I heard the rough sound of an engine being started and from the abrupt shifting of the boat deduced it was a small one, every motion of our captors setting it to rocking. There was a flurry of orders and our little craft was under way. I strained my ears to detect any sign of Stoker’s presence, but I heard nothing apart from the hurried whispers of the villainous wretches who had seized us.
No one approached me for a long while—no doubt they were too bent upon getting right away, but if they expected me to beg for information or release, they would be mightily disappointed, I vowed. I sat with perfect composure, hands tucked into my pockets, and waited for something to happen.
It took an exceedingly long time before something did. I amused myself by reciting poetry under my breath—not Keats; I found Byron to be much more appropriate for an abduction. At length, something over an hour later given how long it took me to remember “The Giaour,” the sacking was plucked from my head and I emerged, dazed and blinking, into the afternoon light to face my captor.
“Hello, Mr. de Clare,” I said courteously. “I presumed you were my abductor, but I hated to rob you of your dramatic flourish.”
Mr. de Clare gave a rueful shake of the head. “Miss Speedwell, I regret the necessity for this more than you know. But I am afraid you have forced my hand.”
I seized the opportunity to look about and take stock of my situation. The weather had turned for the worse, and in place of the bright sunlight, a cover of grey cloud had descended. The boat, as I had guessed, was a small thing—a pleasure yacht of minute proportions and little power, although it was bowling along handsomely under sail. The engine was still ticking on, and the tide was running out, so it was apparent that Mr. de Clare was putting as much distance as possible between us and London proper. I was not altogether familiar with the Thames or its environs, but just then a sight hove into view that would have gladdened the heart of any Englishwoman. It needed only a moment’s glance at the long, elegant façade to recognize that we were almost upon the Royal Naval College at Greenwich.
Having established our whereabouts, I made a quick inventory of the boat. On the deck, stretched out on his back, Stoker lay perfectly still. His head was still hidden by a sack, but his chest rose in deep, even breaths, and I saw no visible injury.
“Well, at least you haven’t murdered anyone yet,” I said pleasantly. I looked again to Stoker, whose breath began to alter strangely. His chest began to twitch in an odd pattern, and he looked for all the world as if he were going to have a fit of some sort. I stared hard at him, and after a moment, I turned my attention to the other occupants of the boat.
Besides Mr. de Clare, there were four other men—of the working classes from the look of their clothes. And one of them was remarkably tall. The other three were indistinguishable, dressed in serviceable plain clothes with unremarkable features. I doubted if their wives even bothered to tell them apart. As for me, I was far more interested in the large fellow who turned just then so that I saw his face.
“You!” I exclaimed.
Mr. de Clare smiled thinly. “Yes, you have already made the acquaintance of Silent John. I regret the muddle he made of things at your cottage. He is deplorably incapable at times,” he added with a scornful glance at his colleague. Silent John merely stood, his booted feet a yard apart on the deck, his expression blank. “You see?” Mr. de Clare turned to me. “Incapable. He must be told what to do in very specific terms, and when you came upon him at your cottage, he was thrown into a quandary.”
“He tried to abduct me,” I returned icily. “As you just have.”
“Abduction is a strong word,” he remonstrated. “You have not been bound or injured. I have merely taken steps to ensure that we can speak without interference. You have left me no choice. I have much to tell you, Miss Speedwell.”
I wondered whether to acknowledge that I knew my mother’s identity—or that I surmised he was my uncle. But before I could make up my mind upon the point, he glanced to Stoker’s recumbent form.
Stoker had begun to have a fit, his legs kicking as his hands tightened into fists that drummed rhythmically against the deck. Mr. de Clare signaled to Silent John, who pulled the sack from Stoker’s head. His eyes were rolled back into his head and his lips were drawn back in a snarl as he foamed a little at the mouth.
