A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He blinked as though just seeing me properly. “Were you and Stoker absent? I went to speak to you yesterday, but you were not in the Belvedere.”

  “I apologize, my lord. We were assessing a possible acquisition for the collection,” I lied smoothly.

  “Ah, no matter. I can’t remember now what I wanted. Something to do with a delivery, I think.”

  “I am sure it will come to you,” I said. I thought of de Clare and Archibond. It was narrowly possible that they might attempt to gain entry to the estate, and with the earl’s children about, it was an eventuality that chilled me to the marrow. But I saw no need to raise fears where they might be unfounded, so I temporized. “It occurred to me, my lord, to ask about security arrangements. The collection is rather valuable, after all, and there ought to be some protection for it.”

  His brows rose again. “My dear, did you not know? There is always a guard about the place. Two of the gardeners, one of the drivers, and the underbutler are all former members of the Yard on secondment for Aunt Wellie’s security.”

  I blinked at him. “Are you quite serious?”

  “They take it in turn to patrol the property at night. It was Aunt Wellie’s idea. She thought it might be a good notion to have a few sturdy lads about the place.”

  “How long ago did she bring them into the household?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  The earl tipped his head, calculating. “Heavens, when was it? Right about the time of the Jubilee, I should think. When you and Stoker came to live here.”

  I said nothing for a long moment. That impossible old woman, I thought. She had lived decades in the shadow of danger and never set a watch for her own protection. It was not until I had come to live at Bishop’s Folly that she had ordered a guard. I thought of how many times Stoker and I had slipped out, nodding towards a vigilant gardener or making use of a driver, certain we were being discreet. And now to learn they had been keeping her apprised of our comings and goings all the while! It was equal measures annoying and touching.

  “Very wise of her,” I told him.

  I took my leave of his lordship and made my way to the Belvedere. Stoker was already there, looking more disreputable than I had ever seen him. His shirt was fresh, but he had neglected to shave, no doubt due to the various cuts and bruises decorating his face. He wore his eye patch, and when he moved, it was with great care.

  “Not entirely decomposed, then?” I asked sweetly. It was apparent he had no wish to discuss our adventures yet. It was ever thus. In the heat of danger, he was a warrior, brave to the point of recklessness. But when it was finished and the peril had passed, a bleakness seemed to settle on him, a thorny dissatisfaction with the mundanity of life, I thought.

  I considered forcing the issue, but in the end, I took refuge in our usual banter.

  His only reply was a growl. I waved a hand. “You need a good breakfast and movement to stretch out those muscles,” I advised. I made my way straight to the sarcophagus, where breakfast was laid out. Our plates, heaped with eggs and mushrooms, deviled kidneys and sausages, were covered with domes. Pots of tea and racks of toast stood shoulder to shoulder with jams and butter and even a small crock of porridge. I lavishly buttered a piece of toast and drizzled it with honey, waving it in front of him like a red cape to a bull.

  “Come and eat,” I ordered, handing over the toast. He took a bite and canted his head.

  “What in the name of seven hells is that smell?”

  I tipped my nose in the air. “You smell it too? I rather thought the sausages had gone off.” I poked one experimentally.

  Stoker picked it up in his bare fingers and bit off a hearty piece. He chewed, his expression thoughtful. “It’s just a good Cumberland sausage. Nothing but pork and herbs.”

  I took a bite for myself. “The kidneys?” I suggested. Kidneys were never my favorite food, but Stoker shook his head.

  “I already ate one. They are quite wholesome.”

  I shrugged. “Then no doubt it is one of your vile specimens.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, carefully, since his ribs were damaged. “I will have you know that my specimens are impeccable. I keep a perfectly clean workshop.”

  “Of all the mendacity,” I began.

  I broke off, watching as Nut began to sniff the sarcophagus, pressing her elegant little nose to the seam between the lid and the body of the coffin.

