Plumtree winced but nodded. “Yes. The coffin rose to the surface and burst. And it was frightfully poor timing as the widow had come to mark the first year of her mourning being finished, and she was the one to discover him in a state of... decay.” He choked a little on the last word, and I did not entirely blame him. The scene must have been macabre indeed with the grieving widow confronted with the gruesome sight of her decomposing husband’s corpse, floating gently in a puddle of rainwater.
Still, young Plumtree seemed singularly distressed, and I gave him a close look. “Forgive me, Mr. Plumtree, but perhaps Stoker is correct in suggesting another line of work. Are youquitecertain about carrying on in this trade?”
“Oh, I am,” he said with disarming cheerfulness. “At least I mean to try. You see, the only alternative is giving up the business and returning to Appleden to take up the practice of law once more. Mamma would be entirely delighted by that, but I am determined to be the master of my own fate, Miss Speedwell.”
He raised his chin in what I think he must have supposed to be a noble expression. I clapped him heartily on the back. “Then you will doubtless succeed.”
Stoker, who had been looking on in obvious amusement, cleared his throat. “And you are quite certain no one has been buried here since? An undesirable and unsellable plot would be a suitable place to bury an anonymous young lady whose family cannot be located to pay for the arrangements.”
“Oh, no,” Plumtree insisted. “Grandfather was so distressed by the experience with the baronet’s corpse, he gave up the business altogether and left my uncle to the running of things. And my uncle wasmostparticular that nothing of the sort should happen again. I did not recognise the numbers in the ledger—I am still learning all of the little aides-memoire my uncle employed—but standing here, I am thoroughly certain. Whatever the ledger says, the young woman pulled from Regent’s Canal was most definitely not buried here.”
I resisted the urge to whoop like a triumphant Viking shield maiden holding her gore-stained sword aloft. This was progress indeed, I reflected. My lowness of spirits upon reaching the cemetery had been banished in an instant with young Plumtree’s revelation, and I resisted the urge to kiss him on the cheek.
“Mr. Plumtree, you have made me very happy indeed,” I told him.
A crimson blush flamed his cheek and he ducked his head. “I am delighted to hear it.” His expression grew puzzled again. “But I have neglected to ask, why are you so interested in the fate of this one unknown?”
I expected Stoker to dissemble. Instead, he astonished me by telling Plumtree the truth. “Because we believe she is currently in our possession.”
“Possession?” Plumtree’s gaze swung from Stoker to me and back again. “I do not understand.”
“Simply this, Mr. Plumtree,” Stoker said. “We have recently become custodians of a figure that appeared at first glance to be a waxwork. It is not. It is the corpse of a very real young woman that was preserved, very comprehensively preserved, by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.”
The unorthodoxy of the situation was clearly too much for young Plumtree. He shook his head as if to clear it. “How did she come into your care?”
“It is a long and tedious story,” I put in. “And not relevant to the matter at hand which is identifying the young woman and discovering if justice may be served in her demise.”
“Justice? You think—you think she might have beenmurdered?” There was no one within half a mile of us, and yet this last word was issued in a thrilled whisper.
“It is possible,” Stoker admitted. “But we do not know for certain. Our primary aim is to discover her identity and ensure a proper burial. At present, our only lead is the fact that her body appears to have passed through Plumtree’s.”
“In 1873,” Plumtree finished.
“You must agree it is likely,” I put in. “Surely there cannot be two such young women?”
“No, that would be too much a coincidence,” he agreed. “I must admit, I am horrified to think that my family’s firm might have had anything to do with such business.”
But there was some new evasiveness in his manner. It was nothing obvious; no refusal to meet my gaze or reluctance to speak were in evidence. And yet I detected a sort of shrinking within him, a bone-deep dread that his relations may well indeed have got up to nefarious deeds.
On impulse, I laid a hand on his sleeve. A scalded cat could not have moved more swiftly, but I kept my fingers where they were. “Mr. Plumtree, it is nothing to your detriment if your uncle engaged in some underhanded undertaking.”
His complexion, a brilliant rose pink only a moment before, paled. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing along the column of his throat. “I confess, Miss Speedwell, I do not like to think it, but the men of my family have a sort oflaxitywith regard to what is moral. That is why my mother insisted upon bringing me up outside the sphere of their influence. She worried their weakness of character might encourage some deficiency of my own.”
“I think she need not have worried on that score,” I told him gently. “You are clearly a young man of great probity. And you could prove that by helping us now.”
Stoker snorted, but said nothing, and young Plumtree nodded, as determined as Galahad himself to apply his might to that which was right. “Of course, Miss Speedwell. I will do anything in my power to aid your efforts to uncover this unfortunate’s identity and see justice is served.”
I patted his arm. “I knew we could depend upon you, Mr. Plumtree.”
He blushed again, and Stoker cleared his throat before speaking. “I think another look at the firm’s records is in order. The victim from the canal passed through Plumtree’s, and for whatever purpose, your uncle saw fit to falsify the ledger and claim she was buried. So what happened to her after she left the Plumtree’s premises, and why did they permit it?”
Young Plumtree nodded vigorously. “I will have a thorough search through all of the archives. There are other files, more private records, as well as my uncle’s diaries. Perhaps some scrap of information may be found there.”
I longed to search the files myself, but as if intuiting my thoughts, Stoker stepped in. “Thank you, Mr. Plumtree. Miss Speedwell and I have work of our own we must attend to, and your diligence will not be forgot.”
He put out his hand, and young Plumtree shook it with an expression akin to awe. If he had been flattered by my attentions, it was nothing to the reverence with which he accepted Stoker’s. It was hardly surprising. To a man of such youth and diffidence, Stoker must have presented the embodiment of all he longed to be. The notice and gratitude of such a man was no small thing.
We turned to make our way back to the city, and as we walked, I looped my arm through Stoker’s. “A not altogether unsatisfactory outing,” I murmured.