“We have no need of him and he has proven an encumbrance,” Mr. de Clare said with an expression of distaste. He flicked his gaze to Silent John. “We must complete Miss Speedwell’s liberation from this fellow. Drop him overboard.”
If I had any doubts as to his villainy, that decided me. Without hesitation, Silent John lifted Stoker as if he weighed no more than thistledown and dropped him over the side of the boat. He made a hefty splash as he went in, and I jumped to my feet.
“Calm yourself, Miss Speedwell,” Mr. de Clare instructed. “I do not know precisely how far he has exercised control over you, but you need fear nothing. He is gone, and we are here to protect you.” He took a step closer to me, but I had chosen my moment well. I took my hand from my pocket, brandishing the tiny revolver Lady Cordelia had given me.
“Stand back,” I commanded.
Mr. de Clare stopped, raising his hands in astonishment. “There is no need for this, my dear. Now, put the revolver down and let us talk.”
“I am quite finished talking to you,” I told him.
He jerked his head to Silent John, who began to advance upon me. I sighed. I had no wish to shoot the fellow in spite of what he had done to Stoker. I lifted my hand and pulled my hatpin free. The wind snatched at my violet-trimmed hat and carried it off just as Silent John reached for my revolver. I let him take it, luring him near, and as his fingers closed over the weapon, I drove the hatpin into his arm, pushing hard until I felt it strike bone.
He gave a deep cry of animal anguish and stumbled backward, but I already had one foot upon the rail. I gave my uncle a quick salute and dove overboard, letting the noisome green water of the Thames close over my head.
The river was far colder than I expected, the shock of it driving the air straight out of my lungs. I kicked to the surface, or at least I meant to, but my skirts, heavy with water, dragged me back again. I realized then that I had miscalculated my strength as a swimmer when fully clothed. I had just begun to consider the very real possibility of death by drowning when I felt something hard clasp me about the waist. The water was far too murky to see, but I knew that arm. It settled firmly around me, urging me backward on a hard male torso, and I relaxed against him. He pulled us calmly and easily to the surface. I glanced up to see we were just behind the stern of the boat.
Stoker, perfectly restored to health and sense, put a finger to his lips and held me up as I gulped in several deep breaths. Above us but looking in entirely the wrong direction, Edmund de Clare and his henchmen searched the river frantically. Stoker pointed to the steps of the Naval College a little distance away, and held up three fingers. I breathed in, and he held up two. I took one last precious lungful of air and he pulled me below the water again. With complete calm he towed me silently towards the steps of the college. I willed him on, painfully aware of how slender a chance we had of success. It would be but a matter of seconds before Mr. de Clare realized there was only one direction we could have gone.
Halfway to the steps, I felt a burning in my chest, my lungs stale and empty. I pushed at Stoker, and he led me to the surface of the water. I looked back as I sputtered and gasped to find I had underestimated my uncle. He was already in pursuit, ordering his men to turn the boat and give chase. The worsening weather had driven the pleasure boaters from the river. There were few craft about, and none it seemed within hailing distance.
“We cannot make it,” I burbled to Stoker. “At least you cannot if you are burdened with me. Go on. He shall not harm me, but if he gets his hands on you again, he will surely kill you.”
Stoker’s respons
e was something entirely unprintable, but it warmed my heart to see how offended he was at the notion he should leave me behind. He gave me just enough time to take another breath before plunging us both underwater again, this time kicking with all his might as he pulled with his free hand, shuttling us through the dank green river like a son of Poseidon. The effort must have exhausted him, for the next time we surfaced it was at his behest, his chest heaving. I looked up to see Edmund de Clare’s boat coming hard, and turned again to offer Stoker a chance at escape.
Before I could form the words, a swift little yacht, as slim and fast as a dolphin, swooped in to slide gracefully between us and Edmund de Clare. A hand reached over the side of the yacht, and above the hand loomed a handsome, grinning face I had last seen only two days previously.
“Would you like to come aboard?” asked Mornaday, the groom.
