Such histrionics!I thought sulkily as I flung myself into bed and lay staring at the shifting shadows upon the ceiling. He was simply in a state of vexation at not finding his wolpertinger, I decided. Once we had spent some days in one another’s company, once we were happily engaged in an investigation, testing our mettle and our wits together, facing down danger hand in hand, arm in arm, then he would come round. One way or another.
I dared not imagine what might happen if I were wrong.
CHAPTER
6
The twin advantages of Tiberius’ deep pockets and formidable will ensured that within a very few days we arrived back in England. We paused briefly in Paris for him to consult his tailor and for Stoker to pay a visit to his favourite taxidermic suppliers to secure the necessary materials for his revival of the Megalosaurus. These chores completed, we travelled on to London where we parted company with our travelling companion. Tiberius enjoyed his solitude at his town house whilst Stoker and I returned home at last to our lodgings at Bishop’s Folly, the Marylebone home of our patron, the Earl of Rosemorran. It was our base when in London, providing us with accommodation in the form of pretty follies on the extensive grounds—I claimed a tiny Gothic chapel for my use whilst Stoker’s preferred residence was a little temple set at the edge of a duck pond. Our work was housed in a freestanding structure called the Belvedere. Built as a ballroom for a previous earl, it was stuffed to the rafters with the collections assembled by various family members over the centuries. Statues and antique arms sat cheek by jowl with paintings and rare coins, and other, less expected offerings. I had unearthed a sarcophagus full of prosthetic anatomical devices, a camel saddle,Napoléon’s camp bed, and enough papyri to fill a pyramid. Jewels, stamps, assorted oddments—all could be found within the walls of the Belvedere.
But its greatest and most comprehensive collection comprised the natural history specimens. Over the centuries the practices of taxidermy had greatly improved, leaving many sad, lumpen animals oozing sawdust from broken stitches. Stoker’s task was to remount the most valuable trophies according to the latest methods. He was both craftsman and artist, fashioning something majestic out of the ruins of each, resurrecting the creatures so that one could feel they were almost alive, restoring dignity to the animals in death akin to the vitality they had enjoyed in life.
The bewinged specimens of the lepidoptery collection were my own pride and joy. Many were the happy hours I toiled over birdwing and swallowtail, cleaning, labelling, and arranging the jewel-like insects. It was also within my scope of responsibilities to attend to the vivarium, a small glasshouse that had been fitted with steam heat and an assortment of lush plants to facilitate the breeding of butterflies and observation of their habits. Along with these duties, Stoker and I were tasked with sorting and cataloguing the entire Rosemorran collection in preparation for its eventual opening as a museum. At least, that was Lord Rosemorran’s intention. Between our frequent absences from the estate and his lordship’s penchant for adding to his treasures, Stoker and I estimated it would require a further few decades’ work to bring the collections into some semblance of order.
Amongst the treasures housed in the Belvedere was an extensive library acquired for a pittance by his lordship from the estate of a destitute duke. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of volumes were stacked precariously in the upper gallery of the Belvedere. I made my way there the morning after our return, followed closely by the dogs. Huxley the bulldog was Stoker’s companion of some years, but the others were more recent acquisitions. Betony, his lordship’s enormousCaucasian sheepdog, trotted adoringly after the diminutive Huxley, never minding the disparity in their stature.
The rest—Nut the Egyptian hound, Vespertine the deerhound, and Al-’Ijliyyah the Italian greyhound—were all souvenirs of our various investigations. Each had come to us after their owners were murdered or arrested or went away to gain some education. It was only the mercy of a Divine Providence that none of our cases had involved monkeys, I reflected as I climbed the winding stair to the stockpile of books. I picked my way carefully through the teetering piles, grateful that we had at least had the presence of mind to sort them by subject matter. As was often the custom with libraries of the nobility, the books had been bound according to the owner’s specifications. Once shelved, the assorted volumes would form a harmonious whole, although I deplored the duke’s choice of dull yellow kid for the binding. The front covers were heavily embossed with the ducal coat of arms featuring a pair of hedgehogs rampant, and I suspected few of the books had never been opened, being commissioned to impress rather than to inform.
