“What did you think of?”
I closed my eyes. “Sheep shearing.”
“Lanolin?” he suggested.
I shook my head again, eyes still closed. “Not that. The tufts of wool that lie in little drifts when one is shearing sheep. And dressing-up boxes.”
I opened my eyes to find Stoker grinning at me and I groaned. “The odor was spirit gum. He was wearing a false beard and eyebrows.”
“And the bushy whiteness of it made you think of sheep being sheared.”
“And the spirit gum put me in mind of dressing-up boxes because one is always sticking on beards or moustaches,” I finished. “Extraordinary. However did you work that out?”
“When I was learning Latin, I had the devil’s own time memorizing declensions,” he told me. “I used to read aloud as I walked, and I was always more interested in the birds and plants than the words. I discovered if I recalled what I had been looking at or smelling at the time, I could often remember what I had read.”
“How very curious. You ought to write a paper,” I suggested.
He shuddered visibly. “You know my opinions on the social sciences. And, in case it has escaped your attention, we have the problem of a corpse to dispose of.”
“But why bring her here?” I asked.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “She was delivered here before we escaped. Matters would have been going according to plan for your uncle and Archibond at that point. With Archibond in Special Branch, it would have been an easy enough matter for him to arrange for the body to be discovered here. But it makes no sense.”
“Because they would have had no reason then to discredit us,” I said, picking up the thread of his thoughts. “She needed to be discovered at the club in order to implicate Eddy in her murder. Archibond indicated as much. And if Eddy were thought to have murdered a courtesan so near to Whitechapel, it would be a very short leap to laying suspicion of the Ripper’s crimes at his door. Imagine the furor! There is not a newspaper in the Empire or abroad that would not shriek the scandal from the headlines. Even if he were proven innocent, he would never escape the stain of it. I am persuaded Madame Aurore was brought into the plot as a means of luring Eddy into indiscretion, and at some point, Archibond or Uncle de Clare decided it was not enough for her to play the role of courtesan, she must play the role of victim as well.”
Stoker broke in. “So, she was murdered by Quiet Dan and left for Eddy to find at the appointed hour. Remember, they were in the mews stairs, ready to burst in and discover him standing over her bloodied body.”
“But we fled and they lost time in chasing us down, just enough time for someone else to nip in and retrieve her body,” I reasoned.
“Someone who had been watching her closely and was on hand, ready to act swiftly and decisively to foil as much of the plot as possible,” Stoker added. “They not only chased us down but abducted us from the pavement outside the club and had to take us to the warehouse in Whitechapel. No doubt it was some time before they could return to the club and then discover their corpse had disappeared.”
“What a nasty shock for them,” I mused. “To have set up such an elaborate scene only to have it ruined, first by our running away and then by someone else whisking her body away.”
“But why bring it here?” Stoker demanded. “And furthermore, who outside of the original plot even knew we were there?”
There was the sensation of whirling, as if I were dancing, and I remembered the strong grasp of the female porter who had partnered me. Good night, Veronica Speedwell.
“There was someone,” I said slowly. “The female porter who admitted us.”
Stoker shook his head. “We gave no names, there was no list.”
“But she knew me,” I told him. “Later that evening we danced.”
One brow quirked upwards. “You danced?”
“Waltzed, actually. She is quite a good partner, a little lighter in the turns than you are,” I explained. “And when the dance was finished, she said, ‘Good night, Veronica Speedwell.’”
“And you are only just now telling me this?” he asked in a voice that was murderously calm.
“I have been a little busy since,” I returned coldly. “You will forgive me if an abduction rather pushed such a trifling incident out of my mind.”
“It is hardly a trifling incident, Veronica,” he replied. “Our identities were known by at least two porters at that club, one who danced with you and one who hauled Aurore’s corpse into our home. I do not much care for the possibilities.”
“I understand,” I said, humbling myself a little. “But perhaps the possibilities are not as bad as you fear. As you say, if we were meant to be implicated in Aurore’s murder, someone need only send an anonymous note to Scotland Yard and her body would be discovered in our possession. But that has not happened. I think someone brought her here for safekeeping.”
“Have you quite taken leave of your senses?”
“I have not. It is perfectly logical, if you would only stop to consider it. The porters knew some of what was transpiring at the club. Perhaps Madame Aurore took them into her confidence. Perhaps they eavesdropped for pleasure or money. In any event, they knew who we were, and when they discovered their mistress’s dead body, they brought her here, entrusting her, as it were.”
“That is the most far-fetched, fantastical—”
“Have you a better theory?” I challenged.
He fell silent, gnawing on his lower lip. “I have not,” he said finally. “It is logical.”
“Thank you.”
“I still do not like it,” he growled. “It puts us in the path of danger.”
“In the path of danger?” I was frankly incredulous. “My dear Stoker, in the past two days, we have been abducted, held against our will, chased, shot at, and—in your case—thoroughly beaten. We have not been so much in the path of danger as standing in the middle of it, surrounded on all sides.”
“Hence my irritation,” he finished glumly.
“That and a lack of sustenance,” I told him in a firm tone. “We have missed luncheon, but I will order a full tea and then you will rest. It will be some time before you recover your strength.”
It was a mark of his fatigue that he argued with me for only a quarter of an hour before giving in. “What about Sir Hugo?” he asked as he finished off the last of the scones some time later, licking cream and jam from his fingers in contentment.
“I will send a note requesting an audience as soon as he can spare us the time,” I promised. “I think it best if we speak in person. If nothing else, he will be pleased enough to see the bruises on your face and might take pity on us.”