Chapter 4 #2
“So we have two corpses, dead under mysterious circumstances, powerful relatives who do not want these deaths investigated, and our only clue is a Romany boy who may have been seen in Highgate Cemetery,” I concluded.
I looked around at the trio of gloomy faces and grinned.
“This may be our most challenging case yet, but it is also the most intriguing. Come,” I said, rising to my feet, “the scent is laid!”
The assorted responses left much to be desired. Stoker was still grumbling, Mornaday was at great pains to remind us that a lapse in discretion would mean the end of his career, and at the mention of employment, J. J. refreshed her glass of aguardiente and took up once more her litany of woes.
“It grows late, Veronica,” Stoker reminded me.
“I have work, and no doubt Mornaday has somewhere terribly important to be—perhaps his bookmaker’s or the physician’s so he may be treated for a raging case of boils—and if you do not remove that glass from J.
J.’s hand, I cannot answer for her head tomorrow. ”
“Shall I carry her to bed?” Mornaday asked, his expression hopeful. Mornaday’s schoolboy crush on J. J. was as deep as it was unrequited.
“No need,” I told him. “Stoker will manage.”
“I just said I have work—oh, never mind,” Stoker said, giving in with a sigh.
He caught J. J. just as her head lolled forwards and the glass dropped gently to the carpet.
Rather than cradling her carefully like a child, he hoisted her with all the elegance of a dockworker shifting a sack of grain.
Her midsection landed on his shoulder, and he set off, whistling to the dogs as he went.
“Veronica,” Mornaday said, “I was wondering about J. J.—”
“Not now, Mornaday. If Stoker reaches my folly before I do, he will give her the bed, and I am not sleeping on the sofa.”
“But do you think she might be amenable to—” he began.
“No,” I said flatly. “Whatever you mean to suggest, I can promise you, this is the worst possible time to woo her,” I called over my shoulder to his woebegone face as I hurtled down the stairs after Stoker and J. J.
I caught them up when they were just outside the Belvedere. Something of the brisk night air or the motion caused J. J. to stir. She raised her head and gave me a befuddled look.
“What’s happening? What am I riding?” She poked Stoker’s backside, the only accessible portion of his anatomy, with a stiff finger. “Why is it so hard?”
“That is Stoker’s posterior,” I told her coldly. “Do try to contain yourself.”
“Oh,” she replied. Then she dropped her head and resumed her modest coma.
A brief walk brought us to the pond at Bishop’s Folly, fringed with reeds and the shrubbery in which Patricia, his lordship’s Galápagos tortoise, occasionally marooned herself.
When she was unable to extricate herself from the bushes, she would simply wait with mournful cries to be rescued.
The effort never took less than six fully grown men, but Patricia never learnt.
I was beginning to suspect she liked the attention.
But there was no sign of Patricia that evening as Stoker made his way directly to my folly.
Mine was one of half a dozen structures scattered on the grounds of the estate, each built according to the whim of a previous earl to represent a different time and place.
Stoker slept in a Chinese pagoda whilst I dwelt in a Gothic chapel that resembled the exquisite jewel box of Sainte-Chapelle, complete with stained glass and star-dusted ceiling.
The amenities were a trifle rustic, but I had lived in far more perilous conditions during my butterfly-hunting expeditions around the world.
With a comfortable bed, a chimney that drew excellently, and a sturdy bookshelf, I had all that I required in a lodging.
There was even a copper kettle, kept bright by one of the housemaids, for tea and basic ablutions, although I availed myself of the folly designed after a Roman bath for more serious efforts at cleanliness.
At my direction, Stoker dropped J. J. onto the sofa, where she began to snore gently.
“I knew it,” I muttered darkly. “I shall get no sleep whatsoever with J. J. making noises like a sawmill.”
Stoker regarded me thoughtfully, one fingertip reaching out to stroke my collarbone. “You could stay with me.”
The offer was not without its inducements—namely a bit of health-giving physical congress guaranteed to warm the blood and quicken the pulses—but I shook my head regretfully.
“I will stay with J. J. should she have need of me. Aguardiente is the greatest of friends when drunk and the vilest of enemies the morning after.”
“If you are certain,” Stoker said mildly, dipping the fingertip lower to skim the edge of my décolletage.
“Well,” I said, swallowing hard and taking a step nearer. “Perhaps I could join you for an hour or two—”
Just then J. J. rolled to her side and made a very specific and most alarming noise.
“Bucket,” she rasped.
I had no bucket to hand, but there was a convenient basin, which I held under her as she revisited the aguardiente she had consumed.
She heaved for some minutes, each effort more strenuous than the last, until finally she seemed to have completed the exercise.
She collapsed back onto the sofa, pale and damply perspiring as she moaned gently.
“Stoker?” I looked up to find the door to the folly wide open and Stoker nowhere in sight. Not even the dogs were there. “Cowards,” I said distinctly as I rose to empty and clean the basin. It promised to be a very long night.