It took the better part of an hour to discover the exact title I required, but I found it at last.A Tour of the Great Country Houses of the Southwest: Dorset, Devon, and Cornwallby the Reverend Ellswater Pondlebury.
“A most unlikely name,” I murmured as I opened it. The binding cracked like a gunshot.
“Just for show,” I advised the dogs who were listening attentively. “Most dukes of my acquaintance are barely literate.” I skimmed the table of contents. “Ah, here we are. Cherboys and the village of Dearsley, seat of the Viscounts Templeton-Vane, page seventy-eight and following.” I turned to the page indicated to find a handsome drawing of Cherboys and gave an exclamation of surprise. I knew the Templeton-Vanes were aristocrats; I knew further that they were wealthy. I did not, however, anticipate a house as substantial as the one depicted. Itwas a miniature palace, sprawling across the page in a mass of chimneys, bay windows, turrets, and square towers.
Vespertine cocked his head and I read aloud. “ ‘Built in 1516, the original edifice was a Tudor manor house extensively remodeled in 1698 and 1743, when additions were made in the Queen Anne and Georgian Neo-classical styles, respectively. Finding the result to be both inconvenient and unattractive, the seventh Viscount Templeton-Vane pulled down the structure and had it rebuilt in 1837 in the “Jacobethan” manner. Constructed of red brick and boasting some 133 rooms, it is faced with dressings of Mansfield stone. The interior features a top-light Picture Gallery and a bedchamber reserved for royalty after the 1856 visit of Queen Victoria.’ ”
Huxley made a flatulent noise and I raised a brow. “I quite agree, Huxley. Reserving a bedchamber for thirty-three years simply because a dumpy little woman once slept there is ludicrous.” The fact that the dumpy little woman in question was the Empress Queen of the British Empire and my natural grandmother was beside the point. I thumbed through the following pages which featured a floor plan of the interior, tracing my way along the various corridors and up the tiny staircases. The last page featured a brief description of the setting of the house.
“ ‘Perched atop the Devonian cliffs, Cherboys boasts impeccable views of the sea on one side of the house and gently rolling upland on the other. Extensive gardens established by John Tradescant the Younger in 1638 were improved upon by Lancelot “Capability” Brown in 1753 with the addition of an artificial lake featuring an island. Brown is also responsible for constructing the hill at the edge of the garden which is crowned with the famous Pineapple Pavilion folly.’ ”
I peered at the map provided, noting the vast bulk of the house from which half a dozen paths and drives wended, leading to a cliff-top overlook, the various gardens and bowers, the lake with its man-made island, and the aforementioned and frankly enormous pineapple. Apair of paths, one quite direct and another lazily meandering through tiny copses and over little footbridges, led to a tidy cluster of houses that marked the village of Dearsley.
Bordering one side of the estate was a narrow blue line, the River Dear, which flowed from the high ground down towards the distant port of Lyme Regis and the broad expanse of the sea. Beside the village green in Dearsley was a duck pond, a church, a school, and an assortment of neat houses, each with a bit of garden. A railway station, so tiny as to be almost invisible on the map, stood just a little apart from the rest of the village, and beyond this lay woods and fields dotted with farmhouses, cottages, and barns, all connected by a series of footpaths, demonstrating with a few narrow strokes of the pen how neatly the lives of the Dearsley folk were intertwined.
“Very handsome,” I said, closing the book with an audible snap. I have always found it is best to survey the topography of an expedition before one embarks upon one’s travels. Whether one is bound for the spice-scented tropics or the cosy familiarity of the English countryside, forewarned is forearmed.
