“Into the mouth of Hell we go,” Stoker muttered. He drew in a deep breath and stepped into the tent. Inside was arranged the most interesting and unique gathering of people imaginable. In an armchair large enough to accommodate a family of four sat a very pretty lady of frankly tremendous proportions. Behind her stood a man in uniform—remarkable as much for his height as for the fact that his entire face was covered in lush golden fur. On the other side of the tent, a girl with Titian-red hair flowing to her hips reclined upon a chaise longue of bluevelvet. From the waist down, she was draped in a sort of coverlet, and at the bottom, where one might have expected to find toes, there peeped the edge of a fish’s tail, the scales shimmering in the lamplight. Perched atop her head was a slim crown of coral and pearls with matching gems adorning her ears and arms. Next to her stood a lushly sensual woman with rather fewer garments than propriety might demand. Her bronze velvet robe was not equal to the task of constraining her exuberant décolletage, nor did it manage to conceal much of the exquisitely formed legs clad in black stockings. She was heavily painted, and her rouged mouth was curved into an enigmatic smile.
Between these two extraordinary sights was a pair of elaborately carved chairs placed almost exactly back to back with the arms between them cut clean away. This was to accommodate the elderly twins seated there, conjoined as they were at the ribs and shoulder. One held an accordion with which he produced a Baroque tune I had heard only once before. His brother sat wreathed in smoke from a Turkish cigarette resting in a long ebony holder. He greeted us with a smile, gesturing magnanimously with the cigarette holder and its plume of acrid smoke. For a long moment, no one spoke. The etiquette of the travelling show is as rigid as that of a royal court at times. They were all awaiting the professor’s reaction as a guide to how we were to be received. They were motionless, no doubt taut with expectation and interest to see what would happen.
“Stoker! And Mrs. Stoker! What an unexpected delight,” the professor crowed.
It had entirely slipped my mind that the last time we had joined the show, we had been travelling under false pretences. It had seemed prudent at the time, and there was little point in correcting the misapprehension now.
I smiled at the silent twin. “Good evening, Otto. It is pleasant to see you again.”
He added a few more flourishes to the Baroque melody before ending on a high note. Otto had never spoken, but I understood him well enough to know he was happy to see me. Forced to the periphery of conversation by his inability—or unwillingness—to speak, Otto was both highly observant and fluent in musical commentary.
“Hello, professor,” Stoker said coolly.
“So good of you to come, my boy,” the professor said, his gaze bright with malice. “I rather thought you were angry with me after our last encounter.” Their last meeting had involved not only the rebenque fight but our hasty departure as we fled from possible arrest thanks to the professor’s meddling.[*]
Stoker bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile. “The encounter where you forced me into a rebenque fight with Colosso and nearly got me killed for my trouble whilst revealing my whereabouts to the public when I was wanted by the police for murder? I haven’t thought of it at all, I assure you,” he said tightly.
“I am delighted to hear it,” the professor replied. “These things do happen.” He turned to me. “And how are you, my dear? I must say, your association with Stoker agrees with you. You are positively blooming! Although, it is not ‘Mrs. Stoker,’ is it?” he asked, canting his head and wearing an expression alarmingly like that of Lady Wellie’s tamarin. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance properly, Miss Speedwell.”
“You have been making inquiries,” I observed.
He gestured, sending more smoke into the air. “One collects scraps of information, rather like a magpie collects bright and shiny things.” Otto’s thread of melody took a slightly sinister turn. The professor went on. “We are delighted to have you both amongst us again. I think you know the others.”
He waved a languid hand, and the rest of the little group becameanimated in their greetings. First, the lion-faced man and the portly woman beamed at us, and Stoker went to shake hands and bestow a kiss upon the pink cheek of the lady. These were Tilly, billed as the Fattest Woman in England, and her husband, Leopold the Lion-Faced Lord. They sent friendly nods my way which I returned with cordiality. Then the figure upon the chaise longue put out her arms.
“Stoker!”
“Hello, love,” he said in a tone of real affection as he went to her. She was young—perhaps not twenty—and her expression shone with genuine happiness. When he bent to her, she clasped him close.
“I have missed you,” she said softly.
“I have missed you too, petal,” he returned. “How is the tail holding up?”
She grinned and flung back the drapery to reveal a mermaid’s tail. It was a glorious thing, glistening in nacreous shades of green and pink and burnished with the glow of old silver. I realised suddenly that she had no legs, only the tail fitted to her torso, replacing the missing limbs. She made a sort of undulation with her body, and the tail rose in a graceful movement. It was as elegant as any ballet in Covent Garden, and she fluttered it a second time before letting it settle once more to the chaise longue. Stoker watched it with careful attention. “Still working well then. Perhaps a bit of paint to touch it up,” he added kindly.
“With a bit more lustre?” she asked hopefully. “To make it more like a pearl!”
“If you like.” He motioned for me to come forwards. “This is Veronica. Veronica, this is Sirena, the Princess of the Seven Seas.”
She put out her hand and grinned. “It is Alice, really.”
I shook her hand. “Hello, Alice. You are the very first mermaid I have ever known.”
Her laugh was light and merry. “Thanks to Stoker. I used to be billedas Baby Alice, the Adult Infant, but Stoker thought of this,” she said, gesturing to the elegant tail. “Far nicer than sitting around in a baby’s bonnet and sucking a false teat,” she added with a dark look at the professor.
He spread his hands. “My child, we must work with what Nature gives us.”
She pulled a face and stretched one hand towards her tail. “This is much nicer,” she repeated.
I agreed with her, but I was vaguely aware of a heightened atmosphere, and I turned from Alice to the statuesque woman whose bosoms had suddenly seemed to take on a personality of their own. She had thrown her shoulders back and thrust her rib cage forwards, and the effect caused Stoker to make a choking sound.
“So, you have returned!” she proclaimed in ringing tones that might have suited Siddons herself. “Have you come to break the heart of Salome once more?” she demanded, striking one of the bosoms with a closed fist. Her accent was some hideous amalgamation of assorted and nonspecific Mediterranean intonations.
“Good god, Salome, do be careful. You might rupture something,” I advised her.
“I was not speaking toyou,” she said, rolling her eyes towards Stoker. She had lined them heavily with kohl. Studied theatricality was one of her specialities.
“But I am speaking to you,” I said firmly. “When we parted, I thought we had become friends.”Friendsmight have been a slight exaggeration. The fact that she and Stoker had enjoyed a somewhat frenzied physical relationship once upon a time would prevent Salome from being an intimate friend of mine, but I had a healthy respect for any woman who could be born a Sally from Dunstable and make of herself a Salome of the travelling show.