“I am a physician,” Gresham said stiffly. “I do not meddle with the divine truths.”
“And you believe Adam and Eve were real people?” Stoker asked, once more adopting a tone of easy affability. “And that we are all descended from both of them?”
“Certainly,” Timothy said.
“And their sons?” Stoker went on.
“Of course.”
“So we are all products of ince—”
“Stoker,” Tiberius put in lazily. “Pas devant les femmes.”
“But this femme finds it most interesting,” Beatrice assured him with a mischievous smile. “It is indeed as Stoker says. If we are all descended from Adam and Eve, then we must therefore be descended from the union of their son with their daughter. What other explanation can there be?”
She looked around the table, colour high and eyes shining as she waited for an answer. I had heard more than once of the propensity of American ladies towards outrageous and provoking dinner conversation, and Beatrice seemed determined not to let the reputation of her countrywomen down. This gift for sparking intriguing debate was a quality that endeared the Americans to the Prince of Wales, according to Augusta. If His Royal Highness were ever invited to sit at one’s table, a lady could do no better than provide him with a partner from across the pond. He loved nothing so much as being mildly scandalised, and judging from the canary-fed cat expression on Tiberius’ face, he was much the same.
The count smiled indulgently at his wife’s conversational gambitwhile Augusta tactfully applied herself to her fish and Elspeth studied her plate. Timothy looked faintly apoplectic, and Stoker and Merry were regarding Beatrice with respectful looks.
Sir James laughed aloud. “Very good, my dear. Very good indeed,” he said, raising his glass in her direction. He swivelled to fix an eye upon Timothy Gresham. “You have seen the fossils, man. You know perfectly well that Earth ismillionsof years old.”
“Blasphemy,” Timothy said with obvious distaste.
“Blasphemy! Look around you, Timothy. We are sitting inside a bloody great dinosaur. How do you think that happened?”
“It isn’treal, you know,” Gresham reminded him coldly.
“No, but it is based upon something real,” Tiberius said suddenly. He spread his hand expansively. “This is what Lorenzo’s fossil would have looked like if it had been saved.”
Sir James gaped at him. “You mean, if we could have recovered it, we might have assembled it properly and it would have looked likethis?”
His gesture sent one of the candles from the candelabra in the center of the table free, sparks flying upwards. Augusta gasped and Beatrice gave a little shriek.
Stoker said something far more blasphemous than anything else we had heard as he dove to extinguish the sparks. He spent a hectic few seconds stamping and smothering before resuming his seat. “This whole bloody thing is covered in flammable varnish,” he warned us. “Another escapade like that and it will go up with all of us inside it.”
Sir James muttered an apology, looking a little abashed, but Tiberius seemed entirely pleased with how events were transpiring. He rang for the next course and we sampled another of Julien’s creations, a ballotine of poussin. He was gifted as any other artist, and the fact that his medium was food, to be consumed and never entirely replicated, was bittersweet. The impermanence of his masterpieces was a considerable part of their majesty. I gave myself up to the sumptuousplateful and noticed Beatrice was suppressing little moans as she ate. I watched her from time to time to gauge her reactions to Merry, but whatever had passed between them in the church, they seemed nothing more than polite acquaintances at the table. Beatrice, I suspected, could engage in a little social duplicity, but Merry was as disingenuous as a baby rabbit. If he harboured any unsuitable feelings for her, he would never be able to conceal them, and he most definitely would not be able to devote himself so single-mindedly to his chicken. Still, I was determined to discover what their tête-à-tête had been about, and resolved then to run Merry to ground and force the truth from him by whatever means necessary.
The conversation turned general as we made our way through the roast and game courses—saddle of beef and then the MacIver grouse—before Tiberius took charge of the discussion once more. J. J. continued to serve discreetly, but her eyes were attentive, and I was certain she was making mental notes of everything.
“I am glad you introduced the topic of Lorenzo’s fossil, James,” Tiberius began smoothly. He had not touched his plate but instead held his wineglass up to the light, scrutinising the colour as it shaded to paleness at the meniscus. “It is, in fact, because of Lorenzo that I asked all of you here.”
We had just started on the sweet course—a jellied and creamed apricot concoction of Julien’s that would have merited a knighthood had he served it at Windsor Castle—when Tiberius rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Collins quietly poured out champagne at the sideboard and placed a coupe in front of each of us. Delicate bubbles raced upwards through the pale straw-coloured wine, and I could smell the crystal-sharp fragrance as each burst on the surface.
Our attention turned to Tiberius, and silence, taut and expectant, settled over the table. He raised his coupe. “I should like to propose a toast to absent friends, specifically Lorenzo d’Ambrogio.”
No one spoke as he went on. “There are a few of you—Veronica, Beatrice—who never met Lorenzo, so this may possibly bore you. And four of you—Stoker and Merryweather, Timothy and Elspeth—who can only remember him vaguely. But, James, Pietro”—he raised his glass to each in turn as he named them—“we knew him. He was a brother to us. And we knew Kaspar and Alexandre and Benedict as well. Our dear friends, taken from us too soon. We must toast their memory,” he added, pausing for us all to respond and drink with him.
“Dreadful business,” James said quietly, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as most British men do when confronted by actual emotion.
“Gone too soon to the arms of their Maker,” Timothy added sententiously.
The count crossed himself and said something in Italian—or perhaps Latin. He was not near enough for me to hear him clearly, but the intention was apparent. He was blessing their memories.
“Indeed gone too soon and, yes, an entirely dreadful business,” Tiberius agreed. He paused again for dramatic effect. “But then murder usually is.”
CHAPTER
22
