Stoker shook his head. “No, nothing so straightforward as that. I mean something altogether more nefarious.”
The drumming in my chest was loud enough I was certain he could hear it.
“Nefarious? In what manner nefarious?”
He shrugged, and his expression, usually open and forthright when we spoke, was decidedly oblique. “He is likeable, immensely so. And yet it is surprising how often such an open and amenable character may conceal something entirely different.”
I swallowed hard, my throat unbearably dry. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Have you never known men who smile and then play the villain? The sort of men who lay claim to what does not belong to them?”
Our eyes locked, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. “Of course,” I said at last. “We both have. Of what criminous activity do you think him capable?”
His expression became, if possible, even more inscrutable. He opened his mouth, then gave a quick shake of the head. And when he did speak, I had the strongest sensation it was not what he intended to say.
“What if he is after my thylacine?”
“Your thylacine?” I asked, rearing back in surprise. He was smiling thinly, and I realized it was meant as a jest. I forced an answering smile to my lips, summoning a bright and bantering tone. “As if anyone would want such a nasty-looking mammal.”
“Not merely a mammal—it is a marsupial, a member of the order of Dasyuromorphia,” he informed me loftily. “And far more interesting than any of your little butterflies. Not even Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing can touch it.”
“Trogonoptera brookiana is one of the greatest marvels of the natural world, worth every crime one might commit to own it.”
He tipped his head, regarding me solemnly. “Not all crimes can be justified, Veronica.”
Before I could respond, he brushed a kiss to my blush-warmed cheek, leaving me to wonder at the oddness of his conversation as I hurried on to my room. Mindful of the time, I carefully worked a goose feather from inside one of the pillows and extracted a small bottle of bath oil from my toilet case. Using the feather, I oiled the squeaky hinges of my door until it opened soundlessly. I did not undress. Instead, I lay, fully clothed, atop the coverlet for a long while, thinking. At last, long past midnight, I heard a door open and close next door—no doubt Effie retiring at last.
Then followed the sounds of her readying herself for bed—various drawers and cupboards opening and closing, and a continuous low monologue directed at the dog Sir Hugo had given her, I surmised, who answered with a few brisk barks, which she corrected. At last I heard the protesting creaks of aging bedsprings as she settled in. I counted to a thousand in Greek, then slipped off my own bed and picked up my cloak—long and full and dark blue—before moving to the door. A small pad of cotton wool fitted into the bolt hole ensured that it closed as quietly as it opened on its newly oiled hinges, and I passed into the corridor, careful to keep to the shadow of my doorway until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. A series of clerestory windows admitted the flat white light of the waxing moon. After several minutes I could make out the shapes of the furniture that lined the hall—a few tables, the odd chair, an aggressively ugly statue. I used them as landmarks as I made my way to the staircase. The house made few sounds as I descended to the main floor. There was the dull chime of a clock striking the quarter hour, the groan of wooden beams felled centuries before settling into old age like elderly bones. I remembered what Effie had said about grey ladies and black dogs and cast more than one look over my shoulder as I moved through the house.
But the only ghosts that walked with me were my own. The door from the Hall into the side garden had been left unlocked, and I passed through, my feet making no sound upon the flagstone terrace. The heavy dew from the grass soaked through my slippers as I crossed to the summerhouse, my cloak pulled tight around me. There was no light inside, but I knew he was there.
I slipped inside and closed the door carefully behind me. It was dark as a tomb inside the summerhouse, yet I could smell hot metal and knew he had brought a lantern. He eased open one of the shutters and a small bar of light fell over my face, dazzling my eyes. He put the lantern on the floor and stepped forwards, smiling.
“Hello, wife.”
CHAPTER
11
Harry Spenlove,” I said stiffly. I brandished the scrap of paper he had slipped between my cup and saucer. “I got your note.” The scrap of paper held a single word, dashed off in pencil. Summerhouse. No time had been indicated, but I had guessed he would want to meet as soon as possible.
He tipped his head, his expression almost apologetic as he smiled at me. “I do hope my presence here is not distressing to you. For my part, I cannot tell you how good it is to see you.”
He put out a hand as if to touch me, but paused at the last moment. “I could scarcely believe it when I walked into the Great Hall and saw you standing there. It seemed a dream.”
“It was rather unexpected on my part as well,” I said tartly. “You are supposed to be dead. Jonathan Hathaway is supposed to be dead.”
“Jonathan is dead.” His lips pursed. “Poor fellow. I quite liked him, you know. He was a good friend.”
“But you buried him under your name? I have had a few hours to work it all out,” I said. “Somewhere on your travels, after you abandoned me, Jonathan died and you took the opportunity to begin anew under his name.”
“Well, I had creditors,” he began.
“You had a wife,” I spat. “Or did it strike you as a trifling matter to leave me behind with everything else you had grown tired of?”
“Tired of you! Never,” he said fervently. “But, Veronica, things were insupportable. You even said as much when I bade you farewell. If I hadn’t died, you were going to leave me in any event.”
“But you did not die,” I pointed out acidly. “You survived and did not see fit to tell me. Did it never occur to you that I might want to know?”
“Yes,” he said, so simply and with such conviction that I felt the wind ebb a little from my sails. He stepped closer. “I know you think poorly of me, but you must believe me—I never thought you would be in danger. Like everyone else, I thought that volcano was just kicking up a bit. I thought Jonathan and I would have a chance to go to Java and perhaps make a bit of money. I intended to send some to you,” he added. “I know it was a villainous thing to leave you without warning, but I couldn’t bear another argument, another moment of you looking at me—well, exactly the way you are looking at me now. So when Jonathan suggested we take a little trip to Java, it seemed like the best possible thing for both of us. But poor Jonathan contracted a fever on the ship. He was half-dead by the time we docked, and he went straight into hospital. That was a very dark time, the hours I spent at his bedside. I thought of all our grand adventures, suddenly at an end. He was the best friend I ever had, you know.” He paused and wiped at his eyes. “I sat with him while he died. He was delirious with pain and fever, and he kept calling for this place, for his grandmother. And then he just . . . slipped away. I spent my last coin on a bottle of the best champagne I could find to share with him. A toast to the afterlife,” he said ruefully. “I was rather the worse for wear when he finally died. The nursing sister who had been attending him had just left, you see. The new one brought a ledger, some ghastly bureaucratic necessity. But she was young and inexperienced and my Dutch was as bad as her English. She was confused, you see, as to which of us had died. I opened my mouth to correct her, but then I thought suddenly about the creditors still hounding me. I thought about the papers Jonathan had given me as he lay dying—his passport and signet ring and a packet of letters from home. All things that could establish my credentials. And the description in the passport applied equally well to both of us. Brown hair and eyes. Medium build. I was a little slighter, but with his clothes hanging a trifle loose, it was easy to convince people I had just recovered from a fever. I was a trifle shorter, but not enough to matter so long as I stood up straight. So, I wrote out the forms in the name of Henry Spenlove, and Jonathan was buried under my name.”