A Curious Beginning

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  • • •

  Some hours later—after a cold meal of Lady Cordelia’s offerings and several games of two-handed whist during which Stoker collected a sizable IOU from me—we ventured forth. I dithered a moment over my hat but in the end opted to lay my favorite rose-bedecked chapeau aside for my second-best, a much smaller and less obtrusive affair decorated with a lush cluster of violets.

  Stoker peered at my carpetbag in stupefaction. “How much have you packed in there? It is a veritable Aladdin’s cave.”

  I held up my hatpin to the light, admiring the slender strength of the steel. “Packing a bag efficiently is simply a matter of spatial understanding,” I told him. I thrust the point of the pin home, skewering the hat neatly to my loose Psyche knot. He eyed the unguarded tip warily, but I noticed in addition to the blade he usually kept in his lanyard, he slid a second into his boot.

  “Good heavens, how much trouble are you expecting?” I demanded.

  He blew out the candle. “In my experience it is the trouble you do not anticipate that is the most dangerous.” We stood in the darkness for several minutes to let our eyes adjust, saying nothing, scant inches apart. I could hear him breathing, long slow breaths, and smiled to myself. He was calm—almost unnaturally so, and this was precisely what I required in a partner in adventure. At my signal we moved to the door, slipping into the night. He took my hand and led the way through the grounds of Bishop’s Folly, following the path we had taken earlier in the day. I expected he would drop my hand once we left the property, but he kept it clasped in his, even as we eased out of the gate and through the darkened streets.

  He chose alleyways and quiet parks rather than the well-lighted thoroughfares crammed with the vehicles of the fashionable. We crept across silent squares and ducked into areas thick with shadows. Whilst society went about its business in the broad roads we skirted, the creatures we passed in the shadows were those who made their living by their wits—prostitutes and vagabonds, thieves and blackguards, bent upon their degradations. Once, when we heard the sharp step of a constable upon his rounds, Stoker whisked me into the dark corner of a tradesman’s yard, pushing me up against the brick wall as his arms came firmly about me. I hitched my leg around his waist and twined my arms about his neck, knotting my fingers in his hair as he pressed his face into my neck, nuzzling the delicate skin of my ear. The bobby’s light flashed our way, illuminating a stocking-clad leg and a glimpse of thigh tight in Stoker’s grip. The bobby chuckled, no doubt taking us for a wayward maidservant and her panting swain, and went about his business. We waited a moment, clinging to each other as his footsteps faded into the distance.

  Stoker pulled away just enough for me to see his eyes gleaming in the shadows. “He is gone,” he said hoarsely.

  But his hand still rested upon my thigh and my hands were still knotted in his hair. “In that case, we ought to let go of each other,” I said evenly.

  He sprang away from me, smoothing his hair as I straightened my skirts. “I must apologize—” he began.

  I waved an airy hand. “Think nothing of it. Your quick thinking under the circumstances was commendable,” I told him.

  He slanted me a curious look but said nothing more.

  Arm in arm, we proceeded on our way. After a rather uneventful passage across Hyde Park—we inadvertently disturbed a pair of male lovers entwined beneath a tree who cursed us roundly—we emerged near Curzon Street. Another several minutes saw us safely into the baron’s street, a quiet but respectable address, and Stoker led me down to the area, where we gained entrance through the tradesman’s door.

  There is a stillness to empty houses, and this house was quieter still. It was as if nothing had ever moved there, no one had ever walked its echoing passages. Stoker had dropped my hand when we entered the basement, but as we crept upstairs to the main floor, I reached for his, suddenly very much in need of his warmth. The curtains had been drawn in the front of the house, but not the rear, and the shadows shifted as we walked, as though our very presence stirred something that had been resting only lightly.

  “Do you think the baron haunts it?” I whispered.

  He whirled on me, nearly upsetting an elephant’s foot stuffed with an assortment of walking sticks. “Haunts? Don’t be daft.”

  “It isn’t daft. Some of the greatest scientific minds of our time believe in ghosts.”

  He squeezed my hand with a trifle more pressure than necessary. “This is no time to debate the mental shortcomings of Alfred Russel Wallace,” he said in an acid tone. His hand was suddenly cold, and I realized that for him, the notion of the baron’s ghost might not be entirely academic. If the old fellow haunted the place, the appearance of his specter would be far more upsetting for Stoker than for me. I returned the squeeze and drew him back a little.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am going into the study first. If he is haunting the place, you shan’t want to see that. I shall get rid of him.”

  “How? By menacing him with your hatpin?”

  “You needn’t resort to sarcasm, Stoker. I am certain I will think of something. In the meantime, behind me, if you please.”

  He muttered something profane but did as I bade him. I opened the door he indicated, pausing a moment to register my impressions.

  “Well?” he asked nastily. “Any lingering ectoplasm, or are we free to proceed?”

  I stepped forward. “Quite free,” I replied, my tone distracted. Quick to sense a change in mood, Stoker put a hand to my shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  I sniffed. “I don’t know. There is something here. I cannot place it. It certainly is no ghost. Do you think we might risk a light?”

