A Curious Beginning

A kindly fortune-teller pointed me to the necessary spot for performing my toilette—a washing tent had been erected and was mercifully empty—and when I was finished I returned to the caravan in twenty minutes, neatly attired and carrying two tin mugs of tea. But Mr. Stoker, still exhausted from his days of hard work upon the elephant mount, had fallen asleep again.

“What a wretched abductor you make,” I said softly. I might have taken up my things and been halfway to Cardiff by the time he awoke. Instead, I applied myself to my tea and a book. I took from my bag my favorite novel and was halfway through the third chapter when he awoke.

I gestured towards his mug of tea. “It has gone cold now, but you ought to drink it anyway. Strong and with plenty of sugar, just as you like it.”

He put out his hand for the tea and took a healthy swallow, then squinted at my book. “What are you reading?”

“The Unlikely Adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective. Casebook One,” I told him.

He snorted. “Cheap literature? You surprise me. All that blather about your scientific views, and that is what you choose for entertainment?”

“Arcadia Brown is a thoroughly modern woman. She is intelligent and intrepid and shrinks from nothing,” I told him, peering over the cover to give him a severe look. “Her world is not confined by the limitations of either her sex or her society. She creates her own adventures and sees them through to the end with her faithful sidekick, Garvin. She has been my inspiration for some years now.”

He shrugged. “She sounds deadly dull.”

“Dull! My dear Mr. Stoker, clearly you have never had the unparalleled pleasure of reading one of her casebooks or you would understand the inaccuracy of that remark. One has only to follow in her footsteps for a single investigation, read a single instance of her cry of ‘Excelsior!’ as she takes up her parasol and leaps into the fray to unmask a villain, read a single syllable of Garvin’s stalwart devotion—”

He held up a hand. “No, thank you. I still think any mind capable of grasping the subtle differences between sexually driven and societally driven natural selection would be embarrassed at such low amusement.”

I flicked him a glance. “My interests are varied. They include natural history, lady detectives, and good hygiene,” I said with a significant lift of the brows towards his feet.

“What in seven hells does that mean?” he demanded.

“It means that if you come to bed smelling like something from a barnyard again, I will scrub you myself with rose soap and a firm hand,” I threatened.

It was enough. He fled immediately, muttering obscenities and carrying all the accoutrements needed for a proper wash. In the interim, I decided to tidy up a bit in the interests of having a suitably comfortable space in which to live. I had faults I was prepared to own, but slovenliness was not one of them. Even in the most rudimentary hut in the South Pacific I had done my best to achieve a semblance of order—not from any misplaced domesticity but simply because I found I could think better if comfort and tidiness had been achieved.

Once this was done, I decided to pay the professor a visit—or, to be strictly correct, the professor and Otto. There was no such thing as a private conversation for either of them, I reflected. I could not imagine what it must be like to go the whole of a lifetime without a single moment’s privacy. The pleasures of solitude were denied them entirely, and I repressed a shudder as I approached the tent and jangled the bell outside to announce my presence.

“Enter!” I heard the familiar thread of melody that Otto had played the night before to herald my arrival.

“Ah, it is our dear Mrs. Stoker! I hope that you found everything in the caravan to your satisfaction.” The professor was holding a traveling desk on his knees, spread with ledgers and account books, both of which were marked with rather more red ink than black. Otto was tinkering with his accordion, his eyes closed.

“Yes, thank you. I was wondering if I might have a quick word about the act that Stoker and I will be performing,” I began.

The professor gave me a singularly enigmatic smile. “But of course. He will be taking the place of Rizzolo, our resident knife thrower.”

“Knife thrower?” I asked, my voice a trifle high.

“Indeed. Stoker learned the skill as a boy. I daresay it will come back to him,” he said smoothly.

“Pity me if it doesn’t,” I murmured.

He threw back his head and laughed. “What a charming addition to our little family you have made. So, you did not realize your husband was an expert in the bladed arts?”