CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I
collapsed into bed without washing, the smell of smoke heavy in my hair, soot still staining my hands.
I was more exhausted than I had ever been in the whole of my life.
The revelations of the past few days finally came crashing down upon me, and when I woke it was to find the late morning sun streaming across the floor of the Belvedere.
Stoker handed me a cup of tea, bitter and dark.
“You look like hell,” he said quietly.
For his part, he was washed and dressed as tidily as I had ever seen him.
I sipped at my tea, grateful for the warmth of it seeping into my bones.
His expression was inscrutable.
“I have seen Lady C. and told her we are back.”
“For the moment,” I said waspishly.
For the first time in my life, having no fixed home was something thorny and unpleasant, but it was nothing compared to the guilt I felt over having played a part in destroying his.
Stoker did not respond to this.
He merely gave me a long look.
“Finish your tea and then have a wash.
It is time to go.”
I lifted my eyes from the cup.
“Montgomerie?”
He nodded and we said no more.
I washed and dressed and finished my tea, and Stoker and I presented ourselves at police headquarters for our interview with Sir Hugo.
I had expected endless miles of corridors and functionaries to navigate, but we were met at an unmarked street door by one of his men and whisked up a private stair and directly into Sir Hugo’s office—as discreet an entrance as it was possible to make at Scotland Yard.
Sir Hugo was settled behind his desk, and I was surprised to find he used a slender Regency writing table instead of a more traditional—and expected—barricade of mahogany.
The effect was one of intimacy.
Even opposite him, we were seated near enough that I could make out the lines at the corners of his eyes.
He looked a little fatigued, but not much the worse for wear after our ordeal.
His beard was neatly groomed, and his clothes were expertly tailored.
I suspected Sir Hugo of having a private income as well as his stipend as head of the Yard—or perhaps his shadowy master rewarded him handsomely, I reflected with some cynicism.
Mornaday stood quietly in the corner, his posture not entirely relaxed.
I wondered how harshly he had been disciplined for his easy treatment of us.
Stoker sat in a chair scarcely large enough to contain him, and I perched on the edge of mine, tipping my head inquiringly at Sir Hugo.
To my astonishment, he smiled, a rather beautiful smile, and when he spoke, it was with something approaching sincerity.
“Miss Speedwell, it might surprise you to know I am pleased that you emerged unscathed from the activities of last night.”
“It would,” I acknowledged.
“I am not your enemy,” he said, his tone warmer than I had yet heard it.
“In fact, we have a thing or two in common.
For instance, I am a butterfly collector myself.
Inspector Mornaday tells me you have a very fine ring net, although I must say I am partial to a clap net myself.”
I returned the smile.
“Sir Hugo, I know when a man wants something from me.
You needn’t exercise your charm on my account—particularly as I suspect that only my destroying those papers prevented you from taking my life.”
He gaped at me.
“My dear Miss Speedwell—”
“You deny it?
Was there really no plot at all to kill me and lay the blame squarely upon Mr. Stoker?
Forgive me, Mr. Templeton-Vane, as you know him,” I amended.
Sir Hugo continued to gawp as I went on in the same gentle tone.
“I believe there was.
Furthermore, I believe that only my prompt action last night prevented you from carrying it out.”
“I am a gentleman,” he returned coldly.
“I would never have gone through—” Too late, he realized he had acknowledged the plot.
I dared not look at Stoker.
Sir Hugo cleared his throat and began again.
“Miss Speedwell, I do not deny that there were certain parties that believed only your complete removal would ensure the security of this nation, and indeed the empire itself.
I disagreed, most strenuously,” he said with special emphasis, “and I would never have countenanced such an action, either from myself or any of my subordinates.”
He fell to silence and I let his words sit for a moment between us.
At last, I gave him a grudging nod.
“My instincts seldom fail me, Sir Hugo, and I believe you to be a man of honor who would balk at murdering a woman whose only crime is an accident of birth.”
His stiffness eased a trifle, but I leaned forward, skewering him with a glance.
“I also believe that you are very glad I destroyed those proofs so you did not have to test your own conscience.”
Before he could respond, I sat back, folding my hands in my lap.
“Now that we have dispensed with the pretenses, why don’t you tell us what you want with us.”
His mouth slackened.
“Very well.
I will be as forthright as you wish, Miss Speedwell.”
He opened the blotter on his desk and removed a piece of paper, folded over.
