Chapter 2
Chapter
“Horsefeathers,” Stoker said succinctly as he handed the note back with a gesture of lofty disdain. “Mornaday says only that he will call. There is nothing whatsoever about a body. Your rampageous imagination has got the better of you. Again.”
I gave him an indulgent smile. I could afford it. I was certain we were perched once more upon the precipice of adventure, and the resulting exhilaration made me generous with Stoker’s impatience.
“I know you have never properly warmed to Mornaday,” I began.
Stoker made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a heave of unwellness. Naturally I ignored this and went on.
I cleared my throat. “As I said, I know you have never properly warmed to Mornaday, but I think he is quite fond of you.”
[NB: Stoker’s reply was unsuitable for delicate readers, and I decline to repeat it here. —VS]
“Scoff if you like,” I went on, “but you cannot deny there has been real camaraderie amongst us in the past,” I reminded him. “And more than once Mornaday has demonstrated himself a true friend and ally. You must admit he has some admirable qualities.”
“He had me stripped and searched at Scotland Yard. By seven policemen,” Stoker said grimly.
“He applies himself to his work with thoroughness. You have just proven my point.”
Stoker growled and the dogs followed suit, setting off a cacophony that made further conversation impossible.
He returned to his work in progress—something which entailed a great deal of smelly glue and the occasional flurry of sparks from a welder’s torch, all conducted behind draperies he had hung to conceal his latest efforts—whilst I mounted the stairs to the snuggery.
This was my favorite part of the Belvedere, comprising a wide gallery that circled the inside of the building.
It was lined in bookshelves and stands for Wardian cases and punctuated here and there by alcoves that had been furnished with the haphazard luxury of the Rosemorrans.
An archbishop’s throne might have a stuffed miniature antelope for a footstool, while a brandy barrel served as a side table.
A hammock from the Amazonian rain forests might swing gently over a rug straight from the skillful looms of Anatolia.
In one alcove, an elegant Swedish stove had been installed along with a pair of mediaeval X-chairs from a French abbey.
The chairs and a camp bed once slept in by Napoléon had been made more comfortable by the addition of numerous cushions fashioned out of various scraps of velvet and satin and kilim rugs, and the whole alcove was illuminated by an assortment of beaded lamps hanging from silken cords.
Where others might have placed a birdcage or a bowl of goldfish, Stoker had installed a glass case of the aforementioned dermestid beetles, a particularly nasty variety of insect whose only purpose is to strip the flesh from the bones of other animals.
When I had objected, he defended them as tidy, homely creatures, and in the end, I left them.
After all, when a man wishes to contribute to the comforts of his home, he must be encouraged, no matter how dire the consequences.
I lit the lamps and the stove and plumped a few cushions, for my own comfort—Stoker and Mornaday wouldn’t notice if they were sitting upon one of the thornier varieties of cactus.
Various decanters and bottles of libation were always at hand, and I retrieved a tin of Stoker’s favorite biscuits in case we had need of a little refreshment while we conferred.
I had just arranged everything to my satisfaction when I heard a tread on the spiral stair—too light to be Stoker or Mornaday. I turned with a smile.
“J. J.!” I exclaimed. The dark red head bobbed into view followed by a slender figure holding her dripping bonnet by its strings. The dogs padded after her, sniffing eagerly. She usually brought some delicacy for them, filling her reticule with anything from bits of cheese to cooked chicken livers.
“It is a filthy night out there,” she said, coming near the fire to warm herself.
She tossed the bonnet—now much the worse for wear—into a corner where Betony, the largest of the dogs, promptly sat upon it.
I almost called her off, but then I realised the dog could do nothing but improve the state of the unfortunate headwear.
As a working reporter, J. J. cared little for her appearance and nothing at all for fashion.
The bonnet she habitually wore was at least ten years out of date, and even then it had only been suitable for someone living on a prairie.
J. J. settled herself into one of the chairs and propped her feet up on a hassock covered in a scrap of threadbare tapestry.
She whistled and Nut, the small pharaoh hound, leapt into her lap to be petted.
