I like to think it was an innate sense of justice that posed these questions, but there was undoubtedly the flicker of something else. Once more, adventure had sounded its siren’s call and we were compelled to answer.
It was beginning.
CHAPTER
3
Lord Rosemorran, hastily summoned from a cosy evening with his stamp collection and gluepot, stared at the figure on the table. We had invited him to the Belvedere to explain our findings to him. Lady Rose would no doubt have included herself, but we had chosen the hour well, making certain she was being forcibly bathed by her governess at the time. The dogs, sensing a heightened atmosphere, had arranged themselves quietly in a row, watching politely as the earl gave us a dubious look. “Are youentirelysure?” Uncertainty coloured his tone. “It does seem most unlikely.”
“I am sure,” Stoker confirmed. “If you would care for me to explain, I could point out the cross-section of the blood vessels—”
His lordship backed away, hands raised in a posture of defence. “Oh, no. Quite unnecessary.” He shook his head, his expression mournful. “Oh, dear. This is distressing, I must say. I cannot think how Rose will take the news that her waxwork is not to be.”
I suppressed a flicker of impatience. The earl was a kindly man, but he had the misfortune to be both easily distractible and born to wealth, both of which—in my observation—are deleterious to the powers of intellect.
“My lord,” I said gently, “I rather think there is a more pressing matter to hand than Lady Rose’s reaction.”
He roused himself in obvious surprise. “Really?”
“The matter of the dead woman,” Stoker said. “Who is she? How did she end up in a warehouse in Shoreditch? Andwhosewarehouse?”
“Ah, that was Raby—John Raby,” the earl replied with unexpected promptitude.
When immersed in his various researches, he had been known to forget the occasional detail such as where he had acquired parts of the collection, whether he had eaten, how many offspring he had. His forgetfulness was part of his vague charm, I often thought, when it was not maddening to the point of vexation. But we had apparently caught him on a good day, and I pressed him gently.
“And where in Shoreditch might we find Mr. Raby, my lord?”
“That is the difficult bit,” he said with an air of gentle apology. “I am afraid the fellow is dead.”
“Dead,” Stoker echoed.
“Thoroughly. You see, the warehouse was his, but the contents were being sold by his widow. A very good woman of business, but hard, I thought. A very pinched mouth and quite small eyes, although a truly lovely pair of ears. One seldom sees such nice lobes.” He drifted off into his thoughts again and I coughed gently.
“My lord. Mrs. Raby?”
“Oh, yes. As I was saying, she seemed determined to wring every penny she could from the sale, but one can hardly blame her. Emigrating to the Argentine does require a little capital.”
“The Argentine? You mean to say that Mrs. Raby is no longer in England?” I asked.
“No, I am afraid not. She was leaving directly the sale was finished, she told me. The warehouse had already been sold, you see, and she wanted cash on the barrel for the contents. She had in mind to purchasea nice little finca for herself and grow—what was it again? Pomegranates? Pineapples?” He broke off, turning his gaze heavenwards as he searched his memory.
Stoker held up a hand before his lordship could divert the conversation into the comparative merits of fruits. “Did Mrs. Raby provide any sort of documentation?”
“Just the bill of sale,” the earl replied. “But she’d run out of paper, so she scribbled her signature on my handkerchief,” he added, rummaging in his pockets. Like Stoker’s, his garments were a repository of the unexpected. He pulled out a penknife, a piece of honeycomb—unlike Stoker’s, the earl’s honeycomb was not candy butactualhoneycomb, seized from a hive and wrapped in a piece of waxed paper—a tin whistle, a ball of catgut, and a pocket edition of Coleridge before brandishing a wadded bit of linen with a grin. “Rather surprised to find it still in situ as it were.”
He handed over the grimy cloth. It was marked with various pencilled figures, a streak of custard, and what might have been jam or blood. Stoker scrutinised it for a moment, then shook his head. “I can only make out a vague signature and possibly a date. Nothing more.”
“As I say, it was scribbled,” the earl said, taking back his handkerchief.
“And she said nothing about what it was, where or how her husband had acquired it?” I ventured.
His lordship thought for a moment, then shook his head, the lamplight picking out the threads of silver in his thick, dark hair. “Nothing whatsoever. We fell to discussing her worries about the voyage out. She suffers from mal de mer, you see, and I was making a recommendation to her of a few remedies that have served me well upon my own travels. Fresh ginger, grated into boiling water, is just the thing,” he added.
“I find it goes down best with a spoonful of whisky,” I agreed.
“Oh? I have not tried that. Perhaps on my next voyage! Have you any experience with oil of peppermint? One suspects it would be efficacious. It is so verybracing.”
Stoker made a growl deep in his throat, clearly annoyed at our conversational detour. “My lord,” he said tightly, “is there nothing you can think of that might help us to identify this unfortunate young woman? Did John Raby keep records—a ledger perhaps—of the contents of his warehouse?”