Chapter 6
Chapter
Stoker and I travelled—as we often did—on foot, preferring a brisk walk through Marylebone and into the streets and leafy squares of Mayfair to an interminable ride in a stuffy hackney.
We located the Von Hilsing house easily enough—it was the only house in the square, the other buildings being given over to Mr. Von Hilsing’s mews, guesthouse, coach house, and various other offices.
At the arched entrance to the square, a pair of inordinately large fellows flanked the street.
They regarded us closely but made no attempt to impede our progress.
“If they are meant to be guards, they are remarkably accommodating,” I mused. “They’ve let us walk right in.”
“You realise this call may be extremely ill-advised,” Stoker remarked as we approached the door.
“How so?”
“The Quinceys and Harknesses have gone to great lengths to keep the nature of Maurice and Jameson’s deaths secret. And Mornaday counselled discretion. By interrogating Seward Johnson, we may be opening a particularly nasty can of worms.”
“Interrogating! What a word. I merely mean to ask the man about his dead friends. Besides, worms might be nasty, but they are exceedingly useful. Ask any angler—one needs them to bait a hook.”
At the front door, Stoker made use of the brass knocker—an eagle, as one might expect of an American. The door was opened almost at once by a cadaverously thin man with four or five wisps of greying hair combed carefully over his bald head. The butler, I surmised.
“Yes?” His voice was sepulchral as he regarded us with the same enthusiasm a pirate might demonstrate at discovering his wooden leg is riddled with termites.
I was dressed neatly in my violet, but Stoker’s appearance always hovered on the disreputable, occasionally tipping over into outright shabbiness.
Money was not the source of the problem.
It was not that he could not afford nice things; it was that he so rarely troubled himself about what he put on, most often reaching for his work clothes without a particle of consideration.
Each of these garments, while made of quality materials from distinguished tailors, had been subjected to so much abuse in the course of his activities that they were invariably stained, worn, patched, or faded.
It did not matter how expensive or new the article of clothing, he had no care for it.
I had once seen him stuff a dead rat—a treat for his ever-voracious dermestid beetles—into the pocket of a new suit.
The fact that he had forgot the rat for two days did nothing to improve the suit’s condition.
But the clothes were the least remarkable aspect of his appearance.
At six feet, he was taller than average, and his muscles were highly developed from the physical nature of his work.
His hair, witch black and cut infrequently, tumbled past his collar, brushing his shoulders.
He eschewed facial hair, preferring to shave on an irregular basis, which meant his chin was always shadowed.
A slender silver scar ran from the line of that shadow up to his eye, the remnant of an old injury that meant he sometimes wore a patch when he found himself fatigued.
Coupled with the gold hoops he wore in his ears, it gave him the look of a not altogether unsuccessful Elizabethan privateer.
The butler could not conceal his moue of distaste as he regarded the smear of ink on Stoker’s collar. “The tradesman’s entrance is behind the house.”
Before I could mount an appropriate response, Stoker drew himself up to his full height and gave the butler his most autocratic stare, arching a single brow.
His elder brother could not have done a better impression of offended nobility.
Stoker dipped his fingers into his pocket and retrieved a card, offering it with a disdainful gesture.
“Revelstoke Templeton-Vane to see Mr. Seward Johnson.”
A lesser man would have revealed that the card actually read The Honourable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, but Stoker, for all his bohemian leanings, understood every exquisite nuance of the etiquette of the upper classes.
“Honourable” was a distinction that should be printed but never spoken aloud, and the butler was well aware of this.
He was too well trained to show any sort of reaction to the information on the card, but I saw the telltale flinch of his Adam’s apple and noted the brief flicker of his mouth into a semblance of welcome.
“Of course, Mr. Templeton-Vane. Forgive me, sir, you are brother to the current Viscount Templeton-Vane, if I am not mistaken?”
“You are acquainted with my brother?” Stoker asked in a coolly detached tone.
