A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Lady Wellie thumped her walking stick and the lovebirds in the corner stopped their wittering, stuttering to a sudden silence. “Enough, Veronica.”

  Stoker spoke. “It is a difficult subject, but I think in light of what you are asking of us, we have a right to know. What sort of place are you expecting us to go?”

  The princess pressed her lips together, sealing her silence. Lady Wellie gave us a withering stare, and it was left to Archibond to speak. “Private lodgings,” he said at last. “A sort of club, as it were.”

  Stoker’s response was swift. “No respectable lady would enter such a place.”

  “But I am not respectable,” I said with a smile at both Lady Wellie and her royal guest. I nodded to Archibond still sitting quietly in the corner. “That is the point, is it not? You might have asked Special Branch to attend to this particularly nasty piece of business. It is their purview to protect the royal family, after all. I daresay they might have enlisted the aid of a willing female to assist them.”

  “Special Branch can do nothing,” Archibond interjected quickly. “Every man is devoted to the Whitechapel murders just now. Even I can spare only minutes to help Her Royal Highness. The princess is adamant upon the point of secrecy. And the fewer who know of this, the better.”

  “Not even His Royal Highness, the prince’s father?” I asked.

  The princess clasped her hands together tightly. “Not even he.”

  “You surprise me, ma’am. I have been given to understand the Prince of Wales is a loving and indulgent father.”

  I held her gaze level with my own and felt a rush of triumph when she looked away first. She was silent a long moment, but when she spoke, it was without the dignity of a princess or a queen-in-waiting. She spoke as a mother.

  “Please, Miss Speedwell. I will pay whatever fee you deem suitable. He is my son,” she said simply.

  “And I am nothing to you,” I told her, rising to my feet. Archibond sprang silently to his feet in the corner. Stoker stood also, at my back. “I must refuse. You may rely upon my discretion in this matter to speak nothing of it. But my assistance will go no further.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair, her lips thin and pale. Lady Wellie thrust herself to stand, her gnarled knuckles white upon the walking stick she held in her hand.

  “Veronica—”

  I put up a hand. “Nothing you can say will change my mind, Lady Wellingtonia. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have made my decision.”

  She appealed to Stoker. “Will you say nothing to change her mind?”

  He roused himself. “I would not attempt it, my lady.” He bowed to the princess as she stood, slowly, as if in defeat.

  “I should have guessed this would be futile,” she said to Lady Wellie. She turned to me. “Good day to you, Miss Speedwell. It has been an illuminating encounter.”

  She drew her veil over her features, shadowing them from view. Archibond went to the door, holding it for the princess. He gave me a long, inscrutable look, then disappeared into the darkness.

  The princess covered Lady Wellie’s hand briefly with her own before descending the stairs after the inspector. She went without a backwards glance. Lady Wellie closed the door after her, securing the piece of paneling so that it fitted flush against the fireplace wall.

  Her silence was pointed as she resumed her chair.

  “I meant what I said,” I told her. “I will not speak of this to anyone. The prince’s elegant little debauchery is his own affair.”

  “It exposes him to blackmail should his lady friend take it in her head to do him harm. The prince’s disgrace will be on the front page of the Times if I cannot find a way to stop this,” she retorted.

  Her expression was fretful and Stoker went to put a consoling hand to her shoulder. “The Prince of Wales has had any number of skeletons rattling around his cupboards, most of them salacious,” he reminded her. “He has even been subject to subpoena in divorce proceedings as a witness to a wife’s infidelity. No one seriously believes that a bit of untidiness in his personal life should disqualify him from being king. Prince Eddy is no different. If the scandal breaks, it will be a tempest in a teacup.”

  Lady Wellie said nothing, but her lips were working furiously. It was unlike her to be so reticent. Or so agitated. It was said she had once faced down a Slav anarchist bomber with nothing more than an umbrella. But now she seemed ill at ease—or perhaps just ill? There was a color I did not like, a whiteness at the lips that struck me as unhealthy. The rest of her complexion was high, and tiny beads of perspiration pearled her hairline.

