A Curious Beginning

His gaze narrowed. “What are you talking about?”


Swiftly and with clinical efficiency, I related my experience with Mr. de Clare at Paddington Station. All the while, his expression never altered from one of dispassionate assessment.

“And is that all?” he asked coolly when I had finished.

“Yes. I ought to be contrite, but I don’t think I can manage it. You have kept your secrets; I have kept mine.”

“But my secrets won’t get you hanged for a murder you didn’t commit,” he countered, his color high.

“Oh, don’t let’s start this again,” I protested. “We might work very well together, you know, if only we could bring ourselves to trust each other. I have believed this from the first minutes in your workshop when I saw your sweet little Phyllomedusa tomopterna.”

“It is a tarsius with a genetic mutation,” he corrected. “Now, do shut up and let me think.”

“No. From this minute forward, we will work together, cooperatively, to solve this murder as it ought to be solved in order to clear you of suspicion and bring the baron’s killer to justice,” I told him firmly. “One ought to employ order and method to a murder investigation just as one should to a scientific investigation.” I looked at him closely. “Perhaps this is why you are a failure. You are far too impulsive and lacking in discipline. Oh, do not fuss. You will give yourself an apoplexy. It was simply an observation.”

He had started to storm at me but shut his mouth again on a hard snap of the teeth. When he spoke, the words were ground out between them. “This is never going to work if you insist on enraging me upon no provocation whatsoever.”

“I wouldn’t say no provocation. You did stab me,” I pointed out helpfully.

“That was an accident, but you can be bloody certain the next time I do it, it will be with complete deliberation.”

“Oh, fustian. You may bluster and storm, but we both know there shall not be a next time. I saw your face, Stoker. You were utterly horrified that I was injured and spared no time in coming to my aid. In fact, I am beginning to think your quickness is one of your finer qualities, in spite of the complications into which it has led us.” He spluttered a little at this, but I studiously ignored him. “Now, if we take the excellent example of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, as our model, we must proceed in an orderly and rational fashion. Method must be our watchword, and in that case, I think we ought to focus our attentions on the baron himself. After all, the victim is the logical place to begin our investigation, is it not?”

“What qualities?” he asked with a suddenness that confused me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said I have fine qualities. What are they?”

“It is not nice to put someone on the spot, Stoker,” I told him primly.

“Very well. We have established I am not nice. What am I, then?”

I tipped my head, thinking hard. “You are enthusiastic. I admire that. You have a curious mind, which is an excellent thing in a scientist. And you are, notwithstanding the recent unfortunate occurrence, rather good with knives and conjuring tricks. Now, about the baron—”

“That is all? The list in its entirety? I am enthusiastic and curious and I can pull a rabbit from a hat?”

“Oh, can you? I haven’t seen that, but it sounds like great fun.” I smiled kindly to show him that I meant it, but he replied with a curl of his upper lip.

“That is really what you think of me,” he said, his tone one of mystification. “You have just described a seven-year-old boy.”

I shrugged. “Some folk mature earlier than others, Stoker. It is no fault of your own.”

“I am above thirty years of age. I have led, not accompanied, but led expeditions to Amazonia and the Galapagos. I have discovered forty-two species of animal never before named in the known world. I have seen active combat in naval battles. And you have reduced me to a moronic child who asks questions and performs coin tricks.”

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” I began, but he waved me off with a dismissive gesture.

“You never really know how others see you,” he said. “But thank you for that illuminating description.”

“It is simply what I have experienced of you,” I pointed out. “You must admit your lesser qualities have been far more to the fore than your noble ones. Aside from your expert medical care of me—involving a situation for which you were at least in part responsible—you have been churlish and impatient, quick to anger, impulsive, suspicious, and frequently rude.”

“Well, thank God I am not the sensitive sort,” he said lightly. “Else I might think you didn’t like me.”

“I like you in spite of those qualities,” I assured him. “I do not like people who are easy to get along with. I would far rather keep company with the hedgehog than the squirrel.”