“There!” I cried, pointing.
Stoker had reached me by this point—he is nothing if not quick in his responses—and as we passed Spyridon’s little castle, the door opened and our Greek friend emerged, lantern held high to discover the source of the commotion.
“Intruder!” I gasped as we ran on, keeping the shadow always in sight. Spyridon joined our chase, and to my astonishment, swiftly passed Stoker and myself, vaulting ahead of us.
The shadow turned and gave a shout of alarm as Spyridon closed the distance. I could imagine we were a fearsome sight—first Spyridon, robes flying and lantern held above his head like an avenging angel, then Stoker, head lowered with all the ferocious purpose of a charging bull. I brought up the rear, but I like to think my own contributions were not negligible, for I carried on with my Zulu cries and added a few flourishes I had learnt from a Norwegian lepidopterist of my acquaintance who had made a practice of studying the battle tactics of Vikings. These involved the baring of teeth and throwing the hands into the air to simulate a greater size in order to intimidate one’s enemy. I do not claim it was this gesture which frightened the shadowy figure into submission, but I will note it was precisely at the height of my performance that he fell with a hoarse cry and did not rise again.
“Veronica, do stop waving your arms about like a demented octopus,” Stoker ordered as he and Spyridon came to a halt next to the intruder.
“Jest if you like,” I said, arriving breathlessly. “But I have just ensured the apprehension of this villain.”
“I rather think Patricia did that,” he said, pointing to the enormous tortoise lying atop the recumbent figure of our quarry. Her legs were waving gently in the air and she gave a series of piteous moans in protest at her predicament.
Together, Stoker, Spyridon, and I set our shoulders to Patricia’s shell and pushed. It took four attempts, but in the end, we managed to roll her onto her feet. She lumbered away, looking back at us with an expression akin to loathing.
The figure trapped beneath her gave a low groan, and I took the lantern from Spyridon, raising it high.
“Julius Elyot, I presume,” I said.
The man groaned again, covering his face with his hands.
I turned to Stoker and Spyridon. “Bring him into the Belvedere,” I said. “We have much to discuss.”
***
Julius Elyot was not a large man, but even if he had been, I suspect the combined muscular authority of Stoker and Spyridon would have suggested that any attempt at escape would be futile. He sagged between them, shoulders bowed and feet dragging as they guided him firmly inside. The snuggery was the most comfortable spot in the Belvedere, and we settled there. Stoker poked the stove to light whilst I set a kettle to boil. Spyridon kept a watchful eye from the top of the stairs, never taking his gaze from the slumped figure of Julius Elyot.
“I can go. Unless you need help with the tortures?” His tone was alarmingly hopeful, and I hastened to dispense with his services.
“Thank you, but that will not be necessary, Spyridon,” I told him. “I am certain you have more interesting things to do.”
Spyridon shrugged. “You call if you want me, yes, Miss Speedwell?”
“Yes, Spyridon. But I think just knowing you are nearby will be enough to keep Mr. Elyot on his best behaviour, isn’t that right?” I asked politely.
Julius Elyot gave a shudder and Spyridon left us. The dogs, inquisitive as always where visitors were concerned, gathered around, sniffing at Elyot’s trouser cuffs. He dropped a hand to Vespertine’s enormous head, ruffling the dog’s fur with his fingers.
“I had a deerhound as a boy,” he said in a hoarse voice. “What is this one called?”
“Vespertine,” I told him.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful fellow.” He continued to stroke the dog’s head whilst Stoker finished with the fire and I brewed tea. When it was finished, I assembled the tea things and brought them over, rummaging in a cupboard for some ginger nuts.
I poured out and handed a cup to Julius Elyot who took it with obvious surprise.
“I know it seems odd to offer refreshments, but it seems discourteous not to,” I told him.
He accepted a ginger nut, his hand shaking a little. With more haste than dignity, he crammed the ginger nut into his mouth and I offered him another.
“You are obviously hungry,” Stoker said. “Would you care for something more substantial?”
Elyot shook his head pushing away the second ginger nut. “No. I am famished, of course. But any time I try to eat anything more than a mouthful, I find I am unable. I cannot sleep either.”
“A guilty conscience?” I suggested gently.
The line of his jaw hardened and he said nothing. The silence afforded me a moment to study him. The profile must once have beenhandsome, and I traced a resemblance to his sister. The brow was high, the hairline having receded from where it would have been in his youth, and sharp lines ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His lips were thin and his nose audacious. It was a collection of features that would have been arrogant in youth and distinguished if he had aged gracefully. But his life had been one of hardship, and the resulting depredations were easy to read in his visage.
“Are you a student of physiognomy, Miss Speedwell?” he asked, a corner of his mouth quirking into what even the most generous of souls could not have called a smile.