Chapter Three #2
Kehinde led her into the house, opening the red door into a grand foyer where the ceiling stood two stories above her, capped with a green-glass dome.
A winged staircase of polished mahogany led to a second-floor mezzanine, which circled the main chamber, branching off into several halls.
To her right, a stately drawing room waited behind half-closed doors.
She barely had time to take in the splendor of it before a booming voice interrupted her, echoing down the stairs. “Elswyth, my dear girl!”
A silver-haired man in a fine gray suit waited at the top of the grand staircase.
Small details—a purple silk cravat, neatly groomed beard, and a walking stick topped with a silver lion’s head—marked him as a nobleman.
His eyes were bright blue, crinkled at the edges by a seemingly permanent grin.
The man came down the stairs quickly, but he leaned on his cane, walking with a pronounced limp.
Elswyth dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Devereux. I must extend my deepest gratitude—”
“Oh, none of that,” the man said. He pulled her into a tight hug, and she made a sound of alarm.
His eyes glistened. “Apologies for the informality, but you must call me Uncle Percival. I know you must not remember me. Why, it must seem as though we’ve never even met.
But I remember you, my dear. Last time I saw you, you were small and red as a radish! ”
Elswyth turned her scarred side away, not knowing what to do with the man’s exuberance. “Then it is nice to see you again, I suppose.”
Her uncle shook his head, again looking at her face. “Eden, you look just like your mother. But you must get that all the time. Apple falling from the tree, and all that.”
Percival turned to Kehinde, meeting the man’s eyes. “How did she fare?”
Kehinde smiled. “An ambitious porter made her a few pence lighter. But on the whole, I’d say she’s adapting quite naturally.”
“Wonderful. I’ll imagine you’ll want to freshen up after such a journey. Is there anything I can get you right away? Tea?”
“Tea would be lovely, Uncle.”
“Of course, of course. Kehinde makes a cup of hibiscus tea so scrumptious it makes me wish I were a floromancer. Kehinde, will you be joining us?”
Kehinde inclined his head. “I would like to, but I’m afraid I have my meeting with Mr. Gambari.”
“Of course,” Percival said. “Send my regards. And do remind him again that the vote is next Tuesday, yes?”
Kehinde nodded, smiled at Elswyth, and disappeared out the open door. Percival clapped his hands and said, “I’ll get these bags later. Let me start the kettle, and then I’ll give you a tour.”
Elswyth nodded, and her uncle went to the kitchens.
It was a bit strange for a nobleman to make his own tea, but Elswyth did not mention it.
In a moment Percival returned and ushered her through the foyer and into the drawing room.
It was high-ceilinged and painted a rich emerald color with ornate wainscoting of red mahogany.
A stately hearth of black marble occupied the center of the room, the mantel held aloft by twin caryatids carved into the shape of dryads.
Two leather sofas sat across from each other over a long mahogany table.
This was all splendid, but not out of the ordinary. What was shocking were the corpses.
Taxidermied animals hung from mounts on every inch of the walls: A meerkat peered out of its papier-maché burrow, an antelope leapt from a platform set with grass, and rare birds of paradise with their kaleidoscopic colors flitted, frozen between branches, held aloft by concealed wires.
Clever-faced monkeys, golden-scaled serpents, heads of buffalo with dark, tired faces—all of them stared down at Elswyth with glassy eyes, possessed by an unearthly stillness.
It made her skin crawl to look at them. All that senseless death, mutilated to give the appearance of life, resurrected through the necromancy of wire and glass.
Elswyth knew that Percival Devereux had been an explorer, and a rather famous one, although her father rarely spoke of him.
Occasionally, they had received letters from his travels, which her mother would read aloud to Elswyth and Persephone as though they were adventure novels.
But as Elswyth understood it, the Lords Elderwood and Devereux had not spoken overmuch since her mother’s passing.
Elswyth did not, therefore, anticipate the extent of her uncle’s eccentricities.
In the far corner of the room, beneath the tall window, stood a stuffed lioness. The beast reared on her hind legs, forepaws raised in a swipe, claws extended and teeth bared in an eternal snarl. Even with her distaste, Elswyth could not contain her curiosity. She stepped toward it.
