A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I examined the contents of the night table, but there was only a tract of improving literature in the slim bamboo piece and a bit of spilled face powder from a lady’s powder box.

  Stoker looked through the bookshelf, reporting that there was nothing to be found there, although he shook each book carefully and ruffled the leaves of the pages. Together we went over the clothespress and the washstand, looking for hidden compartments and searching the drawers until at last we sat back, defeated.

  “There is no proof to Caroline’s story,” I said in a low whisper. “Nothing to indicate that John de Morgan was ever here.”

  “What did you expect?” Stoker demanded. “The police searched the place thoroughly and found nothing.”

  “Heaven help us if we are not better observers than the police,” I retorted. “We are scientists, trained in the art of observation,” I reminded him. “So what do we observe here?”

  He sighed, clearly tired of the endeavor. But he gathered up his resolve and answered anyway.

  “The room fits with the rest of the hotel, cheap furnishings bought in sets to make themes,” he said, trailing off slowly as he looked around. “Except that this room doesn’t fit, does it?” He rose and moved from piece to piece. “The clothespress is mahogany, German in style, while the night table is a flimsy bamboo affair. The chair is striped yellow velvet with a vaguely Oriental pattern, clearly from the Chinese Room, but the bedcover and wallpaper are blue. This room wasn’t furnished like the others—it is a hotchpotch of styles and colors, as if—”

  “As if they decorated it in a tearing hurry, taking pieces from the other rooms,” I finished.

  We stood in silence, each of us training an observer’s eye on the surroundings. Almost without being aware of what I was doing, I moved to the corner where the edge of the wallpaper had not quite been stuck down. I picked at it with a fingernail, prying up the corner with a gasp.

  Behind the blue wallpaper was another paper, dark green with large roses.

  “Exactly the wallpaper Sir Hugo said Caroline de Morgan described,” I said.

  Stoker examined it closely, pulling more of the paper free. After a long moment, he sat back on his haunches. “She was telling the truth, then. John was here. And he disappeared.”

  “You don’t know that,” I argued. “We can only say for certain that Caroline saw this wallpaper at some point. She went to John’s room. She might have observed it while she sat with him.” But even as I said the words, I knew they were ridiculous. Stoker was right; Caroline de Morgan had come to this hotel with her husband and he had disappeared, all traces of his presence papered over like the walls in this room.

  “It is oppressive,” I said, thrusting myself to my feet. “I cannot breathe in here.”

  Stoker took a twist of paper from his pocket and extracted the sweets within. He sucked them for a few minutes, then took one out and rubbed it over the exposed wallpaper. He then pressed down the new paper, sticking them together as best he could to hide our vandalism.

  “No point in tipping our hand,” he said grimly. “We will go back to London tomorrow and tell them to come back and search again.”

  I had no such intention. To begin with, Sir Hugo would be difficult to persuade, given that the Marshwoods had threatened legal action, and I had little hope that Mornaday would prove any more amenable. But that was an argument for another time, I thought in happy anticipation.

  We retired to our room, neither of us undressing. We even kept our boots on, arranging ourselves decorously atop the coverlet as we waited for morning. We had shared sleeping accommodations before, so the situation was nothing new to us, but I was keenly aware of him that night, lying inches away in the darkness. It was a long time before I slept, but when I did, I slept heavily and I dreamt I wandered in a dark wood. I was chasing something through the trees, a figure flitting in white. Moonlight shone on her gilded hair, and I realized it was Caroline de Morgan, showing herself and then darting behind a tree, elusive as she encouraged me to chase her, laughing every time I stumbled. My hands were bloody from falling and my face had been scratched by thorns, and I could hardly breathe, I had run so far. There was a stitch in my side, and I stopped, putting my hand to a tree for balance. Suddenly, the top of the tree erupted into flames, and as I looked about in horror, I saw that the entire forest was alight.

  I jerked awake, coughing and gasping for air. I sucked in great heaving breaths, but there was no relief, only choking, strangulating smoke, and I opened my eyes to see the room was full of it.

