Chapter 6 #2
The ghost of a smile ripened into something slightly warmer and a little wry—a most attractive smile, I thought.
“Mr. Von Hilsing’s reclusiveness is greatly exaggerated.
He crosses the Atlantic at least twice each year to visit his home in California, and he often spends a week or two on the Continent in service of his health.
He has a touch of rheumatism in spite of the care he takes with his constitution,” he added in a confiding tone.
“Always in search of fads and cures. I am afraid you have just missed him. He left only this morning for France. He heard of a new thalassic spa near Deauville and insisted upon trying it at once. His departure was most unexpected.”
That explained the ease of our access to the Von Hilsing house. Security would be slack if the millionaire himself were absent.
“In point of fact, Mr. Johnson, we have business with you,” Stoker informed him. Johnson gave a little start of surprise but his expression remained pleasant. If anything he seemed gratified that we wished to speak with him instead of the great man himself.
“Me? I am at a loss as to know what you mean, but I am at your service, Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane.”
Stoker opened his mouth to reply, but I cut in swiftly. “You knew Maurice Quincey and Jameson Harkness.”
There was a quick, almost imperceptible flinch. The pleasantness faded, replaced by a soberness expected when speaking of the dead. “I did.”
“We are sorry for your loss. We understand they were close friends,” Stoker said.
“Not close,” Johnson said hurriedly. “Our paths crossed from time to time, but I had not seen either one of them for quite a while before their deaths.”
“What can you tell us about the Harpocrates Society?”
If I had expected to elicit a gasp, to cause the blood to drain suddenly from his complexion, I was disappointed.
His brow furrowed, then cleared swiftly, replaced by something akin to nostalgia.
“The Harpocrates Society? I have not heard that name in months. I can hardly recall it, to be frank. I think it was some sort of pet interest of Quincey’s.
Or was it Harkness? I forget. I attended one lecture and that was the end of it. ”
“Where?” Stoker asked.
Johnson’s pale eyes widened. “Heavens, I’m sure I could not say. Somewhere in Brompton? Or was it Bloomsbury? I think it might have begun with a ‘B,’ but I really could not tell you. It has been a long time.”
“How did you hear about the meeting?” I queried.
He shrugged. “One of them suggested it, but as I say, I forget which.”
“And the subject of the lecture?” I pressed.
Embarrassment pinkened his complexion. “I am abashed to say that I fell asleep. I never was very studious. Slept through half my lectures at Cambridge. Frightfully slipshod of me, but this was only a social occasion, after all. Still, not very polite. I scuttled out the first chance I had from sheer mortification at my boorishness.”
“We believe the society has something to do with folkloric studies,” Stoker suggested.
Johnson nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds about right. Although, as I say, I really can’t remember. I am good with numbers, but I am afraid cultural subjects leave me cold.”
“Then why did you go?” I demanded.
He gave a warm little smile, and I felt the full weight of his unexpected charm. “Miss Speedwell, I am certain you understand what it is to accommodate the interests of one’s friends. We indulge them although we may not share them.”
“Can you tell us anything about the other members? Did you recognise anyone?” Stoker’s question was so brilliant, I was mildly irritated I had not thought to ask it myself.
Johnson seemed more confident now, on firmer ground.
“Alas, no. I cannot recall any introductions being made, and I have a poor memory for faces, which I can assure you is something of a liability in my profession. I am sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but I am afraid I really must get on.
You wouldn’t think there would be much business to attend to with Mr. Von Hilsing away, and yet somehow there is more. ”
He turned to guide us out of the parlour, the interview pointedly over.
I stopped on the threshold, forcing him to pause. “What can you tell us about a man called Ruthven?”
At the mention of the name, Seward Johnson canted his head as he looked at me, clearly nonplussed.
But I noted the speedy little pulse beating in his throat, faster than it had been a moment before, I fancied, and his colour had paled noticeably.
“It is a common enough name, Miss Speedwell. Scotch, I think. I seem to remember a Ruthven in the history of Mary, Queen of Scots, but one always seems to forget the history one learns at school. Is that the Ruthven you meant?”
“No. I was speaking of the one connected to the Harpocrates Society.”
