Chapter 16
Chapter
Stoker strode into the Belvedere with the air of a man who was basking in triumph. J. J. was still tucked into the snuggery, stove warm and dogs scattered about. There was a smudge of ink on her nose, and she was surrounded by piles of newspapers.
Stoker immediately went to the little cupboard where we kept our more robust libations.
(It had once been the prie-dieu of a Venetian priest, ornately decorated and fitted with a cabinet for holding prayer books and the like.
We had filled it with intoxicants and Stoker’s invariable supply of nibbles for when he felt peckish.) He pulled out a bottle of very old whisky, the shreds of the label faded and scarcely legible.
“What has happened?” J. J. demanded.
“What makes you think anything has happened?” I asked in a tone that was far too casual to have fooled anyone.
“Stoker is half-dressed and drinking directly from a bottle of aged single malt. Even for the pair of you, that speaks to an unusual night out.” She put aside the newspaper she had been reading and looked from one to the other of us with an expectant expression.
“Stoker was the victim of a glamoury,” I began. Stoker broke in rudely with a snort so loud he woke two of the dogs.
“A glamoury? Are you entirely bereft of your senses?” He turned to J. J. “I was drugged by Lord Ruthven and his pet witch. And then he attempted a spot of mesmerism.”
“It might have been a glamoury,” I said sulkily.
“What is a glamoury?” J. J. asked.
“It is a technique of the more accomplished—”
“Do not say ‘vampires,’ ” Stoker warned. “I shall not be responsible for my actions if you do.”
“Revenants,” I said instead.
“That is just a synonym for ‘vampire,’ ” he returned. He rummaged in the prie-dieu until he found a tin of crumbling shortbread.
“You have just been violently ill,” I reminded him. “Is half a pound of butter really the best remedy?”
“It has ginger in it, the best remedy for an unsettled stomach,” he answered, shoving a large piece into his mouth.
“Why were you ill?” J. J. demanded.
As Stoker was still chewing, I answered for him.
“Because he took steps to rid himself of the substances Lord Ruthven’s associate dosed him with.
Mugwort, she said.” I turned to Stoker. “You realise that Asphodel is surely the witch young Thomas said he saw in the cemetery when he discovered Quincey’s body?
That puts her definitely at the murder scene. ”
He waved a hand. “Immaterial. The boy is a child and a Rom. His testimony would never see the inside of a witness box. It is enough that we know the connection. And you are precipitate, my love. It is possible she is not the woman he saw.”
I made a frankly scornful noise. “I cannot accept that mammoth a coincidence. Not only does she look like a witch, she likes to ginger up the tea with a bit of hallucinatory herbs.”
“Did she not dose you as well?” J. J. inquired with a look at me.
“She did not,” I assured her. “Stoker was the sole recipient of their attentions.”
“What then?” J. J. prompted.
“What then?” I echoed. “Then Stoker began to remove his clothing and we were asked to leave.”
J. J. dropped her head, and her shoulders began to shake as she emitted a rusty grating sound.
“Is she having a fit of some sort?” Stoker asked me.
“I believe she is laughing,” I told him.
After a moment she lifted her head, tears streaming from her eyes. “You disrobed? How far?”
“To his drawers,” I told her as Stoker blushed a delectable shade of poppy red.
“I had to create enough of a scene that they would want me gone so I could get rid of the bloody stuff she put in the tea,” he protested. “Besides, I wanted them to believe I was under the effects of that damned tea and Ruthven’s mesmerism.”
“But you were not,” J. J. pointed out. Confusion clouded her features. “Why weren’t you? If Asphodel dosed the tea, you ought to have been influenced by it. But you say you were lucid at all times.”
“I sipped a bit to be polite, but it tasted like pond water and I could tell something was amiss, so I chucked it into the nearest potted palm when Asphodel looked away,” he confessed.
“I learnt a bit of legerdemain in the travelling show, and I continue to be astonished at how often it proves useful.”
“If it was so awful, how did you drink it?” J. J. asked me.
