“Of all the mendacity,” I began.
I broke off, watching as Nut began to sniff the sarcophagus, pressing her elegant little nose to the seam between the lid and the body of the coffin.
I looked at Stoker, whose expression had turned wary. “There is no mummy in that sarcophagus,” I said. “It is full of antique prosthetics, the collection of the fourth earl.”
“I took those out whilst you were away in Madeira,” he informed me. “His lordship received an offer on them from an American, some eccentric millionaire who wanted them for his museum in a state whose name escapes me.”
“Then it ought to be empty?” I asked.
He nodded, but his face was doubtful. Nut’s inquisitiveness had turned to eagerness; she rose on her hind legs, scrabbling at the coffin, marking the paint with her toenails. It was a shabby thing, a Greco-Roman copy of a much older design, but it was still an artifact, and I nudged her away with difficulty.
Stoker sighed and without another word retrieved the pry bar whilst I cleared the breakfast things off of the sarcophagus. I put out my hand for the tool. “Give it to me. You cannot manage with your ribs.”
It was an indication of how badly he was injured that he did not argue. I removed my jacket and folded it neatly, taking a few moments before I had to tackle the distasteful task.
“You can put it off as long as you like, but you will still have to do it,” he said.
“Don’t be brutal.” I fitted the narrow end of the bar into the crack between the lid and the coffin and pushed, wedging the two pieces apart. Immediately, a cloud of foul air rolled out, causing me to drop the bar. Nut gave a great whine and ducked her tail between her legs. Huxley and Bet were hiding behind a caryatid, far too wise to investigate. They had learnt that lesson when a set of Wardian cases holding badly preserved amphibian specimens had leaked formalin onto them both and they were forcibly bathed to remove chemicals and bits of frog.
“Cowards,” Stoker said. They stayed where they were and I fitted the bar into place once more. I pushed twice and made no headway.
“For the love of God’s grace, put your back into it,” Stoker ordered.
I did so, giving one great shove, and the lid moved, sliding halfway off, exposing the interior of the sarcophagus. For a moment, we went no further. Neither of us was really keen to look inside. But of course, we did not have to. We already knew.
Inside the sarcophagus lay the body of Madame Aurore.
CHAPTER
21
Bloody bollocking hell,” Stoker said softly. Nut rose on her hind legs, peering into the sarcophagus. “For God’s sake, get down, you hellhound.”
I gave him a level look. “A little something to drink, I believe.”
“This is hardly the time for a tea party,” he remonstrated.
I reached under my skirt for the flask of aguardiente I habitually strapped there. “I should have thought you would know better by now,” I said. I took a hearty draft and passed it to him. When he had drunk, I capped the flask and replaced it, the little gestures bringing a sense of normality to a situation that was most provoking.
“Do you suppose that”—I gestured towards what was left of Madame Aurore—“has been placed here as a warning?”
He shrugged. “Possibly. Or it is a plot to incriminate us. Should the authorities be alerted, we are in possession of the body of a murder victim.” He studied the body, and I steeled myself to do the same, refusing to look away, as I considered it my duty to be fully informed. I noted at once a change in the corpse from how we had originally found her.
“They have made an attempt to cover the wound,” I remarked,pointing to where a narrow piece of linen had been wound about her throat, almost but not quite concealing the gaping slash. It was crusted with blood, although some effort had clearly been made to tidy her. Her face had been wiped, but streaks of scarlet still stained her skin, and her dress had not been changed although the stars had been ripped from the fabric, leaving wounds in the silk.
“This was all done in haste,” Stoker observed. “She has not been properly prepared—hence the odor. And she has not even been thoroughly washed. Disgraceful.”
In spite of his work with dead creatures—or perhaps because of it—Stoker was always keen to find dignity in death. Hence his distaste for Mr. Pennybaker’s collection of coronation kittens.
I peered into the sarcophagus and gave a gusty sigh. “At least whoever brought her to us was kind enough to bring the Templeton-Vane tiara,” I said, pointing to where it lay. “I can return it to Tiberius.”
“You will want to clean it first,” Stoker said mildly. “That blood won’t come off easily.”
“Well, one more thing to explain to Sir Hugo,” I said in resignation. I moved towards the caryatid where my hat hung, but Stoker grasped my hand.
“Not just yet, I beg you.”
“You want to delay telling Sir Hugo that we have a murder victim lying around? What if the children find her? Or worse, the dogs?”