  I looked at Stoker, whose expression had turned wary. “There is no mummy in that sarcophagus,” I said. “It is full of antique prosthetics, the collection of the fourth earl.”

  “I took those out whilst you were away in Madeira,” he informed me. “His lordship received an offer on them from an American, some eccentric millionaire who wanted them for his museum in a state whose name escapes me.”

  “Then it ought to be empty?” I asked.

  He nodded, but his face was doubtful. Nut’s inquisitiveness had turned to eagerness; she rose on her hind legs, scrabbling at the coffin, marking the paint with her toenails. It was a shabby thing, a Greco-Roman copy of a much older design, but it was still an artifact, and I nudged her away with difficulty.

  Stoker sighed and without another word retrieved the pry bar whilst I cleared the breakfast things off of the sarcophagus. I put out my hand for the tool. “Give it to me. You cannot manage with your ribs.”

  It was an indication of how badly he was injured that he did not argue. I removed my jacket and folded it neatly, taking a few moments before I had to tackle the distasteful task.

  “You can put it off as long as you like, but you will still have to do it,” he said.

  “Don’t be brutal.” I fitted the narrow end of the bar into the crack between the lid and the coffin and pushed, wedging the two pieces apart. Immediately, a cloud of foul air rolled out, causing me to drop the bar. Nut gave a great whine and ducked her tail between her legs. Huxley and Bet were hiding behind a caryatid, far too wise to investigate. They had learnt that lesson when a set of Wardian cases holding badly preserved amphibian specimens had leaked formalin onto them both and they were forcibly bathed to remove chemicals and bits of frog.

  “Cowards,” Stoker said. They stayed where they were and I fitted the bar into place once more. I pushed twice and made no headway.

  “For the love of God’s grace, put your back into it,” Stoker ordered.

  I did so, giving one great shove, and the lid moved, sliding halfway off, exposing the interior of the sarcophagus. For a moment, we went no further. Neither of us was really keen to look inside. But of course, we did not have to. We already knew.

  Inside the sarcophagus lay the body of Madame Aurore.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Bloody bollocking hell,” Stoker said softly. Nut rose on her hind legs, peering into the sarcophagus. “For God’s sake, get down, you hellhound.”

  I gave him a level look. “A little something to drink, I believe.”

  “This is hardly the time for a tea party,” he remonstrated.

  I reached under my skirt for the flask of aguardiente I habitually strapped there. “I should have thought you would know better by now,” I said. I took a hearty draft and passed it to him. When he had drunk, I capped the flask and replaced it, the little gestures bringing a sense of normality to a situation that was most provoking.

  “Do you suppose that”—I gestured towards what was left of Madame Aurore—“has been placed here as a warning?”

  He shrugged. “Possibly. Or it is a plot to incriminate us. Should the authorities be alerted, we are in possession of the body of a murder victim.” He studied the body, and I steeled myself to do the same, refusing to look away, as I considered it my duty to be fully informed. I noted at once a change in the corpse from how we had originally found her.

  “They have made an attempt to cover the wound,” I remarked, pointing
to where a narrow piece of linen had been wound about her throat, almost but not quite concealing the gaping slash. It was crusted with blood, although some effort had clearly been made to tidy her. Her face had been wiped, but streaks of scarlet still stained her skin, and her dress had not been changed although the stars had been ripped from the fabric, leaving wounds in the silk.

  “This was all done in haste,” Stoker observed. “She has not been properly prepared—hence the odor. And she has not even been thoroughly washed. Disgraceful.”

  In spite of his work with dead creatures—or perhaps because of it—Stoker was always keen to find dignity in death. Hence his distaste for Mr. Pennybaker’s collection of coronation kittens.

  I peered into the sarcophagus and gave a gusty sigh. “At least whoever brought her to us was kind enough to bring the Templeton-Vane tiara,” I said, pointing to where it lay. “I can return it to Tiberius.”

  “You will want to clean it first,” Stoker said mildly. “That blood won’t come off easily.”

