A Curious Beginning

The manager bowed. “Precisely as described to me. In that case, I will fetch the box.”


Stoker’s brows were still raised when the manager returned a few moments later with a plain strongbox. “Your key fits this lock, Miss Speedwell. The box belongs to us, but you are free to remove the contents. I can offer you a quarter of an hour’s privacy before my first appointment.”

He withdrew with enormous tact while I fitted the key to the lock. It turned with only a slight protest, yielding almost at once. Inside the box was a packet similar to the one we had found in the baron’s study. This one had been wrapped in a single large sheet of foolscap and tied with black tape. A blob of black sealing wax showed that it had never been opened since it had been placed in the bank for safekeeping.

I lifted my eyes to Stoker. “What if it is proof that my father murdered my mother?” I asked. “What then?”

“Then we will decide what to do with it,” he said firmly.

I broke the seal. Within the packet were a handful of papers, but these were not like the ones we had taken from the baron’s study. His collection had been newspaper cuttings and letters and photographs. These were official documents, stiff with the weight of authority.

“It is my birth certificate,” I breathed. “It details the birth of a baby girl in Ireland on 21 June 1862—my birthdate. The mother is Lily Ashbourne.” I stopped speaking abruptly, the words stuck in my throat.

“And the father?” Stoker asked.

I could not speak. I handed him the paper.

“Yes, here is the date and the mother, just as you said, and the father—” He looked at me, nearly dropping the paper. “This cannot be.”

I swallowed hard. “But it is.”

“‘Mother, Lily Ashbourne,’” he read slowly.

I held up a hand. “Don’t,” I commanded, my voice sharp.

But he did not stop.

“‘Father, His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Edward, The Prince of Wales.’”

I was not aware of intending to sit, but I found myself supported by a small armchair, Stoker kneeling at my side. “Illegitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales,” I managed finally in a voice very unlike my own.

“Jesus Christ,” Stoker said, and I knew from his tone it was not a blasphemy but a prayer.

“What more?” I demanded.

His face was pale, his eyes fathomless as he held out a second document to me. “Not illegitimate.”

“That is not possible,” I said. But I took the paper from him with trembling fingers and read the words for myself, a simple string of vowels and consonants that, linked together, changed everything I thought I knew in the space of a heartbeat.

Certificate of Marriage. All of the details were there—the names of bride and groom, the date, the signature of the priest.

“Surely it was bigamous,” I protested. “Surely this cannot be authentic.”

“It can and it is,” Stoker said stubbornly. “And it means Mornaday was correct. You are in danger, Veronica. Terrible danger.”

Over the course of our relationship, I had had many reasons to be grateful for Stoker’s presence, but never as much as that day. I was stunned, unable to think, and it was Stoker who thrust the documents into his pocket, pulled me to my feet, and propelled me from the bank and into the watery sunshine. The city was the same; the same odors of horse and coal smoke still hung in the air; the same bustle of tradesmen and nannies pushing prams and fashionable carriages jostling with market carts still rang in my ears. But everything had changed.

He guided me along Oxford Street towards Hyde Park. We passed a bookshop, and sudden inspiration lit his face. “Walk on towards the park,” he ordered. “Give the Marble Arch a wide berth, for God’s sake. The police have a small station there and the last thing we want is to attract their attention. Don’t look around. Just keep walking. Once you are inside the park, turn left onto the first path. Take a seat on the first bench you come to. I shall join you as soon as I can.”

I did not even have the presence of mind to ask what he meant to do. I merely walked on as he had commanded, nearly getting myself run over as I crossed the teeming street into the park without looking twice. The curses of the cabmen were still ringing in my ears when I found a bench. I forced myself to sit calmly, reciting the names of every butterfly I had captured while I waited. I had just reached Euchloe cardimines when Stoker appeared, holding his arm somewhat awkwardly against his chest.

“Why did you stop in the bookshop?”

“Because we needed this,” he said, drawing out a slim volume with a green kid cover. A Brief History of the British Royal Family with Notes Regarding European Connections. “I would have preferred Debrett’s but it was too bloody huge to fit under my coat.”

“You stole it?”