A Curious Beginning

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Do you think he prayed?”

  “He did. He was a righteous man, whatever that means. But I don’t believe we won because God was on our side or because our men prayed more or cared more. We won because we had bigger guns.”

  “So might was right,” I observed.

  “That’s how it often is in the world,” he reminded me. “But sometimes right wins simply because justice demands it.”

  “You sound terribly certain.”

  “So should you,” he admonished. “A captain can never show fear. It’s bad for morale.”

  I gave a sharp laugh. “And I am the captain of this little endeavor? Are you content to be led into battle by me?”

  “You’re as fine a man as any I knew in the navy,” he assured me. “And if I did not give you command, you would only take it.”

  “True,” I admitted. I toyed with Huxley’s ears. “Thank you. I feel better now.”

  He gave me a long look. “Good.” He bent to retrieve his hammer.

  “Stoker?”

  “Yes, Veronica?”

  “What do you think the odds are that we will survive this meeting?” The lump from my throat was gone, and my voice no longer trembled.

  He considered this a moment. “One in five,” he pronounced.

  My heart plunged to my feet. “And still you are willing to bet on us?”

  His smile was dazzling. “Any man who bets against us is a fool.”

  • • •

  My invitations had specified nine o’clock in the evening at Stoker’s warehouse. The time and place had been chosen with care. I had selected an evening appointment to allow the gentlemen sufficient time to receive the invitation and prepare. I had decided upon Stoker’s workshop because it was the nearest we could come to a higher-ground advantage. We knew they were coming, and forewarned was forearmed, I pointed out to Stoker. He grumbled extensively about sitting ducks, but he had secured the back windows; the little yard behind was surrounded by a high, stout wall that admitted no entrance, and the sole front door was heavily barricaded. There was no way they could gain entry without our knowing they were coming.

  The early evening, predictably, crawled and then raced and then slowed again. Time played tricks upon us so that one moment we were lamenting the length of the day, and the next we were hurrying to finish our preparations.

  “Little wonder it seems long,” he pointed out. “It is almost Midsummer Day.”

  I did not reply. I was busy admiring our handiwork. Together we had cleared a large space in the center of the workshop. We had extinguished the lamps, and shadows gathered in the far corners of the place. From the gloom sharp teeth gleamed and eyes glimmered—hints of the mounts we had pushed to the perimeter of the room. The shelves we could not shift easily were left in place, but the great jars of floating specimens lent an unearthly note, like something straight out of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece. One could easily imagine the touch of a galvanic wire bringing all of them suddenly, horribly to life.

  Now the cauldron was centered in the middle of the workshop, drawing the eye and demanding attention.

  “We needn’t do this, you know,” he informed me at one point. “There is a perfectly serviceable stove.”

  “You are forgetting the power of theater,” I said. “I want to create an effect they will always remember.”

  “Perhaps you are your mother’s child after all,” he replied. But Stoker himself was not averse to a little theatricality, I noted. He had divested himself of coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth when we returned to his workshop and he made no effort to resume them again. Instead, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow, baring the asklepian tattoo upon his forearm. He had put on his eye patch as well; that might have been from fatigue—although it did occur to me he enjoyed the air of menace it conferred upon his appearance.

  Once the cauldron was in place, we kindled a fire within it, burning stacks upon stacks of the old newspapers and broken shelves until the flames rose red and hot into the darkening air of the warehouse. We flung open the windows overlooking the Thames, long windows that stretched from near the floor, barely above the level of the water, to twelve feet or more overhead. Stoker had climbed like a monkey to open the skylights, and the smoke from the fire streamed out.

  “‘Yet man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward,’” I quoted.

  “Yes, well, it doesn’t feel particularly auspicious to quote Job,” Stoker said with a repressive look. He turned to me just as the clock struck nine. “It is time.”

