A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I smiled. “I am surprised you are so eager to give Stoker the pleasure of an evening at the theatre.”

  His answering smile was thin. “Oh, it isn’t a pleasure for him,” he reminded me. “That’s why I gave you the tickets.”

  He touched his brow and inclined his head. “Until we meet again, my dearest Miss Speedwell.”

  “Good-bye, Mornaday.”

  The dogs trotted after him as he left, sniffing eagerly and inelegantly at the crotch of his trousers.

  “Those dogs have the most appalling manners,” I told Stoker as he left his eyeballs and came to sit.

  “I hope they bite where they sniff,” Stoker said. “What did he want?”

  I brandished the tickets. “To give us these.”

  “Theatre tickets? For tonight?” He swore softly. “The bastard does know how to torment me. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is harnessing myself into evening dress to listen to three hours of patter songs and caterwauling.” He gave me a narrow look. “I suppose you want to go?”

  “Not with you,” I told him in my sweetest voice. “I am very happy to ask Tiberius. I know how much he enjoys the theatre.”

  Stoker snatched the tickets out of my hand. “Be ready by seven.”

  “I planned to.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  We worked comfortably for the next few hours, Stoker at his latest large-scale mount—a hippopotamus that had been badly handled and was shedding ears and long, wiry hairs as well as emitting a fragrance that can best be described as insalubrious—and I at my correspondence. I had just finished penning a rousing rebuttal to a criticism of my latest contribution to The Lepidopterist’s Quarterly Guide to South American Butterflies and Greater Moths when another visitor appeared, also unannounced. Stoker and I had worked through luncheon, taking only sandwiches and cold tea for our refreshment, and I was nibbling the last egg and tomato sandwich when Inspector Archibond popped his head around the door.

  “Good day, Miss Speedwell,” he began.

  I beckoned to him, dusting the crumbs from my hands. “Inspector Archibond,” I said, coming forwards to welcome him. “What brings you here?”

  His smile was weary. “I wanted to look in on Lady Wellie.”

  “She is holding steady,” Stoker said, emerging from his hippopotamus. As ever, he had discarded his shirt in the process of his labors. He was sweat streaked and filthy, covered in sawdust and cobwebs and other unimaginable horrors. But nothing could conceal the splendor of his musculature, and I gave him a lingering and appreciative look before primly removing my gaze to the inspector.

  Archibond spoke. “I am glad to hear it. I did not want to disturb the household, so I thought it best to come here.”

  “You are most welcome,” I assured him. “Stoker, do wipe off the worst of that filth and put on a shirt for the inspector. We will have something to drink.”

  The inspector held up a hand. “No tea for me,” he said.

  “I was thinking of something rather more interesting,” I assured him. I retrieved my flask of aguardiente and poured out a thimbleful for each of us. He took one sip and his eyes went wide, his color harsh.

  “My God,” he managed hoarsely. It took him some minutes to recover, but when he did, he gave a nod. “I do not generally indulge in spirits before nightfall, but I thank you, Miss Speedwell. These are unusual times, and a stiffener is most welcome.”

  I made to pour him another but he thrust his hand over the top of his glass. Stoker joined us, having performed a minimal toilette, and settled himself in his customary chair. “What else brings you to our lair, Inspector?” he inquired.

  The inspector’s smile was sudden and oddly charming. He had a tiny dimple in his cheek that I had never had cause to notice before. He settled himself gingerly on the camel saddle, his manner confiding.

  “Instinct, I suppose, although a policeman is supposed to be guided by logic. But logic is of no use to me when matters are so clouded.” He paused. “I wondered if you knew what was troubling Lady Wellie, if she had confided in you before she collapsed.”

  “What makes you think there was something troubling her?” I asked carefully.

  “I have known her for some time. She has not been herself these past few days. I saw her once or twice in this matter of the prince and she was preoccupied, vague.”

  “The Prince of Wales is one of her favorites,” Stoker told him. “Surely the threat of a scandal touching his eldest son is enough to preoccupy and distress her.”

