A Curious Beginning

He looked suddenly away, and I realized he must be feeling the baron’s loss far more keenly than I had suspected.

“You said he owns—owned,” I corrected sadly, “the building where you reside.”

“Yes, I took it from him at a peppercorn rent when I left the traveling show. I . . . wanted a place where I could work in solitude.” His eyes were shadowed, and I suspected the memories he tried so valiantly to keep at bay were wrestling their way in.

“How long ago was that?”

“Two years.”

“And you have lived there since?”

“Yes. Max was generous to a fault. He came round once a month to collect the rent himself and we went to dinner—I suspect more for him to ensure I was having a proper meal than to get his money.”

“He was a good friend,” I said softly.

Stoker said nothing, just nodded. Impulsively, I touched his hand and he gripped it hard before turning loose of it. “Get on with the questions.”

“Did he form any other close attachments that you know of?”

“None. He knew many people, but distantly. Max was more comfortable in his solitude than any person I have ever known. He was entirely happy alone. He had his books and his music and his specimens, and that was all he required. He also carried on a wide correspondence. His friends were far-flung across the globe, but none of them intimate. I probably knew him as well as anyone.”

“What of his servants? Did anyone live in?” I asked.

“His housekeeper of twenty years, Mrs. Latham. She looked after him with the help of a succession of rather stupid maids, none of whom lived in. Mrs. Latham broke her leg last year, and Max held her post for her. He even paid the doctor’s bills. She has never forgot that. Poor old hen would probably have died for him if she had caught the intruder who killed him.”

“Just as well she never got the chance,” I said soberly. “If the blackguard showed no compunction at killing the baron, he would have easily murdered her as well. Would she have profited by the baron’s death?”

He shrugged. “A small legacy, but Max and I talked once and he told me he intended to leave his fortune—modest as it was—to various museums. Nothing for the servants to tempt them to murder.”

“No, and even if they had, that would not explain the ransacking of his study,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Unless they were attempting to cover up the crime.”

“What a morbid imagination you have,” I told him admiringly.

“Veronica, I spend my days up to my elbows in the gore of dead animals. And that is the least gruesome occupation I have had.”

His mouth had twisted into something like a smile, and I found myself smiling back. The moment caught and held, and in that fleeting connection, something between us shifted. He reached out suddenly and took my hand in his, and when he spoke, there was nothing of the harshness he wore as armor. His voice was low, his eyes pleading.

“Let me go to the police. Whatever happens, you will be safe then.”

I felt a hot flicker of anger. “That is not possible. They might—might—put me in some sort of protective custody if they believe our story. But it is far likelier they will not. And what happens to you if that is the case? If we take the risk and we’re wrong, it is the hangman’s noose for you.”

“Veronica—” he began.

“I will not gamble with your life!” His gaze held mine, and I wanted so desperately to look away. But I did not, and in the end, he released my hand.

“Very well. I was afraid you would be obstinate, so I made arrangements with my Cornish friend. There is a property in London at our disposal, but only if we are very discreet. There is a skeleton staff in the house at present, and we must keep out of the way.”

“What house?”

“Bishop’s Folly. It belongs to Lord Rosemorran, the client who owns that bloody elephant. In Marylebone—not the fashionable part, which is all to the good for our purposes. The house itself is massive, but there is another structure on the property, the Belvedere. It was built as a sort of ballroom, but Rosemorran has stuffed it to the rafters with specimens from his travels. With a great deal of luck, we just might manage.”

“Very well. We will throw in with Lord Rosemorran and hope for the best,” I replied.

Stoker looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he merely turned and looked out the window at the passing view and said no more.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN