A Curious Beginning

“Stoker, what do you think we are going to find tomorrow?”


“I do not know,” he said slowly. “But I know whatever it is, whatever ugly truths are resting in that bank, you will face them squarely. You have an odd sort of courage, Veronica. It will see you through.”

“Whatever happens tomorrow, I am glad you will be there.”

“You may rely upon it,” he said, but his familiar, mocking smile was not in evidence for once, and I believed he meant it.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


We spent the rest of that rainy Sunday installed in the Belvedere, eating sandwiches that Lady Cordelia sent and poking about the collections. I was highly amused to discover Stoker laughing over a print of Cabanel’s Fallen Angel—no doubt appreciating the resemblance—and we quarreled happily over the proper arrangement the earl should take for organizing his glorious but haphazard collection. (I favored chronological order, while Stoker championed a thematic approach.) When he was not looking, I managed to unearth a color plate of the White-browed purpletuft. It was an altogether unremarkable bird, but the puffs of violet feathers were so strikingly beautiful that I stared at it for a long time, thoughtfully tracing each tiny plume with a fingertip.

We retired early, and I believe both of us slept poorly, for we were awake and ready to leave far earlier than our errand required. The packet we had taken from the baron’s study went into Stoker’s pocket for safekeeping. He had replaced the back of the compass and tinkered with it until it worked again, and this I pinned once more to my bodice. I had the oddest sense that at last we were embarking upon the final leg of our adventure, and it was with mingled excitement and nostalgia that I took my leave of the Belvedere. Whatever befell us, our interlude together could not last much longer, and I would miss it.

There were no signs of pursuers as we made our way to Oxford Street, although we took the precaution of a circuitous route. I was being given a thorough education on London’s various alleys and byways and parks, and although I always preferred countryside or wilderness, there was something arresting about the great city. Bunting had been hung in honor of the Jubilee, and the streets were teeming with a certain energy I suspected the city had not known before. There was anticipation, as the royal procession was only a few days away and dignitaries were arriving from the furthest reaches of the globe to fete the queen. Her image scowled from commemorative plates and flags, from placards and tea towels, Her Majesty, Victoria Regina, the Empress-Queen.

I studied a tooth mug on display in a window near the bank as we waited for that establishment to open. “She is really not a very attractive woman,” I observed to Stoker. “All popeyes and lack of chin.”

“The Hanoverian influence,” he said shortly. “It would take some very strong genes to counter the German strain.”

“Hm. Perhaps a healthy dose of French blood,” I began, but before I could finish my thought, the door of the bank rattled.

“Ready?” Stoker asked.

I gave him a brisk nod and set off, knowing that he would be at my heels, faithful as a hound. The edifice before us was not the main Bank of London; that building was in Threadneedle Street, where it had stood for some two hundred years. This branch had been opened during the Regency, designed with all the elegant restraint that implied. Along the way, someone had decided this was no longer sufficiently imposing for a bank and had festooned the symmetrical fa?ade with a succession of neo-Gothic embellishments culminating in a tiny clock tower that chimed out the hour as we approached. As soon as we were inside, I requested an audience with the bank manager, and within a very few minutes we had been escorted to his office. He was a cadaverously thin man with great flapping ears, ears that caught all the secrets his clients cared to whisper, I wagered.

I proffered the key. “This key fits an item that was left in your care by a Miss Harbottle. I am here to retrieve whatever is in your keeping.”

The careful face gave nothing away. He did not take the key but merely gave me a long, level look. “I was told only to release the contents of the box to a Miss Veronica Speedwell.”

“I am she.”

A thin smile touched his lips. “You will understand that I must necessarily take precautions, Miss Speedwell. Miss Harbottle requested a proof of your identity.”

“What proof do you require?”

The smile deepened, and there was an unmistakable twinkle in the sad eyes. “She said that I was not to release the box to you unless you introduced me to Chester.”

“Who the devil is Chester?” Stoker demanded.

I put up a hand to quell his questions. I reached into my pocket and drew out the tiny grey velvet mouse. “May I present Chester?”