“Oh, yes, sir. His lordship is a frequent visitor to this house.” That information ought not to have surprised me.
Tiberius had followed in their father’s footsteps as a man of international affairs, some related to business, others to more carnal matters.
There was nothing in the household of an aging vegetarian tycoon to appeal to Tiberius’s more sensual appetites, but I could well believe he had cultivated Horace Von Hilsing as a useful contact in his dealings.
“In that case, I am certain you will not wish to make me wait any further,” Stoker replied.
“Certainly, Mr. Templeton-Vane. Right this way. If you and your companion—” He paused and looked expectantly at me.
“My companion’s name is of no consequence to you,” Stoker said.
“Yes, sir. If you and your companion would care to wait here for just a moment, I will let Mr. Johnson know you have called.” He backed up, gesturing towards a small parlour.
A pair of straight-backed chairs stood in the vestibule, but the man was cowed enough not to make us wait in a draught, and I was grateful for it.
The house stank of fresh paint, enough that my eyes began to water.
Von Hilsing might not entertain much anymore, but he certainly liked to keep his house in proper trim, I observed.
We entered the parlour, and Stoker made a flicking gesture of dismissal with his forefinger.
The butler scurried away and I turned to Stoker.
“For a man who despises aristocrats, you do an exceptional impression of one.”
Stoker grinned, his disdain completely forgot. “I learnt from the best. My father was the greatest snob in existence. He could cow the loftiest butler with a single glance.”
I had not met the late Lord Templeton-Vane—he was deceased and the title passed on to Stoker’s eldest brother by the time I came on the scene—but nothing I had heard of the man made me regret the omission.
It was not often that we called upon millionaires, so naturally I took the opportunity to survey our surroundings.
The room was sparsely furnished with very good pieces, boasting only a few chairs and a narrow sofa with a handful of ornaments scattered on the mantelpiece.
One of these was a small statue, a bronze replica of Liberty Enlightening the World.
I was admiring her uplifted torch and sober expression when the door opened and a slender young man entered.
We had seen the sketch of him in the Harbinger, and it occurred to me that he might successfully sue the artist for damages.
The illustration bore only the faintest resemblance to the man himself.
He was, at first glance, unremarkable—middling height, possibly thirty, with sandy hair and blue eyes.
But lepidopterists are keen observers, trained to look beyond first impressions.
As I studied Mr. Johnson, I noticed the subtleties of his appearance.
Blue eyes may, as in Stoker’s case, be remarkable for their sapphirine brightness, but these eyes were an uncommon shade tinted with grey, like a storm on a summer sea.
They seemed touched with melancholy, yet I suspected they would brighten when he was interested or amused.
He was dressed with the quiet expense of a gentleman who does not care to display his wealth, but the lines of his tailoring were excellent, and a slender band of heavy gold on his right hand was set with a small but handsome gemstone.
He moved, like all good employees, on silent feet.
When he spoke, his voice was low and melodious but pleasant, the sort of voice one hears from tenors in passably good choirs.
He was, in short, the perfect private secretary, a man whose commendably good taste would make him easy to overlook in a crowd.
It was only when he drew near that I noted the classical purity of his profile and the superb moulding of his mouth.
It was his handsomest feature, and he used it to good effect, almost but not quite smiling as he approached.
He regarded Stoker with curiosity. “Mr. Templeton-Vane, you wished to see me? I am Seward Johnson.”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson. I should like to present Miss Speedwell, my associate.”
Johnson inclined his head to me, his expression still faintly puzzled as he shook the hand I extended.
His was long-fingered, the palm broad and warm.
The hand of a musician, I decided, or perhaps an oarsman, although I detected no telltale calluses.
“I am sorry, did you have business you wished to conduct with Mr. Von Hilsing? Only he is away at present.”
“Away?” I asked. “I thought Mr. Von Hilsing no longer travelled.”