A Curious Beginning

He choked a little. “How can you possibly know that?”


I gave him a pitying glance. “For a natural historian, you know surprisingly little about the facial expressions of higher-order primates. Remind me to find a copy of Darwin’s book upon the subject for you,” I added, thinking of how useful the work had proven in my encounter with Mr. de Clare.

“I have read the bloody book,” Mr. Stoker countered. “I simply did not realize you were studying me like some sort of specimen.”

“I wasn’t,” I corrected. “I was studying her.”

He had made a hash of putting on his shirt, so intent had he been upon my observations. I gave the shirt a sharp tug and it fell into place. “That’s better. I will leave you to finish dressing on your own, and then we must prepare for the act.”

? ? ?

Mr. Stoker spent the rest of that morning sharpening the set of knives Rizzolo had left behind and practicing his aim by throwing them at an apple box. I did not watch. When he had finished plying his blades, he set to altering his black suit. He had indeed been a much smaller fellow when he had last worn it, and there was scarcely enough fabric in the seams to permit the alterations. The waist was largely unchanged, but it appeared he had developed the muscles of his back and thighs admirably. He ordered me about, instructing me to fix pins where he could not reach.

“The shirt is improved since you mended it, although I must say it is a bit tight across the back. Perhaps you ought not to throw knives in it. I daresay the extra effort will cause it to split. Have you a neckcloth?”

He rummaged in the pocket for a moment, then drew out a pathetic little scrap of black silk.

“I have pen wipers nicer than that. Never mind. I will attend to it.”

“Help me out of this coat,” he ordered. “I feel as if I were in the grip of a lethargic anaconda.”

“Goodness, how you complain! Here, only be careful of the pins.” The warning had come too late. In attempting to shrug off the coat, he had driven half a dozen pins directly into his shoulder, and he howled in outrage.

“Get it off!”

“Heavens, Androcles didn’t have this much trouble with his lion. Very well—hold still!” I ordered. He opened his mouth to rage some more, but I stood toe to toe with him and he subsided, clamping his mouth shut. “Now, ease yourself down onto the chair, and I will be able to see what the trouble is.”

He did as I bade, and I bent to extricate him. “The pins have gone all the way in. All I can see are the beads, so hold very still. I will be quick.”

He said nothing, and I plucked a dozen pins from his shoulder. At the end of each trembled a drop of blood. Carefully, I pulled the coat away, extricating him from the rest of the pins. I removed the waistcoat as well, not surprised to find sizable spots of blood dotting the creamy white cambric of his shirt.

“Remove your shirt, please. I have just the thing.”

I rummaged in my bag for my medical kit and extracted a small bottle.

“Oil of calendula. Frightfully old-fashioned, but Aunt Lucy swore by it,” I pronounced. “It will stop any chance of infection from those filthy pins.”

He had removed the shirt and was sitting gingerly—no doubt because the trousers were snugly pinned as well. I poured a little of the oil onto a handkerchief and applied it to the punctures and the few scratches I found. While I attended him, he amused himself by rummaging through the little collection of bottles, examining the various oils and tinctures. He said nothing, but his expression was thoughtful.

“I daresay you find this silly after what you have endured,” I said with a nod to his scars.

He gave a tentative shrug. “Yes, but I will admit I prefer your ministrations. At least your preparations smell better. I think the Brazilian fellow who stitched up my wounds used dung to poultice them.”

“Hold this,” I instructed. He pressed the handkerchief to one of the pinholes whilst I bent to inspect his scars. One of them wrapped over the top of his shoulder, neatly clipping the head of the Chinese dragon tattooed upon his back.

“Rather remarkable,” I murmured. “His poulticing may have been rudimentary, but his stitching was first-rate. Do you happen to know what size needle he used? I should think it was an embroidery needle rather than darning, but I should very much like to be sure.”

Stoker gave me a sour look. “I believe it was the sharpened quill of a porcupine. Are you quite finished with your inspection?”

I straightened, brushing off my skirts. “I apologize, but you did introduce the subject yourself. You needn’t hold the handkerchief there any longer. Unless you suffer from some sort of bleeding disorder, I suspect you have clotted by now.”