It was an indication of how badly he was injured that he did not argue. I removed my jacket and folded it neatly, taking a few moments before I had to tackle the distasteful task.
“You can put it off as long as you like, but you will still have to do it,” he said.
“Don’t be brutal.” I fitted the narrow end of the bar into the crack between the lid and the coffin and pushed, wedging the two pieces apart. Immediately, a cloud of foul air rolled out, causing me to drop the bar. Nut gave a great whine and ducked her tail between her legs. Huxley and Bet were hiding behind a caryatid, far too wise to investigate. They had learnt that lesson when a set of Wardian cases holding badly preserved amphibian specimens had leaked formalin onto them both and they were forcibly bathed to remove chemicals and bits of frog.
“Cowards,” Stoker said. They stayed where they were and I fitted the bar into place once more. I pushed twice and made no headway.
“For the love of God’s grace, put your back into it,” Stoker ordered.
I did so, giving one great shove, and the lid moved, sliding halfway off, exposing the interior of the sarcophagus. For a moment, we went no further. Neither of us was really keen to look inside. But of course, we did not have to. We already knew.
Inside the sarcophagus lay the body of Madame Aurore.
CHAPTER
21
Bloody bollocking hell,” Stoker said softly. Nut rose on her hind legs, peering into the sarcophagus. “For God’s sake, get down, you hellhound.”
I gave him a level look. “A little something to drink, I believe.”
“This is hardly the time for a tea party,” he remonstrated.
I reached under my skirt for the flask of aguardiente I habitually strapped there. “I should have thought you would know better by now,” I said. I took a hearty draft and passed it to him. When he had drunk, I capped the flask and replaced it, the little gestures bringing a sense of normality to a situation that was most provoking.
“Do you suppose that”—I gestured towards what was left of Madame Aurore—“has been placed here as a warning?”
He shrugged. “Possibly. Or it is a plot to incriminate us. Should the authorities be alerted, we are in possession of the body of a murder victim.” He studied the body, and I steeled myself to do the same, refusing to look away, as I considered it my duty to be fully informed. I noted at once a change in the corpse from how we had originally found her.
“They have made an attempt to cover the wound,” I remarked, pointing to where a narrow piece of linen had been wound about her throat, almost but not quite concealing the gaping slash. It was crusted with blood, although some effort had clearly been made to tidy her. Her face had been wiped, but streaks of scarlet still stained her skin, and her dress had not been changed although the stars had been ripped from the fabric, leaving wounds in the silk.
“This was all done in haste,” Stoker observed. “She has not been properly prepared—hence the odor. And she has not even been thoroughly washed. Disgraceful.”
In spite of his work with dead creatures—or perhaps because of it—Stoker was always keen to find dignity in death. Hence his distaste for Mr. Pennybaker’s collection of coronation kittens.
I peered into the sarcophagus and gave a gusty sigh. “At least whoever brought her to us was kind enough to bring the Templeton-Vane tiara,” I said, pointing to where it lay. “I can return it to Tiberius.”
“You will want to clean it first,” Stoker said mildly. “That blood won’t come off easily.”
“Well, one more thing to explain to Sir Hugo,” I said in resignation. I moved towards the caryatid where my hat hung, but Stoker grasped my hand.
“Not just yet, I beg you.”
“You want to delay telling Sir Hugo that we have a murder victim lying around? What if the children find her? Or worse, the dogs?”
“The dogs want nothing to do with her, and I am not suggesting we keep her indefinitely,” he protested. “But Sir Hugo is going to be extremely tiresome about this, I have no doubt. And if we could provide him with at least a little information to exculpate ourselves, it might go a great deal better for us.”
I pondered that and could not fault his logic. We had occasionally been on the receiving end of Sir Hugo’s temper, and it was not an experience I cared to repeat if I could possibly avoid it. If nothing else, it might spare Stoker the indignity of another comprehensive search of his person and lengthy questioning, as well as eloquent lectures on our ethics, intelligence, and priorities. Sir Hugo would be enraged enough to discover that we had spent twenty-four hours in captivity with the prince without rushing to inform him of the matter. I consoled myself with the thought that the prince’s security had been of paramount importance and that the Ripper investigation would take precedence over a pair of miscreants and their thugs who had no doubt fled the moment we eluded them. Sir Hugo would be empurpled with emotion, and I was content to put off such a confrontation for as long as possible.
I turned again to the corpse and pulled a face. “I wonder how they were able to bring her here,” I ventured. I explained about Lady Wellie’s guards, watching as Stoker’s face turned increasingly interesting shades of puce. “You knew!” I accused.
“Not until recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “I became suspicious when I asked one of the undergardeners for a bit of milkweed for some butterfly larvae and he brought me verbena. I started paying closer attention and I identified four men who had not been very long in his lordship’s employ and whose tasks were quite often carried out by others. I asked a few discreet questions and finally, one night when Lady Wellie and I were rather deep in our cups, she admitted it. She has been concerned for your safety, and with good reason,” he added.
“Her guards have not been terribly effective,” I argued. “We have had all manner of strange callers, one or two bent upon mischief.”
He shrugged. “It is an imperfect system. She did not want you to know, so she has ordered them to be unobtrusive above all. Your comings and goings are far too varied for any discreet efforts to be completely effective.”
He had a point. I nodded towards the corpse. “It still does not answer how this was brought in without attracting attention.”
He thought, running a hand over his whisker-roughened chin. After a moment, he pressed a bell, summoning the boot boy, George. Once a winsome little fellow, George had shot up to a gangling height whilst I was in Madeira. An Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his voice frequently broke in the middle of a syllable.
“New story about the Ripper, miss,” he said, brandishing the latest edition of the Daily Harbinger. I looked at the lurid picture on the front page and shuddered, imagining what they would say if His Royal Highness were implicated.