  I did not make any special effort with my appearance. My hands were sooty and dirty with newsprint, so I washed them. But I left my hair tumbling half out of its chignon, and I did not put on my jacket. My shirtwaist was white, like Lily Ashbourne’s most famous costume, and I wanted them to see the resemblance for themselves.

  The clock had not finished striking the nine solemn tones when we heard them. First it was a dull thud as they struck the main door. Stoker had removed the barricade by then, but we did not go to let them in. I wanted them to come to me, and the few minutes it took for them to force their way in only heightened their anticipation.

  Stoker turned to me, and I noted a single-mindedness of purpose I had not yet seen within him. This was not the wreck of a man I had met only days before. This was a new creation—focused, determined, and bent upon resolving this matter, for better or worse.

  He gave me a short nod. “To battle stations, Veronica. They have come.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Stoker and I were standing behind the cauldron when they arrived. The hellish light illuminated our faces, and I watched them enter through air that shimmered with heat.

  Edmund de Clare was first, accompanied by his henchman, Silent John, and a pair of other fellows I recognized from our pleasure cruise along the Thames.

  I stepped out from behind the cauldron but went no further. “Stop there,” I instructed. He obeyed and I gave him a long, slow look from head to toe. Expensive tailoring that had seen better days. Shoes in need of a shine. An imperfect shave from an indifferent barber. And then I understood him—all of his life had been a series of near misses. Here was a man who had been close to greatness, close to wealth, close to happiness. And they had eluded him.

  At his approach Huxley whimpered and crawled under the sofa. It occurred to me that the dog was an excellent judge of character.

  “Good evening, Uncle.” If he was surprised that I had put the pieces together, he betrayed no sign of it.

  “And you are Lily’s daughter,” he said in his rich, melodious voice. I remembered reading that Lily’s greatest asset as an actress had not been her lovely face, but rather her extraordinary speaking voice. It must have been a family trait, I reflected. “I knew it the first day I saw you, from the carriage in the lane in Little Byfield, and then at Paddington Station—to hear you speak in her voice. You have no idea how difficult it has been to restrain myself from telling you outright who I was. But I knew you would never believe me. Who could believe such a thing, even from a blood uncle?” he said, his voice almost faltering.

  It was an admirable touch, and it told me he was still determined to play the devoted kinsman. He must have realized I could not know for certain whether he was my enemy or not, and he was clearly a gambling man. He would play every last card in his hand—and probably a few from up his sleeve. The break in the voice might have fooled a woman who was not attentive to the rest of his face, the almost imperceptible muscle movements at the eyes, which told me he was nervous—and angry. Still, I might have believed in his sincerity had it not been for his henchmen, quietly attempting to circle around the cauldron and surround us.

  “Call off your hounds,” I told him. “You are in no position to bully us.”

  His expression reddened with swift anger, but he darted a wary glance to Stoker and waved off his men. They
fell back and I nodded. “Excellent. You are the first arrivals, but I daresay more are on their way.”

  Just then, as if unable to resist such a perfect cue, Mornaday slipped into the room behind them.

  “Quite,” he said brightly. He had produced a revolver and was pointing it directly at my uncle. “I think we can all agree to be civilized about this, can’t we?”

  The de Clare henchmen were looking quite nervous at this latest development, but before they could act, a tall shadow detached itself from behind Mornaday, stepping into the light. The gentleman was perhaps fifty but fit as a whippet, and something about the expression on his face told me he was by far a more formidable opponent than Mornaday.

  “Steady, de Clare,” he told my uncle. “If you were thinking that Inspector Mornaday is only one man, you were wrong. I have a dozen men outside this building and I am longing to hang you. Please, do me the favor of murdering an English police officer and let me watch you dance at the end of a rope.”

  He turned to me, and we exchanged long, appraising looks. I felt Stoker stiffen beside me, and that was all the confirmation I required. “Sir Hugo Montgomerie, I believe?”

