Archibond spoke. “I am glad to hear it. I did not want to disturb the household, so I thought it best to come here.”
“You are most welcome,” I assured him. “Stoker, do wipe off the worst of that filth and put on a shirt for the inspector. We will have something to drink.”
The inspector held up a hand. “No tea for me,” he said.
“I was thinking of something rather more interesting,” I assured him. I retrieved my flask of aguardiente and poured out a thimbleful for each of us. He took one sip and his eyes went wide, his color harsh.
“My God,” he managed hoarsely. It took him some minutes to recover, but when he did, he gave a nod. “I do not generally indulge in spirits before nightfall, but I thank you, Miss Speedwell. These are unusual times, and a stiffener is most welcome.”
I made to pour him another but he thrust his hand over the top of his glass. Stoker joined us, having performed a minimal toilette, and settled himself in his customary chair. “What else brings you to our lair, Inspector?” he inquired.
The inspector’s smile was sudden and oddly charming. He had a tiny dimple in his cheek that I had never had cause to notice before. He settled himself gingerly on the camel saddle, his manner confiding.
“Instinct, I suppose, although a policeman is supposed to be guided by logic. But logic is of no use to me when matters are so clouded.” He paused. “I wondered if you knew what was troubling Lady Wellie, if she had confided in you before she collapsed.”
“What makes you think there was something troubling her?” I asked carefully.
“I have known her for some time. She has not been herself these past few days. I saw her once or twice in this matter of the prince and she was preoccupied, vague.”
“The Prince of Wales is one of her favorites,” Stoker told him. “Surely the threat of a scandal touching his eldest son is enough to preoccupy and distress her.”
“I wish I could believe that is all that ails her, but I am convinced there is something more.”
I flicked a glance to Stoker, a warning look that I knew he would interpret correctly. Until we understood Lady Wellie’s fears with regard to the prince and any possible connection to the murders, I would not betray her secrets, not even to Archibond, her confidant.
“If she were distressed about something else, I am sure she would share her concerns with Special Branch,” I said.
Archibond’s expression was grave. “I do not think I can adequately communicate to you the atmosphere at Scotland Yard at present, Miss Speedwell. There is always a sense of urgency, of duty, that the security and peace of the capital depends upon us. But now . . .” He spread his hands. “It is a snake pit. Man against man, department against department. Everyone wants to be the first to bring the Ripper to justice, so there is no proper cooperation. We talk and we theorize, but there is only superficial sharing of information. Everyone wants to develop the hypothesis that will bring this monster’s reign of terror to an end. I am afraid it has led to a mood of great distrust within the department—and beyond.”
“Lady Wellie no longer trusts her contacts at the Yard?” Stoker asked, incredulous.
“She would always trust Sir Hugo,” Archibond assured us. “But Sir Hugo is in the fight of his life, merely trying to survive. Every day, there are calls in the newspapers for the resignation of any of the superior officers attached to the investigation. He has no men and no heart to spare for anything except the Whitechapel case.”
“And that is where you have come in?” I asked.
“It is. I did not realize the scope of Lady Wellie’s influence when I first arrived at the Yard,” he admitted. “But I quickly learnt her worth. She is invaluable to the Metropolitan Police, and to this country. In the past months, I have come to know her better, and I can say truthfully, there is no one I admire more.”
This was a change, I reflected. When we first encountered Archibond, he was ambitious and stern, determined to ascend the ladder at Scotland Yard and reach the pinnacle of Special Branch. But six months was a long time to be mired in the shifting sands of the politics of the Metropolitan Police. I had been in Madeira for most of the year, and Stoker had been occupied with his own work, notably, his quagga. We had neither of us kept up with Lady Wellie as we ought, and with Sir Hugo growing increasingly busy—as well as occasionally ailing—it was no surprise that she had begun to cultivate his successor.
Stoker opened a tin of honeycomb, rummaging through the sticky layers for a sizeable piece. He appeared to be munching contentedly on his sweet, but I saw the watchful gleam in his eye. He did not yet trust Archibond; however, it occurred to me that with Lady Wellie incapacitated, she would not be able to vouch for the man. It would be up to us to determine how far she had taken him into her confidence.
“You were no doubt surprised to see Her Royal Highness appeal to Stoker and me for assistance,” I began, dangling the baited hook.
He bit, smiling gently. The expression warmed his features, making him almost attractive. “I was not, actually. I know in what esteem Lady Wellie holds the pair of you, and of course, your own position, Miss Speedwell, makes you unique.” It was the perfect response, just pointed enough to reveal that he knew exactly who I was without the indiscretion of speaking it aloud. Archibond, I decided, was a careful man.
He went on. “I understand why you refused her. I have learnt something of your previous help, both of you,” he added quickly, gathering Stoker with a glance. “It must be difficult to accomplish so much and never be properly thanked for it.”
I lifted my chin. “I do not do it for gratitude. I do it for the sake of what is right.”
He shifted on the camel saddle—not a particularly comfortable perch at the best of times, but I fancied he was choosing his words carefully. “And never for your own purposes?”
Stoker’s nostrils whitened at the edges, the only perceptible sign of his irritation, but I could tell he was spoiling for a fight. I shoved another piece of honeycomb at him. “Eat, I beg you, before you say something all of us will regret.” I turned to Archibond. “We have an uneasy relationship with Special Branch, at best, Inspector. We have frequently been at odds with Sir Hugo, and do not even speak the name ‘Mornaday’ in Stoker’s presence unless you wish to see him lather at the mouth like a rabid dog.”
Archibond’s slender mouth quirked up into a smile. “Then we have that in common, sir. I have long wanted to thrash the fellow myself.”
The fact that Mornaday had—with great cheer and little hesitation—ordered him comprehensively searched when Stoker was mildly arrested had done nothing to repair their strained relationship. Archibond’s antipathy was equally fervid but for a completely different reason. Mornaday, as Sir Hugo’s right-hand man of long standing, posed a threat to Archibond’s ambitions in spite of his own superior rank. (Mornaday, when deeply in his cups, mourned the fact that Archibond had secured a plum position by dint of his dogged application to duty and rigid adherence to the rules and regulations of Special Branch as well as a few strings discreetly tugged by his godfather, the Home Secretary. I consoled Mornaday with a dose of strong spirits and sympathy, which prompted him to offer me an obligatory kiss. I politely declined and he took no offense.) Still, the brawls at Special Branch were none of our concern, and we could certainly be cordial to both of them even as they plotted to have each other’s livers and lights.