“How can you know that?” The remainder of Mornaday’s reaction to this interruption was volcanic. There was tearing of hair and fluent profanity until he wore himself down. When he had lapsed into furious silence, I explained about Undine Trevelyan’s revelations.
“She confirmed all of our suspicions, as now has your friend who works for the police surgeon,” I told Mornaday kindly.
He muttered something under his breath before turning to Julius Elyot. “You never explained how you came to be part of this menagerie of madness,” he said, sketching the totality of the Belvedere with a grand gesture.
“Oh, I committed an act of criminal trespass,” Elyot replied. “My second. And if you wish to take me into custody on those grounds, I entirely understand.”
Mornaday gave a noncommittal grunt, but he knew perfectly well he was powerless to persecute Elyot unless Lord Rosemorran himself pressed the matter.
J. J. surveyed the group with interest. “I suppose you have a plan for apprehending Eliza Elyot?”
“Certainly,” I began.
Mornaday’s expression was puzzled. “We know where she lives. We can simply go and take her into custody.”
“Can we?” Stoker asked mildly. “I seem to recall you have been stripped of your authority. You cannot arrest so much as an errant pig at present,” he reminded Mornaday.
“Besides,” I said hastily, cutting off Mornaday before he could rise to another angry retort, “at the behest of the Marquess of Harwich, the authorities have decided not to pursue the matter. Without the machinery of justice working for us we must force a confession, lure her into some further deviltry in order to catch her in the act. Hence, the plan.”
I paused and looked at our merry band and, in a piece of timing so perfect, it must have been arranged by the angels, there was a knock at the door.
“Who in the name of seven hells is that?” Stoker demanded. “It’s gone half ten.”
“Eliza Elyot!” J. J. cried, jumping to her feet and upsetting the chessboard as she made a dash for the nearest suit of armour—German, sixteenth century, and boasting an impressive mace which she snatched up and began to swing in slow circles about her head.
Stoker grabbed it away from her. “For god’s sake, give me that before you decapitate someone,” he ordered.
“Yes, do,” I urged. “And Mornaday, leave that revolver in your pocket. We are not Americans, for heaven’s sake. Besides, it is not Eliza Elyot, I am almost certain. It is someone else entirely, and here at my invitation.”
I strode to the door in perfect confidence, but—mindful that itmightbe our villainous adversary—I took the precaution of taking up my letter opener as I went. It was a Kukri dagger, old and beautifully sharp, perfect for attending to correspondence and inflicting damage on the deserving. Dagger in hand, Vespertine at my side, I completedthe warrior-like image by throwing the door back on its hinges to the accompaniment of a Gaelic battle cry.
There was a shriek and a large, shambling figure dove for the nearest bush.
“Good morning, Mr. Plumtree,” I called, dropping the dagger. “I apologise for the greeting, but one cannot be too careful. Do come out of the shrubbery and meet the others.”
CHAPTER
27
It took a few minutes and a stiff measure of aguardiente to settle young Plumtree’s nerves, but he was a sturdier fellow than I had anticipated, and colour soon flowed into his cheeks again. He took a seat on a hassock at J. J.’s feet, his gaze settled adoringly on her face as we swiftly related all that had happened thus far in the investigation. Julius Elyot, to no one’s particular surprise, had no stomach for further discussion, and I urged him to the snuggery to rest.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. He paused at the foot of the stairs. “I find myself entirely out of my depths in wrestling with all of this.”
“I think any of us would find it an almost insurmountable challenge,” J. J. told him. “You are handling it with more grace than I could summon.”
He favoured her with one of his winsome smiles, and she returned it. He took himself up to the snuggery then, Huxley trailing behind.
I flicked J. J. a knowing glance. One of her usual—and invariably successful stratagems—was to befriend a potential subject for a journalistic exclusive. The look she returned to me was in no way apologetic. It was, after all, a man’s world, and we understood one another wellenough to condone and even admire the various tactics we had developed to survive in it.
We resumed our discussion of the case, Stoker and I painting the details for J. J. and Mornaday as well as bringing young Plumtree up to the minute. When it came to the murder of Lord Ambrose, he turned a little green. I made to pour another measure of aguardiente, but he waved me off. “No, no, Miss Speedwell, I am quite recovered, I assure you. This is fascinating, deeply fascinating. I have studied the workings of the criminal mind, you see. It is one of my little hobbies, the sort of thing I used to do to keep busy in the country. I am also fond of quilling and the accordion,” he added.
“Indeed,” Mornaday said dryly.
Plumtree flushed a furiously bright crimson, but Stoker gave him a kindly look. “I find a spot of macramé just the thing to occupy the hands on a cold winter’s night by the fire.”
“Do you indeed, sir?” Plumtree asked in interest.
“Oh, yes. That and a bit of knitting, although I’m badly out of practice. All sailors take up some sort of handcraft,” he explained. “Whittling, scrimshaw. Macramé is very popular. It’s to do with all the rope on board, you see.”