“Like recognises like,” she replied graciously. “You want to know something.”
“We do,” I admitted.
“Then you have come to the right person. I do not know why you wasted so much time peering into every little corner of this camp before seeking me out.” The reproof was gently delivered.
“How do you—” Stoker broke off. “The urchin outside. He is your eyes and ears whilst you are bound to the box.”
“You speak as if I have only one set of each! My dear fellow, Argos himself would envy my little collection of eyes. Now, ask, before I tell him to let in the next group of punters.”
“You trade in information,” I reminded her. “Do you not wish to be paid in advance?”
“The boy outside was dealt with generously, if I know Stoker,” she said.
I looked to where Stoker stood, blushing furiously. “He seems a hardworking lad.”
“The brightest I have taken into my employ,” she agreed. “He has seen the backside of an open hand too many times in his life. I think a little kindness in return for yours is not inappropriate. Unless you would rather pay me in cash?” she asked with the arch of an imperious brow.
“Signore Branzino,” Stoker said hastily. “You recall him?”
She gave him a frankly disgusted look. “You think I forget anything? A name? A face? Madame Arachne remembers all. Yes. Who could forget him? A curious little man with his glass coffin.”
“What became of him?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Why do you wish to find him?”
“We don’t, actually. But we desire information about glass caskets,” I explained. “They are rather rare, and we have come into possession of one. We have questions. We thought perhaps the signore could help answer them.”
“How disappointing,” she said. “One hoped for a more interesting story than that. But I am not surprised. Branzino was, apart from his pretty wax Venus, a thoroughly boring man. He is not the sort who would attract interest, although”—she paused, her expression thoughtful—“come to think of it, how he left the show was rather intriguing. He wasailing. Too many years of quietly drinking away his earnings. His liver had begun to pain him, and he wished to retire to Calabria. That is where he hailed from, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Stoker told her. “I am not certain I ever really spoke to the fellow.”
“He kept himself to himself,” Madame said. “But he liked to come and talk to me once in a while. I think it amused him to believe I could not get away when he wanted to converse, rather like his poor Beauty in the box. He would come and talk to me of Calabria, the stony poverty of it, the hunger of his childhood. He longed to return and die amongst his own, but he hadn’t the money. Until the gentleman came.”
“The gentleman?” I asked. “What gentleman?”
“A very handsome one. Distinguished. A collector of anatomical models. He pointed out to Signore Branzino that there were one or two unique features of his Beauty and said he would pay handsomely to acquire her. Branzino sold her without a second thought.”
“And the coffin?” Stoker pressed.
“Went with her, of course. What use has a dying Calabrian for a glass casket unless he wished to be buried with it himself,” she added with a laugh.
“So Signore Branzino took the money and sold his Beauty to this gentleman,” I said. “Could you describe him to us? Give us some clue as to his identity?”
“I could,” she said solemnly. “Or I could just tell you that he lives in Holborn, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” She cocked her head for a moment then supplied the house number.
I gaped at her. “And his name?”
“Lord Ambrose Despard. The younger son of the late Marquess of Harwich.”
“That is most helpful indeed,” I told her. “Thank you, madame.”
She inclined her head, as gracious as an empress. “The pleasure,Miss Speedwell, was entirely mine. Should you ever find yourself in Monte Carlo, I do hope you will call.”
The gathering noise outside indicated a crowd was assembling, and I heard the young lad begin his patter. “Come and see the wonder of the natural world, Madame Arachne, half woman, half spider!”
We thanked her again and took a hasty leave, emerging to find the boy cheerfully collecting coins and directing punters into the tent. Without a word, Stoker took my hand and we made our way across the encampment. When we came to the edge, we paused. This was the very top of the heath, where heaven and earth met. London glittered in the darkness below, the gaslights shimmering like stars spangled on the night sky. It was seldom that I stopped to appreciate the wonders of the city, but it was impossible to ignore them on a night such as that with the wind still rustling crisply in the trees, the fragrance of the leaves still mingling with the campfires.
Stoker, who was given to quoting Keats at romantic moments, did not disappoint. His delicious baritone shaped the phrases of mellow fruitfulness before passing on to some decidedly more direct passages, and I responded as any red-blooded lady with any claim to human emotion might have done. It required little effort to persuade him to avail ourselves of a handy deserted copse, the ground heavily shadowed and thickly carpeted with moss and fallen leaves. When we had finished, we spent some little while bringing order to our disarranged clothing and plucking pine needles from our hair, but the effort, I assure the gentle reader, was entirely worth it.