“Then perhaps we ought to show him my ribs,” he said sleepily. He gave a great cracking yawn and settled into the sofa. A moth-eaten old coverlet lay along the back and I drew it over him, tucking it neatly under him. I usually resisted all impulses to nurture—it is never a good idea to let people get accustomed to one’s servitude—but Stoker had earned a little kindness, I reflected.
And whilst he slept, I penned a brief note to Sir Hugo, stating only that we requested an audience at his convenience and dispatching it with a coin for George. Afterwards, I settled to labeling a case of Papilio buddha—Malabar Banded Peacock butterflies—whose notes had gone astray. I had just removed a sweet little imposter nestling amongst them (Common Bluebottles, Graphium sarpedon, are often mistaken for the more elusive Banded Peacocks) when Stoker appeared, looking a little better for his rest.
“Has the post come?” he demanded, helping himself to a cup of tea from the stone-cold pot.
“A telegram from Rupert in elaborate code,” I told him. “The parcel has been safely delivered to Scotland with no troubles. That is an end to that,” I said, clearing my throat. It had been a hectic twenty-four hours in Eddy’s company, and I was glad he had been speedily returned to the bosom of his family. Apparently his sister’s prevarications had roused no suspicions, and he was happily ensconced once more at our grandmother’s castle, no doubt spending his days tramping upon moors spread with heather and harebells, returning late to a cozy tea by the fire, butter dripping from toasted crumpets as they shared inside jokes and titbits of gossip about other members of the family.
“Veronica?” Stoker said softly.
I roused myself and waved a hand to the rest of the post, returning to position my little Bluebottle in a more appropriate collection. Stoker flicked through the pile of letters and circulars that had accumulated during our absence, throwing most of them onto the floor with his customary nonchalance. He plucked one letter from the pile, tearing open the envelope and skimming the contents in a fury.
“Bloody bollocking hell,” he muttered.
“Trouble?”
“It’s Pennybaker,” he fumed. “He claims there is a problem with the quagga. My quagga.”
“What sort of problem?” I asked, attempting to sound interested. Frankly, I was far more excited by the discovery of a dysmorphic specimen in the collection of Banded Peacocks. To encounter one with male and female characteristics in such good condition was a rare find indeed, and I envied the collector who had netted it.
“He says the glue has proven inadequate,” he said, jaw clenching furiously.
“It is possible to have a bad batch of glue,” I pointed out. My calmness only incited his fury further.
“I make each batch of glue myself,” he reminded me. “You know that. My formula is precise, my methods exacting. I have never, never returned a specimen to a collector in imperfect condition. He is threatening legal action.”
“Legal action!” I turned at last from my butterflies. “That sweet little man? Feathers. He drank champagne from my slipper. I don’t believe it for a moment.”
“Well, he is,” Stoker insisted, waving the letter like a flag. “And I will not stand for it. Are you coming with me?”
“Coming? You mean to visit him?”
“He invites me. Says that we can settle this like gentlemen because he is not unreasonable and expects that with a few modest repairs we can put this behind us. Modest repairs,” he repeated, muttering a few other choice phrases that have no place in a polite memoir.
I sighed and put away my collection of Banded Peacocks. Stoker was in no fit state to traipse about the city, particularly not in a mood of effervescent rage. I reached for my hat and pinned it securely to my head.
“Very well, I will come. It has turned chill again, but we can hail a hackney at the corner,” I said.
“We are taking one of his lordship’s carts,” he said, raking his hands through his tumbled hair. “If Pennybaker does not appreciate my work, I will take the quagga back.”
“I will not be accomplice to stealing an ass,” I warned him.
“Never say ‘never,’ Veronica.”
CHAPTER
23
It took us the better part of an hour to reach the Pennybaker home, and I resigned myself to the possibility of participating in a felonious theft as Stoker’s accomplice. It would, if I am honest, not be the worst thing I had done. Stoker sat in a tense and silent fury—nothing kindled his ire so much as a perceived insult to his work—and so I set myself instead to reciting the butterfly genus Papilio in order of discovery.
As we drove, a storm began to brew, blotting out the lovely autumnal sunlight, dimming its gold to pewter. A brisk breeze whipped up across the heath, bending the late grasses and causing the cow parsnip seed heads to nod heavily as the last of the hawthorn fruits shimmered like jewels against their leafy cloaks of dark green.
I had just reached Papilio laglaizei—a relatively new specimen, identified in only 1877—when at last we came to the address. The driver gave a light tug to the reins and the horse eased to a crawl. Stoker and I alighted before it even stopped, vaulting through the narrow gate and through the overgrown shrubbery. I opened my mouth to suggest a measured and conciliatory approach, but Stoker was already lifting the great brass door knocker, rapping sharply.
“Mr. Pennybaker!” he called, pressing his ear to the stout door. “Mr. Pennybaker, are you there?”
The door swung open on its ancient hinges and the quizzical face of Mr. Pennybaker peered out through his round lenses.
“Is that you, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” I was not surprised to see his expression was one of acute distress. The little man was obviously attached to his trophies, and to have a failure in the mounting of the quagga so soon after its delivery was an aggrieving development.
“It is,” Stoker said in a tone of arctic hauteur. “I received your note and have come as requested to investigate the quagga.”
“That is not necessary,” Mr. Pennybaker said with unexpected firmness. “In fact, I would like you to leave at once. I have decided I want nothing whatsoever to do with such shoddy work. You are a charlatan, sir,” he said, his brows trembling with emotion as he gave us an imploring look.
Stoker drew himself up, towering over the little fellow as he moved past. “I will accept no criticism of my work until I can inspect it for myself,” he replied over his shoulder. “I am entirely certain there is no fault in the glue . . .” He continued on in this vein as Mr. Pennybaker tottered in his wake towards the gallery.
“Sir,” Pennybaker said, tugging at his coat, “I really must insist—”