He slid it across the desk towards me.
I opened the paper to find it was nearly blank.
Except for a figure penned in neat, exact numbers.
“What is this?”
“Your pension.
I have spoken with my superior,” he said, his mouth twitching upon the word.
Clearly he remembered my taunts of the night before—remembered and resented.
“Destroying the proofs of your possible legitimacy was taken as a gesture of good faith,” he told me with deliberate stress upon the word “possible.”
“You must consider this a reciprocal gesture of goodwill.”
I pushed the paper back across the desk and rose.
“Thank you, Sir Hugo.
But you may inform your superior that I do not require hush money.
I burned the papers to prove I have no intention of pressing a claim.
My word should be good enough.”
He rose swiftly to his feet, as did Stoker.
“Miss Speedwell, I am not a man who likes to revisit his opinions.
I form them swiftly and they are invariably correct.
But Inspector Mornaday has been eloquent on your behalf.
While I must question your judgment in the company you choose to keep,” he added with a flick of a glance towards Stoker, “I would like to believe you do not mean to bring harm to the family.”
“Then believe it.”
He touched the page.
“Accepting this token of their gratitude would go a long way towards accomplishing that.”
“No, Sir Hugo.
It would go a long way towards putting me in their debt—a position I have no intention of occupying.”
He looked appealingly at Stoker.
“Can you not exercise some influence in this?”
Stoker shrugged.
“I could sooner influence the sun to set in the east, Sir Hugo.
She is entirely her own woman.”
The rush of gratitude I felt for Stoker’s understanding nearly made me dizzy.
Never before had I encountered a man so willing to abandon his allegedly God-given right to dominion over the fairer sex.
Sir Hugo returned his attention to me, raising an imperious brow.
“Without your cooperation in this matter, I do not know how far I can go towards ensuring the continued goodwill of my superior.”
I lifted my chin and gave him my most imperious stare.
“I am willing to take my chances, but know this, Sir Hugo—if there are any further acts of hostility, you may rest assured they will not begin with me.”
I turned on my heel and walked out, calling over my shoulder, “Adieu for now, Sir Hugo.”
Mornaday hurried to show us out, shepherding us down the staircase and opening the door that led onto the pavement.
“That was unexpected,” he told me with a grin.
“But I have come to expect the unexpected from you, Miss Speedwell.”
I put out my hand.
“Thank you, Inspector Mornaday, for all your efforts on our behalf.”
He took my hand, shaking it slowly.
His look was inscrutable and he gathered Stoker in with it.
“I do not know how bad this is all going to get.
I believe you are safe for now.
Just, keep yourself quiet, will you?
The less you draw attention to yourselves, the sooner they will feel secure and the sooner they will believe you mean them no harm.”
Stoker gave him a searching glance.
“I still owe you a thrashing, Mornaday.
But I am prepared to forgo the pleasure in exchange for a bit of information.”
Mornaday’s eyes widened a fraction as they settled on Stoker’s shoulders, broad and set as they were with murderous intent.
“I am listening,” he said quickly.
“I would like to know who is sitting in the shadows watching all of this.
Tell us the name of the fellow giving Sir Hugo’s orders.
We might like to look out for him.”
Mornaday cast a look back over his shoulder, shaking his head.
“More than my job is worth, man.
More than my
life is worth.
But I can tell you this—you have it wrong.
There is no ‘him.’
It is a ‘her.
’”
With that he retreated into the building and pulled the door shut behind him.
· · ·
Stoker and I spoke little upon our journey back to Bishop’s Folly, and when we reached the estate, a heaviness had settled upon us both.
I felt tired down to my marrow, a weariness so deep the sleep of a hundred years seemed inadequate to remedy it.
I was aware with creeping horror that the lowness I felt was not simply because our adventure was at an end, but because so much was left imperfectly finished.
There would be no justice for the baron’s murderer, at least not at the present.
Whatever my father’s presence in my life had been hitherto, it was now clear that his interest in me would never extend to a meeting.
I realized then that he was the person to whom Max had referred when he said the secrets were not his to tell.
He intended to consult someone, and who besides the prince himself would command Max’s discretion and loyalty?
Perhaps the baron had even planned to arrange a meeting between us.
I could imagine him accomplishing this rapprochement.
If anyone could have persuaded the prince to come face-to-face with the daughter he had abandoned, it would have been the baron.