He grunted in agreement, and I went on. “Of course, you may be entirely incorrect in one particular.” He raised his brows in silent inquiry. “You said she was preserved by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.”
“That is not a point open to debate,” he said assuredly. “The job was done with considerable knowledge and skill, far beyond my own.”
“Oh, I will concede that point,” I said with a gracious nod of the head. “But you have entirely overlooked one detail.”
He stopped and turned to look at me until I met his gaze and smiled.
“It may have been a woman’s work.”
CHAPTER
14
The following afternoon, we were comfortably settled in the Belvedere, dogs snoring in a heap around us, the tiny tamarin—now wearing a ruffled bonnet and full petticoat—tucked under Stoker’s arm as he took his tea. Upon our return from Plumtree’s the day before, I had scribbled hasty notes to Mornaday and J. J. relating what we had learnt, but I expected it would be some days before we heard from either of them or young Wilfred. For the present, there was nothing more to do but enjoy a bit of refreshment and plot our next move.
“Veronica, I will not have it,” Stoker said over the scones in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have considered your point and I will have no more murderesses. I think we have exceeded our quota of such unnatural creatures.”
“Unnatural! What is more natural than death? It comes to us all,” I reminded him as I poured. I handed Stoker his cup. “Women are as conversant with death as life,” I said simply.
“But not usually the authoresses of it,” he protested.
I gave him a knowing look. “You are being deliberately provocative. You, of all men, are too well acquainted with the deadliest examples of my sex to believe we are the gentle, peaceful angels of the hearth.”
“Yes, that is precisely my point,” he said, pausing to break off a piece of cake. He fed the titbit to the tamarin, and the monkey took it with the dainty grace of a duchess. “We have already met too many lady murderers. How many can there be? And if they are legion, then they are a bloody sight less likely to be caught than men. Women are too careful and too clever to be as easily apprehended, as we have known. Surely our experiences are unique.”
I knew Stoker too well to believe him capable of any prejudices where the fairer sex is concerned. He had, through painful experience, come to understand that there is no creature on earth more dangerous than a desperate woman. The villainesses of our acquaintance had indeed proven themselves more than equal to any man, and I was just as reluctant as he to cross swords with another in the present.
“Still,” I went on, “we must at least entertain all possibilities.”
“We have nothingbutpossibilities to acknowledge in the absence of any real evidence,” he grumbled. He fed more cake to the tamarin, who took it with delicately greedy paws.
I considered pointing out that fruit would be a more suitable addition to the creature’s diet, but in the end I said nothing. Stoker was already beset by the glooms, and any constructive observations on my part might provoke an argument.
On the other hand, I considered, perhaps a good, healthful brawl was just the thing to rouse his temper and fire his blood.
“Stoker,” I ventured calmly as I poured a fresh cup of tea, “I have given careful consideration to your thoughts on the contributions of Alfred Russel Wallace to Darwin’s theories, and I think you are entirely mistaken.”
As I had hoped, a rush of rage kindled his response. He sat forwards, upsetting the tamarin, who fled up the nearby mount of a giraffe, never stopping until it had reached the top, perching itself between the horns and peering out, chattering angrily down at us. I ignored it, and Stokerflung a piece of cake, which it caught neatly, leaving off its scolding to console itself with the sweet.
“Why in the name of seven hells would you even entertain such a notion?” Stoker demanded. “I have never heard such lunacy from an educated brain. There is no possible argument you could make which would persuade me that you seriously believe—” He broke off, colour high, chest rising and falling rapidly with the excess of emotion. “Because you do not. You are deliberately attempting to provoke me in order to amuse yourself.”
“I am not,” I replied. “I am attempting to provoke you in order to amuseyou. You are prickly as an echidna these days, and I fear it will have a deleterious effect upon your health.”
He lapsed back into his chair, picking at the crumbs on his plate. “I do not care,” he said, staring at the outthrust tips of his boot toes. “I have little appetite for anything.”
I looked pointedly at the empty plate. “For some things, perhaps,” I murmured. I shifted my gaze to give him a glance from beneath my lashes, warm and meaningful.
“Well,” he said, a tiny smile playing about his mouth, “some things.”
He might have reached for me then, but George, the hallboy, arrived at precisely that moment with the late post. I flicked through the letters as Stoker attempted to lure the tamarin down with a bit of fly biscuit. “Come down, you bloody little vermin,” he said in a sweetly coaxing voice. “I have half a mind to lock you in a cage.”
I ignored this—Stoker would never confine an animal accustomed to liberty of movement—and seized upon one of the envelopes in triumph. It was written in an unfamiliar hand, the return address a neatly inscribedW. PLUMTREE. I tore it open in a fit of impatience, skimming the lines until my eyes fell to a name.
“Veronica, you look like Saint Paul on the road to Damascus,” Stokersaid as he came forwards, the tamarin now perched on top of his head, chewing gently on a lock of his hair.
I waved the letter in triumph. “Young Plumtree has prevailed. In the very first file he searched, he discovered the name of the artist commissioned to sculpt the death mask.”
Stoker took the page as he resumed his chair, skimming the letter. “Julius Elyot. Who in the name of seven devils is that?”