Without further ado, he hoisted me aboard the yacht, turning back to offer Stoker an arm. We flopped onto the deck in floods of brackish river water, breathing hard as Mornaday turned to the skipper of the craft.
“Back upriver, Tolly. And be quick about it.”
The boat came nimbly about, nipping past the prow of Edmund de Clare’s boat. I saw him, his handsome face contorted in fury as he ordered his men to flee, pushing the boat hard downriver. Whatever he wanted with me, he wanted still less to attract the attention of anyone else, and I was as grateful as I was mystified by the turn of events.
Mornaday brought blankets and a flask of good Irish whiskey, which he urged upon us. He gave a nod to the Naval College as we sailed past, noting the bunting that had already been hung in honor of the queen’s Jubilee.
“All of London will turn out to watch her ride past,” Mornaday remarked. “A plump German housewife with little intellect and smaller understanding, and yet the whole world will pause to pay tribute to her longevity.”
His broad accents were entirely absent now, as was his usually cheerful demeanor. This Mornaday was altogether more serious a fellow, focused and attentive to the business at hand.
“Are you a republican?” I asked politely.
He smiled, baring his lovely teeth. “I am an Englishman. I serve my country first, queen second. All that matters to me is England.”
“And in what capacity do you serve England?” Stoker inquired.
“Policeman. Inspector Mornaday, at your service,” he said, sweeping us a bow. He made it sound as if he were a lowly bobby, but I knew at an instant he was far more highly placed than that.
“Have you been investigating the baron’s murder?” I demanded.
“Not officially, but yes. And I have been doing my utmost to keep you from danger, although you seem determined to thwart me,” he added dryly.
“But why would the baron’s murderer be dangerous to me?”
“I cannot tell you.” He held up a hand at my exclamation of dismay. “It will do you no good to remonstrate with me. It is more than my position at Scotland Yard is worth to even be with you now.”
“But why would your position at Scotland Yard be put at risk by aiding us?”
“Because he is concealing the whereabouts of a man who is wanted to help the police with their inquiries,” Stoker supplied.
Mornaday inclined his head gravely. “As you say. My duty is to bring you to my superiors and let them question you. But I have put another consideration first.”
“What consideration?” I asked.
“Your safety. I believe that Mr. Stoker, while most assuredly not your husband, is the man best positioned to ensure your continued good health.”
“That is rather generous of you, considering the fact that you have come to our aid twice,” I said in an acid tone.
The grin flashed again. “Yes, I was the one who chased Mr. de Clare away outside the baron’s residence. And if I were a better shot in near darkness, I might have brought this whole matter to an end then,” he added ruefully. I did not glance at Stoker, but I knew he would be entirely smug about having been right as to Mr. de Clare’s villainy. I had been wrong to give him the benefit of the doubt, and it stung—almost as much as the guinea I should most likely have to part with if our wager was settled in Stoker’s favor. Mornaday went on. “I have better reason than most to know Mr. Stoker would have acquitted himself more than adequately without my intervention. However, given his family history, I am not entirely certain he would have done so without unnecessary bloodshed, something I wish to avoid.”
“What family history?” I asked.
“I believe Mr. Stoker is better suited to explain that than I am.”
Beside me, Stoker had gone very still, his hands resting loosely upon his thighs. When he spoke, his voice was flat, almost bored, and the very lack of emotion in his tone was more chilling than the most murderous rage.
“Mornaday, when this business, whatever it is, is finished, I will find you. And there will be things to say.” To a disinterested observer, it might have sounded like casual conversation, but I knew it for the threat it was, and so did Mornaday.
Mornaday’s smile faltered only a little, but I noticed his lips went white even as he forced a cordial tone. “I should look forward to it. But if I have my way, there will be no chance. I do not want you in this country, Mr. Stoker. Nor do I want Miss Speedwell here.”
“You know her name?” Stoker looked from Mornaday to me. “Did you tell him that we are not really married?”
