“Certainly. Consider, Miss Speedwell, the number of people who experience the loss of a beloved family member within the course of a year in this country? Those who must carry on whilst weeping for a life snatched too soon? We perfected the method by which death may be cheated, even if only a little.”
“A preserved corpse is not the same as a living human!” I protested.
“No, but to a certain type of personality, one so sensitive that it suffers the most exquisite of torments in grieving, could this not be a humane and kindly tool? One has only to think of Her Majesty and the excesses of emotion to which she has been subjected since the loss of her beloved consort. More than twenty-five years and still she wears widow’s weeds and has his shaving water carried in hot each morning! Would it not have been better for her, far better indeed, to have been given the consolation of seeing his cherished face?”
Given that my own parents’ illicit and semi-legal marriage had contributed to the prince’s death, I was disinclined to pursue that particular line of inquiry. Before I could reply, Stoker cut into the conversation.
“The queen mourns so extravagantly because she has been indulged by family members and courtiers who are willing to put up with her behaviour. She has a role to fulfil, a constitutional obligation which she has badly neglected. Surely she would have conducted herself even worse if she’d had the opportunity to sit and stare at Albert’s waxen face every day,” he said dryly.
Elyot shrugged. “Or she might have slowly reconciled herself to his death years ago and by now been wearing yellow and opening Parliament. I believe that grief is a thing to be faced with courage. Presenting the bodies of the dead in a state of lifelike preservation offers the grief-stricken a chance to come gradually to terms with reality.”
“Or it offers them the chance to indulge in what I can only characterise as wholly unhealthy hysterics,” Stoker retorted.
Elyot spread his hands. “We are not in agreement, but I will not oppose you, sir. You have been too cordial by half for me to abuse your generosity so churlishly.”
“Do you still wish to retrieve her—your experiment, I mean?” I asked.
An expression of pain crossed his features. “No, I do not. I confess, I came again tonight with the same aim—securing her for my own purposes. Ambrose and I quarrelled about it,” he added, his brow furrowed. “He accused me of being as obsessed as Eliza with her. He swore it was an accident that he had let the payments slip and lost possession of her, but he seemed to think it providential, as if Fate herself were lending a hand to wipe the slate clean for us.” He made a moue of self-mockery. “But I am a nostalgic fool. I rushed over and Ambrose invited me to stay with him, but I refused. I was afraid if I accepted his hospitality openly, word might somehow circulate that I was returned.”
“And you were afraid Eliza would discover it,” I supplied.
He nodded. “You will think it unmanly that I should be so frightened of my sister, Miss Speedwell. I think it unmanly myself, so do notbelieve you can value my conduct any less than I do. And yet, I am wise to keep my distance.”
He lifted a lock of hair from his temple, revealing an ugly, jagged scar some three inches in length. “Her handiwork as she took her last leave of me,” he said. “I was lucky to escape with my life. I swore then that I would never allow her near enough to manage a second attempt.” He ran his fingers through the hair, settling it back into place to conceal the disfigurement. “Ambrose at last persuaded me to make use of his coal shed, but that is as far as I would go.”
“But surely any hotel would have been more comfortable,” I protested.
“But far less discreet,” he countered. “Oh, I admit it would have required some supernatural aid to have discovered me had I lodged in some quiet establishment. Eliza is a mere mortal woman. And yet, I cannot seem to exorcise my fears. I behave as if she were some fiend from the pits of Hell with all the attendant powers.”
“You are perhaps overzealous in your caution, but not entirely unjustified,” I conceded.
“Thank you for that. Ambrose and I were at loggerheads with regard to how to proceed. He urged me to forget all about our little lost lamb, and I... I shouted at him.” He had the grace to look ashamed as he related the next portion of his narrative. “After you called upon him and I deduced you must have some knowledge of her whereabouts, I asked Ambrose to come with me to attempt to recover her. He refused, so I came alone. I was unsuccessful,” he added with another of his small, self-deprecating smiles. “I promised him I would not attempt it again, at least not straightaway. So I followed you to the tableaux vivants. I thought to mix in the crowd and observe you, to glean some clue as to what your purpose might be. Imagine my astonishment when I saw Eliza! I was overcome with surprise, so much so that I forgot myself for a moment. The urge to speak with her was nearly overpowering, likesome primitive call in the blood. Are such things possible, I wonder? But perhaps it was the intensity of my emotion that caused her to look in my direction and see me. I will never forget the emotions that passed over her face—disbelief, shock. And horror. That one I will remember the longest of all,” he said bitterly.
“You did not give her an opportunity to reconcile herself to the reality of your being alive,” I told him. “Her astonishment must have been complete.”
He stared into the depths of his glass, then drained off the dregs, wincing against the harshness of the liquor as he swallowed. He set the glass carefully aside. “I cannot explain to you the instinct to flee from her, but I will say that it was as atavistic an urge as any man has ever known. I was as near to being an animal as I have ever been in the whole of my life, Miss Speedwell. I was certain my very survival depended upon fleeing her presence. Ambrose counselled me not to reveal our treachery to her. And now he has paid the price,” he finished, dropping his head into his hands.
Stoker and I permitted him a moment’s peace to come to grips with his emotions. When he lifted his head once more, he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, sitting forwards and looking us each squarely in the eye. “Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, I place myself and my fate in your hands. I came here tonight with the express purpose of retrieving the only thing in the world my sister values in the hopes of removing it forever from her reach. But I have committed offences—criminal offences—and I am aware that these cannot be overlooked. Furthermore, my poor judgement has resulted in the death of my dearest—myonly—friend. I have no will to oppose you. Do with me as you wish.”
The man before us was pitiable, but he was clearly prepared to meet his fate with dignity and resignation. He offered himself up to ourjustice, and it would have been an easy thing to summon the earl’s night watchman and have him turned over to the authorities.
But as my gaze met Stoker’s, I knew we had already decided that was not going to happen. We spoke in the conversational shorthand we often adopted. It was the effect of being, as it were, souls entwined, with that perfect understanding that so often frustrated bystanders.
“You realise what this means?” I began.
He sighed, but conceded with good grace. “Mornaday. And J. J.”
“Precisely.” I turned to Julius Elyot. “Mr. Elyot, we are prepared to take another route. Your sins, in comparison to your sister’s, are slight indeed. With your assistance, we may be able to bring her to justice for Lord Ambrose’s murder. And I think I may guarantee that your efforts would go far in winning you the sympathy of the authorities.”
His previous smiles had been tinged with mockery or abnegation. But the one he offered me then was so piercingly sweet, I could well understand why Lord Ambrose’s loyalty had been so complete and lasted so long.
“Miss Speedwell, I deserve no such consideration, and if I am called to account for my crimes, let it be so. I will make no defence. But I will do anything in my power to aid your endeavours.”
“Excellent.” I turned to Stoker. “Summon the troops for tomorrow, my dearest. It is time we called a council of war.”
CHAPTER
26