“It wasn’t,” I told her truthfully. “It tasted of jasmine and perhaps a little cinnamon. I cannot imagine how she—” I broke off, suddenly understanding precisely how Asphodel had dosed Stoker’s tea when she and I had drunk from the same pot and been entirely unaffected. “Of course!”
Leaving J. J. and Stoker staring after me in puzzlement, I descended to the main level of the Belvedere.
It took me nearly a quarter of an hour to find what I sought.
I rummaged through trunks and crates, scattering excelsior hither and yon, but at last I pounced with a cry of triumph.
I carried my trophy upstairs and unwrapped it from its silken shroud.
Inside lay a porcelain teapot glazed in a rich shade of cinnabar, the handle and lid figured in the shape of a coiled dragon.
I made my preparations with my back turned to the others, then presented the pot with a flourish.
“Behold a wonder of the ancient world,” I said with a touch of theatre.
“Veronica, that is a teapot,” Stoker said.
“A very special teapot,” I told him. “I discovered it a few months ago when I was working on a collection of artefacts the last Lord Rosemorran had shipped from China.” I retrieved two cups and set them in front of the pot.
“Watch closely,” I instructed. I raised the teapot dramatically and poured.
I had not wanted to wait for water to boil, so out came a stream of the whisky, smelling richly of peat bog and smoke.
“Whisky,” I said to J. J., holding the cup out for her to sample.
She sipped and choked instantly. “Yes, yes, it is.” She thrust the cup back into my hands.
I handed it on to Stoker, who also sampled it and nodded. “Whisky.”
I selected a second cup and once more raised the teapot. “This teapot has not been out of your sight,” I reminded them. I began to pour into the second cup, but this time a clear spout of pure water came forth.
J. J. stared in open-mouthed astonishment. “What on earth—”
“Oh, that is clever,” Stoker said with a short laugh.
“How is it done?” J. J. asked.
I would have stretched the moment just a little, preening over this successful piece of sleight of hand, but Stoker began to explain at once.
“Ah, see where the spout has a bit of porcelain running down the middle? The teapot has two chambers inside. Whoever is pouring is able to control what is poured through manipulating holes—probably in the handle,” he added.
He proceeded to launch into a technical discussion of the surface tension of liquids, and I saw J. J.’s eyes begin to glaze.
“I liked it better when I thought it was magic,” she said ruefully. She looked like a child at the circus who has just discovered the coin that the conjurer drew from behind her ear had been hidden in his sleeve all along.
“There is no such thing,” Stoker said flatly. “And for all your willingness to believe in this nonsense, Veronica, you have just proven it. Asphodel cast no spells upon me, and Ruthven did nothing of note.”
“He did attempt to put you into a trance with his ruby,” I pointed out.
“By virtue of the same parlour tricks that charlatans have been using for a century. It is no more than a party entertainment. Any fool can dazzle the eyes with a piece of jewellery and murmur a few words in a soothing tone.”
“Then why does it work?” I challenged.
“It did not work on me,” he retorted. “I was pretending only because I realised what was expected of me. As soon as I realised the tea was foul, I knew she had dosed me. And then when Ruthven launched into that ridiculous performance with the ruby, I knew they were watching for a reaction of some sort. I was, at all times, entirely in possession of my wits.”
“You will concede that mesmerism exists,” I began.
“To a point,” he ground out. “But only because most folk are deeply suggestible. Tell them what they want to hear and they are already inclined to believe you. People who visit such mountebanks are no different than those who consult spiritualists in order to speak to the dead. They believe spirits are conjured during séances because they want to believe. The rest is just smoke and mirrors.”
“You seem persuaded enough by Magda’s abilities,” I reminded him.
“That is different,” he returned.
“Why? Because she is Romany?” I challenged.
“Yes. We will never know the full truth of their lived experience. How can we say for certain they do not have certain abilities the rest of us lack?”
“So you do admit that some people may have powers beyond—”
“I never said that. I merely said—”
“You absolutely did! And may I point out that this is the rankest hypocrisy—”
“How did Ruthven know to invite you?” J. J. shouted suddenly. Her question, intrusive as it was, headed off the argument before it gained momentum.
