“Is it dusty inside?” Stoker inquired.
“No, no,” Harry said, his expression bland. “I quite like the dirt. It adds a certain piquant charm. In fact, I am growing rather fond of the place. I am thinking of moving in permanently. Perhaps putting up a few shelves and installing a stove.”
“Ass,” I said distinctly. I turned to my correspondence and began to open envelopes with a silver fruit knife, slicing with a certain satisfying savagery.
“Whatever did those letters do to deserve such brutality?” Harry asked, plucking an apple from Stoker’s desk. He polished it upon his lapel and took a healthy bite.
“Better the letters than your hide,” I warned. “Or yours,” I added with a glare at Stoker. “You were suspiciously quiet during Sir Hugo’s visit. You might have spoke in favor of Euphemia Hathaway’s liberation.”
“To what end?” he inquired with a shrug. “Sir Hugo will do as he pleases. He is not to be shifted from his position.”
“I do not remember his being so pompous,” I said.
“He received a fair bollocking from the newspapers and Parliament over the Ripper affair,” Stoker reminded me. “I think it has disarranged his confidence. He was comfortable taking risks, entertaining new ideas. But his failure to catch the Ripper has left him vulnerable.J. J. Butterworth alone has written five pieces calling for his resignation over the past few months,” he added, invoking the name of our sometime adversary, sometime friend. J. J. was an intrepid and engaging reporter, but she could also be the very devil if she were hot upon the heels of a story. She was the most ambitious creature I had ever met, and I was not surprised she had taken steady aim at the head of Special Branch.
Harry had been listening raptly as he ate his apple, his head swiveling from Stoker to me and back again. He swallowed, then looked at us brightly. “I say, does anyone want to explain why you are such close chums with the head of Special Branch? That was Sir Hugo Montgomerie, was it not?”
“It was, and no, we do not,” I replied.
“Then perhaps we could discuss my diamond—its current whereabouts and when I can have it back,” he suggested.
“It is not yours, and no, you may not,” Stoker said calmly.
“You were the one who said we would have a council of war,” Harry protested.
“I have changed my mind.”
“That is hardly sporting,” Harry began.
I leapt to my feet. “Newspapers!” I exclaimed. I scrabbled around my desk for the newspaper I had been reading the day we returned to London.
“Veronica, what are you on about?” Harry inquired.
“I have just remembered where I saw the face of our intruder,” I said, thumbing hastily through the pages with ink-stained fingers until I found it. “Here! ‘The Maharani of Viratanagar has arrived in London to participate in informal discussions with members of Parliament. It is rumored the discussions will touch upon the growing support for Indian independence,’” I read aloud. “‘Photographed with her grandson and heir, Bhairav.’”
I pointed to the photograph. In the center was the maharani, a statuesque woman of some years. She had a long, elegant nose, giving her a distinctive profile, and a head of thick, dark hair. She was dressed in traditional Indian fashion, an elaborate arrangement of draperies and veils heavily embroidered with jewels. More gems were in evidence on her arms and bosom, hanging from her ears and encircling her fingers. She was a woman accustomed to commanding attention and authority, and her expression was one of cool detachment. Next to her stood a slender young man dressed in narrow trousers with a long, fitted coat that buttoned quite up to the throat. He had her nose as well as her sharp, assessing eyes, and was even more youthful in his photograph than he had been in person.
“They are staying at the Sudbury Hotel,” I said. “We must lose no time.” I reached for my hat as Stoker quirked up a brow.
“The word ‘maharani’ means high queen. Do I understand that you mean to accuse the grandson of a high queen of being a common burglar?”
“I do not mean to accuse anyone,” I replied. “That would be grossly irresponsible.”
“Then what is your plan exactly?” Harry asked.
“The first rule of any scientific endeavor is observation,” I said, rummaging in the box of operatic costumes for a piece of veiling. I pinned it over my hat, obscuring my features. I did not think our young miscreant had got a very good look at my face, but it would not do to let him know we were onto him. “We will go to the Sudbury and simply observe to confirm it is in fact the maharani’s grandson.”
“We ought to speak with Julien,” Stoker put in. “He is always a fount of information.”
I smiled at the mention of the hotel’s head pâtissier. “You mean gossip, but yes. He might well know something useful. But you cannotgo like that. You are filthy with at least seven identifiable stains upon your shirt.”
Stoker grumbled but went off to change as I turned to Harry. “You are no tidier than Stoker. You have traces of mummy clinging to your clothes and you are still in evening dress.”
He pulled a face. “I have no other clothes, remember?”
I sighed, recalling his woeful tale of fleeing the Hall with the clothes upon his back and a few measly shilling notes in his notecase. I went to my desk and unlocked the drawer which held my own purse, fishing out a handful of notes.
“Take this. You cannot walk around London like that unless you mean to attract exactly the wrong sort of attention. Outfit yourself and meet us at the Sudbury.”
