even members of the royal household took an interest in the work done by the Royal Zoological Society and might, one day, show up on his doorstep to see the work he was supposedly toiling away on.

  Merula could only hope that on such an occasion the distinguished visitors would be even more ignorant about wildlife than her uncle so he wouldn’t be exposed as a fraud. He didn’t deserve to suffer humiliation in return for his generosity to her.

  At the door leading into her sanctuary, Merula halted a moment with her hand on the doorknob, asking herself, for one fleeting moment, if it was really wise to take Attacus atlas with her tonight. Butterflies were delicate creatures, and to her mind it would be a disaster if something happened to it when she had had so little time yet to enjoy its beauty.

  Then she decided that it was worth the wager and pushed the door open.

  One of the adjustments she had made was that, right after this entry door, a second door had been installed, to prevent any butterfly that was flying nearby from being attracted by the draft created as the door opened and venturing outside. The double doors were like a mini corridor in which the butterfly could get caught before he flew toward what seemed like freedom but was, in reality, certain death.

  Merula’s arms suddenly crawled with gooseflesh. Her aunt’s voice during their dinnertime conversation, when Merula had expressed an interest in seeing India, echoed in her ear: “India seems like freedom to you, child, but it would become the end of you. You’d venture into filthy markets full of poisonous fruit and snapping monkeys. You’d catch rabies and die a horrible death.”

  Uncle Rupert had laughed and winked at Merula, saying it was more logical she’d fall in with an expedition out to find the lost treasure at some sanctuary in the jungle. “How does the temple of the golden panther sound?”

  “Must you encourage her?” Aunt Emma had asked with a hitched brow, continuing to Merula, “In that jungle you’d catch a poisonous dart from some incensed tribe who guarded that golden panther temple with their lives.”

  Merula smiled a moment as she realized that her aunt did have imagination, even if it was of the morbid kind, always predicting how every innocent pleasure could turn into immediate disaster. She would have bet that if Aunt Emma knew she intended to take the butterfly to the lecture, she’d come up with a scenario of mayhem and murder.

  The heat of the conservatory slapped Merula in the face. She took a moment to breathe in and out, letting the humid air fill her lungs. Then she walked to the wooden contraption her uncle’s secretary had built for her after her own design. Although Mr. Andrew Whittaker had a bit of a bookish look about him, he had been handy enough with his hands and interested in her research.

  Lovingly, she touched one of the huge cocoons that hung suspended by a thin thread and a pin. They had traveled half the globe to get to her, having been taken from their native country in the Far East. The purchase of two of these had cost her most of the money she had intended to invest in caterpillars and plants for them to live on, but it was worth it.

  Holding her breath, she looked up to where sat the creature that had crawled out of the first cocoon that morning. If Julia had been able to see it, she would truly have fainted. But for Merula it was a cause for excitement that made her feel more alive than ever.

  As large as both of her hands held together with fingers spread like a flying eagle, the butterfly sat on the trunk of the small tropical tree, resting as it waited for the nocturnal hours to fly about. Each wing was the color of reddish brick, with colorful spots of yellow and blue. The structure seemed to be soft to the touch, almost as if dusted with powder.

  But the greatest wonder of all were the patches, one in each wing, that were see-through, like glass, offering a view of the object the insect sat on. Right now, Merula could clearly distinguish the rough bark of the tropical tree through the patches.

  It was a most amazing thing, and Merula sensed outright exhilaration coursing through her veins as she imagined the company of nature-mad men admiring her creature. Admiring her handiwork, as it were. She had purchased the butterflies, got them to hatch in her sanctuary, and she knew how to keep this rare animal alive. How long it would live, she had no idea, as the lives of some insects were very short. Another reason to take it with her that night and show it off. She might not have another opportunity.

  Not even the knowledge that all the attention would be on Uncle Rupert, who would be congratulated on her success, could spoil this excitement for her.

  From her workbench full of gardening tools, Merula picked up the large glass container she had previously pinched from the kitchens. It was actually meant to be put over cheese or other perishable foods when luncheon was served outside in the summer at the family’s country house. As the item was not needed in the city, Merula figured nobody would miss it, and she carried it to the spot where the butterfly sat.

  Climbing onto a stool, she held the container upside down and, with a leaf, gently scooped the butterfly off the trunk. It tried to fly off, but she held the container in its path, and immediately it attached itself tentatively to this new hold.

  Careful not to disturb it, Merula stepped off the stool and closed the container by placing it over a large wooden cheese board on which she had put some leaves with a pure-white flower. She couldn’t resist presenting her natural wonder in the most attractive way.

  And besides, the flower had to conceal the little holes she had hacked into the cheese board with a chisel to make sure the butterfly had fresh air.

  Satisfied with the aesthetics of the end result, Merula covered the contraption with a sheet and carried it out of her workplace into the world.

  * * *

  Upon arriving at the house of their host for the night, Lord Havilock,
Merula expected some surprised and even suspicious looks from the footmen attending to the arriving coaches.

  But as her uncle assisted her out with the covered glass contraption in her hands, the two footmen didn’t give her a second glance. Their attention was fully focused on the well-dressed gentleman striding up the house’s blue stone steps ahead of them, carrying a monkey in his arms.

  The beast was mounted on a wooden pedestal, its open mouth with its sharp little teeth giving it a ferocious look. The thin extended arms jerked up and down as the man jogged up the steps, as if the creature were still alive.

  The butler at the open front door moved back a step, and Merula was surprised to catch a glimpse of disgust—or was it fear?—in his eyes. Servants were trained not to show emotions in front of their masters and their guests, but this man’s instinctive response was stronger than all his years of careful grooming as head of the household. Apparently, his master’s fascination with the animal kingdom was something foreign and perhaps even dangerous to his mind.

  In the hallway, a three-tiered chandelier shot prisms overhead, and footmen were serving champagne to the arriving guests. The man with the monkey went straight for a tall, dark-haired man of the same age, greeting him with an amiable slap on the shoulder that made the monkey in his arms shudder.

  Uncle Rupert looked the pair over with a slight twitch of his lips. This sign of disapproval was rare in her jovial uncle, who liked to believe the best of his fellow men.

  Curious, Merula leaned over to inquire softly, “Who are they?”

  “The one with the monkey is the Honorable Justin Devereaux. I met him before at one of these lectures. Unfortunately, he felt it necessary to regale me with all the gruesome details of mounting dead animals.”

  “Those taxidermists get better and better at what they do. Just compare that monkey to the pheasant we have at home. The poor bird looks like it was stuffed by an overeager cook, and it doesn’t even have eyes. This one looks so real. I wonder if the skull is still in there.”