A Curious Beginning

He shrugged. “Illogical but not impossible. And we’ve no proof your father had anything to do with her death. For all we know, he was forced into the marriage and heartbroken at giving Lily up.”


“Oh, make up your mind!” I slapped my palms to the table and thrust myself out of my chair.

To his everlasting credit, he said nothing, letting me pace back and forth until I had run out my irritation. I gave a sigh of impatience and settled back into my chair.

“Don’t pout,” Stoker warned. “Your face will settle into permanent creases of sulkiness.”

“I am not sulking. I am thinking.” After a few minutes, I gave up. “Very well. You have a point. My father may or may not be a villain. He may or may not have played a part in my mother’s death. And he may or may not be implicated in the baron’s death. We have done nothing but make the waters murky, Stoker.”

“I know.” He rubbed his temples. “We are scientists. It is our vocation to think critically and we have been going at this entirely backward.”

I tipped my head. “You just admitted I am a scientist rather than a dilettante who chases pretty things with wings.”

“You do chase pretty things with wings,” he returned. “You do not like the poor hairy moths.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I mightn’t like all of the moths, but some of them are quite resplendent. Hyalophora cecropia, for instance—”

He raised a hand. “You needn’t justify yourself to me. As you say, we are entitled to our prejudices. I should be far happier to work upon a lioness than a vulture. We are mere humans, Veronica. We are destined to prefer beauty to ugliness.”

His mouth twisted upon these last words, and I wondered if he was thinking of his own altered beauty and if he felt somehow diminished by it.

Suddenly, I surged from my chair, this time in triumph. “I know what the inscription on the key means.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Where would you go to leave something of value?”

“A bank,” was the prompt reply.

“And what city are we in?”

“London.” Understanding kindled in his face. “BOL. Bank of London.”

“Exactly.”

“And OXST?” His eyes lit and he gave me a grin. “Oxford Street branch.”

I curled my hands into triumphant fists. “Yes! I know it is right. I know it.”

“Veronica,” he said gently, “what do you hope to find there?”

“Proof that my father did not harm my mother,” I replied. “Proof that he did. Something, anything that I can hold on to and know is real.”

He gave me a searching look, then a grudging nod. “That I can understand.”

“What did Mornaday mean when he spoke of your family history?” I asked.

He considered his hands as he formed his answer. “Let us simply say that Inspector Mornaday knows things that are none of his business—things that ought to have been buried years ago.”

“I should not have pried.”

He gave me a ghostly smile. “It isn’t your knowing that I mind. It’s the telling.” I said nothing and after a moment he went on. “My family and I are not close. That is why I use only a variation of my given name rather than the name Lord Templeton-Vane gave me,” he told me with a curl of his lip. “I do not speak to them and they do not speak to me. It is better that way. Old sins are never forgot, but they may be packed away.”

A thousand questions hung upon my lips, but I asked him none. Instead I changed the subject.

“You wagered me a guinea that my birth is somehow linked to the baron’s death. If we discover everything we can about my father, then if you are correct, we will surely stand a better chance of finding the baron’s killer.”

“True,” he said absently.

“And it is very kind of Inspector Mornaday to play the ally. He has bought us time, perhaps even enough to establish your innocence.”

Stoker fixed me with a searching look. “Are you really so na?ve? Kindness has nothing to do with it.”

“Well, I admit he would certainly profit from it professionally if he manages to conclude this case successfully,” I acknowledged.

He gave a snort of laughter. “Mornaday is more compelled by his libido than his ambition. Ah, that was a palpable hit. It has brought a blush to your cheek.” He poured out a fresh cup of tea for himself and added a splash of whiskey.

Something about his tone and his casual dismissal of Mornaday irritated me. The fellow had delivered us, not once but twice, and it required little imagination to think Stoker resented his interference. I had little sympathy with such overweening masculine pride, and I resolved to prick it.

I raised my chin. “It has done nothing of the sort,” I retorted. “If Inspector Mornaday hopes for a carnal reward at the end of this, his hopes might not be entirely misplaced.”

Stoker spluttered upon his tea. “What?”

“You heard me. He is a handsome fellow,” I said, warming to my theme. “Handsome enough I might even be persuaded to break my rule against dalliances with Englishmen. He has expressive eyes and a pleasing way about him. And I believe I have already mentioned his lovely hands.”