“You know my name?”
“I know both of you,” he said in a tone of resignation. “I have been expecting to make your acquaintance these past several days, although I hoped it would be under better circumstances. I thought I might prevail upon Ambrose to introduce us, but he was unwilling.”
His mouth twisted, but his hand continued to stroke Vespertine with gentleness.
“Pity he didn’t manage it before his death,” Stoker replied.
The effect of that simple remark was astonishing. The cup full of tea slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Elyot opened his mouth and closed it again, soundlessly. When he finally managed a reply, it was a gasp, a cry of anguish, and then he pitched forwards, out of the chair and into unconsciousness.
“What in the name of seven hells,” Stoker began, thrusting aside his own cup.
Together we retrieved Elyot, settling him back into the chair and opening the top button of his collar. “These Elyots are a delicate family,” I mused. “They faint at the slightest provocation. Do you think it an hereditary flaw?”
“I think it is damned inconvenient,” Stoker said, rummaging amongst the shelves until he found a bottle with a hand-lettered label. He passed itto me, and I uncorked the bottle, waving it under Elyot’s nose until he came to with a jerk, rearing back and choking.
“My god, what has happened?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Nothing too alarming,” I told him. “A common syncope.”
“What is that hideous odour?” He waved his hands in front of his face in a futile effort to dispel the fumes.
“Spirits of hartshorn, but my own receipt. I added rather more ammonia than the usual formula dictates. Most effective, but a trifle unpleasant, I will admit.”
“Unpleasant! It smells as if the fires of Hell have been unleashed,” he protested. I corked the bottle and handed it back to Stoker before turning my attention once more to Julius Elyot.
He had recovered himself a little; at least, his colour did not look as if he would pitch immediately back into insensibility, and I decided he was strong enough to bear a little firm questioning. But before I could speak, Elyot looked to me, his expression anguished.
“Tell me, is it true? Ambrose is dead?”
I nodded. His gaze fell to the hands clasped in his lap, and he remained thus, in a prayer-like posture, for a long moment before he looked up again. His eyes—pale blue, the tissue-thin whites mapped heavily with red—were filled with unshed tears.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Stoker’s tone was cool. “We rather thought you could tell us.”
Elyot reared back in horror. “You think I know something of this? Do you suspect me of murdering Ambrose—my dearest friend in all the world?”
“You are the likeliest suspect,” I pointed out calmly. “But as it happens, no. We do not think you murdered him.”
Elyot drew in a sharp breath. “Thank you for that.”
“Not at all,” I said graciously. “We suspect Lord Ambrose’s murderer was no one other than your sister, Eliza.”
He went very still, his hands knotting into fists. “Oh,” he whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Elyot, I am sorry to say that Lord Ambrose died aboard a train bound for Southampton. Officially, his death was attributed to natural causes, but we are persuaded the authorities are concealing the truth—that he was murdered.”
Elyot nodded. “Yes, they would. Ambrose’s brother, the current marquess, is as chary of publicity as their father was. He would take whatever steps are necessary to protect the family name.” He looked to Stoker. “Tell me, is there evidence to implicate Eliza?”
Stoker shrugged. “Circumstantial, at present. A woman answering her description was seen entering Ambrose’s carriage as he left his home.”
“What of the method? The motive?” Elyot demanded.
“We are still gathering information,” I told him smoothly. “But we believe the facts will support our hypothesis. Unless you can suggest another person who might bear Lord Ambrose ill will?”
He shook his head. “No. I presume you know something of our story?”
“We know that you staged your own death to escape prosecution,” Stoker told him. “And that Eliza has believed you dead these past fifteen years. We supposed that Lord Ambrose aided your escape to the Continent.”