“Sir Hugo, this is not the best time,” I said, prepared for once to make the sacrifice Stoker so clearly wanted of me.
Sir Hugo turned to Stoker. “Since you cannot present yourself at Hathaway Hall as agents of mine, I thought you could go under false pretenses—at least not entirely false. You see, the original Tudor house was pulled down in the time of the Jacobeans. The building that took its place is dark and halfway to falling down of its own accord. The decades the family spent in India meant it was neglected, and Sir Geoffrey preferred to spend the funds on his observatory instead of mundane things like the roof. Charles has inherited a bit of a white elephant, and Mary has grand plans for the place. She wants it fully modernized—tiled bathrooms in the bedroom wings, flushing, er, appurtenances,” he said, coloring a rosy shade at the idea of such indelicate matters as toilets. “Fresh wallpaper, furniture, all modern and comfortable. What she does not want is what she refers to as all the ‘dusty rubbish’ the Hathaways brought back from their travels. Charles and Effie’s father was a natural historian. Not a particularly gifted one, but competent. He assembled a comprehensive set of mounts in his travels. As it happens, those mounts are still at Hathaway Hall, and I know that Mary Hathaway would be perfectly delighted to present his collection to Lord Rosemorran for his proposed museum.”
He let the suggestion hang there, enticing as a juicy morsel of bait to a rising carp.
“I have specimens,” Stoker told him. “More than I know what to do with, I promise you.”
Sir Hugo smiled. “Oh, have you a thylacine then?”
Stoker stopped dead in his tracks. “You cannot be serious.”
“As the grave,” Sir Hugo assured him.
“Thylacinus cynocephalus,” Stoker breathed, his eyes alight with the sort of unholy lust other men reserved for women.
“The Tasmanian tiger?” I asked. “I thought they were near to extinction.”
“They are,” Stoker said, his color high. “It is the largest carnivorousmarsupial in the world. The power of its bite and the dimension of its jaw...” I need not repeat the rest. He went on in that vein for some time, to Sir Hugo’s obvious amusement.
At length, I raised a hand to quell any further information about the creature, still grappling with Stoker’s overly detailed explanation of the uniqueness of the scrotal sac in the male of the species.
“You are clearly in a state of desperation, else you’d not have cast such a tempting lure,” I told Sir Hugo.
“I am,” he said.
In spite of the words, his expression was—not quite pleading. Imploring. He wanted a favor, I reminded myself. And although justice would have been enough to spur me to action, the thought of Sir Hugo in my debt was a powerful inducement.
“Miss Speedwell,” Sir Hugo said, “you cannot refuse me.”
“You are right,” I said, setting a mirthless smile upon my lips. “I cannot. When do we leave?”
CHAPTER
4
In spite of my insouciant response to Sir Hugo, by the time Stoker and I returned to the Belvedere, I was entertaining second thoughts. Not only had the mention of Jonathan and Harry revived the old, desolate feelings of panic and grief, but Sir Hugo’s parting words had been none too comforting.
After explaining that seats had been reserved for us on the first train the following morning at his personal expense, he shook us each warmly by the hand, an expression of relief etched upon his features.
“I really cannot thank you enough,” he said humbly. A sudden twinkle had come to his eye. “And if you find this possible impostor to be not enough mystery for you, you might turn your hands to an investigation of the supernatural variety. The moor is thick with ghosts, you know.”
He left off with a laugh, clearly pleased to have successfully shifted the burden of this matter onto our shoulders. Anticipating our acceptance, Sir Hugo had already written to Charles, a conciliatory letter smoothing over their previous contretemps and explaining about Lord Rosemorran’s plans for a museum. He had suggested that Charles write to us with an invitation to come and assess his collection withan eye to purchasing any specimens that would augment the pieces already in his lordship’s possession. Charles had been so eager, Sir Hugo told us as he produced the invitation with a flourish, that he had responded by return post and we were expected the following day.
“We ought to refuse,” I muttered to Stoker as we finished packing the oddments we would require. We were in the Belvedere some hours after dinner, collecting the necessary reference materials and tools of the trade.
“Why on earth would we do that?” he asked mildly as he surveyed a pair of calipers.
“This is a family matter of a most delicate nature,” I protested. “It is hardly within our purview.”
“Most of our investigations have been family matters and all extremely delicate,” he said. “In fact, most of them have been connected withyourfamily.”
“I do not require being reminded of the fact,” I replied in an acidulous tone. I chose a selection of fine brushes, a fresh notebook, and a magnifying glass and wrapped them carefully.
“Then why the reluctance?” There was something in his tone, a note that sounded just slightly off, like the string of a violin that has been imperfectly tuned and indifferently plucked.
I shrugged. “We have only just returned from the Alpenwald, and Lord Rosemorran has been very accommodating of our absences. I should not like to take advantage of him.” I did not confess the truth, that an unease had settled over me, and I was reluctant to chase the ghosts of my past.
“It is hardly taking advantage if we secure specimens for his collection,” Stoker pointed out. “I spoke with him after teatime and he is most anxious to acquire the thylacine if it is in acceptable condition.”