  “Well, one more thing to explain to Sir Hugo,” I said in resignation. I moved towards the caryatid where my hat hung, but Stoker grasped my hand.

  “Not just yet, I beg you.”

  “You want to delay telling Sir Hugo that we have a murder victim lying around? What if the children find her? Or worse, the dogs?”

  “The dogs want nothing to do with her, and I am not suggesting we keep her indefinitely,” he protested. “But Sir Hugo is going to be extremely tiresome about this, I have no doubt. And if we could provide him with at least a little information to exculpate ourselves, it might go a great deal better for us.”

  I pondered that and could not fault his logic. We had occasionally been on the receiving end of Sir Hugo’s temper, and it was not an experience I cared to repeat if I could possibly avoid it. If nothing else, it might spare Stoker the indignity of another comprehensive search of his person and lengthy questioning, as well as eloquent lectures on our ethics, intelligence, and priorities. Sir Hugo would be enraged enough to discover that we had spent twenty-four hours in captivity with the prince without rushing to inform him of the matter. I consoled myself with the thought that the prince’s security had been of paramount importance and that the Ripper investigation would take precedence over a pair of miscreants and their thugs who had no doubt fled the moment we eluded them. Sir Hugo would be empurpled with emotion, and I was content to put off such a confrontation for as long as possible.

  I turned again to the corpse and pulled a face. “I wonder how they were able to bring her here,” I ventured. I explained about Lady Wellie’s guards, watching as Stoker’s face turned increasingly interesting shades of puce. “You knew!” I accused.

  “Not until recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “I became suspicious when I asked one of the undergardeners for a bit of milkweed for some butterfly larvae and he brought me verbena. I started paying closer attention and I identified four men who had not been very long in his lordship’s employ and whose tasks were quite often carried out by others. I asked a few discreet questions and finally, one night when Lady Wellie and I were rather deep in our cups, she admitted it. She has been concerned for your safety, and with good reason,” he added.

  “Her guards have not been terribly effective,” I argued. “We have had all manner of strange callers, one or two bent upon mischief.”

  He shrugged. “It is an imperfect system. She did not want you to know, so she has ordered them to be unobtrusive above all. Your comings and goings are far too varied for any discreet efforts to be completely effective.”

  He had a point. I nodded towards the corpse. “It still does not answer how this was brought in without attracting attention.”

  He thought, running a hand over his whisker-roughened chin. After a moment, he pressed a bell, summoning the boot boy, George. Once a winsome little fellow, George had shot up to a gangling height whilst I was in Madeira. An Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his voice frequently broke in the middle of a syllable.

  “New story about the Ripper, miss,” he said, brandishing the latest edition of the Daily Harbinger. I looked at the lurid picture on the front page and shuddered, imagining what they would say if His Royal Highness were implicated.

  “I shall read it later,” I assured him. “Whilst we were away, did anything curious happen? Visitors? Deliveries?”

  He nodded, eyes fixed upon Stoker’s tin of treacle fudge. I handed it over, ignoring Stoker’s muffled noise of protest.

  “Help yourself to a grand piece—no, have another. You are a growing boy,” I told George, smiling.

  “Fank you, miff,” he managed through a mouthful of sticky fudge.

  Stoker took the tin back with bad grace, plucking several pieces for himself. George continued to chew happily, pausing only to pet Nut, who nuzzled up to him in hopes of a titbit.

  “George,” I prodded gently. “Visitors?”

  “Oh, yes, miss.” He swallowed the last of his fudge. “A bloody great—sorry, miss, I mean a rather large crate came first thing yesterday morning.”

  Stoker glanced around the orderly chaos of the Belvedere. “Where, precisely, is it?”

  George looked left and right, forwards and backwards, scratching his head. “I dunno, sir. The fellow had a sack barrow and wheeled the crate in himself.”

  “And was he ever alone?” I inquired.