  His nod was brisk. “It is past time I made your acquaintance, Miss Speedwell.” He flicked an indifferent glance to Stoker. “Templeton-Vane. It has been a long time.”

  “Not quite long enough,” Stoker observed blandly.

  I nodded towards the de Clares. “Sir Hugo, clearly you know my uncle, Edmund de Clare. I am not certain of the identity of the other fellows. I assume they are cousins of some fashion.”

  “They are,” Sir Hugo acknowledged. “Your uncle is at the center of a group that is agitating quite vehemently for Irish Home Rule. All of his sons and nephews are involved as well. They’ve been a nuisance to the English authorities there, and I am delighted to make his personal acquaintance at last.”

  My uncle lifted that pugnacious chin with all the native drama of a Celt. “Do what you like to us. Ireland will be free of your kind and we will be martyrs to the cause.”

  “But I don’t think you want to be a martyr, do you?” I asked. “Martyrdom is well and good, but you would far rather be the power behind the throne. I presume we can speak freely here? All of us know exactly who I am and what claims I might make?”

  We exchanged glances like wolves circling a fresh kill. But it was too late for posturing.

  “Let us have it plainly, then,” I went on. “My mother was the Irish actress Lily Ashbourne, sister of Edmund de Clare,” I said with a nod to the gentleman. “Somehow, during the course of her travels, she made the acquaintance of the Prince of Wales. I have had quite a bit of time to read the old newspapers here, and I discovered something interesting—in 1860 both His Royal Highness and Lily Ashbourne were on tours of North America. In fact, they happened to be at Niagara Falls at precisely the same time. The prince toured the falls and that night he attended the theater in town—the theater where Lily Ashbourne was performing her most dynamic role, Phaedra. I suspect that is when they met.”

  “It was,” Mornaday confirmed. “I have read the statement he made to Sir Hugo’s predecessor.”

  “He made a statement?”

  Sir Hugo gave me a cool nod. “When Prince Albert discovered the liaison, he instructed a high-ranking detective at Scotland Yard to investigate Miss Ashbourne and determine whether she seemed likely to pose a threat to the royal family. He was quite concerned about a lawsuit demanding maintenance. The detective in question was in due course made head of Special Branch upon its creation. When he died and I succeeded him, those files were turned over to me.”

  “But a maintenance suit was not the greatest of Prince Albert’s worries,” I guessed.

  “No,” Sir Hugo acknowledged. “It was the worry that Miss Ashbourne would bring a paternity suit. I have the letters from the Prince Consort describing his fears of just such an eventuality. He believed his son’s actions would destroy the royal family and, in due course, possibly even the monarchy.”

  “And well it might have,” I agreed. “Particularly if he had known the truth—that Lily Ashbourne and the Prince of Wales had been married before their child was born.”

  Mornaday sucked in his breath, and Edmund de Clare gave a shout of pure triumph. In the flickering light, Sir Hugo seemed to turn pale. “There was never proof.”

  I brandished the packet I had assembled of the papers Stoker and I had recovered. “There is now.”

  Sir Hugo’s expression did not falter, but I knew he understood what it was. Edmund de Clare stared, gape mouthed, as though I had just fished the Holy Grail out of my pocket.

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” I told him. “It is. This is the information for which the Baron von Stauffenbach was murdered.”

  De Clare blanched in spite of the heat of the fire. “That was an accident!” he protested. Sir Hugo turned to him inquiringly and de Clare went on, the words burbling forth, as if, having begun to speak, he could not stop himself. “He wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know and the lad struck him too hard,” he said, jerking his chin towards Silent John. The fellow was sweating profusely, and I believed my uncle was telling the truth. No hardened criminal would look so likely to faint when faced with his crimes.

  “Be that as it may, someone ought to answer for his death,” I said levelly.

  “And he will,” my uncle swore. “If you come with us, I will turn him over to the police, I swear it.”

