Chapter 25 #2
“How could he?” J. J. put in. “His father controlled the purse strings, and he had a wife and family. If he left without them, it would expose them to terrific scandal, but how could he go with them lacking the resources to start a new life? He must have felt cornered. Leaving would have opened his family to the shame of abandonment, and staying would have meant—at least in his imagination—a grisly death like Quincey’s.
The only solution was to take the bull by the horns, as it were.
Far better to end it all, knowing his father would invariably use his influence to see that the death was ruled an accident and his children would carry no stain upon their name. ”
“There is also the possibility that he knew something significant about Quincey’s death—perhaps the exact circumstances in which it occurred.
” I turned to Mornaday. “You said his widow described his state of mind just prior to his death as one of increasing distress. Perhaps something more than just the death of his friend preyed upon him.”
“Harkness was the one with the interest in the occult,” J. J. said suddenly. “What if he were the one who introduced Quincey to the Harpocrates Society? If that secret cabal were responsible for Quincey’s death, Harkness must have felt in some measure responsible.”
“We cannot presume that the society is responsible,” Mornaday began.
The rest of us greeted this statement with an assortment of scornful noises.
“Of course they are!” J. J. protested. “Unless you believe it is possible that two groups of people are haring around London pretending to be vampires.”
“The society members study folklore and superstition,” he returned, brandishing his woolly egg at her.
“There is no reason to believe the members play at being vampires, apart from Ruthven, and furthermore—oh, damnation and hellfire!” He shook his hand, but the egg remained firmly fixed.
“I’ve only gone and stitched it to my bloody cuff.
” He bent to worry the threads with his teeth.
“I do not like coincidences,” I said firmly. “And two unrelated vampires would be an unthinkable coincidence. I believe Stoker will agree with me that one vampire is quite enough for any investigation.”
“He is not a vampire,” Stoker replied in a tone of acute boredom.
“I am speaking of the identity he assumes, not his actual state,” I corrected. “Regardless, Harkness was suffering after the death of Quincey. He had just lost his best friend in dreadful circumstances, and the fact that he received a threat means he knew something about the murder.”
“That is a tautological nightmare of a scenario,” Stoker offered.
I shrugged. “It is the only inference that makes sense of the facts. We may conclude that Harkness feared being murdered, because he took the death threat so seriously, he flung himself off the balcony.”
“Of course,” Stoker said slowly, “one must wonder why—if Harkness knew something of significance regarding Quincey’s death, namely the identity of the killer—he did not go to the police and reveal all.”
“Surely, beloved,” I answered, “he feared the publicity. Harkness was a man of prominent name and respectable reputation. For any gentleman to become involved with the police in any capacity is considered disgraceful. To do so in the course of a murder investigation? Unthinkable.”
“Thank you for that,” Mornaday said dryly.
“You yourself said Sir Ranulph treated you like a dustman,” J. J. reminded him. “It does make perfect sense that a man so high in the instep as Jameson Harkness would rather throw himself onto the flagstones than have any dealings with the police that would expose him to public scandal.”
Stoker tipped his head thoughtfully. “The question is what they mean to do now.” His hand moved in lazy circles as he petted Nut, the little hound that liked to curl onto his lap, her nose tucked firmly under his arm.
“Come again?” Mornaday said.
“Let us suppose that some members of the Harpocrates Society did murder Quincey. Harkness knew something of it and was pressed to remain silent under threat of death. Instead, he removed himself from the equation permanently. What now?”
We fell silent, pondering the question.
“Carry on as usual?” J. J. suggested. “They have what they want—Quincey dead and Harkness silenced.”
“Possibly,” Stoker conceded. “But why did they want Quincey dead in the first place? What offence could he have committed, and how was it so significant that they would rather see him dead?”
The others continued to discuss the matter, throwing out increasingly outlandish notions for the reason for killing Quincey, but my gaze had fallen upon a file J.
J. had left atop the stack she had been working her way through.
It was the material on Horace Von Hilsing, and I retrieved it, returning to my chair with my little Italian greyhound Al-‘Ijliyyah cuddled under one arm. To Huxley’s obvious disgust, I fed her bits of jellied chicken as I flicked through the cuttings.
I had not made a careful study of them the first time—there were quite a few, as befitted a man of Von Hilsing’s prominence—but as I studied them, I felt the clockwork gears of my mind click into motion.
“Of course!” I cried. Al-‘Ijliyyah leapt from my lap and dove under my chair. I should have to make it up to her later, but this was no time for modest expression. I waved the cutting I had just discovered.
“What is it?” Stoker inquired.
“The Mortlake Jewel,” I said. I held the illustration out for his perusal. “Do you recognise it?”
“Ought I?” He leant forwards, shaking his head, then paused. “Wait. Wait.”
