CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
T
he next morning I woke to find Stoker had risen and gone, the flask of aguardiente entirely empty.
He must have wakened some time in the night and finished it off, but I did not mind.
“‘Take it,’” I muttered, thinking of Sir Philip Sidney, “‘thy necessity is greater than mine.
’” I refilled the flask with plain whiskey from the store cupboard—not half as potent, but useful in a pinch, I decided—and still there was no sign of Stoker.
The little room for washing was empty, so he must have already attended to his ablutions.
I did the same, pleased to find that my arm was stiff but there was no sign of incipient infection.
Whatever his professional faults, he was a gifted doctor.
I dressed myself with a little difficulty and opened the door upon a June morning dazzling enough to lift the dourest spirits.
Flowers bloomed around the door of the Belvedere, and drifts of early rambling roses were just unfurling their petals, filling the morning with their fragrance.
I stood upon the step, drawing in great lungfuls of the air, as good as any to be found in London.
Just then I heard a wet snuffling sound as the bushes gave an ominous rustle.
Before I could whisk myself back into the Belvedere, the beast was upon me.
A massive creature of bunched muscle and long fur hurled itself aloft, knocking me squarely to the ground before coming to sit firmly upon my chest.
A wet, lolloping tongue caressed my cheek, and hot breath redolent of meat blew into my face.
I thanked heaven for the thickness of my Psyche knot, which had taken the force of the creature’s violent affections and softened my landing.
Doubtless it had saved me from a nasty blow to the back of the head.
“Betty!
I say, Betty, come back here!”
A man broke through the bushes and stopped short.
“My dear lady, I am most heartily sorry.
Betty!
Betony, desist this instant!”
He accompanied his order with a sharp tug to the beast’s collar, and she withdrew from my person, sitting next to me with an adoring expression.
The man came forward to help me up, and I saw then he was a gentleman, dressed in a country suit of rugged tweeds.
I took his hand and got slowly to my feet.
“I must apologize again.
I do hope Betony has not hurt you.
She is a puppy, really, and poorly trained.”
“She is charming,” I said, almost meaning it.
I patted my head.
“And I think my hair took the worst of it.”
I felt for my pins, but they were secure, and I dusted my skirts, wincing only a little as my arm gave a sudden throb of protest.
“You are hurt,” he said.
“We must determine how extensive the injury is.”
“It is nothing,” I assured him.
“At least nothing that the dog has done, I promise you, my lord.
You
are Lord Rosemorran?”
He blinked several times, as if trying to recall something.
“Rosemorran?
Oh yes.
That’s me.
I say, have we met?”
“I am afraid not.
My name is Veronica Speedwell, and I am trespassing.”
“Trespassing?
How very original.
We do get the odd vagrant creeping about the place from time to time, but never a woman, at least not a clean woman with good vowels who could spot a lord at five paces.
Any particular reason for trespassing here?”
“It is my fault, milord,” came a voice from behind him.
Lord Rosemorran turned just as Bet launched herself again, this time at Stoker.
“Down,
down, you ridiculous creature,” Stoker ordered, his affectionate tone belying the command.
Bet ignored it, planting her hind feet upon the ground and resting her front paws on Stoker’s shoulders.
In spite of his height of some six feet, she topped him by inches, and he ruffled her ears, earning himself several long licks for his pains.
“Stoker?
Good to see you.
How is my elephant coming along?”
“Not very well,” Stoker said, his voice muffled by the dog’s thick fur.
I noticed he had resumed his eye patch and his voice was rough.
He looked every inch the ruffian, no doubt the aftereffects of too much aguardiente.
“Stoker is in hiding from the Metropolitan Police,” I volunteered.
“Indeed?
What do they want with him?”
Lord Rosemorran was as unflappable as his sister, it seemed, and I decided to tell him the truth.
“It has to do with Baron von Stauffenbach’s murder.”
“Ah yes.
Dreadful business, that.
Frightful shame.
He was a good fellow, the baron.
One of the best.
Borrowed my Thucydides.
Suppose it’s gone forever now,” he said, his tone abstracted.
He fell silent a moment, his expression vacant, then collected himself.
“So, what do the police think he had to do with the murder?”
“They think he might have killed the baron, which of course he did not.
I know this for a fact,” I assured him.
“No one would ever believe he did,” he replied stoutly, and I decided in that moment that I liked him.
He was younger than I had expected, barely clearing forty, I should have guessed, and though his appearance was somewhat untidy in the manner of all distracted scholars, his manners were gentle and his face surprisingly attractive.
