“Calm yourself, man,” Stoker directed. “Whatever is wrong with the quagga, I will put right, you have my word upon it.” His mood was softening at Pennybaker’s obvious anguish, but he would not be deterred. The integrity of his work had been called into question, and that was a situation not to be borne.
“Best to let him get on with it, Mr. Pennybaker,” I soothed as we came to the gallery.
He attempted once to bodily position himself between Stoker and the door, but Stoker picked him up gently by the shoulders and set him aside. He opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks as Pennybaker gave a low moan of protest.
“What is it?” I demanded, wondering what sort of damage the quagga could possibly have sustained, when I saw them.
Archibond stood in front of the painted ass.
“I am sorry,” murmured Mr. Pennybaker. “I did try to warn you.”
“What the devil—” Stoker stared at Archibond in frank astonishment.
I gave our erstwhile abductor a look of frankest loathing. “Mr. Pennybaker, I can only presume that this man prevailed upon you to send that note through some threat of bodily injury?”
“Worse,” the kindly fellow said miserably, “he threatened to burn the quagga.”
He gestured towards the painted ass, which stood in splendid and perfect condition.
“I knew there was nothing wrong with my mount,” Stoker said in satisfaction.
“I thought you would never come,” said Archibond pleasantly as he leveled his revolver.
It took a moment for Mr. Pennybaker to understand the implications. “Is that a revolver?”
“It is,” I told him.
“Why is that chap pointing it at us?”
“Because he wants us to do exactly as he says, which is rather a good idea,” Stoker told him.
I gave Archibond my most severe look. “Do stop waving that around,” I ordered. “You will frighten poor Mr. Pennybaker.”
“On the contrary, it was the waiting that proved distressing. Now that things are happening, I find it rather thrilling,” said the gentleman in question, blinking rapidly.
Archibond’s smile was thin. “Thank you for your prompt arrival. I have trespassed upon our host’s hospitality for a far shorter time than I would have expected.”
The curtains had not been drawn and the bushes outside the window rustled. It would have been a cozy room with the draperies closed and the fire burning merrily, but under the present circumstances it seemed unwelcoming. Trophies stood in every corner, their eyes glowing in the shadows, giving the atmosphere an otherworldly air. A superstitious soul might have felt we were being watched.
But such fancies were of little practical use, and I realized the longer we could keep Archibond talking, the greater the chance one of us could disarm him. Of course, it also increased the risk that dear Mr. Pennybaker might be injured. We must tread with exquisite care, I decided.
“You anticipated that Stoker would respond to any suggestion of his work being inferior,” I said, drawing Archibond’s attention.
“Naturally. Of course, it would have been easier to take the pair of you from Bishop’s Folly, but abducting you from under the nose of Lady Wellie’s hired surveillance is no easy matter. It seemed far simpler to lure you here and finish the business well out from under prying eyes,” he explained.
“But how did you even know about Mr. Pennybaker?” Stoker asked, shifting almost imperceptibly to the side, widening the possible arc of fire should Archibond attempt to shoot one or all of us.
Archibond’s smile was thin and humorless. “A few careful inquiries in the right quarters about your latest commissions were an easy matter.”
“Where is my uncle? And those ruffians he employs?” I inched away from Stoker, broadening the arc further still.
“Gone,” was the tight reply. “Fled, either back to Ireland or some other benighted place. You will appreciate it is rather difficult to trace him without the resources usually at my disposal.”
“Leaving the responsibility of the crimes you committed together to fall squarely on your shoulders,” Stoker pointed out. “You would have done better to have run with him.”
A muscle in Archibond’s jaw twitched. “There is no proof of any crime,” he said evenly. “There is no body.”
“Body?” came Pennybaker’s squeak of a reply.
“Never mind,” I consoled him. “And the inspector is quite wrong. There is a body and therefore evidence of a crime, but he has misplaced it.”
“I did not misplace it,” Archibond said sternly. “It was stolen.”
“From under your nose,” I pointed out. “Careless of you.”
He swung the gun towards me. “Enough, Miss Speedwell. Your commentary is not required.”
“But it was careless,” Stoker said, drawing Archibond’s attention back to himself. “I mean, you went to all the trouble to have Madame Aurore murdered and yet you failed to keep account of what became of her. I call that careless.”
Archibond steadied his weapon. “I think we are quite finished here,” he said in a tone of forbidding finality.
I took a deliberate step in front of Stoker. “Do not even think of shooting him.”
I felt the warmth of Stoker at my back, his calm presence so relaxed as to be almost unnerving in such a heightened atmosphere. Really, did nothing disturb his sangfroid?
Archibond gave me a frankly incredulous look. “I have a revolver, Miss Speedwell. I rather think that puts me in charge of what happens here.”
“Do you indeed?” came a voice from the long casement windows, the accent a familiar Irish burr. My uncle shoved the casement fully open, careful to let his henchman precede him into the room, weapon at the ready. He came to stand, braced by his walking stick, glowering at Archibond. “Do you think you are the man pulling the strings, my good lad?”
Archibond sighed. “I thought you were gone, de Clare.”
“Not without seeing this business through to the end,” my uncle told him, glowering.
“In that case, go back to the warehouse and wait for me,” Archibond directed.
“Oh, you’d like that, I suppose, with the police sniffing around, ready to arrest whoever sets foot on that property,” de Clare snarled.
Archibond pricked like a pointer. “What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean, the police have been there. You think I don’t know a fellow in plainclothes even when he has the stink of Scotland Yard about him? I know what I saw. And I had one of my lads keeping watch on you. As soon as he told me you were bound for Hampstead Heath, I knew what you were about. You meant to get your hands on these two and cut me right out of the plot,” he accused.