Chapter 15
Chapter
As entrances go, it was a fine one. Any tragic actor would have been proud of it.
To move with such grace and silence into the pool of light to command our attention—Edwin Booth himself could not have done better.
But it was not only Ruthven’s gestures which drew our gaze.
The man himself was of intriguing appearance.
To begin with, his complexion was pale as a new moon with a curious quicksilver quality to the skin.
The eyes were dark and piercing, the lashes very thick and black.
His hair was the same impenetrable ebony as Asphodel’s, and he was likewise dressed in shades of deepest mourning with a magnificent ruby pin adorning his black silk cravat.
Only the white of his shirt stood out, crisp and clean and perfectly pressed.
I could not imagine Asphodel bending to the more demanding tasks of domestic work, and I realised I had thus far seen no servants, heard no signs of those who must cook and wash and lay fires. It was a curious omission.
Before I could ride this train of thought much further, Lord Ruthven approached us.
He put out a hand to take mine, and I was astonished to find that his flesh was icy cold, the fingertips nearly blue.
“Miss Speedwell,” he murmured as he bent over my hand.
He did not touch it with his lips but released it almost immediately before turning to Stoker.
“And Mr. Templeton-Vane. How kind of you both to answer my invitation. I hope it did not cause you to disarrange your plans.”
He settled himself in the empty chair, crossing one long, elegant leg over the other. He had not looked at or spoken to Asphodel, but something in the air had changed, and I fancied they were able—as were Stoker and I—to communicate without words.
“Not at all,” I assured him. “We were most interested to make your acquaintance.”
“How very kind,” he murmured with a smile. He flicked a glance to Asphodel, who sipped demurely at her tea. “I hope Asphodel has made you welcome?”
“Quite.” If the word was a little clipped, Lord Ruthven seemed not to notice it.
“Has she taken you on a tour of the conservatory?” he inquired.
“There was no time, my love,” Asphodel answered. “I had only just got to the serving of tea. You were early.”
He spread his hands in an elegant gesture of apology to us. “I hope you will forgive my little eccentricities, but I do not receive guests during daylight hours.”
I did not look at Stoker, but I could feel his interest pique. “Do your hobbies keep you busy?” he asked our host.
Lord Ruthven gave a light laugh. “Hobbies! What an excellent sense of humour you have, my friend. No, it is more that my health is somewhat demanding. I find that if I sleep during the day and am awake at night, I am much more—” He paused and turned his gaze deliberately in my direction. “Energised.”
Asphodel stiffened like an offended cat, but his lordship ignored her. He also swiftly changed the subject, giving his attention to Stoker. “I understand you are curious about the Harpocrates Society.”
“Who told you that?” Stoker returned swiftly.
“I have friends”—again that airy, dismissive gesture of the supple hands—“everywhere. Tell me, is it true? Do you wish to know more of what we do here?”
“I am curious,” Stoker said. His posture was relaxed, but it was the ease of a predator just before it pounces on an unsuspecting creature.
“Excellent! You are a man of science, I understand. Naturally you are aware that there are many mysteries that human intelligence has not yet learnt to penetrate.”
“Many,” Stoker agreed.
“But there are those gifted few who sometimes are privileged enough to see a little more than others, to pierce the veils that separate our world from the rest.”
“The rest?” I asked. Lord Ruthven did not address his reply to me, continuing to speak only to Stoker.
“Surely you realise there are worlds beyond our own?” he challenged.
Stoker’s expression was cool. “Do I?”
Lord Ruthven smiled, and I noted he was careful to keep his lips pressed together.
Did he wish to conceal something curious about his smile?
Long, pointed canine teeth, perhaps? He went on, his tone amiable.
“Of course you do, my friend. You are an intelligent man, a fellow of rare perception. You have sensed at times that there is more to life, more to know than just what we can see and hear and touch.” He paused and flicked those remarkable eyes in my direction before returning to stare once more at Stoker.
“Perhaps,” Stoker said slowly, as if conceding the point. “One cannot explain away everything with science, however much one would like to.”
“And you wish to know what is unknowable, do you not? To have your preconceptions challenged, your ideas tested? To strip away what has been inculcated in you through education and expectation and reveal what is new and beyond the bounds of understanding?” asked his lordship in a voice of seductive encouragement.
“Would you not like at least a taste of that?”
“Certainly,” Stoker replied.
Throughout this exchange, Asphodel was silent, sipping her tea and watching the two men spar.
“And now you would like to experience for yourself what may lie beyond the senses, what truths may be revealed.” He broke off suddenly.
“But your cup is empty! Asphodel, you have been remiss,” he chided gently.
Asphodel moved forward, skirts rustling softly as she poured a fresh cup for Stoker. “Drink it while it is hot,” she urged.
My own cup was nearly empty, but no one seemed distressed by this in the slightest. Instead Lord Ruthven continued to speak as Stoker drank his tea.
His voice was low and melodic, a beautiful instrument he had learnt to play like a virtuoso, pitching it into an intimate timbre that might have lured nightingales from the trees.
As he talked, he toyed with the pin in his cravat, a ruby of impressive proportions.
It gleamed in the lamplight, conjuring shimmering scarlet sparks as he twisted it.
“A pretty stone, is it not?” Ruthven asked Stoker, drawing his attention to the pin.
“Remarkable,” Stoker said in a low, slow voice unlike his own.
“I am glad you like it. You will find much here to like, my friend. There is nothing here to alarm or discomfit you. In this house are only comrades, those of like mind. Do you understand?”
“I will find friends here,” Stoker replied in the same odd voice.
“Many friends,” Ruthven agreed. “And the first of these is myself. We will be very great friends, you and I. And you will be friends with Asphodel as well. She is a woman of great power. She can help you.”
