“Miss Elyot’s suitor,” I began. “The one who worked with her brother and jilted her when Julius Elyot died. What was his name?”
She looked at me in surprise. “I cannot imagine it matters now. But if you wish to speak with him, he ought to be easy enough to find. He is a marquess’s son. It was Ambrose Despard. Lord Ambrose Despard.”
CHAPTER
16
I waited until we were ensconced in a hackney and the driver had sprung the horses to emit a whoop of unalloyed joy.
“That utter bastard,” Stoker muttered. “Despard must have known that Julius Elyot was commissioned to make a death mask for a drowning victim. And yet, he said nothing!”
“We did not put such an inquiry to him,” I reminded Stoker.
“We asked about the preservation of a human body, a question which rendered him so uncomfortable he could not get us out of his house quickly enough,” Stoker returned grimly. “You realise what this suggests?”
“That Julius Elyot and Lord Ambrose Despard were materially involved in the creation of the Beauty,” I responded.
“We ought to have suspected him further,” Stoker observed. “I never trust a man who is so thoroughly and perfectly groomed.”
“As if the application of a little toilet water after shaving is an indictment on a gentleman’s character,” I returned. “And grime is no indicator of virtue,” I added with a significant look at his cuffs. In spite of his tidy appearance when we left the Belvedere, he had acquired three new stains, one of them smelling distinctly of formalin although I knew he had been nowhere near the stuff. “It is a point of perpetualastonishment to me, your ability to besmirch yourself with apparently no effort whatsoever.”
“You knew what I was when you fell in love with me,” he replied. “Therefore, I would argue that it is your taste which is in question rather than my innocent befoulment.”
Naturally, I took umbrage at this, and we set to quarrelling happily until we reached the Belvedere. The lamps had been lit, and a low mist was rising off the duck pond, the shreds of it hanging in the shrubbery like forgotten phantoms. The grounds of Bishop’s Folly were a particular delight to me, offering so much unexpected variety in the centre of the city, but the evening was growing chill, and I shivered as we reached the Belvedere.
It was the behaviour of the dogs that first alerted me to the fact that something was amiss. They were grouped around the doorway, huddled together in considerable agitation and looking to Al-‘Ijliyyah for protection. She was the most recent addition to the pack as well as the youngest and the smallest, scarcely measuring half a yard from the end of her tail to the tips of her quivering ears, but her intrepid spirit and stalwart defence of the others had led them to adopt her as their leader. Betony and Vespertine, the Caucasian sheepdog and Scottish deerhound respectively, presented a particularly ludicrous picture of cowardice as they sheltered behind her.
“What in the name of seven hells,” Stoker began. He cast an eye over the pack and spoke sternly to them. “I expect this of you, Nut. You are scarcely larger than Al-‘Ijliyyah, but Betony and Vespertine, you are ridiculous. And Huxley, you bring shame upon the name of bulldog.”
The sturdy English fellow, the oldest of the bunch, merely slobbered in reply.
“What do you suppose has affrighted them?” Stoker asked, turning to me. But I was already pushing open the unlocked door and drawing a hatpin from my cap.
“Get behind me,” I instructed him as I moved to go inside.
“I bloody well will not,” came the answer as Stoker shoved past me, his booted feet crunching over a bit of broken glass. The splinters were ground to powder beneath his soles, and I was immediately glad of the dogs’ collective cowardice, for their paws would have been cut to ribbons. I shut the door behind us to keep them out, and hastened to catch up to Stoker. He had lit a lamp and was inspecting the damage.
“Is there much destroyed?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just an old Wardian case near the door. An empty one, thank god.” I understood the fervour of his feelings. The Belvedere was so crammed with treasures, it did not bear thinking about what might have been lost.
“An accident? Perhaps one of the children?” I suggested.
He raised the lamp, the light playing over the harsh planes of his face as he surveyed the place. “They wouldn’t dare. Not if it were locked, and it was,” he added, anticipating my next question. I ought to have known better. Stoker might be careless of many things, but never the security of the Belvedere. The things he held most dear in the world—besides myself—were held within its walls.
“So we have had an intruder,” I concluded. “I suppose it is not to be wondered at. There is a king’s ransom housed here, and some of the valuables are quite portable. But there is nothing new—” I broke off with a cry of despair and turned on my heel, a sudden horror rising within me. The corner where the Beauty lay was still in heavy shadow, but I could see even within the gloom that she had been disturbed. The various precautions we had taken to disguise the casket had been thrown aside and the pall itself, the bit of tapestry, was crumpled on the floor.
The casket, I saw with considerable shock, was empty. I reeled back, supporting myself on a handy camel saddle. “She is gone,” I said in a hollow voice.
Stoker stood, lamp raised high, inspecting the scene, but there was nothing to see, I realised. There was not so much as a fingerprint marring the glass, no telltale smudges or scratches to betray the villain’s work. There was only the long satin cushion bearing the impression of a woman’s body where the Beauty had once lain.
“I cannot believe we have lost her,” I said mournfully. I turned to Stoker, expecting an eruption of temper or despair. Instead, to my shock, I found him smiling as broadly as a man who has just backed a winner against the longest possible odds at Epsom.
“Stoker? Dearest, if you mean to succumb to hysterics, I must warn you that I am without a vinaigrette and would be forced to slap you into sensibility.”
He bent and pressed a bruising kiss to my lips. “Come with me,” he ordered. He stalked away as lordly as a panther, and although I am loath to admit it, I trotted obediently behind. I tried always to maintain a dignity equal to that of any man and rejected all the niceties of female submission, but upon occasion—veryrareoccasion—I had cause to come over rather fluttery and maidenly and was content to play Penelope to his Odysseus.
I knew better than to ask where we were bound; he would not have told me. For all his aristocratic upbringing, he had a carnival barker’s love of theatricality, and he relished any opportunity to play the showman. And I confess, I was more than a little excited by his air of command. So I paced my steps to his, surprised when they turned in the direction of the duck pond. He skirted the edge of the water, leading the way to the tiny Scottish castle on the far side.