“Enough. We shall get nowhere by haranguing one another. Now, let us review what we know and what we may hypothesise. Julius Elyot staged the illusion of his demise fifteen years ago and disappeared to the Continent. At that same time, Lord Ambrose placed the Beauty in storage at the warehouse of one John Raby. When Raby died, his widow saw fit to disperse his holdings, and the consignment was sold to LordRosemorran. In the meantime, Julius becomes aware of the apparent loss of the Beauty and hurries back from the Continent in hopes of retrieving her—which he first attempted earlier this week when he broke into this place. He was unsuccessful thanks to Stoker’s precautions,” I added with a nod to Stoker. He accepted the compliment with a little bow, and Mornaday muttered something profane under his breath. Naturally, I ignored him and carried on. “But matters have taken a decidedly deadlier turn with the murder of Lord Ambrose Despard.”
“Another example of your leaping to conclusions and calling it rational, but it does seem the likeliest explanation,” J. J. admitted.
I inclined my head graciously. “Thank you. And now we must test our hypothesis by going to Ambrose Despard’s house and searching for clues to Julius Elyot’s current whereabouts.”
“When you saygoingto Ambrose Despard’s house,” Mornaday began.
“We mean trespassing, should the circumstances call for it,” Stoker replied.
“Agreed,” J. J. said stoutly. “Justice requires it.”
“Requires!” Mornaday straightened, upsetting his teacup and spilling the beverage down his trousers. “No one is ever required to attend such folly, J. J. The Despard family have clearly chosen discretion over truth in disseminating the story of Ambrose’s death. His brother is a marquess which makes him only slightly less important than God in this country or have you forgot the pecking order?”
“I am aware of it,” she replied calmly.
“Then you ought also to be aware of the dangers of being pecked by a pecker such as that,” he returned. He held out his teacup to me before recollecting I had not yet washed the traces of gore from my fingers. He shuddered again and set his cup down with a rattle. “I cannot afford any black marks against my name at present. I amthis closeto being discharged from my post altogether,” he said, holding his forefinger and middle digit a scant inch apart.
J. J. leant forwards, putting her eye to the gap. “I can still see daylight, Mornaday. You can risk it if the rest of us can.”
Mornaday looked at Stoker, pleading. “I know we have not always enjoyed the warmest friendship, but you must support me. Breaking into Lord Ambrose Despard’s house is madness. Persuade J. J. of the folly.”
“He would have to persuade more than J. J.,” I put in, raising my hand. “I also vote that we go.”
Mornaday thrust his hands into his hair, disordering his curls as he looked in despair to Stoker. “Come, man. Be my supporter.”
With a grin, Stoker raised his hand slowly into the air. J. J. whooped as she thrust hers skywards. Mornaday groaned and dropped his head.
“Be of good cheer, Mornaday,” I counselled. “There is strength in numbers, after all. Now, let me just wash the blood from my hands and we will be off. Excelsior!”
CHAPTER
22
It was the work of a very few minutes to make myself presentable. J. J. never cared much for her appearance, and Stoker had exhausted his efforts at elegance with the call upon Parthenope Fleet. He had subsided again into that peculiar combination of practicality and flamboyance which only highlighted his masculinity. I caught suppressed sighs from Mornaday and J. J. at the sight of him—for very different reasons, though. Mornaday was always conscious that, for all his winsomeness and charm, he would never match Stoker’s more rustic magnetism whilst J. J. was simply responding, as most women did, to the bewitching contradiction of courtly manners coupled with an exterior that would have done a buccaneer proud. (In the interest of accuracy, I feel compelled to point out that J. J.’s appreciation of Stoker’s appearance was entirely without intention. She admired his physique with the dispassionate eye of a connoisseur of art surveying a particularly fine painting. Her affections, such as they were, could best be described as “elsewhere engaged.”)
For my own part, I made a great show of donning a new hat and a heavy cloak against the chill of the evening, but I saw no need to advertise to the others the fact that I had secreted rather more weaponsabout my person than was my custom. A pair of sharpened hatpins winked from the heart of the roses on my chapeau whilst a stout stiletto had been strapped to my calf. My cuffs were studded with minuten, and if we had had more time, I might have attempted to secure a small explosive from Lady Christabel. But the argument that would have ensued—Stoker took a dark view of things that were detonated—would have surely delayed us further.
So we set out, four against the world, or rather three with a reluctant Mornaday in tow. I half expected him to make his excuses and cry off before we reached Lincoln’s Inn Fields, so volubly did he grumble, but when we arrived at our destination, he was with us still. I gave him a fond grin, for Mornaday is, in spite of his occasional lack of intrepid spirit, one of my favourite people.
We stopped to conspire in the square across from the house, considering our options. The house itself lay shrouded in darkness; no friendly light beckoned from above the front door, and no glimmer of illumination shone from any window.
“Clearly no one is about. I say we go around the back and break in,” J. J. said.
“Break in? To a townhouse owned by a marquess’s son? Do you wish to burn my career to ashes in a single night? You cannot turn housebreaker in the company of a police officer,” Mornaday protested.
“Can you think of better circumstances under which to break into the townhouse of a marquess’s son than when accompanied by a police officer?” she returned.
“She does have a point,” Stoker said reasonably.
“She bloody well does not!” Mornaday’s nostrils flared like a young bull’s. “Very well. I see I shall have to exercise my masculine charms.”
“Upon the footman?” I asked. “I suppose that might work...”
“Not upon the footman!” he roared. “Upon the scullery maid.” He gestured to the house next door where a light shone in the area givingon to the cellar. “It is late enough the cook will have retired to her room, and you can wager your last corset string the butler himself will not be found belowstairs at this hour. No, the only creature stirring down there will be some poor young drudge with callused hands and a hope in her heart.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Stoker inquired.
“Because whilst you were burnishing your brass buttons aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships, I was earning an honest wage, walking the beat like any new bobby. I spent half my days in kitchens like that, gathering information from the scullery girls. They know all that happens in a house because no one pays them any attention. The family and upper servants spill any manner of secrets in front of them because they do not matter.”