Chapter 4
Chapter
“Absolutely not,” Stoker said flatly.
“But—” J. J. began to remonstrate with him, but I held up a hand.
“Leave him be, J. J. We will not attempt to persuade him that this investigation is a necessity.”
A gleam kindled in Stoker’s gaze. “Oh, won’t you?
” I deduced at once that he was being deliberately provocative.
He had been suffering from boredom as acutely as I, and here we had a case dropped in our laps—and not just any case, a case that had it all: Cryptic threats!
Mysterious suicides! A touch of the macabre!
His refusal was twofold, I decided. First, he would rather set fire to his own hair than willingly do a favour for Mornaday, at least not without extracting the maximum amount of begging on Mornaday’s part.
Second—and this brought a tinge of pink to my cheeks—Stoker loved nothing more than pricking my temper with an eye to energetically making amends later.
(Natural historians classify such behaviours as courtship rituals, but human beings have another word for it.)
Very well. If he wished to play games, he would always find me a willing and worthy opponent.
I bared my teeth in a semblance of a smile.
“Certainly not. You have stated unequivocally that you have no intention of helping. That is your right, just as it is my right to immediately undertake this investigation on my own. Now, at some point, you may be struck by the notion that in unravelling this mystery, a terrible wrong may be righted and a murderer brought to justice. I beg you, do not regard such a thought. Put it directly from your mind. It may also occur to you that writing this story will enable J. J. to find a new and better post at a significantly more respectable newspaper than the Daily Harbinger.”
J. J. made a noise of mild protest, and I gave her a pitying smile. “I know you have been comfortable at the Harbinger, but you must admit that there are squirrels in Hyde Park with better morals than that filthy rag.”
“It was my filthy rag,” she muttered, dropping her head to scribble again in her notebook.
I carried on speaking to Stoker. “And I insist that you must not consider J. J.’s prospects for better employment.
She could always give up journalism and take up another occupation.
Perhaps beekeeping. Or casual prostitution.
Although I doubt she has the temperament for either—one must be very nurturing to keep bees. ”
Stoker opened his mouth, but I continued to speak as if he had not.
“And you must not be swayed by any thoughts that this might benefit Mornaday by exposing his superior’s actions and leading to Superintendent Carruthers’s removal.
I mean, the whole affair reeks of corruption at the highest levels, but I shouldn’t want you to give that a moment’s pause.
I am certain the status quo must be preserved because the men in power would certainly never use that power to cover up their crimes and misdeeds.
And you must not consider for a second, not the merest mouse-breath of a moment, that by investigating on my own I might be exposed to certain danger—”
“Enough.” Stoker surged out of his chair, scattering dogs as he reached to lift me out of mine, gripping my shoulders so tightly I would later find finger marks upon the silk.
His eyes were bright with mischief and something more tender.
“If it means enough to you to embark upon that ridiculous diatribe, I will help. The very idea of you haring about London in solitary pursuit of a murderer chills me to the marrow.”
I rewarded him with my most dazzling smile. “I knew you would not be unmoved by concern for my safety.”
His black brows shot skyward. “Your safety? Veronica, you could take care of yourself when matched against all the demons in hell. I am worried for the murderer.”
Mornaday gave a bark of laughter, but I did not care. I bestowed a brief kiss to the tip of Stoker’s nose, knowing how public displays of affection unsettle him. He unhanded me immediately and I turned to Mornaday.
“Are there any other facts you can relate regarding either the death of Maurice Quincey or Jameson Harkness?”
Mornaday shrugged. “The only items published in the newspapers were obituaries and they were brief to the point of insignificance, so I did not bother to hunt them down for you.”
“Any materials from the coroner? The inquest?” Stoker asked.
“Nothing beyond what I have told you. Only that Sir Ranulph stated he witnessed his son’s death, but the widow Harkness let slip to me that her father-in-law was in his study, working. He was there when she ran to find him after Jameson’s fall from the balcony.”
“A direct contradiction of Sir Ranulph’s testimony under oath,” I mused. “He must have been desperate indeed to avoid any suspicions that Jameson took his own life.”
Mornaday sat forward, his expression solemn.
