A Curious Beginning

“And here is a little something more. We shall need food for tonight and tomorrow. Nothing tricky—just a few meat pies and a bit of cheese, maybe some oysters. Bring a loaf and a few bottles of beer as well.”


“Aye, Mr. S.” He tugged the brim of his cap and disappeared, taking Huxley with him for a walk. We did not speak while he was gone. Stoker worked at his elephant while I returned to his stacks of outdated newspapers, assembling everything I could find on Special Branch, Irish separatists, and the men who concerned themselves with directing the business of the court.

Badger returned in a few hours’ time with a basket of food and Huxley, now thoroughly exercised. I put down a dish of fresh water and the dog drank deeply, thrusting his entire face into the bowl, then flopped down onto the floor, where he promptly went to sleep.

“Any trouble?” I asked.

“No, miss. I handed one over at the Empress of India Hotel, the other at Scotland Yard,” he told me with an avid gleam. Clearly his trip to the Yard had impressed him mightily.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

He turned to go, and Stoker put a hand to his shoulder. “Badger, thank you for your care of Huxley whilst I was away. He looks fit.”

The boy grinned. “It weren’t nowt,” he assured Stoker.

“Just the same, it is appreciated.”

He hesitated then, and I saw genuine regard for the boy on his face. “Tonight, lad. Don’t come here.”

Badger’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

“It may not be safe.”

Badger’s pointed little chin seemed to sharpen. “I’m good in a fight if you need a fellow to stand at your back.”

Stoker turned to me with anguished eyes. I stepped forward.

“You are a stalwart companion,” I told him. “But this is something Mr. Stoker and I have to do alone.”

“All right, then,” he said, but with a grudging air.

He left then and Stoker’s shoulders sagged. “Bloody hell. That about did me in. Such a small fellow for such a stout heart.”

“He will grow up to be a man like you,” I told him. “Loyal above all else.”

Stoker turned his back and returned to his elephant. I was not surprised. We like to believe it is the power of language that gives us superiority over animals, but words have their limitations.

For the rest of that day we carried on, Stoker with his elephant and notebooks, me with the newspapers, each of us piecing together the disparate parts. While Stoker stitched and glued his pachyderm and devoted hours to writing up his notes, I assembled a portrait of the men who were likely at the heart of the plot against us. Mornaday had been mentioned in the newspapers a number of times, and it was apparent from his various successes that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was clever and resourceful, often using disguises in the quest to run his prey to ground. I clucked my tongue in annoyance at this. I had rather liked him for a villain, and here his credentials were firmly established. He was a proper detective, blast the man. But I consoled myself with the notion that he could be both detective and blackguard, using his position to accomplish dark deeds in the service of some shadowy overseer. He had been promoted as a result of unmasking the Kennington Slasher, and there was a photograph of Mornaday standing at the gallows when the fellow was hanged—next to his superior, Sir Hugo Montgomerie.

I handed the paper to Stoker. “It appears that Mornaday is indeed a detective,” I told him. “He has received commendations.”

He scrutinized the photograph. Like all newspaper likenesses, this one was blurry and indistinct, but it was enough. It was clearly Mornaday, but it was not this familiar face that caused Stoker to curse. “Bloody hell. Sir Hugo Montgomerie. Head of Special Branch.”

“You know him?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said darkly. “Our paths crossed once. Many years ago.”

“How?” I demanded. “And no more of your evasions. I have let you keep your secrets, but not this one. It might be pertinent.”

“It isn’t,” he insisted. But he began to tell me the story anyway. “I was rather unhappy as a boy, which you may well understand having met my brother.”

“I can see the two of you are not close,” I temporized.

He gave a snort. “If I were to avail myself of a coat of arms, it would feature a black sheep rampant. In any event, after one particularly gruesome scene, I left home.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven, twelve,” he said carelessly. “I’ve forgot.”

“And that’s when you went to the traveling show,” I supplied, putting the pieces together at last.

A whisper of nostalgia flickered over his features. “They were kind enough to take me in. The professor was not such a tightfisted bastard in those days,” he added. “I learned conjuring tricks and knife throwing and a few other useful things.”

“Like the carnal pleasures,” I put in, thinking of Salome’s revelations. “Goodness me, Stoker, at eleven or twelve? You were a prodigy.”

“May I finish?”