  “Lady Wellie, perhaps you would like to rest,” I suggested.

  “Rest?” Her lips tightened. “I think not. There is too much at stake.”

  “Very well.” I sighed. “But Stoker is quite right. A jewel given to a courtesan will hardly raise an eyebrow in most circles. I cannot imagine the bishops will be terribly pleased, but I am certain you can handle any opprobrium from that quarter.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It is not the jewel that concerns me.”

  “What, then?” Stoker asked, his voice gentle.

  She hesitated, saying nothing for a long moment. She had slipped into a reverie of sorts, her expression faraway. I sat forwards in my chair. “Your telegram mentioned the Whitechapel murders. You said it was a matter of life and death,” I reminded her.

  She shook her head almost angrily. “I cannot think why,” she muttered.

  Stoker darted me a glance, alarmed at her sudden confusion, but when he spoke his voice was soothing. “Lady Wellie, I think Veronica is right. Rest now. We can talk in the morning—”

  “I wish I knew what to do!” she exclaimed. She put out her hands, heavily ringed with filthy diamonds. Stoker took them, and she squeezed hard. I could see his fingers whitening in her grip.

  “You must help,” she insisted, her voice a rasp of pain. Suddenly, she pitched forwards, and would have landed on the floor had Stoker not leapt. He caught her, cradling her to his chest as her head lolled back, her eyes rolling white.

  “Lady Wellie!” I dropped to my knees, but Stoker had already taken charge of the situation. His time as a surgeon in Her Majesty’s Navy meant that he was extremely effective in a crisis. He wrenched open the fichu pinned to her neckline as he put his head to her chest.

  “She breathes,” he pronounced. He rose in one motion, sweeping her stout form up into his arms. He carried her through to the bedchamber where her maid, Weatherby, had just entered with an armful of clean linen.

  One look at her prostrate mistress sent her into hysterics, and it took me a sound slap and the better part of a minute to bring her around. When she was in command of herself once more, I sent her to fetch his lordship and Lady Wellie’s regular physician.

  “What else?” I asked Stoker.

  He was keeping careful watch upon her pulse. “When Weatherby returns, have her change Lady Wellie into a nightdress and bring hot bricks to keep her from a chill. She needs a stimulant. Bring brandy,” he instructed.

  I did as I was told, haring swiftly down to his lordship’s sideboard for a bottle. Stoker ladled a spoonful down her throat. She sputtered and swallowed but remained insensible. He turned to me. “It is not strong enough. Her pulse is thready. I fear we are losing her. There is a preparation of foxglove on the washstand. Fetch it.”

  I found it, a small green bottle marked with a skull and crossbones on a label from the local chemist. He wrenched out the cork and dosed her, holding her mouth closed with one hand until she swallowed involuntarily. His expression was tortured but determined, and I knew it cost him something to force her to take the medicine.

  After a moment, her breathing seemed to ease slightly, and he slumped a little.

  “There is nothing else to be done until her physician arrives,” he told me soberly.

 
“What is it?”

  “Angina, most likely. Possibly apoplexy.”

  My hand crept into his and he gripped it tightly. “How bad?”

  He shook his head and said nothing. He would not guess. We kept her comfortable during the long, agonizing wait for her physician. Lord Rosemorran appeared with Weatherby, weeping quietly into her sleeve. She started to make noise but I fixed her with a quelling eye and she subsided once more into silence, wiping her eyes as she aired a nightdress.

  “If the gentlemen will withdraw, I will help you,” I told her. They did not have to be told twice. They waited outside the door as Weatherby and I carefully undressed her mistress and wrapped her in her nightdress. We tucked her into the warmed bed just as the physician arrived, huffing a little. He had the flushed-pink nose of a devoted port drinker and the assurance of a successful Harley Street practitioner. He listened gravely to Stoker’s quick summary of the events and shooed us from the room to make his examination.