•••
Whilst we prepared for our sojourn in Devon, Stoker maintained a coolly polite distance. I was tempted upon more than one occasion to try to persuade him to join me in a health-giving session of physical congress, but in the end my pride would not permit it. He was polite, demonstrating towards me the sort of distant courtesy one reserved for one’s spinster aunts. Our usual raillery and repartee had been abandoned in favour of cordiality. He offered no spectacular flashes of temper or biting oaths; he kept his Vesuvian temperament on a tight rein. The Stoker I knew of old was mercurial, easily roused to passionate displays of annoyance or affection, and both were scintillating. I was accustomed to grumping and glowering when he wasdispleased, but now he withdrew into excessive civility, using words like “please” and “thank you,” as he might to any lady. I had been his equal, fighting back to back and standing hand in hand during our various adventures. Now I was firmly and politely placed upon that most hideous of perches—the pedestal. He enquired about draughts and whether I had eaten. He insisted upon wiping the dogs’ muddy paws while I sat in front of the fire on a stormy day. Worst of all, when I attempted to reposition a heavy Wardian case full of Nymphalidae, he plucked the thing out of my hands and carried it for me. I thanked him in a hollow voice as I realised he had ceased thinking of me as a partner and begun to view me as a woman, enfeebled and helpless. His excessive good manners were a means of punishing me, and I returned the favour, thanking him elaborately for every act of kindness.
It was galling, a state of affairs that could not be allowed to continue. But confronting him directly was out of the question. He was clearly still furious and there was no point in forcing him to discuss the matter before he was ready. I knew Stoker, better than anyone, and I understood he possessed an innate stubbornness that any donkey would admire. No, there was only one course of action—to smother my own mounting irritation for the time being. When the moment presented itself to act, I would know, and I already had a strategy in mind. With the single-mindedness of a battlefield commander, I had mapped my plan and secured my matériel for the clash to come, one that I was certain should see me victorious.
So it was with a renewed sense of optimism that I boarded the train to Devon. Stoker and I had lingered in London to finish securing the supplies he would require, whilst Tiberius had gone ahead to prepare the house for guests. Tiberius seldom visited Cherboys, preferring his London residence and travel upon the Continent to its bucolic charms, Stoker informed me.
“Is it not comfortable?” I enquired. The sketches of the house hadbeen staggering in scale, but it was entirely possible nothing had been updated since its rebuilding in 1837. We had only the previous spring stayed at a house on the north Devon moors that still featured prominently in my nightmares, more for its lack of modern plumbing than its legendary ghost.
Stoker gave me a look of understanding. “If you are thinking of Hathaway Hall, I can assure you that Cherboys is much more amenable to the creature comforts. There is a difference between the rural residence of a baronet and the country seat of a viscount, you know. Father was the most terrible snob,” he went on. “He put in the latest plumbing—at least it was the latest thing when he installed it. There was a fire in the family wing and several of the bedrooms were damaged. It provided him the opportunity to install the very newest hygienic arrangements. I don’t think an hour went by in my childhood that there was not the sound of hammering or falling stone.”
Stoker had mentioned a fire previously—something to do with igniting Tiberius’ bed whilst he was sleeping as retaliation for a bit of brotherly bullying, but I thought it best not to turn over that particular stone at present. Stoker and Tiberius’ relationship was tenuous at the best of times, and reminding him that he had once resorted to an act of arson was not calculated to bring out the best in him, I mused. I decided instead to prod him in another direction.
“Your father had an interest in architecture?” I enquired. Stoker seldom spoke of his father, and when he did it was rarely with affection. The late Lord Templeton-Vane had been Stoker’s sire in the legal sense of the word only, and the fact that Stoker had been the result of Lady Templeton-Vane’s indiscretion with an Irish portrait painter had done little to endear him to the viscount. His attitude towards Stoker had apparently swung between active dislike and bored disinterest with occasional forays into mistreatment.
“He had a passion for making things exactly the way he wantedthem,” Stoker corrected. “Tiberius had to be the perfect heir. Rupert was primed for diplomacy and the law. Merryweather was groomed for the Church. Everything had to be just so. God, how I disappointed him!”
Bitterness limned his words. “I think he ought to have been proud of the man you have become.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “Proud? With these hands?” He held them up. They were clean, washed free of his usual embellishments of ink and glue, the nails neatly trimmed. But they were marked with scars and calluses, the hallmarks of his profession, the hands of a man who worked.
And yet capable of such delicacy of touch! Such gentleness and such ardor. A thousand memories tumbled in my mind, each more delicious than the one before. How many times had those hands lingered upon my corset laces and stocking tops? And how many times had they consoled, protected, petted, loved? How many times had they been raised in defence of my person against pernicious peril?
