“No, but they have money. And influence. To a family such as that, any whisper of foul play, even if Lord Ambrose were an innocent victim, would be anathema. They would insist upon killing the story before it even circulates. And they are well skilled in the arts of bribery,” he reminded me. “They were prepared to purchase silence for Lord Ambrose’s activities in Julius Elyot’s laboratory.”
“True enough,” I admitted.
“And to answer your question, Elyot might have shot him with a very small calibre of firearm at close quarters. Strangled him. Garroted him. Poisoned him. Smothered him—” Stoker would have carried on, ticking off each grisly method on his fingers, but I held up a hand.
“Your point is made, my dearest.” I turned back to the brief piece intheHarbinger, reading it over yet again in hopes of gleaning some snippet I had missed before. But the prose was desiccated, devoid of anything of interest and consisting only of the barest facts, such as they were. I tossed the newspaper aside in annoyance. “The question remains, what is our best course of action now?”
Stoker’s expression was set as immovably as that of a pharaonic statue.
“We are going to Ambrose Despard’s house and find Julius Elyot.”
***
Are you entirely mad?” Mornaday demanded an hour later. We had summoned him with J. J., and they had responded with alacrity. As I had yet to attend my butterflies for the day, we repaired to my vivarium for our council of war. The vast glasshouse had been abandoned, subsiding into gentle decay before Stoker persuaded Lord Rosemorran to repair it and fit it with steam heat for the purpose of breeding and studying lepidoptery. Since his lordship’s agreement with the plan, every broken pane had been repaired, every rib of cast iron sanded and painted gloss black. It gleamed in the lamplight, and the damp warm air was luxuriously sultry after the foggy chill of the evening without. Hundreds of tubs had been planted with the various trees and shrubs best suited to harbouring the specimens I wished to breed and to feed, and the resulting fragrance was intoxicating. Everywhere one looked was another example of verdure to soothe the senses and refresh the eye, and the occasional glimpse of flapping jewelled wings was a modest enchantment. That the vivarium remained in such good order was a testimony to my hard work—as well as that of his lordship’s staff—and the standing order forbidding any of the Beauclerk offspring within its confines. It was one of only a handful of dicta laid down by the earl that was observed without fail by his children, and I was grateful as much for the peace of the vivarium as the possibilities for my work.
Leaving the duties of hospitality to Stoker, I busied myself by tying up the odd overhanging branch of buddleia and milkweed and preparing sustenance for my winged companions. As Stoker is an indifferent host at the best of times, tepid tea was poured and J. J. was given a few soft ginger nuts whilst Mornaday gazed longingly at the small plates of sliced fruits I was assembling. I laid them out in odd corners along with saucers of honey for a pretty batch of mourning cloaks before turning to my next chore. I uncovered the china bowl carried down by one of the maids, happy to find it was not cool from the larder but felt warm to the touch. When I pulled back the cloth, it gave off a gently pungent aroma which increased exponentially when I placed it onto a wooden board and began to chop.
“My god,” Mornaday said, pinching his nose. “Must you feed the dogs now?”
“This is not for the dogs,” I said, mincing the decaying meat into still finer pieces.
“You don’t mean to say—” He broke off, looking faintly queasy.
“Yes, Mornaday. Butterflies eat meat.Apatura iris, the purple emperor is particularly fond of carrion. The vultures of lepidoptery, I call them,” I informed him as I heaped up the gory bits and set the plate aside. Almost immediately, a large and busy specimen of that variety flapped over on indigo velvet wings, treading on the oozing pile with tiny, careful feet. He unfurled his proboscis to prod gently at the offering before condescending to feed delicately. “There,” I told Mornaday happily. “As graceful as a duchess in his manners.”
“There are things I have learnt in your acquaintance, Veronica, that I can truly say I wish with all my heart I had never known. That butterflies, those beautiful harbingers of spring, could eat carrion is one of them.”
He returned to his tea, flopping heavily into a chair and accepting the tender ministrations of Vespertine who came to lay a kindly headupon his knee. “You’re a grand old lad, aren’t you? Hm? You care about poor Mornaday? Perhaps I can teach you a trick or two and we’ll take to circus life. It’s about all I am fit for now that I’m no longer a copper.”
“No longer a copper! Have you been discharged?” I asked in real concern.
Mornaday shook his head, sunk in gloom. “No, but as good as. Sir Hugo is still away, and I thought to have a little peep at his files from the time the Beauty was retrieved from the canal.”
“And?” J. J. demanded.
Mornaday rubbed Vespertine’s ears. “I was caught. I heard Inspector Abbington coming and had just enough warning to close the file drawer, but I had nowhere to hide. Inspector Abbington, I might add, is not a particular enthusiast of mine,” he added dryly. “He demanded to know what I was doing in the office where he has been working during Sir Hugo’s absence. I couldn’t very well admit I was rifling through Sir Hugo’s private papers, so I told him I believed Lord Ambrose Despard was murdered.”
I blinked at him. “But that isourtheory,” I told him as I gestured towards Stoker. “That is why we asked you to come here tonight.”
Mornaday shrugged. “It is the obvious conclusion.”
“It is not,” I said, feeling unaccountably put out. The fact that Mornaday had arrived at the same theory as we had was vexing in the extreme. “But we will concede the point. We have asked you here because Stoker and I have information you do not.” I paused, allowing the expectation to build.
“What is she doing?” Mornaday inquired of J. J.
“She is being theatrical,” J. J. informed him. “It is a dreadful habit of hers. Do not encourage it. Veronica, speak plainly. What information do you have?”
“We have reason to believe Julius Elyot is alive,” I proclaimed in ringing tones.
J. J. and Mornaday exchanged glances. “And he staged his own death when he burnt down his laboratory before travelling to the Continent where he has been living quietly ever since,” Mornaday said helpfully.
J. J. took up the narrative. “Julius Elyot returned to this country three days ago under his own name but has not registered at any of the major hotels in London.”
“How do you know all of that?” I cried.
“Because you are not the only one with sources,” J. J. put in, looking very much like a cat who has just been at the cream pot. “Mornaday and I are every bit as capable of asking questions and developing lines of inquiry. Between the two of us, we have learnt quite a few things of significance.”
“I was able to ask a favour of a friend who works at the entry point in Dover,” Mornaday said, not unkindly. “He remembered the name as the spelling is unusual. The suspicion that Elyot staged his own death was recorded in a memorandum in the file in Sir Hugo’s office. It was thought best to simply let sleeping dogs lie and not pursue the matter. As for the hotels, J. J. knows every desk clerk, major domo, and housekeeper within twenty miles.”