“Satan would have first dibs,” Stoker replied dryly, sending Spyridon into a fresh bout of laughter. Stoker looked to me and gave a short nod. “The Beauty is just as we left her.”
“Excellent,” I said as Spyridon sobered and wiped his eyes. I gave him a moment to finish collecting himself before I began my inquiry. “Did you see anyone enter the Belvedere this afternoon? A stranger lurking about?”
He stirred his stew as he thought. “There was a great rustling in the shrubbery that I think might be a villain, so I creep upon it, ready to do a violence. But it was merely the...” He paused, clearly searching for a word, before muttering in Greek. “Chelóna.”
“Chelóna? Oh, turtle!” I said in sudden understanding. “You mean Patricia. She is actually a Galápagos tortoise. Very old and rather rare. She was carried to this country by Mr. Darwin himself.”
“I like her,” Spyridon said. “The tortoise is a very wise creature, although this one, she walks in circles making sounds like a cow.” He gave a strangledmooand I smiled.
“She is a maiden tortoise,” I explained. “She is in want of a husband.”
He pursed his lips and pressed his hands together as if in prayer as his eyes rolled heavenwards. “Love is the greatest torment of all,” he pronounced.
“Not always,” Stoker put in with a warm glance in my direction. “Now, Spyridon. Was there anything else unusual besides Patricia?”
“A female child who set off a tiny bomb, but she is not my child, so I do not worry,” Spyridon said with perfect equanimity.
“Lady Christabel,” I murmured under my breath. Lord Rosemorran’s eldest daughter was forever experimenting with volatile substances,and I made it a practice to give her a wide berth when she was on the trail of something potentially incendiary. The fact that explosives were once more in evidence on the estate meant that his lordship’s two elder daughters had returned from their travels.
“A workman came just before teatime, after it had grown dark. Wearing rough clothes and a hat pulled very low, so I did not see his face. I saw him crossing to the Belvedere, like a fugitive. Like a fox,” he added, waggling his fingers near his head in imitation of ears.
“Then what?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “Then nothing. Lady Wellie summons me to the house to take tea with her and I go.”
“I thought hermits were supposed to remain in their hermitages,” Stoker said.
“I am not a very good hermit,” Spyridon replied without apology. “But if you worry because I left your Beauty alone, do not fret, my friend. I gave the hallboy, Giorgos, a little Greek coin to watch the folly for me. No one comes, no one goes, he tells me. And my first duty must be to Lady Wellie, my benefactress.”
“How is it you know the English word ‘benefactress’ but not ‘turtle’?” Stoker inquired.
“I know many words in many languages,” Spyridon replied with a wave towards the bookshelf. “They do not always appear when I call for them.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” I said, “there is nothing else you can tell us? Perhaps the height of the man you saw? The colour of his hair?” I was thinking of Lord Ambrose’s elegant inches and his bright gilt hair.
Spyridon tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Average height at most. Very slightly built, like a youth, but something about the way he moved says to me he is not a very young man. The hair, I cannot see except a little just at his collar. Very dark.”
I frowned. The hair might have been darkened as a disguise; indeed Lord Ambrose would have been foolish to attempt a bit of villainy without it. But he could not mask his inches or the breadth of his shoulders. A man may make himself taller or wider, but to do the opposite is a different matter.
As usual, Stoker intuited my thoughts. “Lord Ambrose would be too cautious to come himself. No doubt he hired a ruffian to do the deed for him.”
“Perhaps,” I said slowly. “But would a hired hand know precisely what to look for? Would he take the proper care of her? And more importantly, would a man be able to move her alone and without assistance? Particularly in her current state? She is not exactly...” I paused and swallowed hard. “...pliable.”
Stoker considered, then shook his head. “Difficult, even for a man of significant strength. A body, even an embalmed one, becomes lighter after death. But the processes followed in this case seem to have added weight.”
Spyridon was looking from one of us to the other, eyes bright with interest.
“Forgive me, Mr. Spyridon, but you seem to have accepted the presence of a preserved corpse in your home with remarkable sangfroid.”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “It is not the first time.”
I looked at him, frankly startled, and he bared his teeth in a broad smile. “I like you, Miss Speedwell.”
“I like you too, Spyridon. I think you will make an excellent addition to the menagerie we inhabit here at Bishop’s Folly.”
He took my hand again and swept a bow. “Until we meet again.” He followed this with a string of sentences in rapid Greek that caused Stoker to rush me from the little castle so quickly my feet fairly left the ground.
“Whatever is the cause for haste?” I asked him.