A Curious Beginning

“Trogonoptera brookiana,” I said reverently. “Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing.”


His lordship came to stand at my elbow. “Ah yes. Lovely, isn’t it?”

It was stunning. Seven inches across and shimmering with light, the creature had wings as black as night blazed across with a streak of emerald green richer than any jewel in the queen’s possession. A neat ruby head surmounted it all, and from this sprouted a pair of slender black antennae, curved as delicately as lace. The green slash ended in points, like feathers, and the vivid color was threaded with black capillaries, as though someone had drawn them in ink with the finest nib. It was this spectacular butterfly that had driven me to Sumatra in spite of the rumblings of Krakatoa. Such a small and fragile thing to have changed my life, I reflected.

I paid homage to his stilled beauty while his lordship went on. “From Sumatra, you know. Alfred Russel Wallace.”

“Yes, he discovered and named it in 1855,” I told him.

“Yes, I think my father acquired it from him in 1860 or thereabouts.”

I turned slowly to face him. “You mean this specimen—”

“Came from Sumatra with Wallace, yes. Wallace brought a few home with him, and my father bought one. Capital fellow, isn’t he?”

His voice was blandly cheerful, but when I flicked a glance to Stoker, I saw from his expression that he understood. The Earl of Rosemorran was a kindly man and perhaps even a devoted scholar, but he had not the slightest comprehension of the magnitude of his collection. I turned again to the butterfly, realizing with a start that it was merely one of a few hundred pinned specimens. They were mounted with Continental pins, my own preference, for the longer pin permitted a more thorough label to be attached, although the next to catch my attention was sadly anonymous.

“Lycaena dispar,” I said, my voice somewhat strangled. “The Large Copper. This butterfly has been extinct for the better part of thirty years.”

“Has it indeed?” his lordship asked. “I’m afraid many of the labels have come off, and I don’t know much about them. Interested in butterflies, are you, Miss Speedwell?”

Stoker took pity upon my nearly speechless state. “Miss Speedwell is a lepidopterist by profession,” he reminded the earl.

His lordship’s brows lifted. “Yes, I recall now you said so. Why, that is most intriguing. A lady scientist,” he said in a tone of wonderment. “What will they think of next?”

“There have been ladies interested in science since before Mary Shelley,” said a slightly astringent voice behind us. We turned as one to find Lady Cordelia, her expression carefully neutral. Only the sharpness of her tone betrayed any impatience. But it was an impatience tempered with real affection as she looked at her brother. “I see you have discovered my guests, Ambrose.”

“Your guests? They didn’t say. Miss Speedwell told me they were trespassing.”

“Miss Speedwell no doubt thought to shield me from the consequences of harboring a fugitive from justice,” she said with a touch of her previous warmth. “But she and Stoker are here at my invitation.”

“And mine now,” her brother returned. “D’ye know, Cordelia, Miss Speedwell knows butterflies. That might be handy. We have said for ages we needed to catalog these fellows,” he added with a nod to the lepidoptery collection.

Lady Cordelia inclined her head. “It would indeed be kind of Miss Speedwell to lend her expertise, but I am afraid there are more pressing matters to contend with, Ambrose. You see, Stoker—”

“Is wanted by the police to help with their inquiries,” he finished irritably. “I know that. Damned insolent of them, if you’ll pardon the language, Miss Speedwell.”

“Certainly. And I agree. Insolent indeed. But the police will pursue him until they find him. They are convinced of his involvement in the baron’s murder.”

“Did you find anything in his house?” Lady Cordelia asked.

I opened my mouth, but before I could reply, Stoker responded. “Nothing of note,” he said flatly.

She clucked her tongue. “Pity. I had high hopes that you might discover something that would implicate another or at least provide a motive for his murder.”

Stoker did not elaborate, and if his lordship wondered what we had been doing in the house of a murdered man, he did not ask.

“Well,” Lady Cordelia said briskly, “as the secret of your presence here is out, you are welcome to remove your things to the guest rooms in the main house. We have plenty of space.”

Stoker held up a hand. “Very kind of you, my lady. But I think Miss Speedwell and I would be more comfortable remaining here.”

“Of course,” she conceded gracefully.

“So long as his lordship approves,” I put in quickly.

The earl gave a nod, clearly uninterested in mundane arrangements, and after a lengthy discussion about his enormous elephant trophy, he took his leave to return to his study while Lady Cordelia pleaded domestic responsibilities. I turned to Stoker.

“What was your purpose in that?”