“It is a model, sculpted in the studio of Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins in his heyday.”
“Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins—theBenjamin Waterhouse Hawkins?” I asked.
“The one and only,” Tiberius confirmed.
Stoker began to recite, the facts tumbling over themselves in his excitement. “In ’fifty-two, the Crystal Palace was moved from the Great Exhibition site in Hyde Park to Sydenham. In the ornamental gardens there, Hawkins set up a studio to build life-size models of extinct animals. He was advised by Sir Richard Owen on their anatomy, and what they created was unprecedented.”
I broke in gently. “I have been to the Dinosaur Gardens,” I reminded him. “I have seen the creatures for myself.”
“Then you will know they are hopelessly out of date with modern findings and have been badly damaged by vandals, the vicissitudes of weather, and time.”
“They were not at their best when I visited,” I said. “But I imagine when they were first installed, they must have been dazzling.”
“Dazzling,” Stoker confirmed.
“But they are not the only ones Hawkins sculpted,” Tiberiusexplained. “One of his installations, an iguanodon, was the setting for a dinner party in 1853, quite a famous one. The story, complete with illustrations, was in all the newspapers of the time. It was so sensational, in fact, that when our dinosaur was lost, Father thought of the iguanodon model and decided to commemorate the vanished Megalosaurus. He commissioned Hawkins and Owen to come to Cherboys. It was larger, more impressive than the iguanodon, and Father’s dinner party in it was legendary. But that sort of thing soon went out of fashion. It was Stoker’s favourite hideaway until Father eventually had the thing carted away to punish him for one of his many transgressions. We never saw it again.”
“How did you find it?” Stoker asked.
Tiberius shrugged. “How do I do anything, brother? Money. I made enquiries and ran it to ground in the Argentine. I had it shipped back in the spring. It has been sitting in the grounds of Cherboys since.”
“And you did not tell me?” Stoker demanded.
“I meant it to be a surprise,” Tiberius replied. “I knew that one day I would want something from you that you would not be inclined to give me. You do not gamble or collect horses or women or snuffboxes, so I have precious little to offer by way of a bribe. Except this,” he finished, spreading his hands.
“Name your terms,” Stoker said.
“As I said, restore it to glory. A few days’ work at most.”
Stoker’s brow quirked upwards. “And?”
“And I require your presence for the duration of the house party,” Tiberius told him.
“But why?”
“Because, although it pains me to admit it, you seem to have a flair for this sort of thing,” Tiberius said, waving a hand towards the cuttings. “I want to know why someone is targeting us. And if Kaspar and Alexandre were murdered, I want to know who is responsible.”
“And possibly save your life in the process,” Stoker replied.
“Cynicism does not become you, brother. And there are other things I value more highly than my own life.”
“You realise it will mean asking difficult questions,” I warned Tiberius. “You will be entertaining people who may as easily be potential villains as victims.”
The ghost of a familiar smile flitted about his lips. “I daresay not for the first time.” He blew out a sigh. “What say you? Will you come?” This last was directed not at me, but at Stoker. Tiberius knew me well enough to understand that it required no bribery to lure me into an investigation. The prospect of a puzzle coupled with the zest of danger was precisely the sort of situation best calculated to pique my interest. Although, I reflected darkly, he might have at least attempted to offer me an inducement. A nice case of rare birdwings would have not gone amiss, I mused. Or perhaps a lively group of Morphos for my vivarium where they could flap about under my watchful eye.
Whilst I pondered butterflies, Stoker held Tiberius’ gaze. “Very well. For the Megalosaurus.” They shook hands upon it, as sober as judges, and Stoker rose to leave.
“What about your wolpertinger?” I asked pertly. “Can you bear to leave the quest unfulfilled?”
Stoker paused, his hand upon the doorknob. “Lack of fulfillment is nothing new to me.”
It was not often that Stoker had the last word, but on this occasion, I formed no response, not even when the door closed softly behind him.
“Goodness,” Tiberius said lightly. “Trouble amongst the lovebirds?”
“I am very fond of you, Tiberius.” I rose and shook out my skirts. “Do not make me stab you with a cheese fork.”
CHAPTER
