“Oh, indeed!” he replied with a quick smile. He plied us then with hot tea and offered a selection of biscuits, each handsomely wrapped in crisp paper sealed with a wafer of black wax. “The seal features a memento mori,” he pointed out. “A winged skull. Do you like them? I rather wondered if a cherub wouldn’t have been nicer, but Mamma thought the skulls very smart.”
“They are most appropriate,” I assured him. Stoker had already unwrapped his and was sampling the biscuit inside.
“Caraway,” he said in obvious approval. Stoker reached for another as our young host settled back into his chair, raising his feet to thebrazier once more. “How can I help you today?” he inquired with all the expected solemnity of a gentleman in his profession.
“We wish to speak with Mr. Plumtree,” I said. I handed over our calling cards. I carried both in a neat case in my reticule as Stoker could never be bothered to remember his, and even if he had, they would have been so begrimed and streaked with sweets and dirt from his pocket, they would never have been fit to offer.
“Or son, if Plumtree senior is not available,” Stoker said, reaching for another funeral biscuit.
“Oh, I am sorry, but that is impossible,” the clerk said.
“We ought to have written to make a formal appointment,” I said by way of apology, “but the matter is of some urgency to us, and we require only a few minutes of either Plumtree’s valuable time.”
I added a winsome smile to which the young clerk responded with an audible gulp and a charming blush to the tips of his ears. “I am heartily sorry to disappoint you, Miss Speedwell. Sorrier than I can say! But I am afraid the Mr. Plumtree referenced on the sign is no more.”
“And son?” I asked.
“Dead also,” he told me.
“Then who,” Stoker asked with exaggerated politeness, “are you?”
“Oh, I am a Plumtree, to be sure. Wilfred Plumtree, at your service,” he added with a tiny bob of the head.
“But you are not a mortuary Plumtree?” I inquired.
“Not at all, although I hope to be,” he said with some pride. “I am newly come from Kent—a pretty little village called Appleden. Perhaps you know it?” he asked with a hopeful expression.
“I am afraid I have not had the pleasure,” I told him. “But then I have travelled only a little in Kent and am the poorer for not being well acquainted with its many beauties.”
This seemed to please him, for his blush deepened, and he ventured a shy smile. “It is truly the loveliest corner of England, but the village isa small one, you understand. Very little scope for a man to make his way in the world. I did try,” he added anxiously. “I read law. Only as it happens, I don’t much care for it—the law, I mean. And even if I did, no one in Appleden has much need for a solicitor. I spent many a lonely hour in my rooms, waiting for clients whilst Mamma knitted in the corner. She’s very careful of my health, is Mamma. I am an only child,” he added with a self-effacing little gesture. “When I inherited my uncle’s business, I came straightaway to London to seize the reins, as it were. Mamma did protest most vociferously, but I insisted.” He looked frankly delighted at his own initiative, and I was not surprised. It was easy to imagine what he had been—a bored and rather lonely young man, overly cosseted by a domineering mother—but it was too soon to see what he might become. At least he had had the bottom to take up this opportunity, and I wished him joy of it.
“Do you mean to carry on the practice of undertaking?” Stoker asked.
“I do,” young Plumtree said stoutly. “That is, I will, if I can bring myself to—”
He broke off, his complexion taking a faintly green tinge. It was not difficult to hazard a guess as to the source of his discomfort.
“Mr. Plumtree, are you a squeamish fellow?”
“I do not mind the selling of coffins or the arranging of services. I am happy to display the mercer’s wares and choose the hymns, although my mother thinks it the most dreadful comedown for a man who has read law. I think in time it might make me happy if only I could get past... It is the dead,” he said quietly. “I do not care for thebodies.They are uncanny, Miss Speedwell. When one is here alone, one can almost imagine them about to rise.”
He took a deep draught of his tea and that seemed to settle his nerves.
“If you’ve no love for the trade, why not sell the business, man, and buy another? One you are more suited to?” Stoker demanded.
I darted him a repressive look, then turned to young Plumtree withsympathy. “I quite understand. I am a lepidopterist by trade. Handling dead things requires a steady hand and a steadier nerve. Perhaps you are simply too heavily blessed with imagination for this line of work.”
Wilfred Plumtree brightened. “I suppose that is possible. Do you think I could learn to be less imaginative? To be asteeliersort of fellow?” He darted a look at Stoker, and I wished he had not. Stoker was, by any standards, a fine specimen of manhood, tall, broad of shoulder, and beautifully muscled. After insisting he dress the part to call upon Lord Ambrose, I had said nothing when he presented himself that particular morning attired in a variation on his work costume—stained suit, shirt open at the neck and missing its collar, cuffs grimed with ink and glue. Gold rings glinted in his ears, and his eyepatch was in evidence. The effect was one of almost aggressive masculinity, and I could easily discern young Plumtree was finding himself lacking in comparison. I was only grateful he could not see Stoker’s tattoos.
But it occurred to me that the lad’s longing to play a more heroic role might serve us well.
“I certainly think you capable of it,” I told him without a flicker of remorse. “More than capable,” I assured him. “But to do so, you must practice, Mr. Plumtree. Seek out some danger and test your mettle. Now, we have some questions regarding work that was done here some fifteen years ago. I realise you were a mere child at the time, in Kent, as you say. But perhaps there are records?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. My uncle and his father kept extensive notes on all their clients. It is just that these papers are not as precisely ordered as one might hope. Follow me.”
Taking up another muffler to wrap around his neck, he led the way across the corridor and into a suite of rooms packed to the ceilings with boxes. Each box was crammed with ledgers; papers spilled to the floor. Stoker groaned, but I quickly realised matters were not quite so bleak as they first appeared. Each box was marked with a year.
“Let us try 1873,” I said promptly. To his credit, Wilfred Plumtree did not inquire why we wanted information or, indeed, even what information we required. He simply set to work finding the correct box and presented it to me with the air of a puppy dropping a favourite bone at the feet of its mistress.