“Ah. Well, as I said, I went only once and paid little attention to the other guests. If you say there was a Ruthven present, I shall have to take your word for it.”
As he led us to the front door, Stoker played the same gambit, lingering on the doorstep for a final remark. “I left my card with the butler. Should you think of anything, please do let us know.”
“Of course,” Johnson replied. “But I cannot imagine I will think of anything helpful.”
Stoker nodded towards a heap of cases which were stacked next to the stairs. “Planning a trip, Mr. Johnson?”
Johnson regarded the cases a long moment, then summoned a smile. “Not at all. Mr. Von Hilsing often leaves in a terrific hurry with only a valise. I am tasked with sending on his cases, putting the staff on board wages, and closing up the house.”
I wondered why Johnson was given such a chore instead of a valet or the officious butler, but Von Hilsing was an American millionaire, I reflected—not a British aristocrat.
It was apparent the diligent Mr. Johnson had already begun the task of closing the house, for apart from the butler, no other staff seemed in evidence.
No maidservants tip-tapping along, no housekeeper bustling past in rustling bombazine.
Not even a boot boy clattering through a back passage to disturb the atmosphere.
“Your household seems a bit at sixes and sevens with Mr. Von Hilsing away. I gather the decorators are in,” I observed. Mr. Johnson gave me a quizzical look and I smiled. “The smell of fresh paint is rather distinct.”
“Ah! You are an observant lady, Miss Speedwell. Yes, Mr. Von Hilsing likes me to use his time away as a chance to have the paintwork touched up. He cannot abide the odour.”
“The whims of millionaires, eh?” Stoker ventured.
A touch of hauteur chilled Johnson’s manner, not brusqueness, but a bit of stiffening that hinted at disapproval.
“Quite,” he said, clipping the word sharply.
Clearly Johnson did not much care for any possible disparagement of his employer—or perhaps it was the reminder of his own inferior status he minded.
“As I will be leaving shortly, do save yourself the trouble of calling again. I should hate for you to waste a trip.”
Stoker gave him a broad smile, the sort he used when he meant to disarm. “Good day, Mr. Johnson. As I say, do get in touch if you think of anything helpful.”
I stopped to shake hands again, and Mr. Johnson gave me a cordial bow as we bade one another farewell. We had just stepped onto the pavement in front of the house when the butler appeared, ascending the stairs leading from the basement. He wore a fashionable bowler hat and carried a neat carpetbag.
“Good afternoon,” I said cordially. “Going travelling?”
He raised his bowler. “Miss, sir. Yes, I am off to spend a fortnight with my sister in Bristol. Mr. Von Hilsing is very generous about giving time away when he is abroad.”
“How fortunate,” I said.
“Indeed.” He lifted his hat again and sketched a half bow before turning to leave, whistling a snippet of a merry tune.
“Someone is happy to be going on holiday,” I remarked as we emerged from the tiny square into a narrow street leading directly to Hyde Park Corner.
Stoker stopped, a smile spreading over his features. “You realise that our genial Mr. Johnson was lying.”
“Of course he was lying. I could smell the stink of mendacity upon him,” I said with some vexation.
Other people’s lies never failed to rouse my peevishness.
I deplored the lack of honesty in principle, but the greater issue was that untruthfulness wasted a good deal of time.
The bulk of our investigations were spent unpicking fact from fib.
“He claimed hardly to remember Harkness and Quincey, but that rang of untruth to me. He was polite enough and made cordial responses, but I detected a distinct lack of warmth in the eyes.”
“Oh, there was something far more significant than that.” Stoker paused, no doubt for dramatic effect, and I tapped my toe upon the kerbstone.
“Well?”
“We appeared, asking questions about a meeting he attended with two of his friends, both of whom have died in suspicious circumstances,” he began.
“Yes?” I prodded.
“Yet he never asked us why we wanted to know.”
“Damn and blast,” I muttered. It was the sort of observation I ought to have made, and it was vastly irritating that Stoker had beaten me to the mark.
Stoker stuck out his arm to hail a hansom.
A vehicle of some antiquity drew to a stop beside us, the horse looking as bedraggled as the peeling paint of the carriage.
As Stoker handed me in, he had the last word.
“Seward Johnson is in this matter up to his well-tailored neck. And I want to know how.”