  “I wish I could believe that is all that ails her, but I am convinced there is something more.”

  I flicked a glance to Stoker, a warning look that I knew he would interpret correctly. Until we understood Lady Wellie’s fears with regard to the prince and any possible connection to the murders, I would not betray her secrets, not even to Archibond, her confidant.

  “If she were distressed about something else, I am sure she would share her concerns with Special Branch,” I said.

  Archibond’s expression was grave. “I do not think I can adequately communicate to you the atmosphere at Scotland Yard at present, Miss Speedwell. There is always a sense of urgency, of duty, that the security and peace of the capital depends upon us. But now . . .” He spread his hands. “It is a snake pit. Man against man, department against department. Everyone wants to be the first to bring the Ripper to justice, so there is no proper cooperation. We talk and we theorize, but there is only superficial sharing of information. Everyone wants to develop the hypothesis that will bring this monster’s reign of terror to an end. I am afraid it has led to a mood of great distrust within the department—and beyond.”

  “Lady Wellie no longer trusts her contacts at the Yard?” Stoker asked, incredulous.

  “She would always trust Sir Hugo,” Archibond assured us. “But Sir Hugo is in the fight of his life, merely trying to survive. Every day, there are calls in the newspapers for the resignation of any of the superior officers attached to the investigation. He has no men and no heart to spare for anything except the Whitechapel case.”

  “And that is where you have come in?” I asked.

  “It is. I did not realize the scope of Lady Wellie’s influence when I first arrived at the Yard,” he admitted. “But I quickly learnt her worth. She is invaluable to the Metropolitan Police, and to this country. In the past months, I have come to know her better, and I can say truthfully, there is no one I admire more.”

  This was a change, I reflected. When we first encountered Archibond, he was ambitious and stern, determined to ascend the ladder at Scotland Yard and reach the pinnacle of Special Branch. But six months was a long time to be mired in the shifting sands of the politics of the Metropolitan Police. I had been in Madeira for most of the year, and Stoker had been occupied with his own work, notably, his quagga. We had neither of us kept up with Lady Wellie as we ought, and with Sir Hugo growing increasingly busy—as well as occasionally ailing—it was no surprise that she had begun to cultivate his successor.

  Stoker opened a tin of honeycomb, rummaging through the sticky layers for a sizeable piece. He appeared to be munching contentedly on his sweet, but I saw the watchful gleam in his eye. He did not yet trust Archibond; however, it occurred to me that with Lady Wellie incapacitated, she would not be able to vouch for the man. It would be up to us to determine how far she had taken him into her confidence.

  “You were no doubt surprised to see Her Royal Highness appeal to Stoker and me for assistance,” I began, dangling the baited hook.

  He bit, smiling gently. The expression warmed his features, making him almost attractive. “I was not, actually. I know in what esteem Lady Wellie holds the pair of you, and of course, your own position, Miss Speedwell, makes you unique.” It was the perfect response, just pointed enough to reveal that he knew exactly who I was without the indiscretion of speakin
g it aloud. Archibond, I decided, was a careful man.

  He went on. “I understand why you refused her. I have learnt something of your previous help, both of you,” he added quickly, gathering Stoker with a glance. “It must be difficult to accomplish so much and never be properly thanked for it.”

  I lifted my chin. “I do not do it for gratitude. I do it for the sake of what is right.”

  He shifted on the camel saddle—not a particularly comfortable perch at the best of times, but I fancied he was choosing his words carefully. “And never for your own purposes?”

  Stoker’s nostrils whitened at the edges, the only perceptible sign of his irritation, but I could tell he was spoiling for a fight. I shoved another piece of honeycomb at him. “Eat, I beg you, before you say something all of us will regret.” I turned to Archibond. “We have an uneasy relationship with Special Branch, at best, Inspector. We have frequently been at odds with Sir Hugo, and do not even speak the name ‘Mornaday’ in Stoker’s presence unless you wish to see him lather at the mouth like a rabid dog.”

