A Curious Beginning

“There are greater considerations afoot,” he replied with maddening calm. He had a neat little beard of the sort that Stuart kings used to wear, and he stroked it, no doubt in satisfaction.

I gave him a grim smile. “Yes, well, mind you have your men trawl that section of the Thames for Edmund de Clare’s body, although they shan’t find it. It’s rather shallow just there. I daresay he managed to get away quite handily.”

To my enormous pleasure, Sir Hugo blinked. “Shallow?”

“Deep enough to prevent him from sustaining further injury from the jump, but not so deep as to present any real danger of drowning is my guess,” I elaborated. “He has a boat, you know. And while he may not be the cleverest of criminal masterminds, a man with even rudimentary common sense would have taken the precaution of arranging his means of leaving our little rendezvous tonight. What better route than the river? You did not expect it, I daresay. And with Silent John and those other two ruffians to aid him, I suspect he is already halfway down the Thames.”

Behind him, Mornaday hid his smile behind a hand at his superior’s discomfiture. Sir Hugo’s nostrils flared slightly. It was an elegant nose and he used it to good effect.

“My dear Miss Speedwell, I hardly think—”

“I’m only surprised Inspector Mornaday did not tell you all about it.”

“You knew he had a boat?” Sir Hugo whirled on Mornaday and fixed him with a cold eye that promised retribution of the most painful sort. I turned away. As much as it would please me to see Mornaday get his comeuppance, I could no longer hide my concern for Stoker’s fate. He had been in that burning building far too long. I kept my eyes fixed upon the door, watching the smoke billow forth and the hellish flames grow higher and higher. I heard the riverside wall give way, bricks and beams tumbling into the Thames just where my uncle had gone in, and another woman might have prayed. But I could not. I looked down at my hands and saw crescents of blood, the relics of my fingernails digging into my palms.

My focus narrowed onto the smoke that rolled and hissed like a living thing, and then it parted a moment, and a figure emerged. It was Stoker, a little the worse for wear, but cradling a yawning Huxley, who was snuffling about in search of a sausage.

My knees threatened to give way. “Fool,” I muttered.

Stoker shrugged. “He is family.”

The undercover police officers kept the peace, pushing the avid spectators back as the fire burned itself out. Because the warehouse was detached, no other businesses or lodgings were put in danger, and in due course, Sir Hugo permitted the fire brigade to be summoned to finish off the job.

I turned to see Mornaday looking distinctly cowed after his upbraiding and Sir Hugo staring at me in something like disbelief. I had the feeling that very few people ever surprised him.

“That was your only chance to claim a throne,” he said.

“That was never what I wanted.” I pulled the blanket closer about my shoulders. “I think we can agree that I am no longer a threat? To the Crown or to your master?”

He hesitated. “In spite of my better judgment, I will do my best to be persuasive upon the point to the parties most concerned. We will speak again tomorrow. I will send word of the time,” he said, dismissing me with a flick of the finger. It was then I realized instinctively that Sir Hugo had always known my whereabouts. Whatever games he played, they were deep ones, and I wondered precisely how far his tentacles could reach.

Whilst Sir Hugo was directing his men, Stoker and Huxley and I slipped away. “He said he wants to see us again. You left without giving him our direction. He shan’t like that,” Stoker noted as we trudged through the darkening streets on weary feet.

“He will know where to find us,” was my only reply.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


I collapsed into bed without washing, the smell of smoke heavy in my hair, soot still staining my hands. I was more exhausted than I had ever been in the whole of my life. The revelations of the past few days finally came crashing down upon me, and when I woke it was to find the late morning sun streaming across the floor of the Belvedere. Stoker handed me a cup of tea, bitter and dark.

“You look like hell,” he said quietly. For his part, he was washed and dressed as tidily as I had ever seen him. I sipped at my tea, grateful for the warmth of it seeping into my bones. His expression was inscrutable. “I have seen Lady C. and told her we are back.”

“For the moment,” I said waspishly. For the first time in my life, having no fixed home was something thorny and unpleasant, but it was nothing compared to the guilt I felt over having played a part in destroying his.

Stoker did not respond to this. He merely gave me a long look. “Finish your tea and then have a wash. It is time to go.”