A Curious Beginning

The thought ought to have filled me with fear; instead I was conscious of a rising excitement. I put a hand to my hatpin, and Stoker’s closed over it.

“Easy. No need to seek trouble before it finds you. We shall use the adjoining door into the dining room, circle around him, and go out the way we came. He will be none the wiser.”

I nodded and he led me swiftly through the connecting door, easing it closed just as footsteps trod heavily down the hall towards the study door. We crept into the hall, but just as it seemed we were about to gain the stairs in safety, disaster struck. In his haste, Stoker brushed against the elephant’s foot, upsetting it and all of the walking sticks. The crash of them against the polished boards echoed throughout the house with all the drama of a cannon shot.

“Run!” Stoker commanded, pushing me. We fled, down the stairs and through the kitchen, broken glass crunching underfoot as we ran. Footsteps pounded behind us, and I caught a glimpse of a broad black shadow, darker than the darkness itself, bent upon catching us. Stoker wrenched open the door to the area, and just as I went to pass through it, a hand grasped for my shoulder. I shrugged away, kicking backward like a mule.

There was a muffled curse as my foot connected with something soft and fleshy, and that moment’s delay was enough. I reached for Stoker’s hand and he half hauled me up the stairs. But our malefactor had made quick work of his recovery. No sooner had we gained the pavement than I felt the weight of his hand upon my shoulder.

Stoker had me by one arm, the blackguard by the other, and I gave a gasp as the intruder’s hand tightened upon my newly stitched limb. Stoker either heard me or felt the sudden drag as I came to a halt, for he stopped and turned, raising his fist, but before he could strike the fellow, a gunshot rang out. I heard the whine of the bullet as it passed some distance away, chipping a piece of stone from the fa?ade of the baron’s house. The malefactor had understood the warning. Instantly, the grip upon my arm released, and he fled, a shadow slipping down the street. A second shadow detached itself from across the street and gave chase, the pair of them disappearing into the night.

Stoker did not release my hand. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” I lied. There was a hot lick of pain along my newly stitched wound, but there was little point in alarming Stoker before we had reached safety.

“Come on,” he ordered. He hurried me to the corner, where he hailed a hansom and gave an address not terribly far from Bishop’s Folly. It was indiscreet, but it would save us an hour’s walk, and I could have wept with gratitude.

“Did you get a look at the fellow?” he asked, pitching his voice low so the driver should not overhear.

“No. Did you?”

“Not at all.”

“But I know who he is,” I said grimly.

Stoker gave a start. “The devil you do! Who was it?”

“I cannot say for certain, but I believe it was my importunate friend from Paddington Station, Mr. de Clare.”

“What makes you think so?”

“When we spoke at the station, I noticed a peculiar scent, something green and spicy. I thought it a sort of toilet water, but when I found the seed in the baron’s study I recognized it.”

“Caraway,” he finished.

“Indeed. I believe Mr. de Clare has made another attempt to get my attention.”

“Unless . . .” he began slowly.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Unless he was keeping watch across the street in case we should appear.”

I gaped at him. “You think Mr. de Clare was our savior instead? You think he fired the shot that drove the housebreaker away?”

“It is possible.”

“Then how did the seed come to be in the study before we arrived?”

“Mr. de Clare and Max clearly had some connection. Perhaps it is as Mr. de Clare said and they were in league together. You must admit, it is also an explanation which fits the facts.”

I nibbled at my lower lip for a moment, considering. “I suppose you are correct,” I admitted. “It is possible that Mr. de Clare was telling the truth at Paddington. He might have had my welfare at heart, and he may be entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. But whether he was our housebreaker or our savior, why did he not declare himself?”

“He hardly had the chance,” Stoker pointed out reasonably. “I didn’t even have time to draw a knife. We fled from the intruder as soon as he appeared, and the fellow across the street was clearly more determined to give chase to the housebreaker than speak with us.”