For my part, I was delighted at the opportunity to visit the travelling show once more. My own work as a lepidopterist had taken me on journeys around the breadth of the world more than once, and the members of the show, whilst not natural historians, were likewise wandering souls. We carried within us the yearning towards sights yet unseen, peoples yet unmet. We thrilled to the dawn chorus of birdsong, the crackling of the campfire, and the steady clip-clop of the pony’s hoof was the rhythm of our heartbeats.
My pleasure at the proposed visit did not distract me from the necessity of dressing appropriately. I took a few precious minutes to exchange my working gown for my favourite garments—my hunting attire. I had designed several of the suits myself, refining the variations with each attempt. First, narrow trousers of fine tweed and a pure white shirtwaist with neat pin tucks worn under a fitted jacket. Over the trousers went a skirt of clever construction, also narrow and fitted with an arrangement of buttons that permitted it to be opened at the sides and fixed out of the way, thus freeing the legs for greater mobility. Flat boots that laced to the knee were essential, as was a collection of subtle weapons. A pair of slender stilettos were secured in my boot and another in a channel stitched into my corset.
Into my cuffs went minuten, the headless pins that are an essential tool of any entomologist’s kit. They were handy for all sorts of emergencies, not least fending off importunate men who tried to hold one’s hand without invitation. Stoker, infinitely more skilled with a needle than I thanks to his work as a surgeon and taxidermist, had fitted my seams with deep pockets, the better to hold handkerchiefs, a pencil and tiny notebook, a miniature magnifying glass, sturdy hairpins for picking locks, a sandwich in greaseproof paper, and a tin of sweets for Stoker in case of emergency. The last addition to my ensemble was a flask filledwith aguardiente—a potent South American liquor—which I strapped to my thigh. Its revivifying effects were not to be underestimated. Thus attired, I was prepared for any eventuality. With the addition of a large jar of cold cream of roses and a simple gown of black silk, I could have traversed the globe twice over.
Stoker had no cause to change, being already dressed in similar fashion. He invariably chose country tweeds over a town suit, although even the most fashionable of Bond Street tailors would never make him look like a creature of the city. His hair was always a-tumble, his ears glinting with small golden hoops acquired, like the tattoos upon his torso, from his time in Her Majesty’s Navy. And even if these nuances were overlooked by the casual observer, the black silk eyepatch and narrow silver scar running neatly from brow to jaw would have made him remarkable. These were mementos of the time he struggled to the death with a jaguar, narrowly emerging victorious. The cat had not taken his eye, but it had been a near thing, and the experience left him with eyesight that was intact but subject to fatigue. The patch permitted him to rest the eye, but the greater benefit, in my opinion, was the dashing air it lent him. No matter what he wore, he resembled a privateer who might have graced the court of Gloriana herself. It was a sight to thrill the heart of any susceptible maiden—and a good many other of her parts as well.
We rendezvoused at the gate of Bishop’s Folly, dressed and ready for battle, grinning at one another as we emerged onto the street, leaving the seclusion of the earl’s estate behind. We hailed a hansom and drove as far as the Duke of Hamilton pub before alighting to finish the rest of the journey on foot. Hansom cabs are a necessary evil when one lives in London, but Stoker and I were in agreement that there are few things as essential to good health as a bracing walk in the fresh air.
Unfortunately, the air of the city is less than salubrious, the line of the horizon marked as far as the eye could see with chimneys belchingendless quantities of black smoke into the air to descend as low grey clouds softening the edges of the buildings. We found ourselves wheezing slightly as we climbed the heath, a fine powder of soot settling on our faces.
“Hell’s harpies, even my teeth are gritty,” Stoker grumbled. He spat onto the grass and reached into his pocket for a violet pastille.
“The air is clearer the higher we climb,” I consoled him. “Onwards! And whilst we walk, you can tell me who it is we are meant to be meeting.”
“Branzino,” he said shortly. “Or Signore Branzino, as he prefers to call himself. He has been on the travelling show circuit for some years with his waxwork—a pretty blonde thing that has definitely seen better days.”
“I do not recall him from our time with Professor Pygopagus,” I told him.
“His appearances were always intermittent. He travelled with the same waxwork, but every year he changed out her costumes and gave her a different name. It wore her to bits, and he was forever making repairs to her with candle wax and portrait wire,” he added. “The professor used to make rather pointed remarks about the quality of his work, and Branzino would scream the place down and leave in a rage. He always came crawling back when he needed money, and the professor would allow him back for a smaller cut of the proceeds each time. The last I saw of him, he was working for pennies—all of which went towards drink. I never liked him. He was a nasty little vermin,” Stoker concluded. “If he happens to be back with the show, mind you give him a wide berth.”
I snorted. “One cannot possibly be afraid of a man named for a fish.”
