“The dogs want nothing to do with her, and I am not suggesting we keep her indefinitely,” he protested. “But Sir Hugo is going to be extremely tiresome about this, I have no doubt. And if we could provide him with at least a little information to exculpate ourselves, it might go a great deal better for us.”
I pondered that and could not fault his logic. We had occasionally been on the receiving end of Sir Hugo’s temper, and it was not an experience I cared to repeat if I could possibly avoid it. If nothing else, itmight spare Stoker the indignity of another comprehensive search of his person and lengthy questioning, as well as eloquent lectures on our ethics, intelligence, and priorities. Sir Hugo would be enraged enough to discover that we had spent twenty-four hours in captivity with the prince without rushing to inform him of the matter. I consoled myself with the thought that the prince’s security had been of paramount importance and that the Ripper investigation would take precedence over a pair of miscreants and their thugs who had no doubt fled the moment we eluded them. Sir Hugo would be empurpled with emotion, and I was content to put off such a confrontation for as long as possible.
I turned again to the corpse and pulled a face. “I wonder how they were able to bring her here,” I ventured. I explained about Lady Wellie’s guards, watching as Stoker’s face turned increasingly interesting shades of puce. “You knew!” I accused.
“Not until recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “I became suspicious when I asked one of the undergardeners for a bit of milkweed for some butterfly larvae and he brought me verbena. I started paying closer attention and I identified four men who had not been very long in his lordship’s employ and whose tasks were quite often carried out by others. I asked a few discreet questions and finally, one night when Lady Wellie and I were rather deep in our cups, she admitted it. She has been concerned for your safety, and with good reason,” he added.
“Her guards have not been terribly effective,” I argued. “We have had all manner of strange callers, one or two bent upon mischief.”
He shrugged. “It is an imperfect system. She did not want you to know, so she has ordered them to be unobtrusive above all. Your comings and goings are far too varied for any discreet efforts to be completely effective.”
He had a point. I nodded towards the corpse. “It still does not answer how this was brought in without attracting attention.”
He thought, running a hand over his whisker-roughened chin.After a moment, he pressed a bell, summoning the boot boy, George. Once a winsome little fellow, George had shot up to a gangling height whilst I was in Madeira. An Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his voice frequently broke in the middle of a syllable.
“New story about the Ripper, miss,” he said, brandishing the latest edition of theDaily Harbinger. I looked at the lurid picture on the front page and shuddered, imagining what they would say if His Royal Highness were implicated.
“I shall read it later,” I assured him. “Whilst we were away, did anything curious happen? Visitors? Deliveries?”
He nodded, eyes fixed upon Stoker’s tin of treacle fudge. I handed it over, ignoring Stoker’s muffled noise of protest.
“Help yourself to a grand piece—no, have another. You are a growing boy,” I told George, smiling.
“Fank you, miff,” he managed through a mouthful of sticky fudge.
Stoker took the tin back with bad grace, plucking several pieces for himself. George continued to chew happily, pausing only to pet Nut, who nuzzled up to him in hopes of a titbit.
“George,” I prodded gently. “Visitors?”
“Oh, yes, miss.” He swallowed the last of his fudge. “A bloody great—sorry, miss, I mean a rather large crate came first thing yesterday morning.”
Stoker glanced around the orderly chaos of the Belvedere. “Where, precisely, is it?”
George looked left and right, forwards and backwards, scratching his head. “I dunno, sir. The fellow had a sack barrow and wheeled the crate in himself.”
“And was he ever alone?” I inquired.
George flushed. “It weren’t my fault. I know I was supposed to stay with him, but Lady Rose set to hollering, and you know what she’s like,” he said darkly. I did indeed. Lord Rosemorran’s youngest childwas a tiny force of nature. When she bellowed, all activity on the estate came to a halt.
“What was the trouble with Lady Rose?” Stoker asked.
George shrugged. “Devil take her if I know,” he said in some disgust. “She just wailed for the better part of ten minutes, loud as a shrike. Everyone crowded around, but she wouldn’t say what the matter was. She screamed until Lady Cordelia came.”
“And then what?”
He shrugged. “Lady C. promised to dose her with castor oil if she didn’t give over, and she quieted down quick enough after that. She just tossed her head and went about her business saying she was sure she didn’t know what all the fuss were about.” He pulled a face. “Women.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. I wrested the tin away from Stoker and handed it to George. “Thank you, George. Do finish this off if you like.”
“If I like?” He gave a guffaw. “I should think so, miss.” He cradled the tin under his arm as tenderly as a babe as he left, the dogs snuffling happily behind him.
Stoker gave me a dark look. “That was all the treacle fudge I had.”
“I will buy you another tin and better,” I soothed. “But it is important to pay one’s informants.”
“Informants,” he said, curling a lip.
“Informants,” I confirmed. “George is shaping up quite nicely.”
