“It is hardly a trifling incident, Veronica,” he replied. “Our identities were known by at least two porters at that club, one who danced with you and one who hauled Aurore’s corpse into our home. I do not much care for the possibilities.”
“I understand,” I said, humbling myself a little. “But perhaps the possibilities are not as bad as you fear. As you say, if we were meant to be implicated in Aurore’s murder, someone need only send an anonymous note to Scotland Yard and her body would be discovered in our possession. But that has not happened. I think someone brought her here for safekeeping.”
“Have you quite taken leave of your senses?”
“I have not. It is perfectly logical, if you would only stop to consider it. The porters knew some of what was transpiring at the club. Perhaps Madame Aurore took them into her confidence. Perhaps they eavesdropped for pleasure or money. In any event, they knew who we were, and when they discovered their mistress’s dead body, they brought her here, entrusting her, as it were.”
“That is the most far-fetched, fantastical—”
“Have you a better theory?” I challenged.
He fell silent, gnawing on his lower lip. “I have not,” he said finally. “It is logical.”
“Thank you.”
“I still do not like it,” he growled. “It puts us in the path of danger.”
“In the path of danger?” I was frankly incredulous. “My dear Stoker, in the past two days, we have been abducted, held against our will, chased, shot at, and—in your case—thoroughly beaten. We have not been so much in the path of danger as standing in the middle of it, surrounded on all sides.”
“Hence my irritation,” he finished glumly.
“That and a lack of sustenance,” I told him in a firm tone. “We have missed luncheon, but I will order a full tea and then you will rest. It will be some time before you recover your strength.”
It was a mark of his fatigue that he argued with me for only a quarter of an hour before giving in. “What about Sir Hugo?” he asked as he finished off the last of the scones some time later, licking cream and jam from his fingers in contentment.
“I will send a note requesting an audience as soon as he can spare us the time,” I promised. “I think it best if we speak in person. If nothing else, he will be pleased enough to see the bruises on your face and might take pity on us.”
“Then perhaps we ought to show him my ribs,” he said sleepily. He gave a great cracking yawn and settled into the sofa. A moth-eaten old coverlet lay along the back and I drew it over him, tucking it neatly under him. I usually resisted all impulses to nurture—it is never a good idea to let people get accustomed to one’s servitude—but Stoker had earned a little kindness, I reflected.
And whilst he slept, I penned a brief note to Sir Hugo, stating only that we requested an audience at his convenience and dispatching it with a coin for George. Afterwards, I settled to labeling a case ofPapilio buddha—Malabar Banded Peacock butterflies—whose notes had gone astray. I had just removed a sweet little imposter nestling amongst them (Common Bluebottles,Graphium sarpedon, are oftenmistaken for the more elusive Banded Peacocks) when Stoker appeared, looking a little better for his rest.
“Has the post come?” he demanded, helping himself to a cup of tea from the stone-cold pot.
“A telegram from Rupert in elaborate code,” I told him. “The parcel has been safely delivered to Scotland with no troubles. That is an end to that,” I said, clearing my throat. It had been a hectic twenty-four hours in Eddy’s company, and I was glad he had been speedily returned to the bosom of his family. Apparently his sister’s prevarications had roused no suspicions, and he was happily ensconced once more at our grandmother’s castle, no doubt spending his days tramping upon moors spread with heather and harebells, returning late to a cozy tea by the fire, butter dripping from toasted crumpets as they shared inside jokes and titbits of gossip about other members of the family.
“Veronica?” Stoker said softly.
I roused myself and waved a hand to the rest of the post, returning to position my little Bluebottle in a more appropriate collection. Stoker flicked through the pile of letters and circulars that had accumulated during our absence, throwing most of them onto the floor with his customary nonchalance. He plucked one letter from the pile, tearing open the envelope and skimming the contents in a fury.
“Bloody bollocking hell,” he muttered.
“Trouble?”
“It’s Pennybaker,” he fumed. “He claims there is a problem with the quagga.Myquagga.”
“What sort of problem?” I asked, attempting to sound interested. Frankly, I was far more excited by the discovery of a dysmorphic specimen in the collection of Banded Peacocks. To encounter one with male and female characteristics in such good condition was a rare find indeed, and I envied the collector who had netted it.
“He says the glue has proven inadequate,” he said, jaw clenching furiously.
“It is possible to have a bad batch of glue,” I pointed out. My calmness only incited his fury further.
“I make each batch of glue myself,” he reminded me. “You know that. My formula is precise, my methods exacting. I have never,neverreturned a specimen to a collector in imperfect condition. He is threatening legal action.”
“Legal action!” I turned at last from my butterflies. “That sweet little man? Feathers. He drank champagne from my slipper. I don’t believe it for a moment.”
“Well, he is,” Stoker insisted, waving the letter like a flag. “And I will not stand for it. Are you coming with me?”
“Coming? You mean to visit him?”
