“The minute before. I had it out, working a canvas,” Undine confirmed.
“It remains to be seen if that is the sort of weapon that killed Lord Ambrose, but the evidence begins to mount,” Stoker told her.
“Miss Trevelyan,” I put in smoothly, “it may be viewed by less than cordial people that in supplying the weapon—however unwittingly—you have played the accomplice, that you perhaps had foreknowledge of her intentions.”
“Never!” she cried. “I swear to you upon all that is holy, I would never have been party to such an act. Does not the fact that I have come here prove that I am speaking the truth?”
“It does,” Stoker assured her. “You might as easily have kept your silence and obeyed Eliza’s strictures to remain in your lodgings. It was brave of you to come to us.”
And too late to be of any great use, I reflected grimly. Lord Ambrose was dead and heaven only knew what other horrors Eliza intended.
“Miss Trevelyan, it cannot have escaped your notice that by coming here, you have put yourself in danger,” I began.
“Another fact which demonstrates my innocence,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
“And you cannot return home, at least not until Eliza is apprehended,” Stoker put in.
“I suppose I could go after all to Miss Fleet,” she said.
“You cannot. It is the first place Eliza would look for you if she returned to your lodgings and found you had flown,” I pointed out.
Her expression turned to keen despair. “But I have no money—”
I held up a hand. “Where I mean to send you, you will have no need of funds. Stoker, will you please offer our guest some further refreshment? I have a letter to write.”
It was the work of moments to scrawl a hasty missive and fetch a warm shawl. I handed them over to Undine. “It grows cold and you have come out without a proper coat,” I said, very well aware that she likely had none to call her own. “You needn’t return it. The colour suits your complexion better than mine.”
She turned over the letter, reading the scribbled address. “Sir Frederick Havelock. Are you quite serious?”
“Entirely,” I told her.
“Sir Frederick Havelock is England’s greatest living artist—perhaps Europe’s,” she protested.
“And he is always in need of fresh talent. He is no longer robust or young, and he will be glad of an extra pair of hands in the studio. No doubt you will be dogsbody at first, but if you impress him, you will find no better mentor for your art.”
Stoker rummaged in his pockets and extracted a few coins. “It is too far and too cold to walk. You will need a cab.”
She stared at the handful of largesse we offered, a letter and a few pence, but it seemed the world to her. “I do not know what to say,” she began.
“For god’s sake, say nothing,” Stoker told her, colouring furiously. He was never more embarrassed than when his generosity was in play, I reflected as he bade Undine a hasty farewell and retreated to his owl.
I walked her to the door, wrapping the shawl tightly about her and tying the ends neatly behind her waist. “There, that ought to keep out the draughts.”
She paused. “I hope you do not think I am the world’s greatest fool. I suppose artists can be exceedingly stupid.”
“So can people in love,” I replied.
“Thank you for that, Miss Speedwell. Yes, we were in love, at least I was. And I think she loved me too. The difference is that my love has lasted, strengthened by our trials. But I think hers has worn away—orperhaps it never existed. Perhaps Eliza can love only herself.” She took in a deep breath and pulled herself up to her full height. “But my love is best reserved for myself, I think. That will serve me better.”
***
No sooner had Undine left us than Mornaday and J. J. appeared, followed hard by Julius Elyot, looking refreshed after his night’s sleep in Stoker’s lodgings. He waited to be introduced with all the sangfroid of a baron at a ball.
“Miss J. J. Butterworth of theDaily Harbinger, Inspector Mornaday of the Metropolitan Police, may I present Mr. Julius Elyot, lately of Nuremberg.”
If I had expected pandemonium, I would have been little short of the mark. Mornaday reached for a pair of wrist irons, and J. J. whipped out a notebook and pencil.
“Mr. Elyot, what can you tell the readers of theDaily Harbingerabout your story? Why did you flee to the Continent and remain there in hiding for fifteen years?”