  Archibond’s slender mouth quirked up into a smile. “Then we have that in common, sir. I have long wanted to thrash the fellow myself.”

  The fact that Mornaday had—with great cheer and little hesitation—ordered him comprehensively searched when Stoker was mildly arrested had done nothing to repair their strained relationship. Archibond’s antipathy was equally fervid but for a completely different reason. Mornaday, as Sir Hugo’s right-hand man of long standing, posed a threat to Archibond’s ambitions in spite of his own superior rank. (Mornaday, when deeply in his cups, mourned the fact that Archibond had secured a plum position by dint of his dogged application to duty and rigid adherence to the rules and regulations of Special Branch as well as a few strings discreetly tugged by his godfather, the Home Secretary. I consoled Mornaday with a dose of strong spirits and sympathy, which prompted him to offer me an obligatory kiss. I politely declined and he took no offense.) Still, the brawls at Special Branch were none of our concern, and we could certainly be cordial to both of them even as they plotted to have each other’s livers and lights.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Stoker said lightly.

  “Something like that,” Archibond agreed.

  “You are both speaking nonsense,” I told them, rather more harshly than the conversation merited. “Mornaday is no enemy to either of you, and he has, upon occasion, been an extremely good friend.” I gave Stoker a lowering look and he rolled his eyes heavenwards.

  “How many times has he proposed marriage to you?” he asked.

  I primmed my mouth. “I have forgot, and that is beside the point. He is never serious and his affections lie elsewhere, I assure you. Let us return to the topic at hand, Inspector. You were, I suspect, attempting to bait us into some course of action, perhaps by means of guilt after accusing me of acting in self-interest, a tactic doomed to failure,” I warned.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “You mistake me, Miss Speedwell! I do not charge you with any crime of which I myself am innocent. I find myself here because . . .” He hesitated, coloring deeply. “Because my own guilt is almost more than I can bear and I hoped to find a kindred spirit.”

  “Why should you feel guilt where Lady Wellie is concerned?” I asked.

  “Because I did not listen,” he said heavily. He ran his hands through his hair, disordering it slightly. “A few days ago, the day she wired you in Cornwall, I was here. I had called upon her to speak with her about the latest developments in the Whitechapel investigation—unofficially, of course. There are still plenty of people at Scotland Yard who do not know of her influence.” He paused, seemingly searching for the right words. “Her mood was distracted, distressed. She said she had sent for you both, and I was glad of it. I thought having you here might soothe her mind, but she would not settle. She wandered a little in her mind and it alarmed me. It is the first true sign of age I have seen upon her,” he said with a rueful look.

  “She does seem to go on like England itself,” I agreed.

  “In the very best way. She is what England used to be, I think. What it might be again. Every virtue to which I have ever aspired, she has mastered.” He broke off, coloring a little, clearly embarrassed at his burst of sentimentality. He cleared his throat and resumed his narrative. “I pressed her for why she was so upset, but she kept muttering about Prince Eddy.”

  “Well, discovering that the future King of England has been handing out diamonds like boiled sweets to his light-o’-loves is a trifle unsettling,” Stoker put in.

  “Indeed,” was Archibond’s dry reply. “But it was more than that. Whilst we were talking, she asked me to fetch a magnifying glass from her desk. Her eyes have been giving her trouble of late. While I looked for it, I saw a number of papers lying loose, clearly something she had been working at before my arrival. When she noticed they were still on the desk, she swept them into a drawer with her diary and locked it, clearly distressed that I might have noticed the nature of the papers.” He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. “I would not compromise her privacy, but had I known she would so soon be incapacitated, I would have pressed her. I think whatever she was working at was connected with this thing that has been troubling her, but I have no notion of what it is.”

  “Occam’s razor would suggest that the simplest and therefore likeliest explanation is that she was concerned about the prince’s peccadillo,” I offered.

  “Of course,” Archibond agreed. “It may indeed be nothing we do not already know, and that affair is certainly worth some concern.”

  “What do you know of the lady involved?” I asked suddenly.