“Seward Johnson,” Stoker and I replied in unison. I carried on with the explanation. “When Stoker and I questioned Mr. Johnson at Mr. Von Hilsing’s house in Steel Square, it must have put the wind up him. He went directly to Lord Ruthven and told him what we were about.”
“You cannot know that,” she protested.
“It is the only logical conclusion,” Stoker replied.
“Mornaday was excessively discreet in his handling of this case, and he calls here socially. Even if he were being surveilled, which is so improbable as to be very nearly impossible, there is no reason for anyone to suppose he engaged us to look into Harkness’s and Quincey’s deaths. ”
“Murders,” I murmured.
Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards. “You can hardly call Harkness’s death a murder. The man flung himself from a balcony.”
“After he received a threat in the post,” I reminded him.
“A bit of wolfsbane, whose implication was clear—his fate was to be the same of Maurice Quincey. Furthermore, if Harkness had not thrown himself from a balcony, he may very well have been exsanguinated just like Quincey. That may be the doom he feared so deeply. Furthermore, I believe the wolfsbane sent to Harkness was more than just a threat. I think it was a hint to what had befallen Quincey.”
“I thought Quincey was drained of his blood,” J. J. countered.
“He was,” Stoker put in succinctly.
“But one isn’t simply drained of blood,” I replied.
“Remember that Quincey bore no large wound upon his body, only the small puncture wounds in the large blood vessels of the neck. The exsanguination would have been a slow thing and an altogether impossible one without the heart to pump the blood out.”
“Surely he would have fought, attempted to stanch the flow,” J. J. said.
“Not if he were sedated,” I said in a triumphant voice. “And wolfsbane makes an excellent sedative. If he were dosed with it, he would have been compliant when the punctures were made.”
“And would therefore have put up no sort of struggle as his blood was drained away,” J. J. concluded. “It makes a ghoulish sort of sense.”
Stoker yawned broadly. “But without a shred of proof. That is enough of wild speculation for one night. My head feels as if it were being pounded by a thousand tiny hammers, and these flights of fancy are not helping.” He rose and snapped his fingers at the dogs. “Come, beasties. It is the bed for us.”
He left us then, looking hardly altered from his usual self—no thanks to Asphodel and her contemptible teapot. “Poisonous woman,” I muttered. “Literally.”
“I am sure Stoker will admit your theory is possible,” J. J. said.
“Stoker will admit nothing unless it suits him. He is a man and therefore susceptible to irrationality. It is not his fault,” I assured her. “I think it has something to do with an excessive amount of testosterone.”
“Test-testrone? What is that?”
“Testosterone. It is a substance found in the testes of castrated chickens and most likely in the testes of human men as well. Studies have only begun to explore its significance, and I am not deeply familiar with the work,” I admitted.
“But it purportedly explains why geldings are much more tractable than stallions.”
J. J. considered this a moment. “Does that mean eunuchs would be more peaceable than intact men?”
“What an extraordinary question. I suppose so, given the relative behaviour of barrow and boar, steer and bull, capon and rooster. The removal of the testes appears to alter the tendency towards excitability and aggression in the unneutered of the species. And before you ask,” I said, holding up a quelling hand, “the hypothesis cannot be tested upon human men for reasons of ethics.”
“Still, it is an interesting question,” J.
J. mused. We both fell silent then. I could not answer for J.
J.’s thoughts, but mine were deeply involved in considering the political machinations of various harems throughout history—a train of thought which would likely disprove the notion that eunuchs were more biddable than men who carried the full complement of organs with which they had been born.
I had just moved on to the notorious antics of the Baroque castrati when J. J. interrupted my reverie.
“Do you really think Asphodel poisoned Quincey with her trick teapot?”
I shrugged. “She may have sent him a poisoned tea cake, for all I know. But I am persuaded she was responsible for his death, and I am even more convinced that wolfsbane was the source of the poison.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because tonight in the conservatory at Lord Ruthven’s house, I noticed something that Stoker did not, growing just beside the door—an enormous Aconitum napellus. A wolfsbane plant large enough to poison an army of men.”