Chapter 33
Chapter
The next day, Mornaday arrived, joining us in the Belvedere for a comprehensive discussion of the previous night’s events over tea and scones—a discussion which was progressively less cordial as the details were revealed.
Stoker was other than pleased that I had heard Asphodel out.
“You let her stay without summoning help? May I remind you that she is a murderer, Veronica?”
“Says the man who got into a carriage with her and allowed himself to be dosed into being a human sacrifice,” I muttered.
“That is beside the point—“
Before Stoker could warm to his theme, Mornaday broke in.
“You let Asphodel escape,” he raged. “I have two dead men at Highgate Cemetery and a woman on the run. I shall need to call in reinforcements from the Yard.”
“How will you find her?” Stoker asked placidly.
“She is of average height and weight. I suspect she will have put on a wig, either brown or grey to help her to blend in. No doubt she will have assumed nondescript, respectable clothing. She would be a particularly elusive needle in a distinctly enormous haystack. She might go anywhere in the world.”
“No corner of this earth is safe from the eagle eye of British justice,” Mornaday replied loftily.
“The earth is round, Mornaday,” I reminded him. “And you cannot begin to find her if you do not even know her name. I should point out that ‘Asphodel’ is a pseudonym, a nom d’occulte, as it were.”
He stared at me for several seconds, then swung his gaze to Stoker, and back again, fairly pop-eyed with rage. He turned to J. J. “Do you countenance this?”
“Of course,” she said with a serene smile. “It makes for a much better story.”
All the while that Stoker and I had been detailing the results of our investigation, J. J. had been scribbling in her own peculiar version of shorthand, her pencil flying over the pages of her notebook. Mornaday snatched at it, but J. J. retrieved the book with a wounded look.
“Just because they did not share with you the most essential elements of the case before they solved it, do not take your ill temper out on me, little man,” she advised.
“You cannot write that. Print a single word, and I’ll have you clapped in irons,” he warned. He jammed his bowler back onto his head and prepared to leave.
“Do not be angry,” I soothed. “You are, after all, the one who will solve the mystery behind the deaths of Jameson Harkness and Maurice Quincey. And you have two dead bodies to present to the Yard. I should think they would be grateful.”
I suspected only the presence of his hat prevented him from tearing at his hair.
“Harkness’s and Quincey’s deaths are closed. I cannot reopen those cases even if I wanted to. As for these two bodies, I cannot begin to suggest that the son of a prominent diplomatic family was engaged in a highly illegal romantic affair with another man. My hands are tied.”
I thought for a second. “No, but you can give them Horace Von Hilsing.”
His eyes narrowed, a fox on the trail of a tender rabbit. “Go on.”
“Say you were passing Steel Square and noticed something amiss—like a broken window in the back garden. Naturally, being a man of the law and knowing the importance of Von Hilsing, you investigated, only to discover his dead body. You can even suggest the possibility of arsenic poisoning. Stoker can tell you what details of his appearance would raise that suspicion.”
Mornaday’s nostrils flared gently. “I know what signs of arsenic poisoning are, Veronica.” But I could tell he was warming to the notion.
“Furthermore, you could be the one who points out that the Mortlake Jewel is missing from the premises,” J. J. added.
“And it could be your eagle eye that lights upon a scrap of paper in the fireplace that falls to ash—a scrap bearing the word ‘Greville,’ ” Stoker put in.
“Leading you to suspect Johnson was the culprit and that he meant to flee. Then when Johnson and Hegarty’s bodies are discovered, it will seem as if they were merely jewel thieves engaged in a criminal conspiracy, particularly when a quick inquiry at the steamship offices reveals they had booked passage together.
There needn’t be any suggestion of a romantic relationship between them. ”
Mornaday considered this, his countenance brightening considerably. “I would be something of a hero at the Yard,” he mused.
J. J. emitted a sound of frustration. “It will not work. How is Mornaday supposed to account for the fact that the supposed jewel thieves are dead? Who will have murdered them if Asphodel is not implicated?”
“A quarrel between co-conspirators,” I said promptly. “One of them took the jewel, intending to double-cross the other. They quarrelled and things got out of hand. As proof of that tidy little theory, you have two dead bodies and the spoils of their crimes.”
“And Asphodel?” Stoker asked. “J. J. is right. Her absence is suspicious. How does her disappearance fit into your tale?”
Mornaday’s smile was sharp with cynicism.
“My dear Stoker, no one at the Yard will much care what has become of a woman if I have a pair of jewel thieves who murdered a millionaire in hand. She is insignificant to their inquiries.” He turned to J.
J. “I am off to Steel Square to ‘discover’ the body of Horace Von Hilsing. If you happen to be passing when Special Branch descend, you can scoop the story. That ought to get your superiors at the Harbinger to take you back on board.”
“The Harbinger?” Her tone was frankly scornful as she snatched up her hat and clapped it onto her head. “I will write it as a freelancer and sell it to the highest bidder. ‘The Mysterious Death of the American Millionaire Recluse’ will be the making of me!”
“Wait,” Mornaday said, stopping so short that J. J. ran into the back of him. “A bit of grit in the oyster that we haven’t considered: I haven’t actually got the jewel.”
“In point of fact, you do,” I said. I reached into my pocket.
I opened my hand, and the jewel lay on my palm, cool and luscious and alive, it seemed, with movement flickering in the depths of those remarkable stones.
The four of us stared, mesmerised by the cold fire in its heart.
The central emerald was dazzling, almost too perfect to be real, and was surrounded by sapphires that somehow deepened the sea-swept hues of the green gem.
Beyond the sapphires, rubies or spinels—something rich and bloodred—circled a pure white diamond.
All of this was set in a plate of gold, heavy and ornately embellished with enamelled figures of dancing skeletons and winged skulls.
“Remarkable,” Stoker breathed.
J. J. was already sketching the thing into her notebook whilst Mornaday’s hand reached to take it.
“I shall make certain this is found with our jewel thieves,” he said.
Stoker arched a brow at him, and Mornaday bristled. “I promise. No funny business.”
“A thing like that could fetch a fortune,” J. J. said longingly. “It could change a man’s life. Or a woman’s.”
“Or it could cut it short,” I reminded her. “It is said to be cursed.”
J. J. snorted. “There are no such things as curses.”
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But vampires are not supposed to exist either, and we found one.”
Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Veronica—”
I held up a hand. “You mistake me, dearest. I do not claim that Ruthven—Hegarty, that is—was an immortal creature who lived off the blood of others. But he hounded Harkness to death by means of the threat he sent, and he did, in point of fact, drain the actual lifeblood from Quincey. He survived by extracting the will to live out of his victims. In that sense, you must concede, he was most definitely a vampire.”
“I will allow it,” he said graciously.
I dimpled at him. “Excellent. In that case, I believe you owe me a guinea.”