  “Stoker!” I shoved hard, but he did not move, and I wondered if, lying closer to the door, he had breathed more of the foul stuff than I. I put my hands and feet flat against his back and thrust him off the bed. He landed hard upon the floor, but gave only a muffled groan. I pulled up his eyelids, but his eyes were rolled back into his head and he made no response. He was breathing normally, though, and I realized then that his trouble was not the choking clouds of smoke. He had been drugged.

  I rummaged in his pockets for one of his enormous scarlet handkerchiefs and took it to the washstand, wetting it and wringing it out before tying it loosely over his mouth and nose. I fixed my own dampened handkerchief about my face and took stock of our situation.

  I went to the window, but the room overlooked a short flight of stone steps. If I could maneuver Stoker to the window, I could do nothing more than shove him out; he would doubtless break his back on one of the stone treads. Neither could I climb out and leave him as I went for help; the fire would no doubt move too quickly for that. There was only one thing to be done.

  How, you may wonder, did I—a woman of diminutive inches and slender build—manage to rescue a man of Stoker’s prodigious size from a burning building?

  Reader, I carried him.

  CHAPTER

  13

  With every bit of strength I possessed, I hauled Stoker onto my back, draping his torso over my own and letting his legs drag behind as we made our way down the stairs. I saw no one, heard no alarm, but I made no effort to see to Mrs. Giddons. The woman could be burnt to cinders for all I cared. I had no doubt the source of Stoker’s indisposition had been something slipped into the turnip wine. Only my distaste for the stuff had kept me from suffering the same fate—unconsciousness and oblivion as fire raged around us.

  The front door was open, no doubt to facilitate Mrs. Giddons’ flight, but I turned and went the opposite direction. The parlor was fully engulfed, and the smoke stung my eyes as the conflagration raged, hot tongues of flame lapping at Stoker’s booted feet. With one last burst of effort, I reached the back of the house and opened the door, gulping in great heaving breaths of cold air. The sudden rush of it fed the fire, sending sparks heavenwards as I hauled Stoker down the short flight of stone steps and across the yard. It was the work of a moment to force open the door of the washhouse and see him settled there. I yanked the handkerchief from his face and tore off my own, taking several deep, shuddering breaths before I crept out, rounding the side of the house, careful to keep to the shadows. I could hear the bells then, summoning the fire brigade, and from the glow of the inferno I could see Mrs. Giddons and Daisy huddled on the pavement amidst a consoling horde of neighbors.

  The fire brigade appeared, leather buckets in hand, fitting hoses and herding back the spectators. I could hear the chief of them asking Mrs. Giddons if everyone was out.

  She shook her head. “No. I have two guests, in the Chinese Bedroom in the front. I tried everything to wake them, but they must already have been overcome by the smoke.” She broke off, pressing her hands to her mouth and doing a very good impression of a woman in distress.

  My suspicions confirmed, I slipped back the way I had come. It took a good deal of effort and some rather nasty methods, but Stoker was eventually roused.

  “What the devil is that smell?” he demanded in a thick voice.

 
“Burnt hair,” I told him.

  “Why did you burn your hair?”

  “I didn’t.” I explained as briefly as I could. When I had finished, I settled myself next to a gap in the washhouse wall, keeping an eye upon the proceedings as Stoker slipped back into sleep. Now that I had satisfied myself that he had suffered no permanent damage from the sedative, the simplest course of action was to let him sleep it off. I certainly could carry him no further, and attempting to do so would only attract unwelcome attention. Far better to stay where we were, tucked securely away in a spot no one would think to look, and slip away in the morning. In due course, the fire brigade had finished its work, saving the structure, although the interior had been burnt to ash. Members of the brigade and neighbors milled about for some time, but the cold eventually drove them inside, and things grew quiet. I occupied myself with surveying the washhouse. I had sat down hard upon something sharply pointed, and after a gingerly inspection, I discovered the culprit—a shard of pottery. It was terra-cotta, marked with a curious painted symbol in ochre. A careful hunt produced a single silver sequin and a tiny piece of some material I could not identify but of a dazzling blue color with a high sheen. I pocketed the little collection and settled myself again upon the packed-earth floor. It would be an uncomfortable night but by no means the worst I had known.

