She guided us to a room where it seemed all of the offices of domesticity were combined. A long sofa, pushed in front of the hearth, was heaped with pillows and feather quilts to create a makeshift bed. Stacks of books held discarded cups of tea and plates thick with crumbs. An elderly wolfhound reposed on a threadbare chaise, lifting its head as we entered before dismissing us as entirely uninteresting. His mistress threw him a crust of toast as she gathered up a few oddments to make a place for us to sit.
“I shall not apologise,” she told us. “I do not entertain, and I did not invite you. Nor will I offer you refreshment. I will instead make you the gift of five whole minutes of my time. If I am interested enough at the end of those five minutes, I might encourage you to stay another ten. But do not expect more.”
“We would not dream of imposing upon your generosity further than necessary,” Stoker assured her.
“She might,” Parthenope Fleet said with a nod towards me. “She looks the overbearing sort.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she waved me off. “Do not take it as an insult. It requires a forward woman to know another. Now, onto business. You have four minutes and forty-five seconds left.” She glanced atthe mantel clock—an aggressively ugly example of the Bavarian woodworking arts—with a meaningful look.
“We have come about the Elyots,” I told her. “Julius, an artist, I believe. And his sister, Eliza. I am told you knew them.”
“Told? By whom?” The narrowed gaze gave nothing away.
“Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk,” Stoker informed her.
She snorted. “That old harridan! She gathers gossip like a squirrel gathers nuts—indiscriminately and with an eye to feeding on it later.”
“Is it untrue?” I challenged.
“It is not,” she admitted. “I knew them.”
I suppressed the flare of triumph licking through my veins. I suspected Parthenope Fleet would not give up confidences easily. She would make us earn them all, and if she wished to play games, I was content to let her do so as long as she gave us the information we required.
“What can you tell us about them?” Stoker urged.
“Why do you want to know?” She dropped a hand to the wolfhound’s head, stroking the rough fur of the creature’s ears as it dozed.
“We have reason to believe the Elyots have information that could help us right a miscarriage of justice,” I told her.
She did not snort in derision this time. She laughed outright. “Miscarriage of justice? Good luck to you, child. Julius Elyot was the oddest of ducks. And you are barking up quite the wrong tree in any event. He has been dead these fifteen years at least.”
My spirits, so elated a moment before, plunged. “Dead? Are you certain?”
She shrugged. “I did not poke the body with a pin, if that’s what you mean. But he died all the same. It was a crushing blow to Eliza, you know. She was scarcely twenty and idolised him.”
“How did he die?” Stoker inquired gently.
“Accident,” she replied in succinct tones. “His laboratory was burnt down, and he was unable to escape. Although there were rumours he did not especially try. Naturally, no one wanted to feed those particularly nasty notions. It gave great pain to Eliza.”
“People suggested he died by his own hand?” I pressed.
“Rude people,” she flung back quickly. “Unkind people.”
“That must have been difficult for Miss Elyot,” Stoker remarked.
Miss Fleet tipped her head, considering him a long moment. “You have an uncommon sensitivity, Mr. Templeton-Vane.”
“Stoker, please.”
“You may call me Parthenope,” she returned. She leant forwards and put a finger beneath his chin, tipping his face towards the light. “That’s a nasty scar. Amazonia, wasn’t it?”
Stoker’s eyes flared wide in surprise, and she gave him a knowing look. “The Templeton-Vane Expedition. I followed your travels. You were very brave. And that wife of yours ought to be fed to a crocodile.”
She said nothing more upon the point, but she clearly understood the depth of the villainy of Stoker’s former wife and how deeply he had been wronged. They exchanged gentle smiles, and for all they cared I may as well not have even been in the room. I almost indulged in a little polite clearing of the throat to remind them of my presence, but when I perceived the softness in her gaze, I paused. She seemed on the precipice of a confidence, and I trusted Stoker to coax it from her.
He shifted a little in his chair, moving towards her, his shoulder blocking me entirely. “You are friends with Miss Elyot?” he inquired.
“I am. She is several decades my junior, but I have always thought of her as something of a protégée. She ought to have surpassed me years ago, her intellect and originality show so much promise. But she can never seem to settle to anything, flitting from project to project. There is a restlessness in her and something of bitterness too.”