We fell to silence then as we moved ever upwards, emerging at last on the top of the heath, the freshening wind scouring the sooty clouds away and whipping colour into our cheeks. Paths crisscrossed theexpanse, copses dotted here and there, the trees shedding their autumn colour in bursts of scattered leaves that rustled like taffeta. The smell of woodsmoke rather than coal hung in the air, the delicious fragrance of countryside, the sweetest refreshments after the malodorous city. I plunged ahead, eager as a hound, my steps quickening to a run. The way was deep in shadow, but I heard the rustlings and scrabblings of squirrels gathering hazelnuts and acorns in paws tufted with red fur. No doubt there were berries as well, the deep crimson of bittersweet and black bryony and the brighter orange-red jewels of rosehips. Elder, beech, and yew all offered up their fruits, as did the hawthorn and the sloe. At our feet, the caps of sleepy mushrooms nestled in the slumbering woods. It was an enchanted evening, walking in that glade, and as Stoker entwined his fingers with mine, I marvelled—not for the first time—at the whims of Fate which had drawn us together.
I was still lost in my musings when we spotted the picket of horses, the furthest reach of the travelling show’s encampment. I remembered from our last visit that the wagons would be sited just beyond, huddled together for protection rather than privacy. Strangers were held at arm’s length amongst show folk. Like the Roma, they relied upon one another and mistrusted outsiders with good reason. Cooking fires would be kindled inside the warm circle of caravans, lines of washing strung, and an air of contented if makeshift domesticity enveloping all.
The westering sun had long since dropped below the horizon, and a brisk breeze whispered through the treetops, sending the temperature plummeting and causing folk to gather close about the fires. We skirted the edge of the shadows, making our way through the assembled wagons towards the line of show tents. Of assorted shapes and sizes, the tents were where the public were welcomed for the price of a ticket, and it was where the professor held court in his own pavilion where favoured visitors might be admitted if he deigned to receive them.
As we crossed the campground, no one made direct eye contact,but I felt the tickle between my shoulder blades that said our arrival had not gone unnoticed. Wandering folk have a nose for trouble, an instinct which thrums in the blood, warning them of the approach of strangers. I had no doubt that even before we gained the edge of the encampment, word of our imminent visit had gone round. We walked on, neither challenged nor welcomed, our presence unremarked. We might have been phantoms, shadows moving through the campsite, past caravans whose curtains twitched and clotheslines whose flapping garments hid curious eyes.
Stoker had taken a circuitous route, moving slowly past the assorted caravans and tents, but none of them sheltered Signore Branzino. There were several acts I remembered from our stay with the troupe, but a few new ones I did not know. The elderly Madame du Lait—whose claim to fame was being the wet-nurse of Napoléon—had billed herself as being one hundred and fifty-three years old, but there was no sign of her, and I wondered if she had failed to make one hundred and fifty-four.
Across the camp, I saw a shadow of great enormity, larger than three huge men, detach itself from one of the caravans. I poked Stoker gently in the ribs.
“Do not look now, but Colosso has noted your arrival,” I murmured.
Stoker did not break stride. “He will not trouble us,” he assured me decisively.
“Are you quite certain? Only the last time we saw him, he seemed a trifle put out with you.”
“He was entirely furious, and I don’t blame him,” Stoker agreed, a tiny smile of satisfaction playing about his mouth. Due to the professor’s machinations, Stoker had been forced to fight Colosso, and the weapon of choice had been the rebenque. Colosso, not content with the advantages of strength, girth, and height, had cheated, weighting the handle of his weapon with enough lead to have killed Stoker with awell-aimed blow. But Stoker had proven more than a match, thrashing the giant with such dexterity and skill that Colosso had not been entirely the same afterwards.
“I believe he threatened to murder you and pick his teeth with your femurs,” I reminded him.
Stoker’s little smile deepened. “Let him try. It has been a while since I had a good fight.”
“For a civilised man, you are entirely too comfortable with demonstrations of violence,” I said. “I blame your education. Boarding school does seem to bring out the worst in boys.”
Stoker glanced to where Colosso was standing, arms folded over his massive chest, glowering. Colosso drew a finger across his throat, smiling a dreadful rictus grin that resembled a death’s head.
“Perhaps you were right,” Stoker said mildly. “He does seem put out. Well, we shall have to deal with him later. We’ve arrived.”
CHAPTER
5
We stopped outside one of the tents, a striped affair of red and white with blue pennants fluttering from the top of the centre pole. A sign, painted with flourishes of scarlet and gilt, proclaimed that this wasprofessor pygopagus’ travelling curiosity show. From within there was a murmur of conversation, a low buzz of anticipation. I flicked Stoker a glance and saw his jaw tighten. The prickle between my shoulder blades grew stronger, and I hazarded a look behind to see figures emerging from the shadows and drawing near, but not near enough to see properly. They were not incautious enough for that. They would wait to hear how we were received before extending either an open hand of friendship or a fist.
