Stoker canted his head. “You are protective of him.”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut again. I counted to twenty in Mandarin, then spoke calmly. “I am not. I am merely pointing out the flaws in the case against him.”
His voice was gentle. “It would be nothing to marvel at if you did feel as though you ought to defend him. He is your little brother.”
I cleared my throat. “The merest accident of birth, I assure you. Besides, you know I do not subscribe to the belief that blood is thicker than water. One has only to observe you for ten minutes with any of your brothers to understand the fallaciousness of that philosophy. Now, whoever intended to set the cat amongst the pigeons, they must have worked quite quickly to have got this in the post to her that morning.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps they had the scheme laid out and close at hand, waiting for the next outrage to implicate the prince.”
The notion of a poison pen writer carefully assembling a hoard of cuttings, marking them and tucking them neatly away until it was time to send them, was faintly horrifying. To do evil suddenly, to kill or harass when provoked beyond endurance, when life or safety was threatened, that I could understand. It was the plotting and planning of it that I could not comprehend.
“If Lady Wellie did believe Eddy had anything to do with the crimes, she would never cover over his involvement. She loves England too dearly for that,” I told him.
“I agree,” said Stoker. “But she did not yet have proof one way or another. I think at that moment it was only a notion, a hideous one, almost too terrible to contemplate. So she put together the dates to see for herself if it was even possible.”
“It is not,” I told him flatly.
He shrugged. “I daresay there are plenty of servants and visitors at Balmoral who could vouch for him, either because he was actually there or because they are loyal.”
“You just agreed she would not countenance his involvement in the crimes,” I reminded him.
“But why send for us if she even entertained the possibility of his connection to the murders? The telegram made reference to the crimes in Whitechapel. She said it was a matter of life and death,” he said to me. “The recovery of the diamond star is hardly a matter of such grave importance.”
“Unless she was not thinking of the diamond star when she sent for us,” I began, working it out as I spoke. “It is too great a coincidence that he should be implicated intwoscandals at once. What if she feared the star might be somehow connected with this?” I asked, brandishing the flurry of cuttings. “What if she wanted us to retrieve the star not because—as the princess fears—it might be used to scupper his marriage plans by proving him to be unchaste but because it might be used to implicate him in something much, much worse?”
“I think that is the sort of sensationalist nonsense J. J. Butterworth only wishes she could imagine,” he began, but a note of doubt crept into his tone.
I waited and he finally gave a gusty sigh. “Very well. It ispossible,” he conceded.
“Better than possible,” I said with conviction. “I am certain of it. Lady Wellie would never dare raise such a possibility in front of the princess. Her Royal Highness is already quite distraught at the idea of her son’s dalliance with a courtesan becoming public knowledge. What sort of hysterics might she be prey to if she suspected he was being spoke of in relation to the most vicious crimes in London?”
“Lady Wellie could very easily have told us if she feared such a plot,” he pointed out.
“Feathers!” I retorted. “Lady Wellie would never speak to anyone of such a thing until and unless it were confirmed. She plays her cards well close to the vest,” I reminded him. “Far simpler to commission us to retrieve the jewel, using the princess’s influence to persuade us.”
“But it did not,” he returned evenly.
“She was not to know that!” I strove for patience, but my exasperation was growing. I could see it all so clearly, the devoted retainer determined to preserve her future king’s reputation, her future queen’s serenity. She would take no one into her confidence until necessity required it.
“She must have been on the verge of telling us when she collapsed,” I mused.
“Well, we cannot do anything until Lady Wellie recovers,” he began.
“But what if she does not?” I challenged. “I know we do not want to consider such a possibility, but we cannot deny that while she might have passed the crisis, the future is uncertain. She might have suffered damage of some sort to her mental capacity, mightn’t she?”
Stoker gave a grudging nod. “Yes. It is far too soon to ascertain any type of permanent infirmity.”
“And damage to her memory or faculties might mean she is never able to retrieve her thoughts, her intentions with regard to this matter,” I went on. “And only we know of it.”
I paused then, letting the weight of my words settle between us before going on. “We are the only ones who know of Lady Wellie’s suspicions. We can examine the facts and ascertain the truth.”
“And then?” he inquired. “What if we discover that the author of that vicious little note is correct? What if Eddy is involved?”
“You said he had alibis for the nights in question,” I reminded him.
“And I said witnesses can be bribed. Documents can be forged. Truth can be molded into whatever the powerful want it to be. They have been doing it for centuries.”
I took a deep breath. “Then we will decide together what must be done.”
