But Harry, being so often the object of vituperation, was remarkably inured to insult.
“My good fellow, think no more of it,” he assured Stoker. “I should do exactly the same in your position. In fact, I will move myself here, to the furthest reaches of this delightful snug, so that in order to reach the stairs, I should have to pass both of you.” To demonstrate his resolve, he tucked a narrow mattress under the eaves, as far from any egress as possible.
“If you do not murder us in our sleep,” I muttered as I arranged a coverlet and pillow on the campaign bed. If either of the men heard me, they gave no sign. I settled into my couch with Vespertine whilst the other dogs collected themselves around Stoker. Apart from Nut, that is. Once more the little pharaoh hound attached herself to Harry. She had begun life as the pet of a criminal, and I was not entirely surprised at her preference for Harry. She must have had an affection for duplicity.
Stoker doused the lamps and in a short while I found myself the audience for a veritable symphony of snores, snuffles, snorts, and susurrations. Two men and a pack of dogs do not a restful night’s sleep make, I reflected as I lay wakeful long into the night. At length I was forced to my usual remedy of counting in Persian. I must have drifted off at last, for I found myself dreaming that I was once more in Sumatra, hunting butterflies on the slope of a volcano. They were enormousthings, those butterflies, purest white and with a wingspan wider than my reach. I chased them, but my net was broken and the volcano was rumbling ominously. I had just followed one to the rim of the crater when a plume of lava jetted skywards with a roar that ended on a thud.
Curiously, the thud was realistic enough to jolt me to wakefulness. Beside me, Vespertine lay, head up, ears pricked. I glanced about the snug—deeply shadowed but not entirely black thanks to the efforts of the moon peering through the skylight above. The other dogs were alert as well, although both men slumbered on.
Like any freestanding structure in the midst of a lavish garden, the Belvedere was afflicted with mice, and Stoker and I waged a constant war against their depredations. They cavorted and capered with abandon, and I was well accustomed to their various scribblings and scrabblings. But were they capable of making a proper thud, loud enough to rouse one from sleep? Entirely unlikely.
I peered hard into the gloom, straining eyes and ears for some further disturbance when at last it came—the faint yellow glimmer of a light on the main floor below. An intruder!
I eased myself out from beneath the coverlet. I had retired fully dressed thanks to Harry’s presence, but I had left off my boots for the sake of comfort and dared not resume them now. Stocking feet would serve my purpose better, I decided as I slipped off the narrow bed. Vespertine stirred, but I motioned her back and she subsided with a reproachful look. She had, in the months since we had come to live together, taken a protective interest in me. But she was a well-trained creature, and although she did not care for being left behind, she obeyed, emitting only the softest of whines in protest.
The other dogs, tucked comfortably around Stoker and Harry, merely watched as I picked my way to the staircase, a winding affair of elaborately decorated iron. With no wooden stairs to creak beneathmy weight, I stood a good chance of descending without attracting the attention of our visitor so long as I was cautious. I edged onto the top step, casting an eye over the expanse of the Belvedere’s main floor. It was, as ever, a jumble of statuary, Wardian cases, taxidermy mounts, scientific instruments, books, paintings, coin collections, and other assorted items, all made orders of magnitude less orderly by Lord Rosemorran’s latest acquisitions—the theatrical props and costumes. Their packing cases had been piled higgledy-piggledy, obstructing my view. But near my desk, I could just espy the nimbus of a single flame, moving erratically. Our intruder was there then, doubtless rifling my drawers, I reflected in some irritation.
I crept down the stairs, edging around the packing cases until I came to a gap. Keeping to the shadow, I studied the figure bent over my desk. It was a man, slender of build and moving with the suppleness of youth. He was dressed, as all good burglars ought to be, in black, a muffling scarf wound about his neck. A cap had been discarded on the desk and he held a candle high as he shifted a stack of correspondence—the late post that I had merely dropped atop the wooden box I had carried from Hathaway Hall. Putting this aside, he picked up the box, not an easy feat whilst juggling the candle, and I heard a gentle swearword escape his lips.