  George flushed. “It weren’t my fault. I know I was supposed to stay with him, but Lady Rose set to hollering, and you know what she’s like,” he said darkly. I did indeed. Lord Rosemorran’s youngest child was a tiny force of nature. When she bellowed, all activity on the estate came to a halt.

  “What was the trouble with Lady Rose?” Stoker asked.

  George shrugged. “Devil take her if I know,” he said in some disgust. “She just wailed for the better part of ten minutes, loud as a shrike. Everyone crowded around, but she wouldn’t say what the matter was. She screamed until Lady Cordelia came.”

  “And then what?”

  He shrugged. “Lady C. promised to dose her with castor oil if she didn’t give over, and she quieted down quick enough after that. She just tossed her head and went about her business saying she was sure she didn’t know what all the fuss were about.” He pulled a face. “Women.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed. I wrested the tin away from Stoker and handed it to George. “Thank you, George. Do finish this off if you like.”

  “If I like?” He gave a guffaw. “I should think so, miss.” He cradled the tin under his arm as tenderly as a babe as he left, the dogs snuffling happily behind him.

  Stoker gave me a dark look. “That was all the treacle fudge I had.”

  “I will buy you another tin and better,” I soothed. “But it is important to pay one’s informants.”

  “Informants,” he said, curling a lip.

  “Informants,” I confirmed. “George is shaping up quite nicely.”

  “I don’t see how you can possibly say that—” He broke off suddenly. “You don’t really think that Lady Rose would—”

  “Don’t I?” I said grimly. “Come along, Stoker. We have to beard the little lioness in her den.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We ran Lady Rose to earth in her tiny playhouse. She might have chosen any of the diminutive pavilions scattered about the estate—a miniature French château, a Japanese pagoda, a longhouse of the Eastern Algonquin peoples. But she had selected instead a decidedly grubby hermit hut from Gloucestershire. It had once housed a recluse of great renown, a fellow who entered his solitary life during the reign of George II and had not died until the fall of the Bastille. The present earl’s father had purchased it for a farthing and had it brought to London to adorn his grounds at Bishop’s Folly, to limited success. Most visitors mistook it for a compost heap. It was woven of willow, arched to the height
of a middling-aged child, and embellished with leaves and vines that played host to a riotous assortment of insect life. Lady Rose loved it because no one else ever dared enter, either from mild claustrophobia or fear of infestation.

  Stoker had no such qualms. Lady Rose entertained him occasionally to tea there, although I was seldom afforded such hospitality. She had taken against me during our first meeting, and it was not difficult to determine the source of her hostility. Her misleadingly cherubic face lit at the sight of Stoker entering her little domain. Her greeting to me was decidedly less warm.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She had been scolded repeatedly for rudeness to her inferiors, but the lesson had not yet taken hold. For my part, I ignored her jibes, as I had long ago formed the opinion that it is best never to notice children at all in any capacity lest they take a simple greeting as an overture for discussion—or worse yet, touching by grubby, sweet-sticky fingers.

  I made an exception this time. I gave her my most winsome smile. “Good morning, Lady Rose. I see you have a new tea service.”

  The stump that formed her table was spread with a dingy linen cloth—no doubt pristine until she had got her grimy little paws on it—and set with a miniature collection of Wedgwood. She pulled a face and poured out a cup of tea for herself and for Stoker. I raised a brow and she sighed theatrically before pouring a thimbleful of appalling russet brown liquid into my cup.

  Stoker took a manful sip, then set the cup down, choking. “What an unusual and original flavor,” he managed, his eyes streaming.

  “I took the slop leaves from yesterday’s tea,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “And added?” Stoker prompted.

  “A little cinnamon and ground clove.”

  “And?” Stoker pressed.

  She shrugged. “Mustard seed.”

  “There it is,” he said, wiping his brow with one of his enormous handkerchiefs. Lady Rose slanted me an artful look.

  “You aren’t drinking.”