A Curious Beginning

He turned it this way and that, examining it thoroughly. “An expensive piece. Heavy for its size.”


“Well, Aunt Lucy was like that—if she had a tuppence, she would rather spend it on a flower than bread. Aunt Nell was just the opposite, practical to a fault. She deplored Aunt Lucy’s spendthrift ways. In fact, she hated that compass, no doubt because it was expensive.”

“Hated it?” he asked, but his voice was detached, his focus entirely upon the piece he held.

“Yes, I was wearing it the first time I came into her room after her apoplexy. She looked at it and was so enraged, the doctor had to give her an injection of morphia to settle her down. I did not wear it in front of her again so as not to upset her.”

“Interesting,” he murmured. He raised it to his ear and shook it hard.

“Stoker! What are you doing? You will ruin it,” I protested.

He held it to my ear. “Listen.” He gave another shake and I heard a faint but unmistakable rattle.

“What on earth—”

I put out my hand for the compass, running my thumb along the side. For the first time I noticed a seam at the edge. The day’s events had loosened it a little, and one bit stood just proud of the rest. I tried to slip a fingernail behind it.

“Too thick,” I muttered. Stoker retrieved the knife from the lanyard he had put aside when he changed his clothes. “Try this.”

I slid the finely honed edge under the seam and gave a gentle push. It popped free so suddenly I nearly dropped the entire thing. Wedged tightly into the back of the compass was a key. I used the knife blade to pry it free.

“Did either of the aunts leave you anything with a lock? A box? A small trunk?”

“Nothing. Only this—a perfectly anonymous key,” I said in some frustration.

“Not entirely anonymous,” he said, turning it over for my inspection. Along the length of the key were incised a series of letters. “BOLOXST,” I read aloud. “But what does it mean? It sounds like a rude word.”

“I highly doubt your aunt would have given you a key with a variation of ‘bollocks’ on it. A surname, perhaps? Did you ever meet anyone of their acquaintance with that name?”

“Boloxst? No, it’s a ridiculous notion. No one has ever been called Boloxst,” I said.

“It does seem unlikely,” he agreed. “Perhaps it is an anagram.”

We set to work with paper and pencils and an hour later gave it up as a blind alley. “I’ve nothing more interesting than ‘stool,’” I remarked. “Hardly illuminating.”

“Indeed. If one were going to leave behind a keyhole, it would scarcely be in a stool. Perhaps it is a foreign name.”

I peered at the letters again. “If one really concentrates, it looks almost Flemish.”

“No,” he said flatly. “We’ve already got the Irish involved, thanks to the villainous Mr. de Clare. I will not tolerate Flemings as well.”

“You are irritable, and heavens, I can see why! We haven’t eaten in hours and we’ve let the kettle boil dry.”

Stoker took his turn at providing victuals and we ate cold meat and mustard on bread as we drank our tea. “Go over it again,” I instructed. “Everything we know.”

“Your mother was an Irish actress who changed her name to pursue a career,” he began promptly.

“Hold a moment. Perhaps there is something there. Her name before she changed it was de Clare. Do we know anything about the de Clares?”

He shrugged. “Old family—in the Domesday Book just like the Templeton-Vanes. Some king or other sent them off to Ireland, and a branch has been there ever since.”

I shook my head. “I do not understand. If she were a de Clare, then she—and my duplicitous uncle—would be nobility. What objection could my father’s family have to her as a bride?”

“Her career. Actresses have gained a little in respectability since the days of the Restoration, but families like mine wouldn’t countenance one marrying in for a second. Besides, the de Clares have been in Ireland for centuries, breeding like rabbits. There are doubtless dozens of cadet lines which have come down quite far in the world. She mightn’t have been born any better than a merchant’s daughter or a farmer’s.” His eyes took on a speculative gleam. “You would have to ask your uncle. I should like to meet up with him again—I owe him a thrashing.”

I gave him a repressive look and he shrugged. “Or you might try to trace her relations. Perhaps there are other siblings or even a grandparent still living.”

“Absolutely not. I am not going to Ireland.”

“Why not?”

“Have you been to Ireland? The climate is appalling. Nothing but mist.”

“What is your objection to mist?”

I regarded him with the same disdain with which I had beheld my first Turkish toilet. “It is gloomy. Butterflies like the sun. Ireland is for the moth people.”