“Ah, yes—my prize,” Percival said. He stood alongside her, watching her take in the beast. “This lion killed fifteen people before I hunted her down. They called her the Man-Eater of Njombe.”
Percival raised his fingers, curling them into claws, and made a terribly silly roaring sound.
Elswyth stared at him and then shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to react to his jest. Percival Devereux was not what she expected for a high lord—certainly not a member of Parliament. Her uncle blinked twice, then cleared his throat and straightened his cravat.
“So. You killed all of these animals?” Elswyth said.
Percival nodded. “Over the years, yes.”
She turned to the wall, where an enormous rifle hung next to the lioness.
“And what is this?”
“Ah,” her uncle said, “that is the rifle I hunted them with.”
It was twice the size of any firearm she’d seen, double-barreled, with a stock of polished black wood engraved with the three gold lions of the royal arms.
“Large enough to fire elephant rounds, but she’s not much more than decoration now.
I know it’s rather silly, keeping all these trophies, reliving past glories.
I am no longer an explorer, after all, but a politician.
Someday, I hope, Kehinde and I will return to Africa.
But for now I just can’t seem to let them go. ”
“There is still prey to be had in England, is there not?” Elswyth said. She chose her words carefully, watching her uncle’s reaction. “I imagine it must be difficult. Leaving that sort of thrill behind.”
Percival smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of killing. Ah, there’s the kettle. One moment.”
He left for the kitchens and returned with a silver tea set.
Elswyth sat. The tea was a variety she’d never tasted—oolong, Percival explained, an oriental novelty taking London by storm.
Whole factories were popping up in the East End, filled to the brim with floromancers from China fabricating tea day and night.
Elswyth closed her eyes for a moment, reading the shape of the leaves in her stomach.
A constellation of light appeared in her mind’s eye—the tea plant’s unique essence.
Percival sat back with his saucer resting on his stomach and appraised her. Elswyth examined the dead animals, unsure what to say.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “I don’t know where to begin. I suppose with condolences. I am so very sorry about your sister, Elswyth. And know that I did want to come to her funeral. Your father… well, suffice it to say I was unable to attend.”
Elswyth bowed her head. “That is appreciated, Lord—Uncle Percival. I miss her deeply.”
“As do I. I am lucky that I got to know her, in the brief time she was here.”
Her uncle looked at her with a sincere expression. When she’d asked him whether or not he missed hunting, she’d been hoping he would reveal some bloodlust that might indicate an involvement in Persephone’s death. In truth, Percival Devereux did not seem like the type of man that killed women.
But Elswyth had never been as apt at reading people as she was at reading books. And people always found reasons to hurt each other, didn’t they? If women really were mostly murdered by the men closest to them, as she’d read, then Percival Devereux would be the first place to look.
Elswyth tapped a finger on her teacup. “I suppose I can only hope that her last days were happy.”
Percival smiled weakly. “She was the diamond of the season. Everyone said so. It surprised all of us that she had not found her match by autumn, although she had no shortage of offers. Perhaps that troubled her. But I don’t doubt that, come this year’s season, she would have had her pick of the young lords.
She had her moods, of course, but they always passed. ”
That was curious. Nothing in Persephone’s sparse letters from London implied she had been unhappy.
In fact, she sounded happier than ever before—at least until a few weeks prior to her disappearance, when she’d stop writing entirely.
And why had she not agreed to any of her proposals?
From her letters, very favorable matches had been offered.
She had not known about her father’s illness, that was true.
Had she been waiting for something better?
That certainly did sound like Persephone. “What sort of moods?” Elswyth asked.
“Well, I’m sure you are already aware. Certainly she wrote you, did she not? I understand you were close.”
“In our way,” Elswyth conceded. “In the way that all sisters are. The sort of love, I think, that does not require constant reassurance for both parties to know it exists. Persephone had her interests, and I had mine. If she wrote me every day about this suitor or that, I would surely die of boredom. Likewise if I sent her treatises on the functional uses of swamp moss. That does not mean we did not love each other. Quite the opposite, I think.”
“I suppose. I only wish I had written Cerise more when I was abroad. You never know when someone will… Well, I suppose you do know that, now.”