  Archibond shrugged. “At the edge of Bloomsbury, there is a private house known as the Club de l’Étoile.”

  “The Club of the Star,” I observed. “How fitting for an establishment of nocturnal entertainment.”

  “Indeed. It is a very discreet club for ladies and gentlemen of means and certain habits,” he said with delicacy.

  “A brothel,” I said brutally.

  “A club,” he corrected firmly. “There are no regular employees save the domestic staff, and it is located in a private home. Everyone is of the appropriate age and there are no permanent professionals on the premises in the strictest sense of the word. The club caters to many tastes and there are entertainments given, themed parties, that sort of thing. It is beautifully furnished, luxurious in every detail, with exquisite food and drink, a veritable palace for debauchery.”

  “And His Royal Highness is an habitué of this place,” Stoker finished. To his credit, there was not the slightest hint of judgment in his tone. But as Stoker had spent years living in a much less grand establishment in Brazil, he had precious few stones to throw.

  “He is,” Archibond supplied. “It is run by a Frenchwoman of some notoriety. She has gone by many names in the past. Now she calls herself Madame Aurore after the goddess of the dawn. She was a courtesan in Paris for some years, I am told. She is terribly discreet. Her guests are never troubled by the police or journalists, and she has arranged for several entrances and exits from the property so that her callers will not be noticed either arriving or leaving. She does nothing illegal and therefore we can do nothing about her activities. She maintains perfect silence about her callers.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about her,” Stoker remarked with studied blandness.

  Archibond shrugged. “It is our duty to keep a weather eye upon all such places frequented by the great and good. One must be ever vigilant where the possibility of blackmail exists.”

  “I suppose if His Royal Highness must exercise his libido, he could hardly find a more suitable spot,” I mused.

  “You have a Continental mind, Miss Speedwell,” Archibond said in a tone that was somewhere between aspersion and admiration. “As you say, if the prince were going to indulge himself—and
what young man does not?—he could hardly do better than a quiet establishment where everyone knows the rules and no one dare break them. Unfortunately, this particular club is quite expensive.”

  “How expensive?” Stoker inquired.

  “Ten thousand guineas to join,” Archibond replied.

  I sucked in my breath. “Ten thousand guineas. Do you know what I earn for one specimen of a Papilio amynthor? Three guineas. Three guineas for a perfect specimen of one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. And you are telling us that this place charges its members the worth of thousands of such creatures just so people can debauch themselves in private?”

  “The world, my dear Miss Speedwell, is an unjust place,” he said with a shrug. “But I suspect you knew that already.” He went on. “In addition to her nom d’amour, the proprietress, Madame Aurore, always appears robed as the dawn goddess. She wears a sort of tiara given her by Napoléon III, a galaxy of diamonds. It is a custom of the club that when someone has enjoyed her personal favors, they present her with a diamond star, the more lavish, the better.”

  “And who could make one more lavish than Garrard’s?” Stoker put in.

  “Precisely. And one that is patterned after the prince’s own mother’s jewels? Can you imagine the newspapers?” Archibond shuddered visibly. “If they get their teeth into this, they will harry it to the death, running down every sordid detail.”

  “And you are certain that it is this Madame Aurore who has the jewel?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, quite,” Archibond said. “The princess approached me in some distress a fortnight or so ago. She confided that her lady-in-waiting had had a curious communication from Garrard. It seems the jewelers were keen to alert the princess to a possible mésalliance on the part of the prince.”

  “A bit above and beyond the purview of one’s jeweler,” I observed.

  “The princess is a very good client,” Archibond said with a shrug. “They would do almost anything to avoid losing the future Queen of England as a client.” He went on. “She was naturally anxious to avoid troubling the Prince of Wales, so she came to Lady Wellie and asked for her help. Lady Wellie tasked me with discovering what I could about the prince’s purchase of the star and its whereabouts. I had precious little time to devote to the matter, but luckily for me, His Royal Highness is not terribly devious,” he said with an indulgent smile. “His notion of discretion is having his driver take a turn around the block before going inside.”