“Yes,” I said, knowing he had leapt to precisely the same conclusion as I.
“God, they are doing it again,” J. J. said to Mornaday.
“So tiresome,” he agreed. “Would you care to tell the rest of us what this is about? Use your words.”
“The Mortlake Jewel,” I repeated, passing the cutting to J.
J. “One of Horace Von Hilsing’s most prized and priceless possessions.
It is believed to have been created for Queen Elizabeth I in consultation with her physician, John Dee of Mortlake.
She wore it for a painting, then gave it to Dee in thanks for his service. ”
“It features an emerald the size of a plover’s egg,” J. J. said. “Why on earth would Good Queen Bess of Ye Jolly Olde England give her doctor such a prize?”
“Because he was not just her physician,” I told her. “He was an astrologer and a skilled alchemist.”
“Alchemist? The lads that try to turn things to gold?” Mornaday asked.
“Among other things,” Stoker added. “Many of them were obsessed with the question of immortality. Dee among them.”
I resumed the thread of the narrative. “The Mortlake Jewel remained in his family for some years before passing to the Cotton family, and then it vanished. There is reportedly a curse attached to it.”
“My god,” J. J. said, skimming the rest of the cutting.
“It is said to have passed through the hands of Peter the Great’s son—tortured to death, a Portuguese noblewoman—also tortured, and Emperor Maximilian.
Not tortured, but I should think death by firing squad not exactly a day in the park.
It has survived shipwreck and other disasters.
Apparently, Horace Von Hilsing dared not wear the jewel, but kept it safely locked away. ”
“Locked away until someone stole it,” Stoker suggested.
“Seward Johnson, perhaps?” I guessed. I turned to the others. “We saw this very jewel on the voluptuous bosom of none other than Lord Ruthven’s female companion, the witch Asphodel.”
“And you think Johnson stole it from Von Hilsing for them?” Mornaday asked.
“What other explanation could there be?” I demanded.
“I can think of seven,” Mornaday replied. “Von Hilsing might have sold it to Ruthven. He might have made Asphodel a loan of it. She might have been wearing a good copy.” He had been counting the possibilities off on his fingers, but I stopped him at the third.
“Asphodel’s jewel was genuine,” I said. “I have some little experience of emeralds thanks to a winter spent in the jungles of Colombia. Paste ones never have the right fire, but this one did. A very curious and old-fashioned cut as well, not to mention the enamel work.”
“So it was authentic,” Mornaday allowed. “That does not mean it was stolen.”
The rest of us looked at him with pitying expressions.
“How is it that the one policeman in the room has the highest opinion of human nature? You are all a pack of cynics,” he protested.
“We have simply seen a bit more of the world than you have,” I told him kindly.
“Ruthven makes a good show of prosperity, but he could not run to the purchase of the Mortlake,” Stoker added.
“If Asphodel wore the real jewel, it was come by nefarious means. And Von Hilsing is presently on the Continent. It is the perfect opportunity for Johnson to steal the jewel and deliver it to Ruthven and Asphodel.”
“Provided the jewel was kept at the house in Steel Square,” Mornaday countered. “Surely Von Hilsing would have given the thing to his bank for safekeeping.”
“Not likely,” J. J. replied. “Von Hilsing is famously mistrustful of banks. He prefers to keep his treasures where he can see them. It is far more plausible that he kept the jewel at the house in Steel Square. And there would be no call for him to take it with him to the Continent.”
“Particularly not as it would mean taking it aboard a ferry for the Channel crossing,” I added. “There is a superstition about the Mortlake Jewel and seagoing vessels.”
“He has been gone for some days according to Johnson,” Stoker added. “That would give him plenty of time to access the safe if he needed to break into it.”
“Or perhaps Von Hilsing has enough trust in Johnson that he simply gave him the combination,” J. J. said. “He might have matters of business to which Johnson needs to attend in his absence.”
Mornaday sat up. “Very well. We will contact Von Hilsing and ask.”
“How?” Stoker prodded. “Do you have a forwarding address for Von Hilsing? Johnson said he was in Deauville, but that hardly narrows the matter down. And we cannot exactly ask Johnson where his employer might be found.”
“We do not need to,” I said. “We can easily discover his whereabouts for ourselves.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Mornaday demanded.
“Johnson must be writing to him. Ergo, there must be an address at the house in Steel Square.”
Mornaday guffawed and even J. J. looked amused. “Do you really expect Johnson just to give that information to you?” Mornaday asked. “He will know you suspect him of the theft before you’ve even got the words out of your mouth.”
“He does not have to give us the information,” I replied loftily. “I have something else in mind entirely.” Despite his best efforts, Mornaday got nothing more from me. In my experience, it is best not to confess to a crime before one commits it.