  He drifted away for a moment and I heard the creak of shutters being folded into place. After that there was the sharp rasp of a match, and then a little bud of light blossomed. He lit a candle. “We dare not light more than this. The window overlooks a small garden with a high wall. We should be safe enough.”

  He took a breath, steeling himself, I thought, then moved to the desk.

  “What are you looking for?”

  He frowned at the piles of papers and books, the upset inkstand, the scattered pens. “Anything amiss. The trouble is, Max was as tidy as they come. All of this is amiss.”

  I left him to it and wandered the room, hunting for the elusive scent that had tickled my nose when I had first opened the sealed room. I sniffed the chairs and the rugs, much to Stoker’s amusement.

  “You look like a demented bloodhound. What on earth are you doing?” he demanded, his brow furrowed as he moved to the baron’s bookshelf.

  I ignored him for a moment, putting my nose so near to the rug that the silk nub brushed the tip of my nose. Eureka! I peered into the pile of the rug and saw it—a tiny seed, greenish brown in color, and lightly curved. It appeared to be striped, but as I held it to the light of our solitary candle, I saw that it was actually ridged. I gave another sniff and detected a strong odor reminiscent of aniseed.

  “Stoker, was the baron in the habit of chewing caraway seeds?”

  “Caraway? No. He loathed the stuff.”

  “How do you know?”

  He said nothing for a long moment as he traced a row of books, his fingers trailing along the spines. I waited, and finally he answered, his hand resting on a thick volume bound in green kid.

  “He hated seedcake. Why?”

  I withdrew a handkerchief and wrapped the seed carefully before returning it to my pocket.

  “I think it might be a clue.”

  He snorted. “A caraway seed? Well, perhaps. But I doubt it is as good as this,” he said, tapping the wide green book.

  “What have you there?”

  He slid it carefully from the shelf. “The only book in the entire study written in Italian.”

  “And is that significant?” I ask
ed, coming to peer around his shoulder as he carried it to the desk.

  “Only if you know that Max did not read Italian.” He opened the book carefully, and for the first few pages, it seemed we were doomed to disappointment. It was some sort of treatise with colored plates upon the subject of mollusks, boring in the extreme, but Stoker riffled through the pages, and the secret of the book was revealed—a hollow space, neatly cleared out of the big book to leave just enough room for a packet of papers folded and bound with a violet silk ribbon.

  I reached for it with greedy fingers, but before I could touch it, there was the sound of breaking glass.

  Instantly, Stoker doused the candle with his bare fingers while I scooped the packet out of the book and shoved it into my pocket. Stoker’s lips brushed my ear. “That came from the kitchen. Someone’s had the same idea we did, only without a key.”

  “Housebreaker?” I whispered.

  I felt his head give a shake in the negative under my mouth. “Housebreaker wouldn’t make noise. He will be on his way here.”

  The thought ought to have filled me with fear; instead I was conscious of a rising excitement. I put a hand to my hatpin, and Stoker’s closed over it.

  “Easy. No need to seek trouble before it finds you. We shall use the adjoining door into the dining room, circle around him, and go out the way we came. He will be none the wiser.”

  I nodded and he led me swiftly through the connecting door, easing it closed just as footsteps trod heavily down the hall towards the study door. We crept into the hall, but just as it seemed we were about to gain the stairs in safety, disaster struck. In his haste, Stoker brushed against the elephant’s foot, upsetting it and all of the walking sticks. The crash of them against the polished boards echoed throughout the house with all the drama of a cannon shot.

  “Run!” Stoker commanded, pushing me. We fled, down the stairs and through the kitchen, broken glass crunching underfoot as we ran. Footsteps pounded behind us, and I caught a glimpse of a broad black shadow, darker than the darkness itself, bent upon catching us. Stoker wrenched open the door to the area, and just as I went to pass through it, a hand grasped for my shoulder. I shrugged away, kicking backward like a mule.

  There was a muffled curse as my foot connected with something soft and fleshy, and that moment’s delay was enough. I reached for Stoker’s hand and he half hauled me up the stairs. But our malefactor had made quick work of his recovery. No sooner had we gained the pavement than I felt the weight of his hand upon my shoulder.

  Stoker had me by one arm, the blackguard by the other, and I gave a gasp as the intruder’s hand tightened upon my newly stitched limb. Stoker either heard me or felt the sudden drag as I came to a halt, for he stopped and turned, raising his fist, but before he could strike the fellow, a gunshot rang out. I heard the whine of the bullet as it passed some distance away, chipping a piece of stone from the façade of the baron’s house. The malefactor had understood the warning. Instantly, the grip upon my arm released, and he fled, a shadow slipping down the street. A second shadow detached itself from across the street and gave chase, the pair of them disappearing into the night.

  Stoker did not release my hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” I lied. There was a hot lick of pain along my newly stitched wound, but there was little point in alarming Stoker before we had reached safety.

  “Come on,” he ordered. He hurried me to the corner, where he hailed a hansom and gave an address not terribly far from Bishop’s Folly. It was indiscreet, but it would save us an hour’s walk, and I could have wept with gratitude.