  Lord Rosemorran seemed at a loss as we stood outside. “I hardly know what to think,” he managed at last. “She has always been there. Ever since I was a child, I thought of her as immovable, fixed.”

  “You make her sound like the Rock of Gibraltar,” I said with a smile.

  He smiled in return. “Exactly that. She is our rock.”

  Hours passed, slowly. Lumley, the butler, brought chairs for us, and from time to time a frightened maid peeped around the corner, then whisked away to report that there was no news. We, none of us, had an appetite for dinner. Lord Rosemorran’s sister, Lady Cordelia, took charge of the children and sent food up, but we sent it back untasted. She came to sit with us after putting the children to bed. We said little more until the physician emerged, his expression somber.

  “I will not pretend her condition is not serious, my lord,” he began. “She has indeed suffered a severe attack of angina. The worst of the crisis is past, but it remains to be seen if she will return to consciousness or how great—if any—damage the heart has sustained.” He looked to Stoker. “You said you dosed her with foxglove?”

  “I did.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Likely saved her life with that. It’s a dangerous proposition but in cases like these it is the only possible chance.”

  Stoker’s relief was unspoken but palpable.

  “May I see her?” Lord Rosemorran asked.

  The physician shook his head. “She is resting now with that girl. I’ve had a stern word with her about keeping watch. If there are any changes, she will alert you. I will return in the morning to look in on her and assess her condition further. If she shows signs of distress, send for me at once.”

  His lordship walked the physician downstairs as Lady Cordelia rose, smoothing out her skirts. “I will sit with her. Weatherby is loyal but she is flighty as a hummingbird in a crisis.”

  “You will fatigue yourself,” I protested.

  She waved it off. “It will give me something useful to do.” There was a slight bitterness to her mouth, a new resentment I had not seen before. Lady Cordelia was by far the most intelligent member of the family, but her talents were often wasted in domestic trivialities. She seemed to be floundering of late, not least because she had endured a painful trial of her own only a few months past.

  “You will send for me if you have need?” I asked.

  She gave me a grateful nod. Stoker stepped in. “I will walk Veronica to her lodgings and return to sleep in the China Bedroom. Wake me if there is anything I can do,” he urged.

  She accepted with thanks and bade us good night before slipping into Lady Wellie’s room. The door closed with an air of finality and Stoker took my hand, leading me down through the quiet, slumbering house. Lord Rosemorran had taken himself to his study; a slim band of golden light shone under the door. We passed through the side door and into the cool air of the night.

  The grounds were quiet, sleeping under stars that were mere pinpricks within the city. Stone paths meandered between manicured hedges, leading from one part of the estate to another. We reached the door of my little Gothic chapel and Stoker turned, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

  His hands were heavy on my shoulders. “Tonight—” he began.

  “Is not the night for us,” I finished.

  “Still, I cannot rest,” he said, his nerves obviously strung as tightly as mine. He tipped his head. “I think we should have an outing. It is not too late.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  To my very great surprise, within a short period of time, we were bound for Hampstead Heath in one of his lordship’s carriages, a stout wooden crate following in a cart. I asked no questions. It was oddly restful to be simply carried along, like a cork in a river current. The evening was cool, brisk even, but without dampness for once, and as we climbed out of the metropolis and into the clearer air of the heath, I found my spirits rising.

  Stoker directed the driver to a secluded house, a Queen Anne villa nestled on significant grounds. It was thickly—if unimaginatively—bordered by shrubbery, tangled and overgrown. The house itself was in good enough repair, although here and there the pointing wanted freshening. Wood smoke poured from the chimneys. An old-fashioned house, I thought with pleasure. I hated the throat-thickening clouds of coal soot that blanketed the city. An honest wood fire was a joy too little encountered, I reflected.

  Stoker directed the porters who had come with the cart as he lifted a hand to the door knocker, a tarnished brass affair fashioned into the shape of a dolphin.

  The door was thrown back almost instantly by a small man who peered nearsightedly through a pair of smudged spectacles. His hair stood out like spun sugar, a great airy tuft at each temple, with an expanse of bare pink scalp in between. His brows were lavish and expressive, and beneath them twinkled a pair of bright dark eyes.