“I did not,” I replied. “How he came to know my name is entirely beyond my ken.”
“My methods are my own,” Mornaday said silkily. “Now, Miss Speedwell, I have in mind to be a chief inspector someday. That will not happen with blots upon my record, and you will not be a blot.”
“Then why help us?” I asked, drawing the blanket about my sodden body more tightly. As I warmed a little, I was aware of a distinctly unpleasant aroma beginning to emanate from my person, and Stoker’s was worse. The Thames was a filthy place, I reflected, and we would both be thoroughly fortunate if we did not contract one of the more virulent wasting diseases after our dunking.
Mornaday’s reply to my question was prompt. “Because the police do not always get it right. My superior likes Mr. Stoker for the murder of the baron, and he suspects you of being an accomplice. I believe he is wrong. And I very much like it when he is wrong.” His mouth curved into an arch smile. “Unfortunately, it is never wise to point out the shortcomings of one’s superiors. So I have acquired the habit of occasionally circumventing him by conducting my own investigation and removing his suspects from under his nose. I followed you to the traveling show on a hunch of my own. I observed you there and formed my impression that neither of you was responsible for the baron’s murder.”
“Did you bribe the professor to let you have the position as groom?”
“I did. I spun him a tale about thwarted love and disappointed hopes. I persuaded him that Mr. Stoker had stolen my fiancée. He was most susceptible. I suspect him of being a romantic, and he was very quick to believe the worst of Mr. Stoker. In fact, he insisted upon it.”
“And you promised him more money if he discovered any relevant information. As you did Salome,” I accused.
Mornaday clucked his tongue. “Very well, yes. I paid them both to discover what they could. And it was remarkably little,” he said with a repressive glance at Stoker. “The promise of a few coins to the professor, a few more to Salome, and they were more than willing to turn over whatever information they discovered. The professor still bears a grudge over some old quarrel, and Salome’s head for business is hard as nails. She would sell her own mother for a copper.” He glanced to Stoker. “You really ought to choose your friends more carefully, old man.”
“You needn’t worry,” Stoker returned with equal coolness. “It isn’t as though you were going to be one.”
“If you do not believe in our culpability in the
baron’s murder, then how did that notice get into the newspapers?” I asked. Mornaday winced.
“As we had so few leads in the case, my superior was willing to let me take a short holiday. I did not tell him I was chasing down a hunch, and so, when he grew impatient, there was nothing to stop him from pursuing what he believed to be his likeliest suspect. I followed you back to London and picked up your trail again at the baron’s house when you broke in.”
I could see his disapproval. “We had reasons,” I said coolly.
“I am sure that you did. I have no doubt you went there with the idea of playing amateur detective and solving the baron’s murder in order to make certain Mr. Stoker was not unjustly accused of a crime he did not commit.”
“And how is it that you were on hand to effect such a timely rescue today?” Stoker asked.
Mornaday smiled again. “I have a number of contacts in the community of watermen. By a little judicious bribery in the right quarters, I happened to learn that Mr. de Clare had secured the hire of a boat for himself, and that he insisted upon something light and fast. It seemed logical that he meant to attempt to spirit Miss Speedwell away, and it was a small matter to find myself a boat that was even faster. Once I had done that, I needed only to keep a close watch upon him and follow along to intervene when required.” He gave us a severe look. “But we are beyond that now. You must believe me when I tell you that you must leave London. My superior is growing suspicious of my frequent absences. I cannot always be there to stand at your back, and these miscreants will not relinquish their pursuit.”
He gestured to the helmsman, who began to make for a short boat landing just before a great cluster of docks and ships. “Those are the West India docks beyond. You should be able to pick up a hansom here. I cannot take you further. And I cannot say more. Please, for the sake of your lives, go. Anywhere but England.”
“What about Ireland?” I asked deliberately.
A Curious Beginning Page 24