  “Did you get a look at the fellow?” he asked, pitching his voice low so the driver should not overhear.

  “No. Did you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But I know who he is,” I said grimly.

  Stoker gave a start. “The devil you do! Who was it?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but I believe it was my importunate friend from Paddington Station, Mr. de Clare.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “When we spoke at the station, I noticed a peculiar scent, something green and spicy. I thought it a sort of toilet water, but when I found the seed in the baron’s study I recognized it.”

  “Caraway,” he finished.

  “Indeed. I believe Mr. de Clare has made another attempt to get my attention.”

  “Unless . . .” he began slowly.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “Unless he was keeping watch across the street in case we should appear.”

  I gaped at him. “You think Mr. de Clare was our savior instead? You think he fired the shot that drove the housebreaker away?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Then how did the seed come to be in the study before we arrived?”

  “Mr. de Clare and Max clearly had some connection. Perhaps it is as Mr. de Clare said and they were in league together. You must admit, it is also an explanation which fits the facts.”

  I nibbled at my lower lip for a moment, considering. “I suppose you are correct,” I admitted. “It is possible that Mr. de Clare was telling the truth at Paddington. He might have had my welfare at heart, and he may be entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. But whether he was our housebreaker or our savior, why did he not declare himself?”

  “He hardly had the chance,” Stoker pointed out reasonably. “I didn’t even have time to draw a knife. We fled from the intruder as soon as he appeared, and the fellow across the street was clearly more determined to give chase to the housebreaker than speak with us.”

  “So either Mr. de Clare was standing watch across the street and has just prevented us from being accosted by the intruder, or Mr. de Clare was the intruder,” I summarized. “But what purpose did the intruder have in breaking into the baron’s study?”

  “Perhaps he was looking for that,” Stoker suggested, gesturing to the pocket where I had secured the purloined packet . “If it was Mr. de Clare, perhaps the baron meant to entrust it to him at some point—presumably Mr. de Clare knew of its existence but not its precise whereabouts. With Max dead, the fellow would have no choice but to search on his own for it. He might have lost that bit of caraway seed at any time. Or perhaps he was looking for you.” I said nothing, and Stoker went on, warming to his theme. “Yes, I like this idea quite a lot. What if Mr. de Clare knows something about you, something truly important?”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, it could be anything. You say the aunts told you that you were a foundling, but what if my kidnapping theory is correct? You could have parents alive somewhere who have been searching for you for a quarter of a century.”

  “I told you the aunts would never do such a thing,” I reminded him with considerable coldness.

  “Very well,” he amended. “Perhaps you really are an orphan but you were left something—something valuable like an inheritance. It might be a bit of money or some jewels. Max had the papers that can prove your claim, but with him dead and no clue of where to find the papers or you, Mr. de Clare has no choice save to return to Max’s house to search for the packet—and keep watch, hoping eventually you will make an appearance.”

  “That is a tale straight from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s thrillers, Stoker. I expected better from you.”

  “It is a perfectly logical hypothesis,” he returned. “Now, do shut up and stop interrupting whilst I’m being interesting. Where did I leave off?”

  “Mr. de Clare is sitting watchfully every night, waiting for me to show myself.”

  “And tonight, finally, you do. But before he can reveal himself to you, we are attacked by the murderous fellow who broke in tonight. The vigilant Mr. de Clare sees him off with a shot and gives chase.”

  “So you like Mr. de Clare for savior whilst I like him for the villain. I suppose only time will reveal which of us has the right
of it. I only hope when we do discover the truth, it is worth bleeding for,” I said dryly.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I think it is a propitious time to warn you—my stitches seem to have come undone.”

  He swore fluently and reached for my arm, sliding his fingers underneath my jacket. He brought his hand away and held it up to the fitful light of a passing streetlamp. It was dark and shone wetly. “Your sleeve is soaked in blood. Do you feel faint?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I lied as I pitched forward into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When I came to, I was lying on a sofa in the snug of the Belvedere. How he managed to get me out of the hansom and through the gardens without attracting attention I could not imagine.

  “Quite simple, really. I told the cabman you were an inebriate,” he informed me. He sat me up and wrenched my jacket aside. Next came my shirtwaist, leaving me in my corset cover. I snorted.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I was just imagining poor Lady Cordelia’s face if she were to see us now. We do seem to be very frequently thrown together in various states of undress.”

  He thrust my flask of aguardiente at me. “Drink this and hush. I shall have to clean it before I can tell how badly you’ve undone my handiwork.”

  The next few minutes were not pleasant, but he was quick and thorough, and as I had observed before, unfailingly gentle. As it happened, I had lost only a stitch or two, and he repaired my torn flesh, fussing all the while.

  “Why the devil do I waste my skills upon you when you persist in rushing headlong into peril?” he remonstrated.

  That particular remark was so blatantly unfair, it did not even merit a response, so I let it pass. I was too busy puzzling over the events of the evening.

  “Do you think the fellow who shot tonight—whether Mr. de Clare or not—meant to do us a good turn? Or was he after the baron’s murderer and we were simply the unwitting beneficiaries of his attack upon the assassin?”