“He invites me. Says that we can settle this like gentlemen because he is not unreasonable and expects that with a few modest repairs we can put this behind us. Modest repairs,” he repeated, muttering a few other choice phrases that have no place in a polite memoir.
I sighed and put away my collection of Banded Peacocks. Stoker was in no fit state to traipse about the city, particularly not in a mood of effervescent rage. I reached for my hat and pinned it securely to my head.
“Very well, I will come. It has turned chill again, but we can hail a hackney at the corner,” I said.
“We are taking one of his lordship’s carts,” he said, raking his hands through his tumbled hair. “If Pennybaker does not appreciate my work, I will take the quagga back.”
“I will not be accomplice to stealing an ass,” I warned him.
“Never say ‘never,’ Veronica.”
CHAPTER
23
It took us the better part of an hour to reach the Pennybaker home, and I resigned myself to the possibility of participating in a felonious theft as Stoker’s accomplice. It would, if I am honest, not be the worst thing I had done. Stoker sat in a tense and silent fury—nothing kindled his ire so much as a perceived insult to his work—and so I set myself instead to reciting the butterfly genus Papilio in order of discovery.
As we drove, a storm began to brew, blotting out the lovely autumnal sunlight, dimming its gold to pewter. A brisk breeze whipped up across the heath, bending the late grasses and causing the cow parsnip seed heads to nod heavily as the last of the hawthorn fruits shimmered like jewels against their leafy cloaks of dark green.
I had just reachedPapilio laglaizei—a relatively new specimen, identified in only 1877—when at last we came to the address. The driver gave a light tug to the reins and the horse eased to a crawl. Stoker and I alighted before it even stopped, vaulting through the narrow gate and through the overgrown shrubbery. I opened my mouth to suggest a measured and conciliatory approach, but Stoker was already lifting the great brass door knocker, rapping sharply.
“Mr. Pennybaker!” he called, pressing his ear to the stout door. “Mr. Pennybaker, are you there?”
The door swung open on its ancient hinges and the quizzical face of Mr. Pennybaker peered out through his round lenses.
“Is that you, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” I was not surprised to see his expression was one of acute distress. The little man was obviously attached to his trophies, and to have a failure in the mounting of the quagga so soon after its delivery was an aggrieving development.
“It is,” Stoker said in a tone of arctic hauteur. “I received your note and have come as requested to investigate the quagga.”
“That is not necessary,” Mr. Pennybaker said with unexpected firmness. “In fact, I would like you to leave at once. I have decided I want nothing whatsoever to do with such shoddy work. You are acharlatan, sir,” he said, his brows trembling with emotion as he gave us an imploring look.
Stoker drew himself up, towering over the little fellow as he moved past. “I will accept no criticism of my work until I can inspect it for myself,” he replied over his shoulder. “I am entirely certain there is no fault in the glue...” He continued on in this vein as Mr. Pennybaker tottered in his wake towards the gallery.
“Sir,” Pennybaker said, tugging at his coat, “I really mustinsist—”
“Calm yourself, man,” Stoker directed. “Whatever is wrong with the quagga, I will put right, you have my word upon it.” His mood was softening at Pennybaker’s obvious anguish, but he would not be deterred. The integrity of his work had been called into question, and that was a situation not to be borne.
“Best to let him get on with it, Mr. Pennybaker,” I soothed as we came to the gallery.
He attempted once to bodily position himself between Stoker and the door, but Stoker picked him up gently by the shoulders and set himaside. He opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks as Pennybaker gave a low moan of protest.
“What is it?” I demanded, wondering what sort of damage the quagga could possibly have sustained, when I saw them.
Archibond stood in front of the painted ass.
“I am sorry,” murmured Mr. Pennybaker. “I did try to warn you.”
“What the devil—” Stoker stared at Archibond in frank astonishment.
I gave our erstwhile abductor a look of frankest loathing. “Mr. Pennybaker, I can only presume that this man prevailed upon you to send that note through some threat of bodily injury?”
“Worse,” the kindly fellow said miserably, “he threatened to burn the quagga.”
He gestured towards the painted ass, which stood in splendid and perfect condition.
“I knew there was nothing wrong with my mount,” Stoker said in satisfaction.
“I thought you would never come,” said Archibond pleasantly as he leveled his revolver.
