“1873,” he said happily. Stoker rummaged in the box, extracting a series of purple clothbound ledgers, each stamped with the device of a tree bearing fruits and the name of the firm. As he made his way swiftly through them, young Wilfred sneezed heavily, several times in succession, and I blessed him. “Thank you—the dust, you see. Mamma always says I should be careful of dust.”
I noticed then that the modest effort required to carry the box had resulted in sweat dampening his hairline. “Mr. Plumtree, I do hope you will forgive the impertinence of so personal an observation, but would you not be more comfortable without quite so many layers? Perhaps three shawls are one too many?”
He blinked, as if encountering a possibility he had never before even suspected. “You mean leave off one of them?”
“Just to see if it suits you,” I said.
With an air of great daring, he stripped off the outermost shawl. He drew a tentative breath, then pulled himself up to his full height. “It feels rather good, actually,” he said in a tone of wonder. In rapid succession, he shed the other two shawls and one of the mufflers, exclaiming as he unwound each one at the lightness, the ability to breathe more freely. “Perhaps Mamma was wrong,” he said in a tone heretics might once have used to utter small blasphemies.
I gifted him another smile, this one of sincere approbation. “You will make a man of yourself yet, young Plumtree,” I assured him.
He fairly preened under the praise. “You are very kind, Miss Speedwell. I do not think I have ever met another lady quite like you.”
“There are not many of us about,” I explained.
Stoker interrupted us with a dry cough. “If the pair of you are quite finished approving of one another, I have found what we are looking for.”
Young Plumtree and I turned as one with rapt expressions to listen to Stoker as he summarised the information within the ledger.
“This contains information on the first quarter of 1873. According to this, on the fourteenth of February, the Metropolitan Police retrieved the body of a young woman from Regent’s Canal. With nothing to identify her, she was removed here with the understanding that Plumtree’s would commission a death mask to be inserted into the appropriate newspapers along with pleas to the general public for information.”
“Death mask?” I asked. “Surely a photograph would be more useful.”
“Oh, photographs are never taken in such cases,” Wilfred Plumtree said. “It is too upsetting for actual likenesses to be captured and displayed. Most undignified for the dead. I remember my uncle Plumtree speaking of it—only in general terms. Not with this young lady, of course, given the year. I was, as you say, a child still in Kent at the time.”
“What became of the death mask?” I inquired.
Young Plumtree shrugged and looked to Stoker. “Is there a note on its whereabouts?”
Stoker skimmed the page, frowning. “Not that I can see. The handwriting is devilishly crabbed.”
“What does it say about the disposition of the body itself?”
Stoker’s frown deepened. “A series of numbers and letters following her entry.”
He passed the ledger to Wilfred Plumtree who took it under scrutiny. “Why, she was buried. In Plumfield.”
“Plumfield?” I queried.
“The small cemetery in Berkshire that was the exclusive burial ground for Plumtree’s clients.”
I felt a dart of irritation. Surely this was our Beauty! And yet if she were buried in Plumfield, how could it be? I looked up to find Stoker’sexpression echoing mine. The annoyance stirring in my breast surged at the resignation in his eyes. He was so bent upon securing justice for the Beauty that it was essential to chase every fox down every hole, I decided.
“Mr. Plumtree, we have trespassed entirely long enough upon both your time and your good nature,” I began.
As I anticipated, the young man protested effusively, insisting it had been his great gratification to do so and that he considered the experience both unique and unexpected. He finished by saying that he could not do enough to assure us of his esteem.
“In that case,” I said, laying a coaxing hand upon his arm, “perhaps you would be good enough to take us to the grave.”
He blinked rapidly, his spectacles fogging from his exhalations. “It would be my acute pleasure, Miss Speedwell.”
He led the way from the room, throwing off another of his shawls as he did so. The last one he wore with the rakish air of a privateer bent upon adventure, and any feeling I might have had of taking advantage of the fellow was swiftly smothered by the conviction that he was enjoying himself enormously. He guided us through various doorways and corridors and through rooms dedicated to the business of death. Two of the rooms were fully tiled, with drains in the floor that suggested nasty doings, and a wall of shelves held assorted implements of the funerary arts. Beyond these lay a doorway leading to a flight of steep stairs that gave on to a wide stone-arched cellar.
“Well done,” Stoker murmured in my ear. “I think that puppy would follow you to the gates of Hell itself. Mind you don’t choke him when you tug on his lead.”
I had just shaped my mouth to issue a tart reply when the words stilled on my tongue. We stood in silence as young Plumtree opened an enormous steel door, wrenching it back upon its hinges. It gave way with a groan of ancient metal and a grinding that sounded almostreluctant. Beyond lay a short passage of such cobwebbed antiquity one might have been entering a tomb of a lesser pharaoh. Blackness beyond blackness stood before us, not a speck of cheerful light lessening the Stygian gloom.
“Gates of Hell indeed,” I murmured. And I stepped forward to put my hand in his.