A Curious Beginning

I did not make any special effort with my appearance. My hands were sooty and dirty with newsprint, so I washed them. But I left my hair tumbling half out of its chignon, and I did not put on my jacket. My shirtwaist was white, like Lily Ashbourne’s most famous costume, and I wanted them to see the resemblance for themselves.

The clock had not finished striking the nine solemn tones when we heard them. First it was a dull thud as they struck the main door. Stoker had removed the barricade by then, but we did not go to let them in. I wanted them to come to me, and the few minutes it took for them to force their way in only heightened their anticipation.

Stoker turned to me, and I noted a single-mindedness of purpose I had not yet seen within him. This was not the wreck of a man I had met only days before. This was a new creation—focused, determined, and bent upon resolving this matter, for better or worse.

He gave me a short nod. “To battle stations, Veronica. They have come.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Stoker and I were standing behind the cauldron when they arrived. The hellish light illuminated our faces, and I watched them enter through air that shimmered with heat.

Edmund de Clare was first, accompanied by his henchman, Silent John, and a pair of other fellows I recognized from our pleasure cruise along the Thames.

I stepped out from behind the cauldron but went no further. “Stop there,” I instructed. He obeyed and I gave him a long, slow look from head to toe. Expensive tailoring that had seen better days. Shoes in need of a shine. An imperfect shave from an indifferent barber. And then I understood him—all of his life had been a series of near misses. Here was a man who had been close to greatness, close to wealth, close to happiness. And they had eluded him.

At his approach Huxley whimpered and crawled under the sofa. It occurred to me that the dog was an excellent judge of character.

“Good evening, Uncle.” If he was surprised that I had put the pieces together, he betrayed no sign of it.

“And you are Lily’s daughter,” he said in his rich, melodious voice. I remembered reading that Lily’s greatest asset as an actress had not been her lovely face, but rather her extraordinary speaking voice. It must have been a family trait, I reflected. “I knew it the first day I saw you, from the carriage in the lane in Little Byfield, and then at Paddington Station—to hear you speak in her voice. You have no idea how difficult it has been to restrain myself from telling you outright who I was. But I knew you would never believe me. Who could believe such a thing, even from a blood uncle?” he said, his voice almost faltering.

It was an admirable touch, and it told me he was still determined to play the devoted kinsman. He must have realized I could not know for certain whether he was my enemy or not, and he was clearly a gambling man. He would play every last card in his hand—and probably a few from up his sleeve. The break in the voice might have fooled a woman who was not attentive to the rest of his face, the almost imperceptible muscle movements at the eyes, which told me he was nervous—and angry. Still, I might have believed in his sincerity had it not been for his henchmen, quietly attempting to circle around the cauldron and surround us.

“Call off your hounds,” I told him. “You are in no position to bully us.”

His expression reddened with swift anger, but he darted a wary glance to Stoker and waved off his men. They fell back and I nodded. “Excellent. You are the first arrivals, but I daresay more are on their way.”

Just then, as if unable to resist such a perfect cue, Mornaday slipped into the room behind them.

“Quite,” he said brightly. He had produced a revolver and was pointing it directly at my uncle. “I think we can all agree to be civilized about this, can’t we?”

The de Clare henchmen were looking quite nervous at this latest development, but before they could act, a tall shadow detached itself from behind Mornaday, stepping into the light. The gentleman was perhaps fifty but fit as a whippet, and something about the expression on his face told me he was by far a more formidable opponent than Mornaday.

“Steady, de Clare,” he told my uncle. “If you were thinking that Inspector Mornaday is only one man, you were wrong. I have a dozen men outside this building and I am longing to hang you. Please, do me the favor of murdering an English police officer and let me watch you dance at the end of a rope.”

He turned to me, and we exchanged long, appraising looks. I felt Stoker stiffen beside me, and that was all the confirmation I required. “Sir Hugo Montgomerie, I believe?”

His nod was brisk. “It is past time I made your acquaintance, Miss Speedwell.” He flicked an indifferent glance to Stoker. “Templeton-Vane. It has been a long time.”

“Not quite long enough,” Stoker observed blandly.