A Curious Beginning

“Trespassing? How very original. We do get the odd vagrant creeping about the place from time to time, but never a woman, at least not a clean woman with good vowels who could spot a lord at five paces. Any particular reason for trespassing here?”


“It is my fault, milord,” came a voice from behind him. Lord Rosemorran turned just as Bet launched herself again, this time at Stoker. “Down, down, you ridiculous creature,” Stoker ordered, his affectionate tone belying the command. Bet ignored it, planting her hind feet upon the ground and resting her front paws on Stoker’s shoulders. In spite of his height of some six feet, she topped him by inches, and he ruffled her ears, earning himself several long licks for his pains.

“Stoker? Good to see you. How is my elephant coming along?”

“Not very well,” Stoker said, his voice muffled by the dog’s thick fur. I noticed he had resumed his eye patch and his voice was rough. He looked every inch the ruffian, no doubt the aftereffects of too much aguardiente.

“Stoker is in hiding from the Metropolitan Police,” I volunteered.

“Indeed? What do they want with him?” Lord Rosemorran was as unflappable as his sister, it seemed, and I decided to tell him the truth.

“It has to do with Baron von Stauffenbach’s murder.”

“Ah yes. Dreadful business, that. Frightful shame. He was a good fellow, the baron. One of the best. Borrowed my Thucydides. Suppose it’s gone forever now,” he said, his tone abstracted. He fell silent a moment, his expression vacant, then collected himself. “So, what do the police think he had to do with the murder?”

“They think he might have killed the baron, which of course he did not. I know this for a fact,” I assured him.

“No one would ever believe he did,” he replied stoutly, and I decided in that moment that I liked him. He was younger than I had expected, barely clearing forty, I should have guessed, and though his appearance was somewhat untidy in the manner of all distracted scholars, his manners were gentle and his face surprisingly attractive. He had his sister’s kindly dark eyes and a twist to his mouth that spoke of good humor.

“Yes, well, the police do not see it that way, at least not yet,” Stoker told him, pushing the dog firmly to the ground. She gave a low groan, as if sulking, but sat at his feet and he dropped a hand to her head. “I should like very much to prove it. In the meantime, I have taken refuge in the Belvedere without your leave—so unsporting, no apology could possibly suffice.”

I noted his careful omission of Lady Cordelia’s role in securing our bolt-hole, and he flicked me a quick glance to warn me to give nothing away as his lordship began to speak.

“Well, but if Miss—er, I am sorry, I have forgot your name.” Lord Rosemorran looked to me.

“Speedwell.”

“Speedwell. Like the plant? Charming. If Miss Speedwell can provide you with an alibi, then surely you are in the clear.”

“It is entirely likely that the police will not be satisfied with my assurances,” I said.

“Ah well, that is a pity. Surely it will all come right in the end,” he said, cheering himself with his platitude. “And you’re quite welcome to stay here as long as you like. You shan’t be in anyone’s way. Now, let us go into the Belvedere. I’ve had a rather good idea for the elephant’s trunk, Stoker . . .”

I marveled at his lordship’s easy acceptance of a fugitive finding sanctuary on his property, but he seemed entirely unruffled as he led the way into his collections, tossing questions behind him with little expectation of replies. “Have you found it comfortable in here? I must say, I shouldn’t like the notion of sleeping amidst all of this death and decay. Of course, we’ve never had talk of ghosts in this part of Bishop’s Folly, but one never knows. Have you seen ghosts since you have been here? No, of course not. Do hope you’ve had a good rootle around the old collections. Miss Speedwell, is there anything in particular here you would like to take a closer look at whilst Stoker and I talk?”

Stoker spoke up. “Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist.”

“A lepidopterist! Why didn’t you say so? You’ll want the Butterfly Cabinet,” he said, changing course as erratically as a bee. He plunged down one aisle between his collections to make for an enormous piece of furniture that had been built to fit snugly between two of the great columns of the room. It was securely locked, but the key was hanging from a tassel that had been slung over a ram’s horn nearby. His lordship opened the cabinet and stood back.

“Not a bad little collection,” he began.

He said other things after that, but I did not hear him. From the tail of my eye I had seen it, beckoning, shimmering just at the edge of my vision. I moved on sleepwalking feet, ignoring my host entirely. He and Stoker must have fallen into conversation, for I heard the rise and fall of their voices, but I had no care for anything but him.

I stopped a scant inch from the glass and put out a finger. I heard a low moan and realized it had come from my own throat.

“Miss Speedwell? Is everything quite all right?”