“Wrap the bowl in the cloak and then break it,” I said. He blinked.
“The cloak will muffle the sounds of the breakage,” I explained insome exasperation. “We do not want them to know we have fashioned a possible weapon.”
“Oh, that is clever,” he said. He did as he was told, with excessive enthusiasm, I reflected, as he presented me with a pile of shards. He had broken the bowl so comprehensively that only a few pieces large enough to be of use remained. He gave me an eager look, like a puppy that has just sat upon command.
“Very good, Eddy,” I said. I plucked the largest piece from the cloak. The remaining splinters of china were embedded in the fabric.
“That was silk,” he said mournfully. “And the only thing I had for warmth.”
“I don’t care if it was woven by virgin nuns sitting on the pope’s lap,” I told him. “He needs it more than you. Give me that water.” My handkerchief had disappeared somewhere during the evening’s adventures, and so I used the shard of broken bowl to start a rip in the fabric, then tore a long strip free. I wetted it and wiped away the worst of the blood and the sick.
Stoker roused himself then and quietly cataloged his injuries, supervising our basic treatment. We had little to work with, and no doubt to him our efforts were almost as unpleasant as the beating itself. He looked even worse when we had finished, bruises and rivulets of dried blood festooning his face.
Stoker lay quite still when we had completed our acts of ungentle mercy. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was even.
“Is he unconscious now?” Eddy asked curiously.
“I do not know. Better for him if he is since we’ve nothing for the pain,” I pointed out.
Stoker’s head was heavy in my lap, but I would not move it for all the world.
Eddy settled near us, shivering a little, his slender chest mottledwith cold. I noticed then the tattoo upon his arm, and he held it out for inspection. The image was a Jerusalem cross, a central equilateral cross with four smaller ones set in each quadrant. Surmounting the arrangement were three crowns.
“George and I got them in Jerusalem. Papa got the same on his tour of the Holy Land so we thought it would be a lark to have them done.” The notion of both of my half-brothers choosing to adorn themselves with the same tattoo our father had was oddly moving. I had little doubt that Eddy struggled to find approbation in our father’s eyes. Had he hoped this gesture would help?
He turned, displaying his back. “George and I had these done in Japan,” he told me. Inked across his skin was a large red and blue dragon embellished with fire.
“Very handsome,” I said.
He turned back, his expression wary. “Mind you don’t tell Motherdear. She doesn’t know, you see, and she mightn’t approve.”
I did not bother to explain to Eddy that my opportunities for conversation with Her Royal Highness were limited in the extreme. He shivered then, and I held up my arm, opening my cloak. “There is room enough for you to warm yourself here if you don’t mind sitting quite close.”
He moved to my side, settling himself under my arm as I wrapped the cloak around us both, Stoker’s head still on my lap. We were still sitting thus when Archibond appeared, looking a trifle haggard.
“You seem discomposed, Inspector,” I said coolly. “But I expect managing a madman must be a bit tiring.”
His smile was thin. “Miss Speedwell. I see you and your companions have made yourselves comfortable.”
“As comfortable as possible under the circumstances, although you must admit these are hardly fitting surroundings for a future queen. Oughtn’t there to be silk sheets and roasted duck on gilded plates?”
He ignored my jibe. His gaze was restless, and there was a newwariness about him. I wondered if he was losing his nerve for the enterprise. Perhaps he was discovering for himself how difficult it was to work with someone so devilishly bent upon his grandiose ideals.
“Tell me, Inspector, how precisely do you anticipate being able to prove my claim? I am quasi-legitimate at best,” I said in a deliberately pleasant tone.
“Your grandmother de Clare passed away earlier this year. In going through her effects, your uncle discovered a letter from your mother communicating the details of her marriage as well as your conception and birth.” He twitched a little, his manner one of acute discomfort. “In the letter, she entrusted your care to your grandmother. She made it quite clear that she intended to destroy herself.”
“You have my mother’s suicide note?” I demanded.
“We do,” he affirmed.
“If I was to be given to my grandmother to rear, then why did I stay with the aunts?”
He shrugged. “Apparently your grandmother de Clare was a good Catholic. She never forgave your mother for her act of self-destruction. In spite of your uncle de Clare’s best efforts, she could not be made to see the potential benefit to keeping you in her custody. She was content to let your mother’s friends have the charge of you. By the time your uncle managed to discover their names and whereabouts, they had changed their names and taken you to England.”
“They wanted me,” I said, hardly able to comprehend that the aunts—a courtesy title, for they were no kin to me, having been my mother’s dressers during her time in the theatre—had gone to such lengths to keep me with them.
“They were, by all accounts, devoted to your mother,” Archibond said quietly. “It was most likely a moment of weakness that caused her to write to your grandmother. No doubt she repented it, urged them to take you before any of the de Clares could find you.”