  “Mr. Templeton-Vane!” he cried. “This is an unexpected pleasure! And you have brought her!”

  I made a modest little bob of the head, but he was staring past me, towards the crate that was being unloaded from the cart. “Oh, my good fellows, do be careful, I beg you!” he called.

  “Mr. Pennybaker,” Stoker said gently, recalling his attention. “May I present my associate, Miss Speedwell? Veronica, this is Mr. Pennybaker, a collector of natural history.”

  The little fellow, slight as an elf, blinked furiously as he looked up at me through his spectacles. “Veronica Speedwell? What a delightful name. A great joke of the botanical variety,” he said, nodding in agreement with his own observation. “A great joke indeed.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. It was not the first time my name had provided amusement to the botanically inclined, and I knew it would not be the last. We shook hands, or rather he took mine and pumped it furiously. He turned, tailcoat flapping as he gestured for the men to bring his trophy into the house. “Come along, come along!” he urged, leading the way through a series of corridors and into a gallery of sorts. Every corner was crammed with taxidermied specimens, some of them quite good, most tolerable, and one or two frankly appalling.

  The men maneuvered the crate into the center of the room, where Mr. Pennybaker was fairly dancing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. He rummaged in his pockets for coins. “A shilling each,” he crowed. “Go and have a pint or two with my thanks,” he told them. They exchanged glances at the munificence of the tip, tugging their forelocks in gratitude.

  Stoker unfolded a series of canvas tarpaulins to protect the carpet while I surveyed the specimen nearest to me. The glass case was misty, spiderwebbed with cracks, and so occluded I could hardly determine what was inside.

  “I see you are admiring my kittens’ coronation,” Mr. Pennybaker said waggishly.

  “I beg your pardon?” I blinked at him.

  He removed the cover and exposed the diorama in all its repellent glory. Inside the vast case, on a worn piece of Axm
inster, two dozen stuffed kittens had been arranged. Stoker usually insisted upon the more accurate term of “mounted” but I could clearly see the sawdust oozing out of their tiny seams. Every kitten had been fashioned into a different character to play a role in the tableau. There was a plump tabby bishop holding a small golden crown in his diminutive paws. Sitting before him on a miniature copy of the Coronation Chair from Westminster Abbey was a black and tawny striped kitten dressed in a gown of satin, once white, I thought, but now discolored by age to an unappetizing shade of yellow. Maids of honor perched near the throne, and courtier cats had been dressed in knee britches and the odd uniform of the army or navy. Behind them all, little banners had been sewn with heraldic badges and a pair of marmalade trumpeters held tiny brass instruments to their mouths.

  “How extraordinary,” I murmured. It was utterly appalling, and I had little doubt Stoker hated it as much as I did. He had strong feelings about the dignity of dead things, and there could be few things less dignified for a dead kitten than this display of sentimentality.

  Mr. Pennybaker turned away suddenly.

  “Oh, it begins!” he said, clasping his hands in excitement. Stoker had taken up a pry bar and was applying himself to opening the crate.

  “What is it?” I inquired, catching a little of Mr. Pennybaker’s enthusiasm.

  “The king’s ass!” he said in a delighted whisper.

  “Indeed?” I managed.

  He nodded, his spectacles bobbing on his face, the tufts of hair waving madly. “The king’s painted African ass!” he exclaimed.

  Stoker wrenched the last board free and there it was. It was unlike any animal I had ever encountered. I peered at its plain hindquarters, its sturdy equine bones, the flourish of stripes upon its forequarters. “That is almost a zebra,” I observed.

  Stoker smiled. “Almost.”

  “It is a quagga,” Mr. Pennybaker pronounced in tones of rapture. His brows trembled a little, perhaps in ecstasy, I reflected.

  “Equus quagga quagga,” Stoker said to me. “Related to but not precisely a zebra. From the plains of the southern part of Africa. The first in this country belonged to George III.”