  We had left our coats behind, but by the expedient of huddling together, we retained sufficient body heat to pass the night in reasonable comfort. It was just getting on for seven in the morning when Stoker roused himself, rubbing his eyes and putting a hand to his doubtless aching head.

  “What in the name of bleeding Jesus happened?”

  “What do you remember?” I asked, smoothing my hair into some semblance of order and neatening my disordered clothes.

  “Precious little. I thought I saw a fire and I had the oddest sensation of being carried.”

  “You were. I’m sorry to say, you were drugged, no doubt in that vile turnip wine. Then our hostess appears to have set fire to the hotel, fully intending to roast us in our beds.”

  Stoker swore then, something fluently profane, and I knew he was well on the way to recovery.

  “How well do you feel?” I asked.

  “Well enough to get the hell out of here and back to London,” he said with some feeling. He glanced around, taking in our surroundings. “Not that I am entirely certain of where ‘here’ is,” he temporized. As soon as he was capable of standing, I used our dampened handkerchiefs to wipe the soot from our faces and we slid out of the washhouse.

  “A handy washhouse in the yard of the Victoria Hotel,” I informed him. “I thought it best to let you sleep off the effects of the drug, and we have no coats. A washhouse was the warmest solution I could devise.”

  “Or a police station?” he suggested. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility that we could inform the authorities of Mrs. Giddons’ murderous ways, Veronica.”

  “Out of the question,” I told him in a brisk voice. “Let her worry when the fire brigade do not find a pair of nicely crisped corpses.”

  “But—”

  I held up a hand. “Stoker, you are in no fit state to argue. Now, I have little doubt we could have eventually prevailed upon the Dover police to believe us, but at what price? We are an unmarried couple, masquerading as a lord and his wife, no doubt bent upon the purposes of prurient exercise. At least that is what they will assume. And that is the best of what they might assume about us. Do not forget, you are implicated in the possible murder of a man who disappeared from the very hotel where we stayed. Does that not seem the slightest bit suspicious to you?”

  He gave me an unhappy look. “Well, if you put it that way . . .”

  “I do.” I rose and put out a hand. “Now, let us be off.”

  We arrived at the train station just as the first train was preparing to depart. If our wrinkled clothes and lack of appropriate outer garments raised questions, no one was rude enough to voice them directly. In a few hours’ time, we were back in London and settled at the Belvedere, washed, dressed, and demolishing the most enormous breakfast Cook could provide. The dangers through which we had passed added spice to our repast. Were eggs ever so fresh, toast ever so crisp, ham ever so sweet?

  I had just helped myself to a second plate—Stoker was on his third, his appetite suffering nothing from his ordeal—when George appeared, the latest copy of The Daily Harbinger tucked under his arm.

  “Good morning, miss, Mr. Stoker,” he said, proffering the newspaper in exchange for a piece of bacon. I turned to the newspaper, preparing myself for the worst. No doubt J. J. Butterworth had embellished the tales of Stoker’s misdeeds to egregious new depths.

  George took a second piece of bacon, tearing it into bits for the dogs. “I was sorry to hear about your brother, sir,” he said to Stoker.

  Stoker looked up from his eggs. “What about him? And which one?” he asked, but even before I looked at the newspaper, I knew.

  “Oh,” I said faintly. I turned the newspaper so that the headline faced Stoker.

  VISCOUNT FEARED DEAD WITH MISTRESS IN DOVER FIRE

  “Bloody bollocking hell,” he said, dropping his fork.

