“You needn’t sound so uplifted by the notion,” Stoker told me.
“Why not? Have we ever yet been in a situation we could not master? It requires only a little careful consideration and a bit of imagination,” I informed him.
“Veronica. We have been abducted. Our weapons are gone. My boots and all of our outer garments have been taken. This bloody room is freezing and we will no doubt die of exposure in a very few hours if they do not return to finish us off before that.”
“Warehouse,” I corrected.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Loose your blindfold and see for yourself.”
The next few minutes passed uncomfortably as Stoker wrestled with his limitations to remove his blindfold. But at last he did, and he raised his head, no doubt blinking against the dim light as I had done.
“It is indeed a warehouse,” he said.
“Thameside?” I suggested.
“From the odor, not far,” he said. He lifted his chin and sniffed deeply. He had the olfactory sense of a bloodhound, and I trusted his observations in that regard far more than my own. “But it smells more like Whitechapel. Tobacco. Cotton,” he added. When I met him, Stoker had been living on the premises of his taxidermy studio, a vast and decrepit warehouse on the banks of the Thames that was in the late stages of decay. It had been destroyed in a fire, taking the remnants of his life’s work with it. There were dozens of such buildings between the riverside and the crowded dens of Whitechapel.
“The prince is here as well,” I told him.
Stoker stiffened. “Bloody hell. Where? How is he?”
“There is a bed on the other side of the room. He is sleeping peacefully, no doubt still under the effects of whatever they used to render us unconscious. I suspect he will be coming round soon enough,” I finished, more to persuade myself than him. I could not begin to contemplate the fate that would befall us for this misadventure involving the heir to the throne.
Just then the door opened and a tall, deceptively pleasant-looking fellow entered, bearing a large basin of what appeared to be porridge. He did not seem troubled that I had pushed aside my blindfold, and I blinked up at him. He was enormous, well over six and a half feet in height, with the docile demeanor of a man content never to ask questions or have a complicated thought.
He carried a pewter mug, and when he lifted it to my lips, I smelt sour beer. I had no thirst for it, but I knew the importance of nutrition and hydration and I forced myself to drink. He spooned a few bites of porridge into my mouth, messily, and I studied him as he moved, noting the slow, resolute motions, the placid expression on his face. This was no mastermind. This was the dogsbody, tasked with menial duties and nothing more. Questioning him would be a waste of breath, but it would be helpful, perhaps, to establish some sort of rapport or at least gain some information.
I gave him a soft look from beneath my lashes. “Thank you, you’re very kind,” I murmured.
He grunted and spooned in another bite of porridge. I swallowed it hastily. “What is your name? I should like to know to whom I should be grateful for such courteous treatment.”
Behind me, Stoker shook once convulsively in what might have been a suppressed oath or a laugh. It was impossible to tell.
Our captor took a long moment to think of a suitable reply, but at length he managed to utter a few words. “Quiet Dan.”
His voice had an unmistakable Irish lilt, and a creeping certainty stole over me as Quiet Dan moved to offer Stoker a bit of sustenance. When he had finished, he looked to the prince. Eddy was still sleeping peacefully, emitting tiny snores. He shuffled out again, taking his nasty porridge bowl with him.
“That porridge was beyond burnt,” Stoker grumbled. “He might at least have put a bit of honey in it.”
“I think our problems might be of a more generous magnitude than the state of the refreshments,” I replied. “You realize our captor is only a henchman?”
“I do. That is the sort of fellow who couldn’t plot his way into his own shoes in the morning,” Stoker said.
“And you detected he is Irish?”
“The accent is unmistakable. Between Dublin and Limerick, I should think.”
“How on earth have you deduced that?” I demanded.
“When Merryweather was born, his wet nurse was from the County Offaly. She used to tell me stories while she fed the little brat,” he said, but there was a fondness, albeit reluctant, when he referred to his youngest brother. “I was quite mesmerized by the size of her bosoms,” he went on.
“Yes, well, if you can possibly tear yourself from a sail down the river of nostalgia, you might realize that an Irish captor raises one most unwelcome possibility as to the author of this little misadventure,” I said.
He sighed again. “Uncle de Clare.”
“Uncle de Clare.”
The last time we had seen Edmund de Clare, he had thrown himself out the window of Stoker’s riverside workroom, his flesh aflame as he plunged into the filthy waters of the Thames. His corpse had not been recovered, but I had been assured that there was nothing terribly unusual in that. The vagaries of the river meant that there was no way of knowing for certain where a body would emerge, if at all. It was so easy to think of Edmund being swept out to sea and the whole wretched ordeal being finished. Too easy, it seemed.
“I thought he was dead,” Stoker said. “When a fellow has the flamboyance to catch on fire and plunge out of a window into a filthy river, he ought to have the courtesy to be dead.”
“You would think,” I replied in a tone of authentic bitterness. “But I always had my doubts. It would be just like him to survive such an escapade only to resurrect himself in order to vex me.”
“Be easy,” Stoker counseled cheerfully. “It may be an entirely different villain. After all,” he added with a jerk of his head towards Eddy, “he has a fair few enemies. This mayn’t have anything to do with you. Or me.”
Before I could reply, the door opened again and a man stood silhouetted in the doorway. I had not met him in two years, but I knew him at once.
“Hello, Uncle,” I said pleasantly. “The last time I saw you, you were on fire. I see you have been extinguished.”
He came forward, into the light, leaning heavily on a walking stick of Malacca. He had been a handsome man—once. He made his way slowly into the room. One leg seemed twisted and he moved it with great effort; one arm was tied up in a silken sling, the hand covered with a glove. The fire had wrought its damage, but those scars were honest, the twisting of flesh by flame. I had met dozens such men upon my travels—former soldiers, fishermen, explorers. Accidents were common in the realm of natural history. Stoker himself bore the relics of a voyage gone disastrously awry. But this was different. This was a man whose very spirit was damaged, and that was nothing to do with the physical ravages of his ordeal.