He had his sister’s kindly dark eyes and a twist to his mouth that spoke of good humor.
“Yes, well, the police do not see it that way, at least not yet,” Stoker told him, pushing the dog firmly to the ground.
She gave a low groan, as if sulking, but sat at his feet and he dropped a hand to her head.
“I should like very much to prove it.
In the meantime, I have taken refuge in the Belvedere without your leave—so unsporting, no apology could possibly suffice.”
I noted his careful omission of Lady Cordelia’s role in securing our bolt-hole, and he flicked me a quick glance to warn me to give nothing away as his lordship began to speak.
“Well, but if Miss—er, I am sorry, I have forgot your name.”
Lord Rosemorran looked to me.
“Speedwell.”
“Speedwell.
Like the plant?
Charming.
If Miss Speedwell can provide you with an alibi, then surely you are in the clear.”
“It is entirely likely that the police will not be satisfied with my assurances,” I said.
“Ah well, that is a pity.
Surely it will all come right in the end,” he said, cheering himself with his platitude.
“And you’re quite welcome to stay here as long as you like.
You shan’t be in anyone’s way.
Now, let us go into the Belvedere.
I’ve had a rather good idea for the elephant’s trunk, Stoker .
.
.”
I marveled at his lordship’s easy acceptance of a fugitive finding sanctuary on his property, but he seemed entirely unruffled as he led the way into his collections, tossing questions behind him with little expectation of replies.
“Have you found it comfortable in here?
I must say, I shouldn’t like the notion of sleeping amidst all of this death and decay.
Of course, we’ve never had talk of ghosts in this part of Bishop’s Folly, but one never knows.
Have you seen ghosts since you have been here?
No, of course not.
Do hope you’ve had a good rootle around the old collections.
Miss Speedwell, is there anything in particular here you would like to take a closer look at whilst Stoker and I talk?”
Stoker spoke up.
“Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist.”
“A lepidopterist!
Why didn’t you say so?
You’ll want the Butterfly Cabinet,” he said, changing course as erratically as a bee.
He plunged down one aisle between his collections to make for an enormous piece of furniture that had been built to fit snugly between two of the great columns of the room.
It was securely locked, but the key was hanging from a tassel that had been slung over a ram’s horn nearby.
His lordship opened the cabinet and stood back.
“Not a bad little collection,” he began.
He said other things after that, but I did not hear him.
From the tail of my eye I had seen it, beckoning, shimmering just at the edge of my vision.
I moved on sleepwalking feet, ignoring my host entirely.
He and Stoker must have fallen into conversation, for I heard the rise and fall of their voices, but I had no care for anything but
him.
I stopped a scant inch from the glass and put out a finger.
I heard a low moan and realized it had come from my own throat.
“Miss Speedwell?
Is everything quite all right?”
“Trogonoptera brookiana,”
I said reverently.
“Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing.”
His lordship came to stand at my elbow.
“Ah yes.
Lovely, isn’t it?”
It was stunning.
Seven inches across and shimmering with light, the creature had wings as black as night blazed across with a streak of emerald green richer than any jewel in the queen’s possession.
A neat ruby head surmounted it all, and from this sprouted a pair of slender black antennae, curved as delicately as lace.
The green slash ended in points, like feathers, and the vivid color was threaded with black capillaries, as though someone had drawn them in ink with the finest nib.
It was this spectacular butterfly that had driven me to Sumatra in spite of the rumblings of Krakatoa.
Such a small and fragile thing to have changed my life, I reflected.
I paid homage to his stilled beauty while his lordship went on.
“From Sumatra, you know.
Alfred Russel Wallace.”
“Yes, he discovered and named it in 1855,” I told him.
“Yes, I think my father acquired it from him in 1860 or thereabouts.”
I turned slowly to face him.
“You mean
this specimen—”
“Came from Sumatra with Wallace, yes.
Wallace brought a few home with him, and my father bought one.
Capital fellow, isn’t he?”
His voice was blandly cheerful, but when I flicked a glance to Stoker, I saw from his expression that he understood.
The Earl of Rosemorran was a kindly man and perhaps even a devoted scholar, but he had not the slightest comprehension of the magnitude of his collection.
I turned again to the butterfly, realizing with a start that it was merely one of a few hundred pinned specimens.
They were mounted with Continental pins, my own preference, for the longer pin permitted a more thorough label to be attached, although the next to catch my attention was sadly anonymous.
“Lycaena dispar,”
I said, my voice somewhat strangled.
“The Large Copper.