“What sort of power?” I put in sharply.
Lord Ruthven made a dismissive, quieting gesture towards me with his index finger, and Asphodel grinned at me, saying nothing.
“Asphodel can help me,” Stoker repeated.
He put a hand to his collar, tugging it free and flinging the starched linen to the floor.
“Hot in here,” he mumbled thickly. Stoker shrugged off his coat and began working the buttons of his waistcoat, his eyes never leaving the subtle circular motions of the ruby tiepin.
“I think that perhaps is quite enough for one evening,” Lord Ruthven said.
“I have only just begun,” Stoker protested.
I moved to Stoker, who had removed his waistcoat and was pulling his shirt free from his trousers.
“Stoker, really,” I hissed, gathering up his discarded clothing.
His shirt was over his head then. He had not bothered to unbutton it, instead yanking it up and around his head until it came free with a decisive ripping sound.
“It has buttons, you know,” I told him severely.
Bare of chest, Stoker began to wander the conservatory, pausing to sniff the occasional flower. He plucked one particularly lush lily and stuck it behind one ear like a Spanish dancer.
“I am terribly sorry,” I began.
Lord Ruthven’s smile was close-lipped and not particularly warm. “Think nothing of it,” he said in a mild tone. “But I do think it best if you see him home now. You will have to come another time.”
As I struggled to keep up with Stoker, my gaze fell to the teapot. I whirled on Lord Ruthven.
“What was in the tea?” I demanded. “And why isn’t she feeling the effects?” I added, pointing to Asphodel.
“There was nothing in the tea apart from a little mugwort,” she said, widening her eyes. “It heightens awareness.”
“It seems to heighten nudity,” I retorted.
Stoker had divested himself of his trousers and was wandering about in his underdrawers, for which I was entirely grateful.
He had been known, upon several occasions, to forget them entirely.
“Stoker, come along,” I said, tugging at his arm.
I thrust his garments towards him, but he seemed not the slightest bit interested in taking them.
“Veronica, please. I am having a conversation,” he said sullenly.
“With a moth. That is a moth to whom you are speaking,” I informed him.
“It is a very clever moth,” he replied. “He is talking about Pythagoras.”
Ruthven rose and came to me, his demeanour apologetic.
“Forgive me, dear lady. I merely wanted to give him a taste of what we do here at the Harpocrates Society, although I admit I have never seen quite so extreme a reaction. You see him there? He believes he is having a conversation with a moth. What does the moth say? What will Mr. Templeton-Vane remember? He will emerge from this state with a new perspective on…something. On everything! A new idea, perhaps. A fresh way of seeing the world. His senses are heightened, his awareness utterly free—like a child’s.
He is discovering what it means to be liberated, my dear. ”
“You dosed him without his knowledge or permission,” I replied in an acidulous tone.
“I asked him if he wished for a taste of knowledge,” he reminded me. “And his reply was definitive. He did not hesitate. That is the sort of spirit we want in a man who is a member of our club.”
I paused, realising that whatever I said next might jeopardise our entire investigation if I did not handle myself with care. “Forgive me,” I said through tight lips. “Of course you are correct. I was only surprised.”
“Naturally,” he said soothingly. “And he will be perfectly fine, my dear. He will awaken without even so much as a headache from this experience. The only lasting effect will be a determination to repeat it, to learn all that he can of the mysteries of the arcane. But for now, best to take him home and let him sleep it off.”
Stoker’s conversation with the moth had ground to a halt—probably because the moth had flapped away—and he was staring at his hand in rapt fascination. “Asphodel, will you lead our guests out?” Ruthven asked. If I was surprised he did not guide us himself, I refused to show it.
His lordship bowed deeply to me as I bundled Stoker out of the door and down the hall, hard upon Asphodel’s heels. “Give him water with a little bicarbonate of soda mixed in,” she advised.
I could not trust myself to muster a civil response, so I said nothing. At the front door, Stoker assumed his trousers only with the greatest difficulty. I helped him into his shirt and coat, but they were hanging open, shirttails flapping as we took our leave.
“There is an entertainment the night after tomorrow,” Asphodel told me. “His lordship will wish you to come.”
“I am surprised, given how this evening’s call has transpired,” I told her.
Her smile was indulgent. “Lord Ruthven and I do not judge others. Life is far too long, we find.”
“How very kind,” I said stiffly.
She bowed once and closed the door on us. I helped Stoker to the carriage and settled him against the squabs, exhaling a breath I did not realise I had been holding. He turned to me, his gaze fathomless in the dark.
“Give me your flask,” he ordered in a perfectly clear voice.
“Stoker! You are lucid,” I marvelled. I retrieved my flask of aguardiente and handed it over.
“Not for their lack of trying,” he said shortly.
“Bastards.” He turned out his trouser pockets, searching for something.
“Eyeball, string, penknife,” he muttered as he sorted through the detritus of his pockets.
I was not surprised that he had upon his person a glass eyeball for fitting to one of his mounts; I was rather amazed he only had one.
“Ah!” He pounced upon a little paper twist with a cry of satisfaction.
“What is that?”
“Salt,” he told me. He emptied the paper twist into the flask and shook it vigorously. “Bottoms up,” he said, downing the lot in a series of deep gulps.
“But will that not make you—”
Before I finished the question, he was opening the carriage window and leaning out. The sounds of violent retching followed. He repeated the process twice more until there was nothing productive left to be done.
“I think that is the worst of it,” he said, lapsing back against the seat. His face wore a faintly greenish hue, but his respiration was strong and his breathing steady. I put a fingertip to his wrist. His pulse beat as rhythmically as ever.
“Are you entirely finished?” I asked.
He gave me a thin smile of purest malice. “My dearest Veronica. I have only just begun.”