I smiled in spite of myself. It was not the first time my name had provided amusement to the botanically inclined, and I knew it would not be the last. We shook hands, or rather he took mine and pumped it furiously. He turned, tailcoat flapping as he gestured for the men to bring his trophy into the house. “Come along, come along!” he urged, leading the way through a series of corridors and into a gallery of sorts. Every corner was crammed with taxidermied specimens, some of them quite good, most tolerable, and one or two frankly appalling.
The men maneuvered the crate into the center of the room, where Mr. Pennybaker was fairly dancing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. He rummaged in his pockets for coins. “A shilling each,” he crowed. “Go and have a pint or two with my thanks,” he told them. They exchanged glances at the munificence of the tip, tugging their forelocks in gratitude.
Stoker unfolded a series of canvas tarpaulins to protect the carpet while I surveyed the specimen nearest to me. The glass case was misty, spiderwebbed with cracks, and so occluded I could hardly determine what was inside.
“I see you are admiring my kittens’ coronation,” Mr. Pennybaker said waggishly.
“I beg your pardon?” I blinked at him.
He removed the cover and exposed the diorama in all its repellent glory. Inside the vast case, on a worn piece of Axminster, two dozen stuffed kittens had been arranged. Stoker usually insisted upon the more accurate term of “mounted” but I could clearly see the sawdust oozing out of their tiny seams. Every kitten had been fashioned into a different character to play a role in the tableau. There was a plump tabby bishop holding a small golden crown in his diminutive paws. Sitting before him on a miniature copy of the Coronation Chair from Westminster Abbey was a black and tawny striped kitten dressed in a gown of satin, once white, I thought, but now discolored by age to an unappetizing shade of yellow. Maids of honor perched near the throne, and courtier cats had been dressed in knee britches and the odd uniform of the army or navy. Behind them all, little banners had been sewn with heraldic badges and a pair of marmalade trumpeters held tiny brass instruments to their mouths.
“How extraordinary,” I murmured. It was utterly appalling, and I had little doubt Stoker hated it as much as I did. He had strong feelings about the dignity of dead things, and there could be few things less dignified for a dead kitten than this display of sentimentality.
Mr. Pennybaker turned away suddenly.
“Oh, it begins!” he said, clasping his hands in excitement. Stoker had taken up a pry bar and was applying himself to opening the crate.
“What is it?” I inquired, catching a little of Mr. Pennybaker’s enthusiasm.
“The king’s ass!” he said in a delighted whisper.
“Indeed?” I managed.
He nodded, his spectacles bobbing on his face, the tufts of hair waving madly. “The king’s painted African ass!” he exclaimed.
Stoker wrenched the last board free and there it was. It was unlike any animal I had ever encountered. I peered at its plain hindquarters, its sturdy equine bones, the flourish of stripes upon its forequarters. “That is almost a zebra,” I observed.
Stoker smiled. “Almost.”
“It is a quagga,” Mr. Pennybaker pronounced in tones of rapture. His brows trembled a little, perhaps in ecstasy, I reflected.
“Equus quagga quagga,”Stoker said to me. “Related to but not precisely a zebra. From the plains of the southern part of Africa. The first in this country belonged to George III.”
“You see,” Mr. Pennybaker explained, “the king and his queen, Charlotte, were quite interested in natural history. The queen received as a wedding present her own painted ass, but that was a full zebra, a she-ass. The poor thing’s mate died en route from Africa,” he said mournfully. “Otherwise, we might have bred them here.”
“It was attempted,” Stoker told me. “The queen’s zebra was crossed with a donkey and something quite similar to a quagga was produced. But the king was given a proper quagga. It eventually died, and its remains were thought lost for decades.”
“Until I found them!” crowed Mr. Pennybaker. He moved around his specimen, peering into its eyes. “I do not know what to say, my good fellow. I look into his eyes and I would think she lives again,” he marveled.
Stoker said nothing, but I could feel the surge of satisfaction within him. He took tremendous gratification in his work, and this specimen was something of which he could be rightfully proud.
“What state was it in when you found it?” I asked Mr. Pennybaker.
His expression was aghast. “A ruin, my dear lady. Aruin. I cannot think how Mr. Templeton-Vane has resurrected him, but he is a veritable magician. I had only a hide to give him, and that a moth-eaten relic. Not a single bone, not an eyelash remained! And from that he has given me... this.” He broke off, admiring his trophy again.
I turned to Stoker. “When did you do this?”
He shrugged. “It was my primary commission whilst you were in Madeira. I took apart a few zebras and donkeys to assess the skeletal structures and build an armature. Then I sculpted the body, mounted it, and made the necessary repairs in the hide,” he said, as if it were as simple as making a cup of tea. “There was nothing left to do by the time you returned except finish the eyes.” One of the most interesting—and gruesome—parts of Stoker’s job was the creation of the eyeballs for his mounts. He trusted no one else with their painting, preferring to take a fine sable brush and finish the task himself. This particular specimen looked out with a watchful expression, her gaze fixed on a distant point on the horizon, as careful as one would expect a herd animal to be upon the grassy waves of the African plains.
“It is a marvel,” I told him.
“A marvel?” Mr. Pennybaker said, blinking furiously. “It is a miracle! My dear lady, do you realize that this creature is now extinct?”
“Is it really?”
Stoker shrugged. “There may be a few left in the African interior, but none in European captivity. The last one died a few years ago and the remains were not saved.”
“A tragedy!” Mr. Pennybaker said, his brows waving furiously, like the antennae of an angry beetle. “A crime!”