  Silent John gave a hoarse cry of dismay at being turned on so easily, but one of the other Irish cuffed him sharply to silence. Sir Hugo turned to Edmund de Clare with a genial look.

  “And how do you propose to leave this place with Miss Speedwell? I have already told you I have a dozen constables outside who will prevent it.”

  Edmund’s eyes gleamed. “And I have fifty stout Irish lads out there who say you won’t.”

  Stoker spoke up then, addressing Sir Hugo. “They mean to start a riot. Your men fire on them and who do you think will come pouring out of these buildings to help them? The Irish your lot cleaned out of Piccadilly and pushed into the East End. This is their patch, and they will defend their own.”

  Edmund bared his teeth in a smile. “Quite right, my lad. And all it takes is one word to them out there about who she is, and you will unleash hell on earth in the middle of London—and two days before the Jubilee. Do you think you can keep the story quiet then? I know that is what you want, and I can promise you, you will live to fight another day if you let us go.”

  Sir Hugo did not respond. I did not give him the chance. I stepped forward. “What makes you think I will go willingly?” I asked my uncle.

  He gentled his smile, and I saw a flash then of the potent charm Lily Ashbourne must have wielded. The softest touch of a Kerry accent slipped into his voice. “Because you will be free. What do you think they will do to you, girl, if we don’t take you? You think they will let you go? Nay. They will lock you up and throw away the key, pretend you don’t exist, because you are dangerous. Look at Sir High-and-Mighty Hugo Montgomerie there. Cool as milk to look at, but he is sweating like a pig on the inside. He knows what’s at stake for his royal masters, and he knows it is his neck if he fails them. He’s got no choice, little one. He must kill you to save himself. Do you hear me, child? They will kill you.” He edged a small step forward, pitching his voice low and coaxing. “But we are your family. You are a de Clare, in blood and bone, just as much as you are one of them. Come home to us, come home with us, and let us take care of you.”

  I gave him a slow smile. “That was masterfully done, Mr. de Clare. I marvel afresh at the Celtic propensity for persuasion. But you have not persuaded me,” I finished with a cool glance. “I would be no safer with you than I would be in Sir Hugo’s clutches. Tell me, which one of my cousins have you decided shall have me in marriage to breed you a male heir of your own blood?
” I asked, nodding towards his compatriots.

  He bridled. “Now, hold yourself, there is no call—”

  I held up a hand. “You are changeable as a weathercock. I know exactly what you want me for, and it is not to play Happy Families, so spare us the sentimental rubbish. You want a figurehead for your revolution. Well, I shall not play the puppet for you or anyone. I might not approve of everything this Government does,” I added with a reproachful look at Sir Hugo, “but I would rather be a private citizen here than a queen anywhere else.”

  “Spoken like a loyal subject of Her Majesty,” Sir Hugo put in silkily. “But I am afraid that will not allay the threat you present. Miss Speedwell, you must see that I have no choice. Irish mob or not,” he said, flicking a distasteful look at my uncle, “I must take you into custody.”

  “I understand your predicament, Sir Hugo. You are not working at your own behest, are you? You must have anticipated my misguided uncle would come with reinforcements. And yet you mustered only a dozen men. That seems either monstrously naïve or very secretive. I am guessing the latter. I think my uncle has the right of it—someone else is pulling your strings, and you cannot risk taking too many men from their regular duties at Scotland Yard or the story would be made public. So your master works behind the scenes—an adviser to the royal family, I surmise. Someone accustomed to using force to get his way, someone ruthless and entirely devoted to the family. If he weren’t already cold in his grave, I would have suspected that wretched Scotsman, Brown. But there is someone. And he is playing the tune to which you dance.”

  Sir Hugo did not care for my characterization of himself as puppet. He gave me a thin smile. “You are even more clever than Inspector Mornaday’s report indicated. But your deductions are irrelevant. Whoever has taken an interest in you has the interests of the Crown at heart, and those interests must be paramount.”