“I cannot stress enough how discreet this investigation must be. If Carruthers catches wind of the pair of you nosing about, it will be my neck in the noose, figuratively speaking. Only a handful of us know what really happened that day, and it would not take him long to come sniffing at my door.”
“We cannot question any of the Harknesses, then,” I concluded. “What of the Quinceys?”
“The same,” Mornaday replied swiftly. “Quincey was unmarried, parents deceased quite some time ago. Maurice’s elder brother inherited their father’s baronetcy when he was at school, and Maurice was sent to live with an uncle, Everard Quincey.
Maurice had precious little contact with his elder brother in the years before his death—exchanging Christmas letters seems to be the extent of their relationship, and he cut himself off completely from Uncle Everard. ”
J. J. looked up, her interest clearly piqued. “Everard Quincey? I know that name. He is the Bishop of Ludlow, is he not?”
“He is, and very involved in the relationship between the government and the church in his capacity as the spiritual adviser to the Home Secretary,” Mornaday supplied.
“At least unofficially. The bishop likes to have a quiet word with him about appointments, vetting them for scandal and so forth. Any hint of misbehaviour and a candidate will be struck off the list of potential appointees. The bishop’s pet cause is moral rectitude. ”
“I should like him for a dinner partner,” J. J. said wistfully. “That is a man who knows all the most delicious bits of gossip, I should think.”
“He is silent as an oyster,” Mornaday told her. “Won’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. That is why young Quincey’s death was hushed up. No prince of the church wants his nephew’s sordid little murder to become fodder for public gossip, especially when said prince’s raison d’être is probity.”
“So he countenances lies on his nephew’s behalf,” Stoker pointed out. “That smacks of hypocrisy.”
“Not to the bishop, I am sure,” I told him. “It is always ‘one rule for thee, another for me.’ ”
Stoker made a low growl in his throat by way of reply.
His dislike of the ruling classes—both temporal and spiritual—was born of too close an acquaintance with them.
As the third son of the late Viscount Templeton-Vane, Stoker had been perfectly positioned to assess the flaws of nobility and to reject his birthright soundly.
He had begun to run away from home at the age of twelve, always being dragged back by his enraged father.
He only succeeded in leaving the Templeton-Vane legacy behind when he entered the Navy as a surgeon’s assistant.
Since his discharge after the siege of Alexandria, he had spent time in a travelling show, established himself as a natural historian of note, and embarked upon the successful investigation of several elusive mysteries.
The one thing he had not done was reconcile himself to his own past. It had taken herculean efforts on my part to persuade him even to speak to his brothers again, and their relationships were still fraught with old resentments and grudges that usually spilled over into fisticuffs.
I always made a point of keeping a kit of medicaments handy whenever two or more Templeton-Vanes were in the same room.
“There are two other things,” Mornaday said slowly. “Bits of gossip that never made it into any of the official reports. They are so insignificant as to be hardly worth mentioning—”
“Mention them,” Stoker commanded.
“Very well. First, a boy was seen lurking about when Quincey’s body was discovered in the carriage outside Highgate.”
“A boy? Was he ever questioned?” I asked.
“He was never found, and I do not think anyone made a particular effort to look. The bishop was on the scene quite early, insisting upon discretion, so letting the boy slip out of sight was a sure way of keeping his name and testimony out of the records.”
“Do you have a description of the lad? He shall be impossible to trace otherwise,” Stoker pointed out.
“Only that he appeared to be Romany.”
Stoker groaned. There was no more elusive soul in the world than a traveller who did not want to be found.
“And the second thing?” I asked.
“Quincey and Harkness attended lectures together. Somewhere in Hampstead. A private society. That is all anyone would say, and I got a flea in my ear for asking.”
“Why is that significant?” J. J. asked.
“Because gentlemen of their class would meet at a club,” Stoker told her.
“They would socialise privately but in Bond Street or similar. A place as far out as Hampstead suggests a specific shared interest that they were not keen to make public.” He raised his brows at Mornaday, and Mornaday shrugged.
“The widow Harkness said her husband had a fascination with the occult, but I’ve no way of knowing if Quincey felt the same.”