He turned, and the candle illuminated his face for a moment. I had been correct about his youth; he could not have been more than twenty. His features were pleasant, or might have been were they not twisted in a mask of concentration. A drop of candle grease fell to his hand, and he gave a quick gasp of pain, dropping the candle and plunging us into darkness. With the realization that I suddenly had the advantage, I raised my head and gave a short, sharp whistle.
Pandemonium erupted. In response to my whistle, the dogs hurtled down the stairs in a thunder of snarls and barks. The intruder gave a small scream and attempted to flee, but I had placed myselfbetween him and the door, stepping out from behind the packing crate, putting my body directly in his path. We collided with extraordinary force, knocking me to the floor and sending the box flying. The intruder must have fallen as well, heavily from the sound of it. But he was quicker than I, for almost immediately I heard him recover his feet and rush to the door. I thrust myself to my feet to follow, but instantly I was surrounded by dogs and knocked to my knees again. Vespertine was the worst offender, bowling me over and sitting upon my stomach to reassure herself that I was quite all right. She remained there, an immovable force, giant paws resting on either side of my head as she licked my face.
“Get off, you daft monster,” I ordered as I attempted to shift her. She moved only slightly, just enough to crush me a little more. The other dogs circled around, setting up a howl until Stoker and Harry appeared, rubbing their eyes.
“What the devil—” Stoker began.
“Intruder,” I gasped. I made a flailing gesture towards the door, but Stoker was already in pursuit. Huxley, the bulldog, alone of all our pets, had given chase, and I was glad at least one of the beasts could be relied upon. Harry stayed behind to pry a reluctant Vespertine off me. I rolled over and whooped air into my lungs until I could breathe freely again, whilst Harry lit a few lamps and tried to settle the rest of the dogs.
I was just patting Vespertine—one cannot hold a grudge against dogs, after all—when Stoker returned. He had followed the intruder as he had risen from his bed, shirtless and bare of foot, and he bore the traces of the pursuit when he came back.
“He went through the pond and out through the back hedge,” I surmised.
Stoker nodded.
Harry gazed at Stoker in perplexity, then turned to me. “How do you know that?”
I gestured. “The only part of the property with thorns, mud, and moss is the hedge on the other side of the pond. You will observe the scratches on his torso—just the right height for a hedge. His feet are stained with mud and moss, and there is a lily pad lodged in his trousers.”
Stoker plucked bits of filth off himself as he spoke. “He is a fast runner, our visitor. I think the sound of the dogs spooked him, for he made straight for the water, no doubt hoping it would wash away his scent. In any event, he blundered out the other side and crashed through the hedge before climbing the wall.”
“And you couldn’t catch him up?” Harry asked.
Stoker’s nostrils flared in irritation. “I had an encounter with a tortoise that impeded my progress.”
I pointed to the torn knees of his trousers. “Patricia,” I informed Harry. “His lordship’s Galápagos tortoise. A venerable old thing, but a hazard sometimes. She is very keen on shrubbery and must have been taking a rest under the hedge.”
Harry shook his head. “This is the most astonishing and maddening place I think I have ever been.”
“And you have only been here a day,” I reminded him. I paused, remembering the crash I had heard when the intruder and I collided. The wooden box must have gone flying, for I found it on the other side of the packing crate where I had concealed myself. It had been smashed to bits. I was surveying it mournfully when Stoker and Harry joined me.
“What happened?” Harry inquired, leaning over the wreckage.
“He was attempting to steal this,” I said, moving one of the shattered boards aside.
“The Hathaway orrery?” Stoker asked.
I nodded as I examined the pile of splinters. “A pity. It is quite wrecked,” I began. But as I sifted through the broken bits of metal and wood, I saw something glint with unmistakable fire.
