It was some time before I was mistress enough of my emotions to speak.
“Only one man in a thousand—tenthousand—would have answered me as you have just done.”
He reached up and set the monkey gently aside. It chattered in annoyance, but Stoker ignored it as he rose and pulled me to my feet.
“Only one woman in ten thousand would have deserved that answer.”
CHAPTER
28
The next morning I snatched up the first edition of theDaily Harbingerbefore I even bothered with my toast and tea. I hadn’t far to look. J. J. had managed to insert the story a very few pages into the issue. The piece was small, a scant handful of lines only, accompanied by a reproduction of the Beauty’s death mask. As an illustrated journal, theHarbingerwould not print a photograph, but Julius Elyot’s original sketch of the death mask was an arresting image—as were the ghoulish little drawings J. J. had provided. She was skilled with a pencil and had managed a creditable sketch of the casket as well as one of a graceful body floating in the canal. These, coupled with the mention of Plumfield, ensured that the hook was baited. It remained now only to see if the fish took the lure.
I showed the piece to Stoker who was working his way steadily through porridge, kippers, and a helping of kedgeree that would have put a farmhand to shame.
“It is ridiculous,” he said as he pushed the newspaper away and reached for a fourth slice of toast. “See here where J. J. makes reference to the corpse’s ‘curious state of preservation’? She explains nothing. The body is fifteen years old—howis it meant to have been preserved?Where has it been in the ensuing decade and a half? The editor will be inundated with demands for more information. It is nothing but vague suggestion and cryptic innuendo.”
The fact that he had specifically instructed J. J. to write obliquely seemed to have escaped him entirely. But the male of the species, in my observation, is frequently irrational, and the greater the dangers we faced, the more Stoker’s peevishness increased. I gave him a calm smile. “Vague suggestion and cryptic innuendo sell newspapers,” I reminded him. “And her editor will no doubt be anticipating a second article tomorrow in which all is revealed.”
He bit down aggressively on his piece of toast by way of reply.
Had I not a case ofAgrias claudinato catalogue and clean, I might have spent the day in an agony of anticipation. As it was, the claudinas were delightfully distracting, not least because I read in the accompanying notes of their preferred diet of decomposing fish. Another titbit for Mornaday, I decided.
“It is time,” Stoker said as I tucked away the last of the claudinas. I had no idea what he had done with himself for the day—lepidoptery being both vocation and avocation for me—but he seemed pleased with himself, if a trifle subdued. I tidied away my cases and notes whilst Stoker fed the dogs, and when we had finished, we went to the folly of the little Scottish castle where Spyridon awaited us with the understanding that Julius would join us later. We had discussed at length whether to tell him that I was to masquerade as the Beauty and decided that the fewer people who knew of it, the better. If he knew I lay in the casket, he might accidentally give away the ruse to his sister—or perhaps not so accidentally. He had joined with us to apprehend Eliza, but I wondered, if it came to a sharp end, would Elyot’s loyalty lie with justice or his sister? As wiser folk have often counselled, it is good to have faith but better to have certainty.
The Beauty still rested in Spyridon’s bed, and the normality of thesetting only heightened the illusion that she was merely sleeping. Stoker gently untied the ribbon at her throat and secured it around mine. I made a note of her pose and the dressing of her hair so that I could impersonate her properly. These were the tasks of a moment, and yet I found myself lingering in a dark enchantment. It was a fancy, of course, but it did make me wonder how Spyridon had been able to bear sleeping only a few feet away from her.
In the corner next to the armchair, I saw a rifle, and looped about Spyridon’s sturdy waist was a weathered bandolier with a few bullets. He must have seen the questions trembling on the tip of my tongue, for he gave me a broad, white smile.
“It is nice that I do not ask you about your business, is it not, missus? It’s good for friends to be discreet with one another.”
The smile did not waver, but there was a sternness to his eye that told me any further curiosity would be unwelcome. So I returned the smile as graciously as I could.
“Quite right, Spyridon. And do call me Veronica, won’t you?’
He put a hand to his heart and bowed. He followed us to the Belvedere, where Stoker had unearthed a garment similar to the Beauty’s robe in the dressing-up box. The gentlemen gave me privacy as I removed my working gown and donned the crimson frock, shaking out the stiff folds. I unpinned my hair, shaking it out and letting it tumble to my waist. When I was dressed, they returned, and Stoker helped me step up into the casket and arrange myself on the satin cushion inside. He fidgeted a little with the composition, drawing a lock of hair over my shoulder and pulling the robe down to cover my feet.
“Stoker,” I said gently, “do stop fussing.”
“I don’t imagine Eliza will get much of a look before we apprehend her, but if she does, you must look convincing.”
“Convincing! I believe all that is required of me is to lie very still,” I told him.
He gave me a pitying look. “I think we can do better than that,” he said as he produced a series of small pots and brushes, setting to work under Spyridon’s interested eye. It seemed a trifle unfair that he was privy to our clandestine activities when he was so unwilling to discuss his own, but I decided that was a matter best left to another time.
“Do be still,” Stoker ordered as he began painting my face.
“Whut ust dat?” I asked through closed lips.
“A preparation of my own invention,” he told me. “I worked the better part of the day to find something that would approximate the pallor and texture Eliza achieved. I think it turned out rather well.” He continued to paint, brushing on the concoction until he was satisfied. “Do not move a muscle until it sets,” he instructed. He carried on, applying the mixture to my décolletage and arms, all the way to my fingertips. It was cool and the brush was featherlight, raising a delicious shiver as he worked.
“Veronica, do stop squirming,” he ordered.
“Then stopthat,” I muttered, cutting my eyes to where he was drawing the brush with painstaking slowness down my throat to the neckline of the robe.
“Oh,” he said, dropping the brush hastily.
Spyridon leant over and peered into the casket. “She looks good—like a very beautiful lady who is dead and also not dead.”
