“Miss Speedwell, how do you do?” he said warmly. There was nothing of recognition in his gaze. He looked at me with the same polite dispassion he had demonstrated in greeting Stoker. I was a guest of his family and nothing more. Whatever accidents and illness had befallen him, they had seemingly robbed him of his memory. I, who had known him so well, was a stranger to him.
“How do you do, Mr. Hathaway?” I replied faintly. He shook my hand, a good, firm shake, and then seated himself at the table, careful to take the furthest, coldest, hardest seat.
“So, I understand you are here to assess the natural history collection?” he asked, turning from me to Stoker. If he had taken offense at his brother’s precipitous action in ridding the Hall of some of its treasures, he did not betray it. His voice held no malice and his expression was one of interest but not antagonism.
Yet Charles Hathaway must have been pricked by guilt, for he hurried to speak, a dull pink tinge rising in his cheeks. “I didn’t like to trouble you. You have been unwell and the arrangements were made quite suddenly.”
Jonathan Hathaway smiled easily. “It is not my affair in any event, Charles,” he said in a mild tone. “The estate and the contents of the Hall are entirely yours.”
“Quite right,” Mary Hathaway put in. “Now, you must tell me what you think of this preparation of oysters, Mr. Templeton-Vane. I have had a dreadful time finding good help, you know. French chefs are not inclined to come and bury themselves in the country, so I must make do with a cook, but I think these oysters rather good.”
Stoker reassured her as to the delicacy of the dish, and—having successfully turned the conversational tide to gentler waters—she carried on, introducing a new topic for each course and ensuring the talk remained general rather than allowing any of us to speak quietly with our dinner companions. Each subject was designed to be a thoughtful prompt to engaging discussion, as formal and predictable as if she had followed an etiquette guide, which upon reflection, I realized she most likely had. With soup we discussed the forthcoming Exposition Universelle in Paris, while the fish overheard us chatting about the Lyric Theatre—opened in London the past December—and the merits of comic opera versus grand opera. The carving of the roast introduced the subject of the United States and its plan to permit a land rush in the Unassigned Lands of the Oklahoma Territory.
“And with four new states this year already!” Mary Hathaway said in a tone heavy with disapproval. “It is unseemly.”
“My dear Mary,” Jonathan said gently, “they are a young nation. They are still finding their way.”
She gave an audible sniff, thereby dismissing all things American, and the conversation turned, with the serving of the salad, to travel at large. Stoker related a few amusing anecdotes of his time in Egypt, and Jonathan, who had participated in the conversation, fell silent, studying his plate with a furrowed brow as he laid his fork aside.
“Jonathan,” his grandmother said, prodding him. “You have remembered something?”
He shook his head slowly. “I cannot say. It was a flash of something, like a magic lantern show. Just an image, and only for a moment. I saw a tall tower, a minaret, I believe it is called, although how I know the word, I could not say. I heard a strange call, unlike an English voice, and there were palm trees in a line next to a broad river of shifting colors. Dark green and brown. And upon the sandbank, a crocodile with a small white bird perched atop its head.”
He had spoken in a low monotone, his eyes fixed upon his plate, but as he came to an end of his recitation, he must have realized we were all attending to him, for he darted a look at his sister-in-law. “Forgive me, Mary. I seem to have got quite carried away. This salad is delicious. What is it dressed with?” he asked with an urgent sincerity. It was a fortuitous question, for Mary had had the receipt from the cook of a viscountess, and she held forth until the sweet course on the proper method.
When we finished the sweet course, the ladies did not withdraw, there being no suitable room to withdraw to, as Mary Hathaway remarked with a tight smile. She was clearly chafing at the limitations of entertaining before her grand renovations were complete, but a few of the menservants appeared to move the table aside and group the chairs near the fire. Mrs. Desmond brought dishes of chocolates and nuts to arrange on small tables with coffee. Mrs. Hathaway dispensed the cups and fell into conversation with her husband and Stoker about the plans for the hygienic cottages to be built upon the moor. Lady Hathaway was dozing gently in her chair, but I felt restless and took a turn about the room. Jonathan Hathaway brought me a cup of coffee, which I detest, but accepted to be polite.
“Miss Speedwell, for you,” he said with a gallant gesture. His gaze dropped quickly to the cup and saucer and then rose again, holding mine for only a few seconds but with such intensity that I could not possibly mistake his intentions.
I thanked him, and he turned away at once to take his own cup from his sister-in-law’s fair hand. I meandered about the Great Hall, moving from one rusted sword to another until I reached the furthest point from those gathered about the fire. With my back to them, I lifted the cup and found a tiny piece of paper, which I transferred instantly to my pocket. I poured the coffee into a handy aspidistra which seemed to be suffering from anemia or melancholy, for it drooped in its pot, its etiolated leaves brushing the floor.
I completed my turn about the room just as Lady Hathaway rose to say good night. Mary excused herself on the grounds that she wanted to look in on the children, and I took the opportunity to escape as well, leaving only the gentlemen to carry on, no doubt with port and cigars now that the ladies were absent.
I had just reached the stairs when Stoker caught up to me. “Well?” he asked, gripping me by the elbow.
“Well?” I blinked at him.
“Veronica,” he said patiently, “you are here to determine if Jonathan Hathaway is an impostor. Well? Is he?”
I shook my head. “I am afraid I cannot tell you.”
“But you knew him—”
“Six years ago,” I reminded him. “He was scarcely more than a boy when I knew him and would be more than thirty now. Men change a good deal. The passage of time and the gaining of experience leave their mark.”
“True,” he said, stroking his chin. He had been clean-shaven that morning, but a shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. “I am a little suspicious of him,” he said, leaning towards me with a conspiratorial air.
My heart drummed a slow, heavy beat in my chest. “Are you indeed?”
He leaned closer still, his eyes bright with strong emotion. “Has it not occurred to you that he may be an altogether unscrupulous person?”
My face was hot, the blood warm in my cheeks. “Of course. Sir Hugo suggested as much. If he can raise the necessary funds, he might be planning to lodge a legal claim against the estate or perhaps he simply means to appeal to the Hathaways’ sense of decency to give him a share—” I began.