Stoker, dearest, the American beaver has cause to grind its teeth in order to fell trees for constructing its habitat. From the sounds you are making, I can only think you intend to build a dam of your own,” I said with a curve of the lips to provide a touch of levity to the mild reproof.
In fact, I was feeling less than cheerful myself. My invitation to address the Aurelian Society had been abruptly withdrawn on the grounds that the gentlemen issuing the appeal had not realised the “V. Speedwell” who had authored the article which so enraptured them—“Observations on the Hand-Rearing of Rare Lepidoptera”—was female. I chafed against their stupidity and briefly considered boxing up and posting them the steaming pile that Vespertine had deposited under the shrubbery that morning, but in the end, I chose to accept the disappointment with dignity and apply myself to the conundrum at hand, unravelling the puzzle of the Beauty’s life and death as well as the source of Stoker’s discontent. He had been making unholy noises for the past quarter of an hour and my nerves could stand no more, hence my gentle gibe about beavers.
He did not return the smile. “I am not grinding my teeth. I am chewing boiled sweets.” He crunched down hard upon another and thearoma of aniseed filled the carriage. We were bound for Lord Ambrose Despard’s house, and in light of the smart new town dress I had donned—violet silk with a luscious trimming of black passementerie—I had insisted upon a carriage to save my hems. I was beginning to regret that decision. Stoker had been decidedly not himself since his examination of the Beauty the night before. A walk to Lincoln’s Inn Fields might have worked out some of his overwrought emotions.
“It is not like you to chew them to bits like a piece of industrial machinery,” I told him. “Are your nerves unsettled?”
He turned to me in frank astonishment. “My nerves? Unsettled? I cannot imagine why you would suggest such a thing. I have only performed a thoroughly illegal postmortem on a pregnant woman I am quite certain has died of violence.”
“You did not cavil at the legalities of the situation last night,” I reminded him. It was true that he had not undertaken the investigation with quite as much enthusiasm as I had, but the results of the examination had distressed him. He had been withdrawn and silent as we restored the Beauty to a semblance of propriety, replacing the panel of her abdomen and dressing her once more. I had been a trifle surprised at his reaction, but it was not his fault that his courage was failing him. Men require, in my experience, considerable bolstering of the spirits in order to carry out any activity requiring imagination or fortitude. It was a source of tremendous satisfaction to me that Stoker required less bolstering than most and usually of the physical variety. A comprehensive session of sensual congress was often enough to rouse any flagging spirits, and when coupled with a warm toddy and a good night’s sleep, it ensured he was always right as rain the following morning.
In this instance, however, my usual remedies had failed. After concluding our examination of the Beauty, Stoker had said little as we placed her in a position of repose in her glass case. He found a tapestry—Flemish, fourteenth-century, and depicting the Judgement of Paris—todrape over the coffin in an attempt at concealment. We did not discuss the need for such precautions, but neither of us would have wanted any member of the Beauclerk household, least of all the irrepressible Lady Rose, to have stumbled upon the uncomfortable truths we had observed. Lady Rose had been distracted enough by her guardianship of the tamarin not to have missed the Beauty, and the children were strictly forbidden unaccompanied access to the Belvedere, but I trusted them as far as I could ride Patricia, the Galápagos tortoise.
When Stoker finished his camouflage of the casket, it still looked too starkly coffin-like, so I heaped a stack of moth-eaten silk cushions atop the tapestry along with a pair of light lithographs and an enormous stuffed albino peacock. In front of the casket I arranged stacks of an incomplete collection of Napoléon’sDescription de l’Égypte, the encyclopaedic survey of the Nile and its environs. Atop these I placed a selection of blown ostrich eggs, precariously enough situated so that anyone would think twice about exploring further in that particular corner of the Belvedere.
Afterwards, Stoker refused my invitation for an interlude in the Roman baths, preferring instead to retire alone to the cold, chaste bed in his little Chinese temple. I was not in the slightest perturbed at this, of course. Good manners dictate that one must receive a refusal with as much grace as one welcomes an acceptance, and I was the last person to press my company where it was not greeted with enthusiasm. I buttoned up my nightdress—I had discarded it in my haste to get to the business of things—and apologised for tearing his trousers. (It is possible I misunderstood the nature of his refusal and at first thought he was simply playing at being coy. It was necessary for him to issue his rebuff a second time and then a third, with a stern removal of my hands from his person, before I comprehended his sincerity. I make no apologies. Stoker had, during the course of our previous investigation, made it quite clear that he wished to be seduced upon occasion, and I was simplytaking him at his word. Once he had found new trousers and staunched the bleeding, we had a comprehensive discussion on the subject of initiating congress and came to a cordial and necessary understanding that a first refusal is to be honoured immediately and without resentment. I offer this bit of digression as a piece of instruction to the gentle reader that it is worthwhile to have such discussions, albeit perhapsbeforethe fact rather than when one has been forcibly removed from an attempt at a complicated position known to ancient Romans as the Vines of Venus.)