J. J. crooned a little as she cuddled the dog, and I saw that her eyes, usually bright with mischief, were a little dim.
A smudge of ink, the telltale mark of the reporter, stained one cheek and the fingers of her right hand.
She had been hard at work, but everything about her countenance said the experience had been unsatisfactory.
A nice cup of tea would probably help, I reflected, but a glass of aguardiente would help more. I poured her a measure of the fiery concoction of fermented sugarcane liquor and handed it over.
“Bless you,” she said fervently. She took rather more than she ought to have on her first sip and choked so hard her eyes watered.
“All right there?” I asked as I poured my own glass.
“Never better,” she replied huskily. “Except that I have been suspended from the Daily Harbinger. My editor has withheld my pay as compensation for damages I caused when he told me I was suspended. And my landlady is not open to a barter arrangement in lieu of cash for my rent. I am therefore, as of tomorrow morning, lacking both employment and a home.” With that she downed the last of the aguardiente and held out the empty glass.
“J. J., you really ought to pace yourself with aguar—”
“Pour,” she instructed. I did as she told me. Whatever ill effects she suffered would be her business, not mine, and the oblivion she would buy in the interim might do her well.
I refreshed her drink and had just settled in with my own when Mornaday arrived, trailing Stoker. He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of J. J. glowering into her glass.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Mornaday!” I reproved. “That is hardly a proper greeting for someone who has been our companion in danger and detection.” It was also not a suitable greeting for a woman for whom he harboured a tendresse, but Mornaday’s gentler feelings were not suitable for general conversation, particularly as they were not reciprocated.
J. J. was firmly wedded to her career and had no intention of settling down with Mornaday or any other fellow, a view I heartily applauded, as my own sentiments were strongly in opposition to babies, rose-covered cottages, and any other sugary image of domestic incarceration the mind could conjure.
Mornaday, usually amenable to a gentle correction, did not soften. “I wrote that I was coming specifically so that we would be uninterrupted and alone.”
“I do not care what you’ve come about,” J.
J. informed him loftily. “You could be planning the theft of the Crown Jewels from the Tower, you could be plotting to hang the Prince of Wales by his toenails, you could be scheming to steal Her Majesty’s pantalettes, and I would not care.
Go on. I have business with the bottom of this glass.
” She tipped it up, sucking out the last few drops of aguardiente with an audible slurp.
“Good god,” Stoker said, turning to me. “Does she know what that will do to her?”
“I do not think she much cares,” I replied. “She is without home and without employment and therefore in a state of some desperation.”
“I am not desperate,” J. J. corrected. “I am angry. I am angry with them,” she added, pointing a wavering finger between Stoker and Mornaday.
“What the devil did we do?” Mornaday demanded.
“Not you fespically,” she said.
“I think you mean ‘specifically,’ ” I put in.
“That is precisely what I said, Veronica. Do not interrupt.” She turned back to the men. “It is not the pair of you. It is your kind. Running everything from time imm—immem—immemememmorial. Lords of creation, acting as if the rest of us were simply put on God’s green earth to serve you.”
“Well, according to the Bible, you were,” Mornaday said.
His tone was perfectly reasonable, but I knew him well enough to realise he was goading her deliberately.
J. J. made to stand, forgetting completely that Nut was still happily ensconced in her lap.
I hurried to refill her glass before she managed to evict the dog and struggle to her feet.
“Veronica, the last thing she needs is more of that,” Stoker said.
“On the contrary,” I said, handing over the glass. “The more she drinks, the faster she will become unconscious and we can settle to the subject of the murder Mornaday is so eager to discuss.”
Mornaday gave a start. “I never said anything about a murder.”
“You did not have to. For you to warn us in writing that you meant to call, you must have a matter of urgent business to discuss. And your business is murder.”
“My business is a few other things as well,” he protested. “I do investigate the occasional bank robbery or jewel theft, you know.”
Stoker poured himself a measure of whisky and handed the bottle to Mornaday. “We do not stand on ceremony here. You know where the glasses are. Get on with it.”
Mornaday looked as if he would like to cavil, but Stoker’s expression brooked no argument.