“Mornaday, speak,” I implored. “Stoker is growing impatient and I do not think blood will clean easily out of the suit you are wearing.”
Stoker gave a low growl and Mornaday shied like a pony. “Very well. The maid saw Lord Ambrose’s carriage arrive home the night before last—carrying someone decidedlynotLord Ambrose. She described a man dressed all in black with a hat pulled very low over his features.”
“Elyot,” Stoker said grimly.
“No doubt,” Mornaday confirmed. “Lord Ambrose apparently met him on the pavement and they spoke for a few moments, low voices, but a heated exchange. When they had finished, Lord Ambrose returned to the house and slammed the door.”
“And the man?” J. J. asked.
“Left on foot, around that corner,” Mornaday said, gesturing to the end of the square.
Stoker and I looked at one another, exchanging thoughts as clearly as if we had been speaking aloud. Finally, Stoker sighed. “Very well. If we must.”
Mornaday stared from one of us to the other and back again. “What just happened there? What has been decided?”
“It is that thoroughly annoying trick of theirs, demonstrating how closely attuned their minds are that they do not even have to give voice to what each is thinking,” J. J. explained.
“And what, precisely, are you thinking?” Mornaday asked.
“That Lord Ambrose was carrying food to someone hid in his coal shed, someone to whom he does not wish to give hospitality of house,” I said.
Stoker picked up the thread. “Someone, perhaps, who has been believed dead for fifteen years.”
Mornaday’s brows rose so high they nearly touched his hairline. “You think Julius Elyot is living in Lord Ambrose Despard’s coal shed?”
“It is as likely an explanation as anything else.” I shot the cuffs on my sleeves. “By the way, do thank your young friend for the helpfulness of her information when you see her Thursday next.”
Mornaday reared. “I will not see her. I shall send a note of apology and that will be an end of it.”
“You will do no such thing,” I told him in my firmest voice. “You must keep your engagement. I will join you.”
“Join us?” The reply came out strangled. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“The poor child probably sees little enough of the sun as it is. An afternoon in the park will air her out thoroughly and perhaps give her something better to dream of than the affections of an indifferent policeman. I shall take her past the windows of Whiteley’s and show her a typewriting machine. I will explain she can hire lessons and leave domestic service altogether if she is resolute.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I held up a hand. “Now, back to the matter at hand.” I looked to Stoker. “You meant what you said? You are in agreement?”
His smile was slow and knowing. “Veronica, I have learnt well enough the futility of attempting to dissuade you when you are bent upon a course of action.”
“What course of action?” Mornaday demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Trespassing into Lord Ambrose’s garden and investigating his coal shed, of course,” I told him.
He gave a groan and rubbed a hand over his eyes as J. J. shot him a pitying look. “You really did not deduce that for yourself? Heavens, Mornaday, it sometimes quite mystifies me how you managed to rise to the rank of detective at all.”
CHAPTER
23
For such intrepid adventurers as we four, it had been the work of a very few moments to ascertain the lay of the land—to wit, that Lord Ambrose’s property was bordered to the rear by a quiet mews, the division marked by a crumbling brick wall. There was a garden door for the delivery of coal and other such domestic requirements, but it was stoutly secured by a heavy, modern lock which would have taken considerable time to pick. In contrast, the wall was halfway to falling down, the gaps in the mortar offering convenient hand- and footholds for the limberest amongst us. I had, over the course of some years, refined and perfected my hunting costume and some variation of it had seen me happily from swamp to savannah and back again. I had always ordered it in tweed, serviceable and hard-wearing, but it had occurred to me that I had been remiss in not commissioning a version for town. Accordingly, I had caused one to be made out of heavy ribbed silk in a dark violet colour piped in black. A pair of flat black boots, laced to the knee, provided suitable footwear, and I was delighted to have the opportunity to put the garments to the test for the first time.
Without waiting for the others, I set the toe of my boot into a gap in the wall and vaulted myself upwards. Butterflying requires strongnerves and good balance as the best specimens are often the most elusive. Many an afternoon had I happily passed in springing over boulders or climbing up ravines, hauling myself hand over hand with the aid of a trusty vine or bit of shrubbery. I had balanced on tree limbs, hoisted myself atop outcroppings, mounted the most precarious of perches in order to secure my trophies. The experiences had left me with considerable agility coupled with strength and a good head for heights—qualities I had found surpassed only in Stoker. (His skills had been won in the service of the travelling show and Her Majesty’s Navy. In spite of his position as assistant surgeon’s mate, he had more than once been tasked with scaling a mast to secure the odd bit of rigging, and on one occasion his ability to face the most daunting of climbs had saved our lives and that of a prince in line to inherit the English throne.)[*]
With a very few movements, I had topped the wall, Stoker arriving a scant second behind me. J. J., with less cause to develop her athleticism, was still attempting to secure the first foothold, whilst Mornaday, with no head for heights whatsoever, kept his feet firmly on the pavement. He signalled his intention to remain there as a lookout as I reached a hand down towards J. J. She lacked some four feet of being able to grasp it, muttering furiously under her breath as she waved me on, lowering herself back to the pavement.
Wordlessly, Stoker dropped over the other side of the wall into the shifting darkness of the garden. I heard the quiet, almost imperceptible thud which indicated he had landed—doubtlessly on his feet and with the feline grace that characterised all of his movements. He gave a soft whistle, mimicking the call of a chaffinch to signal all was clear, and I followed, landing lightly next to him. We paused a moment to allow our eyes to adjust. Without the lamplight of the mews behind, the garden itself was shrouded in a midnight gloom in which the shadows rustledwith a wind that smelt of coal fires and the remnants of someone’s roast supper. Above it all was the peculiar odour of autumn itself, the leaves withering upon the branches and smelling of death as they surrendered to the inevitable. One fell, brushing my cheek as it blew past, carrying the whiff of the turning seasons.
Taking my hand, Stoker nudged me towards the far corner of the garden. Crouching there in the deepest darkness of the property was the coal shed. I could just sketch its outline in the shadows, the roof low and horizontal, only two feet below the top of the wall. If we had only known it was there, we might have saved ourselves the long drop, I realised. There was nothing else of note in the area, just a few barrels stacked neatly beside the shed—for rainwater, I suspected. In all, there was nothing to excite the imagination or interest the casual visitor, yet I tightened my grip on Stoker’s hand. Together, on soundless feet, we crept nearer. My pulses quickened to a drumbeat in my ears. We were forty centuries removed from the days when it was necessary to take up a spear to stalk one’s dinner, and yet all the thrill of that atavistic hunt thrummed in my veins. I could sense the excitement rising in Stoker as well, the rhythm of his heartbeat matching mine as we moved as one towards the shed. What mysteries lay within? Would we indeed discover the lair of Julius Elyot? And if he had been there, would he have left traces of his fiendish intentions? Or would we find the man himself, crouched like a predator and smelling of the death he had dealt his best friend? Closer still we moved, horror rising with every step even as I resolved not to lose my nerve regardless of what abominations we might find when at last we opened the door, exposing the terrors within.