By the time I appeared at breakfast in the Belvedere, Stoker was immersed in his labours, and we spoke little as he applied himself to the refurbishment of a charmingly posed maned sloth,Bradypus torquatus. The tamarin was still evidently in Lady Rose’s clutches, for it made no appearance—a circumstance for which I was heartily grateful. I applied myself to the correspondence that never seemed to diminish no matter how many letters I sent, and the morning passed swiftly. After luncheon and another few hours of work, we decided to refresh and smarten ourselves for our call upon Lord Ambrose. At least, I decided. Stoker would have happily appeared in the Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace in a half-open shirt stained with glue and ink, but I pointed out to him that at least a modicum of civility was required when calling upon the son of a marquess. He took the news with bad grace but appeared some little while later, hair still damp from his ablutions, wearing a town suit and an effort at a necktie. My violet silk was set off handsomely by a fetching black velvet hat with stiffened peacock plumes.
“My god,” Stoker said, rearing back. “You will put out someone’s eye with that bloody thing.”
“It is,” I informed him loftily, “the height of fashion. I have no doubt Lord Ambrose will appreciate the effort.”
He snorted by way of reply and threw himself into the carriagewhere he remained, crunching on boiled sweets and grumbling under his breath as I mentally reviewed our points of discussion with Lord Ambrose. We had agreed that no mention was to be made of our Beauty. The fewer people who knew of her existence, the better. We would inquire about the casket only, and any general information about Anatomical Venuses he might care to impart. The world of their admirers must be a small one, I reasoned, and it was not impossible that Lord Ambrose could have heard rumours of someone who was inclined to dabble in something far darker.
Such thoughts occupied my attention until at last we drew up in front of the house. A footman, powdered and liveried in pale amber, took in our cards and the letter of introduction Rupert had provided, leaving us to wait in the vestibule. The house, like all in that particular quarter, was a model of quiet elegance with the regular symmetry one associates with good Neoclassical lines. Inside, it was an example of breathtaking originality. The floor was chequered in a traditional pattern, but the tiles were emerald and grey marble, both subtly veined in gold. Recesses around the room which might have held pretty vases or arrangements of hothouse blooms in other homes, instead sheltered an assortment of black marble busts of Roman emperors.
I was just admiring a particularly attractive head of Hadrian when a gentleman descended the stairs, smiling in welcome.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane! How do you do? And Miss Speedwell, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. He grasped my gloved hand and came within a breath of touching his lips to the back of it. He turned and shook Stoker’s, giving me a chance to study him briefly. He was well above average height, topping Stoker by some three inches or so, and his slenderness only augmented the effect. He had a nose as sharply modelled as Hadrian’s, and he was dressed quietly but at obviously great expense. He was not yet forty, I surmised, and in excellent conditionwith a fencer’s physique. His hair was a pale, burnished gold, and his eyes a decidedly warm spaniel-brown with a slightly mournful expression although his manner was kind.
I recalled myself to find him scrutinising me with equal candour. He smiled in obvious approval. “Any friend of Rupert’s is entirely welcome here. It is too early for tea, but would you care for some refreshment?”
“Perhaps later,” I told him.
“We have many commitments,” Stoker said sulkily. I resisted the urge to pinch him. If I had realised he was still quite so distressed about the postmortem on the Beauty, I would have left him at home. The coaxing of information from gentlemen was a particular speciality of mine, and it would only hinder the cause if Stoker’s sullen mood dampened the cordiality of our conversation.
“Then I must make it my mission to persuade you,” Lord Ambrose told him. “I am afraid Sir Rupert’s note did not state a purpose to your visit. Have you come to see my collection?”
“Your collection?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I often receive visitors. I have amassed quite an interesting assortment of oddities and artefacts.”
“What sort of artefacts?” I inquired.
“Egyptological, Grecian, Roman. And of course the natural history specimens. I have a number of butterflies, which is how I know the name Speedwell. You must have some connection to the author of the recent article in theJournal of the Aurelian Society.”
“On sexual dimorphism inTrogonoptera brookiana? I wrote it. I am V. Speedwell,” I told him to his obvious delight. “You read it?”
“Read it? I was riveted!” he assured me. “And whilst your theory about the purpose of the dimorphism is entirely original, I must say your argument was sound. I found myself entirely persuaded. And perhaps I could impose upon you enough to ask a question. I have recentlyacquired a case ofMeandrusa payenifrom Sikkim and wonder if they are all that they should be. I fear they have been misidentified by an unscrupulous seller, and I hope you will be kind enough to lend me your expertise.”
We had come for information about the Beauties, but the invitation was too intriguing to pass up. A Yellow Gorgon was not a thing to be denied.
“You may depend upon it,” I promised.
Behind me, Stoker gave a low growl, which I attributed to a bout of indigestion courtesy of too many boiled sweets.
Lord Ambrose led the way to a narrow staircase descending from the principal floor.