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  • • •

  The fact that Tiberius, Viscount Templeton-Vane, waited until after breakfast to pay a call was indicative of his native courtesy. He did not bother to announce himself at the main door of Bishop’s Folly, but proceeded directly to the Belvedere and entered without knocking. He was, as ever, beautifully dressed, with a knack for elegant tailoring that Stoker would never achieve. They were of a similar height and build—although his lordship was several years the senior—and their features were strongly marked by Nature in the same mold. As they were half brothers, their coloring varied. Stoker’s hair was black as only the baseborn son of a Welshman’s can be, and his eyes rather violently blue. His lordship was somewhat less arresting on first sight, with brown eyes and hair. But it took only a brief second glance to appreciate the silken wave of his locks and the mischievous gleam in the depths of those smoke-dark eyes.

  The mischief was not in evidence this morning. The viscount wore instead an expression of nearly implacable fury, damped down to a finely honed coldness that was perfectly calibrated to the situation at hand.

  “Miss Speedwell, Revelstoke,” he said by way of greeting. He did not remove his gloves or his hat, a clear indication that he meant this to be a call of the most formal variety.

  “My lord,” I said, rising from the remains of the meal we had just finished. “I am afraid you have caught us over a late breakfast. Might I offer you some tea?”

  He held up a hand. “I require nothing, my dear Miss Speedwell, except an explanation.” His gaze fell to the newspaper upon the table. With a thin, cold smile, he seated himself upon the camel saddle we kept for visitors and looked from me to his brother expectantly.

  Stoker sighed. “The fault is mine,” he began.

  “I have no doubt of that,” the viscount replied.

  I stepped forwards. “Now, see here. That is not entirely true. I am just as involved in this investigation as you are.”

  “Ah!” His lordship raised a brow into a perfectly pointed Gothic arch. “One of your little investigations. I might have guessed.”

  “We were pursuing a line of inquiry in Dover and it became necessary to check into an hotel. Naturally, we could not use our own names,” I told him. “Think of the scandal if we registered as an unmarried couple.”

  His lordship opened his mouth, but it was my turn to cut him off. “I promise you that nothing happened, apart from the proprietress trying to murder us.”

  His handsome mouth went slack in genuine astonishment. “Is this true? Your lives were in danger?”

  “Yes,” Stoker said quietly. “I’d have been burnt to ash if Veronica hadn’t awoken.”
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  The viscount’s brow winged upwards again. “Indeed?”

  I sighed. “We shared a room, but I can assure you that no one’s honor was compromised.”

  His expression turned mocking. “Shall I demand that you make an honest man of my brother?”

  “There is no call for that,” I promised him. “He was a perfect gentleman in every regard.”

  A slow smile spread over the viscount’s features as his eyes met mine. “I always said he was a fool,” he said softly.

  I grinned, and Stoker cleared his throat. “Pardon me for pointing it out, but I thought you were here to castigate us. If you mean to rant, do it and get out. I have things to do.”

  The viscount held my gaze a moment longer, then looked—reluctantly, it seemed—to his brother. “Very well. I am a man of the world, Revelstoke. Your little peccadillo is hardly going to harm my reputation. I am glad the pair of you escaped harm. How did you escape harm?” he asked.

  Stoker flushed a little. “Miss Speedwell carried me.”

  His lordship’s mouth twitched, but he shook his head. “No, I will not laugh at it. But I vow, I will enjoy the thought of it for the rest of my life.” He turned to me. “I congratulate you, Miss Speedwell, on your presence of mind as well as your coolness in a crisis.”

  I acknowledged the compliment with a gracious inclination of the head.

  “For God’s sake,” Stoker muttered.

  The viscount looked from Stoker to me. “I think, as you have taken my name in vain, I might at least know what you are about.” I saw no point in prevarication, so I pointed to the newspaper.

  “The Tiverton story. The disappearance of John de Morgan.”

  He raised his brows suggestively. “Indeed? I should have thought you would be first on the list of possible suspects, Revelstoke.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Stoker returned with equal hauteur.