I packed my things into a small carpetbag and paused, considering. Apart from the various varieties of fritillary, there were not manyfine examples of lepidoptery to be found on Dartmoor, but the Rosemorran collection was a little thin on native British specimens. It was very early in the season, impossibly early, I reflected. It was likely that onlyBoloria euphrosyne, the Pearl-Bordered Fritillary, would be in flight before May, yet it was a sprightly little butterfly and a group of them might be worth the effort. I took up a box of minuten—the tiny headless pins used by butterfly hunters to secure mounts and by me to discourage men who tried to hold my hand without invitation. (A few tucked discreetly into the cuffs are wondrously effective.) I added the requisite killing jars, a tiny packet of cyanide salts, some cotton wool, and several specimen jars and boxes before selecting my favorite net. It was light and supple, crafted of ash, the bag sewn from the finest silk net I could afford. It was a thing of beauty, as much an artist’s tool as an implement of science, and I felt something that had lain dormant within me come alive again as I passed my palm over the sleek grain of the wood.
“Besides,” Stoker went on lightly, “I should have thought a ghost and a mystery would have been too much temptation for you to resist.”
I managed a smile, but Stoker had already returned his attention to his own interests—namely, the thylacine. He had unearthed a recent issue of theSemi-Annual Journal of the Natural Historianin which one of his colleagues held forth at length on the subject of the elusive Tasmanian tiger and was sunk in happy anticipation of getting his hands upon a specimen of his own when I murmured something about a necessary errand and slipped out the door.
A short time later, I arrived on foot at the grand entrance of the Sudbury Hotel, one of London’s most exclusive accommodations. A pair of doormen, smartly dressed in crushed bottle green velvet, sprang to attention, but I passed them by, nipping around the corner and down the alley until I came to the tradesmen’s entrance. I scribbled a quick note and passed it to one of the boys who loitered in suchplaces in hopes of small commissions. I presented him with a shilling—a more than generous sum, in my opinion, but the child had the skinny, pinched look of undernourishment—which he took with alacrity before disappearing into the working heart of the hotel. I had taken the precaution of wearing a veil, and in the ensuing moments I was grateful. More than one waiter gave me an assessing glance, no doubt attempting to ascertain if I had come to ply a very old and specific trade.
“If you are looking for a harlot, might I suggest the alley behind the Karnak Hall?” I said politely to the boldest. “Ask for Elsie. She is a friend.” The fellow reared back and continued on his way, muttering about eccentric women, which I found rude in the extreme. Stoker and I had made Elsie’s acquaintance during a previous investigation,[*] and she was a diligent practitioner of the amatory arts, but only for pay. And since a woman needs to earn a living, it seemed only considerate to send trade her way should the opportunity arise.
I was still ruminating on such thoughts when the door opened and a slender figure in a maid’s uniform stepped out, casting sharp glances left and right.
“I have slipped away but I can give you no more than a minute before I am missed,” she told me.
“It is lovely to see you too, J. J.,” I replied. My friendship—if I may call it that—with J. J. Butterworth, lady reporter, was another souvenir of our adventures with the Tiverton Egyptological expedition and the events that occurred in Karnak Hall. Always in search of a story, she frequently disguised herself in order to gain access denied to her male counterparts. Her favorite masquerade was chambermaid at the Sudbury, a stratagem that permitted her to observe the great and good at close quarters—as well as the chance to examine the contents of theirwastepaper baskets, private papers, and bedsheets. Each of these, she had explained to me, could tell a story, and theDaily Harbingerpaid well for them. She longed for the career of a serious journalist, but her way was too often barred by men determined to keep her out. So, in desperation, she often got her revenge by assuming one of her little disguises and delivering the type of story that a man could never secure.
J. J. grinned. “Back from the Alpenwald then?”
“And we are off again in the morning.”
She lifted her brows. “So soon? On the trail of something?”
“Like you? I presume you are here in order to spy upon the maharani currently installed in the Empress Suite,” I said.
She pulled a face. “Who told you?”
“No one. It was a guess which you have just confirmed,” I said with a touch of—one hopes—forgivable smugness. “I saw your byline in the piece in theHarbingerabout her and assumed she was staying here and that if I found her, you could not be far behind.”
“Well done,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “You are a regular Augustine Dupin. Now, I have precisely two minutes before the housekeeper comes looking for me and has my guts for garters for standing about yammering when I am meant to be turning down beds. What do you want, Veronica?”
“I wanted to know if the name Hathaway means anything to you.”
She paused, furrowing her brow. “Anne? Married to Shakespeare?”
“Not Warwickshire Hathaways. Devonshire Hathaways,” I said in some exasperation. “They’ve a house called Hathaway Hall on Dartmoor.”
She rolled her eyes. “Dartmoor? Nothing but sheep and rocks. Why the devil do they live there?”
“The same reason anyone lives anywhere,” I said. “Inherited.”
I gave her a minute while she thought. Watching J. J. Butterworth work through her immense hoard of knowledge was vastly interesting.Stoker had once taken me to a demonstration of Mr.Babbage’s computational machines. The whirring and clicking and sharp manipulation of information put me greatly in mind of J. J.’s efforts, her freckled nose wrinkling up as she screwed her eyes tightly closed, thinking.
“I did hear something, now you mention it,” she said, opening her eyes at last. “A long-lost father or something.”
“Eldest son,” I corrected.
“That’s it. Lost in a shipwreck or earthquake?”
“Volcano,” I said.
She shrugged. “An act of God is an act of God. In any event, he died and is returned, resurrected as it were. My editor thought it might make an interesting story, but it is not mine. One of the new lads was assigned to it.”
“When did it run?” I pressed.
“It didn’t,” she said. “It was meant to be only a small piece to run early this month, but Boulanger’s flight pushed everything aside and heaps of articles were cut for space.” I was not surprised. The French general Boulanger, nicknamed Général Revanche, had been at the head of his own political party—one that had nearly accomplished a coup and overthrown the French Republic. His reluctance to fully seize power when he had the chance in January had led to a warrant being issued for his arrest on charges of treason and conspiracy, and he had fled Paris at the start of April. Newspapers had been full of speculation as to his whereabouts—and what the French government would do to him if he fell into their clutches.
J. J. went on. “You were just in Paris, did you see anything of interest?” I recognized the sharp-eyed gaze of a hound upon the scent of a hare.
“No, apart from that appalling erection of Monsieur Eiffel,” I assured her.
