Chapter 14
Chapter
The breakfast things had just been cleared and Stoker and I had settled companionably to our respective jobs when George appeared with the morning post.
“Late today,” Stoker called.
“Sorry, sir,” George replied, his cheeks full as a chipmunk’s.
“Cook made jam tarts.” That was a sufficient explanation for any tardiness.
Cook’s jam tarts, with exquisitely light pastry and filled with her own plum preserves, were one of George’s favourite indulgences, his enthusiasm matched only by Stoker’s.
“I hope to heaven you’ve brought me one,” Stoker told him.
George grinned and reached into his pocket, offering a squashed tart on a grubby palm.
It looked almost indecent, but Stoker was not fussy.
His own hands were already smeared with two colours of ink and dotted with tiny feathers.
He opened his mouth and George tossed the tart in an arc that went only a little wide.
Stoker stretched to the side and caught it midair, downing it in a single bite as I flicked through the post.
The envelope was on the top, a heavy thing of expensive paper with the watermark of an exclusive London shop that catered to the most illustrious of clients.
The handwriting was elegant and old-fashioned, each letter precisely perfect—a distinctive hand, to be certain, but an unfamiliar one.
It was addressed to both of us, so I reached for the Nepalese kukri I was currently using as a paper knife and slit the envelope.
There was a single piece of card inside, the paper formally printed with a coat of arms impressed on the top of it.
I read the words twice over, scarcely believing my eyes.
“What is it?” Stoker asked, rubbing the crumbs from his mouth on his sleeve.
“It is an invitation.”
“We do occasionally indulge in a social life,” Stoker said dryly. “Why do you look so amazed?”
“Because our host is Lord Ruthven himself.” I held up the card for his inspection. “He wishes us to call upon him late this evening.”
The missive was short and direct.
My dear Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane, I hope you will forgive my forwardness in presuming an acquaintance when we have not been formally introduced. I further hope you will oblige me by calling upon me at my home this evening at ten o’clock. Yours most sincerely.
Unlike the fluid and elegant hand of the note itself, the signature was bold, slashing capitals. RUTHVEN.
“Someone knows their Debrett’s,” he observed as he turned from the card to the envelope, noting that it was properly addressed to Miss Veronica Speedwell and the Honourable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane.
He handed the card back, and I read over it for a third time, attempting to parse some hidden meaning from the scant lines. Was it a challenge? Or lure to a trap? “He specifies ten o’clock. A curiously late hour for visitors, and you notice he does not ask us to dine with him.”
Stoker grinned. “Of course not. Vampires do not eat dinner, and they famously do not rise before sunset.”
I met his smile with a mirthless one of my own. “Jest if you wish, but we are going. This is our one and only clue.”
“And you mean to walk directly into the home of a man who might be a murderer simply because he requests it? I should expect nothing less of you, my dearest.”
I replaced the note into the envelope and gave my attention to the rest of the post as Stoker made to return to his work. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back, mischief tweaking the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, and mind you wear a high-necked gown, Veronica—for protection. Your neck is utterly delectable, and I wouldn’t want Ruthven getting ideas.”
* * *
J. J. was naturally put out that she could not accompany us, but as I pointed out to her, the invitation was formal and clearly addressed only to Stoker and to me.
We left her in the Belvedere, surrounded by stacks of files and books, and once more in the company of the dogs, looking even more disheveled and woebegone than she had the previous night.
“The longer she spends with the dogs, the more she comes to resemble them,” I told Stoker as we left Bishop’s Folly. “If we do not soon find her some useful occupation, I fear she will begin to grow fur and scratch fleas.”
Stoker made no reply. He fairly vibrated with anticipation, and it occurred to me that for all his insistence that vampires could not possibly exist, he possessed enough imagination to at least wonder if he might be wrong.
The possibility that we were striding into the lion’s—or vampire’s—den with the potential to be torn apart simply added a fillip of enjoyment to my evening.
There is nothing like the chance of a bloody death to heighten one’s appreciation of life and one’s senses.
As we travelled north—to a neighbourhood adjacent to Highgate Cemetery, I noted with interest—I observed that the evening air had never smelt so pungently of coal smoke and the effluent of horses; the pall of soot hanging in the air had never presented such a picture of shifting veils.
My blood thrummed with delight, and I wondered idly if it were the sort of thing a vampire could hear.
I was immensely glad I had—in spite of Stoker’s advice, not because of it, I must insist—dressed in a high-necked gown of dark violet velvet.
About my throat I had knotted a narrow black silk scarf.
I tried to offer the same to Stoker, but he waved me off with a snort of derision.
“Very well, but if you find yourself with fangs embedded in your carotid artery, you have only yourself to blame,” I warned him.
“My carotid? Surely a vampire would strike for the jugular,” he argued. “It is, after all, more conveniently located for quick exsanguination.”
“But the carotid carries fresh blood,” I reminded him. “I expect a vampire would wish for the most nourishing variety of food. Most creatures do.”
Stoker stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If they feed solely on blood, then they would be classified as carrion eaters—and carrion eaters do not take their nourishment fresh.”
“Carrion eaters! What tosh. The Desmodontinae are not classified as carrion eaters.”
He regarded me with an expression of utter amusement tinged with reproach. “You have been reading up on vampire bats. Veronica, really.”
“One must know one’s enemy,” I replied loftily.
“I would dearly love to hear more about how you have prepared to fight an undead revenant, but it appears we have arrived.”
* * *
The house was—at a guess—late Tudor in style, built of dark grey stone and festooned with stonework embellishments including a pair of melancholic-looking carved dogs perched above the porch.
But if I had expected something more Gothic and sinister, I was disappointed.
A heavy veil of ivy shrouded the walls, but the path was neatly swept, and there was not a cobweb to be seen.
The hedges were tall but orderly. I confess the house was something of a letdown after I had spent the drive allowing my imagination to have free rein.
Where were the turrets, high and pointed as a witch’s hat?
Where was the moat in which something unspeakable stirred from slumber?
And where was the stout door, deep in shadow, that opened of its own accord as we approached?
The front door of this house was thrown open, to be sure, but a woman stood in the pool of golden light of the entry.
She was dressed all in black, her hair so pitilessly dark it must have been dyed.
It was coiled high upon her head, giving her extra height, for she was not a tall woman.
But she carried herself well, and her gown, old-fashioned and unusual, heightened the impression that she was a creature out of step with time.
A lady dressed all in black with her raven hair piled atop her head—surely this was young Thomas’s graveyard witch! I trod gently on Stoker’s toe to alert him to the significance.
“You came,” she said by way of welcome. Her mouth curved into a small smile, but whether it was sincere or at our expense, I could not say.
“We did,” I returned robustly. “But I am afraid you have the advantage of us.”
I waited for her to give her name, but instead she merely widened the smile, showing small, pearly teeth. “Indeed I do. Follow me.”
She turned and led the way into the house, and when the door closed behind us, there was a note of finality I did not like.
Much of the interior of the house was in shadow, for few of the lamps had been lit, and those that had were heavily shaded.
I was conscious of the warmth of the house as we moved further inside.
The walls were hung with dark red wallpaper and between the colour and the heat, it felt as if we were moving into the heart of a living thing.
We passed several closed doors before coming to one which she threw back with a theatrical gesture.
To my surprise, before us lay a conservatory.
Fashioned of delicate ironwork and set with glass panels, it was much warmer than the rest of the house, and that was an impressive feat considering the heat we had already encountered.