“I never joke about Tasmanian tigers. Now, go and wash your hands because I’ll not have my specimen befouled, and we will eat violet creams and admire the fellow.”
Lady Rose hurried off and I stared at him in amazement. “How do you do it? She is an unrepentant monster, and yet with you she is a model of obedience and good humor.”
He cocked his head to one side. “She puts me greatly in mind of what you must have been like as a child.”
“Heaven forbid!” I cried.
Stoker merely grinned as he turned away to supervise the unloading of his thylacine. As promised, he gave Lady Rose a lengthy examination of the beast, drawing her attention to its enormous jaw capacity and distinctive ears. Having heard entirely enough of the delights of this particular mammal, I retired to my folly to wash off the grime of travel. I ought to have unpacked, but I could not face the remnants of my ruined net just yet. I left my carpetbag and the box containing the orrery and returned to the Belvedere to enjoy my tea whilst I opened the mountain of correspondence that had arrived in our absence.
Once word had got out about his lordship’s intention to open a museum, Stoker and I had become the target for every collector in the kingdom—and further afield. We regularly received letters from as far away as the Americas, describing decrepit collections and offering items for sale. Many of these the earl dealt with himself, being as acquisitive as his ancestors when it came to unearthing treasures. But dozens of missives were dropped on my desk each week—often with an accompanying enticement in the form of a sample of the collection—and it was my thankless task to sift through them, penning gentle letters of refusal to the least promising whilst scrutinizing the others for any possible delights Lord Rosemorran might have overlooked. He could be entirely single-minded in his pursuit of statuary and most neglectful of the other arts. He had been known to refuse a first-rate Gainsborough if it meant securing a third-rate Bernini model instead.
I was pleased to find this lot contained, amidst the flotsam and jetsam, a fine group of Roman coins from a parson in Northumbria, an enormous fossil from a lady fossil collector in Dorset, and a luscious set of cameos commissioned by a Pamphilj pope. The latter were of particular interest to me, arriving as they did in a scarlet leather box stamped with the papal tiara in faded gilt along with the Pamphilj arms. The accompanying note—from the owner, a papal marquise from Gubbio—explained that the cameos had been a gift from Innocent X to his sister-in-law, Olimpia Maidalchini. The formidable Signora Maidalchini had been the power behind the papal throne during the pontificate, and the pope had showered her with honors including making her Princess of San Martino. The cameos were a set of twelve, carved from the lava of Vesuvius and polished to a high sheen, each representing one of the Muses complete with the corresponding nymph’s emblem. From Euterpe’s flutes to Melpomene’s mask of tragedy, each was beautifully rendered in perfect detail. The cameos had been fitted into settings of fine, granular gold dotted with pearls, a lovely gift for the woman suspected of being the pope’s mistress.
I set them at the corner of my desk and listened with half an ear to Lady Rose’s questions—most of them surprisingly intelligent, I was forced to admit—as I sorted letters and plucked the occasional beetle out of my tea. At length, George the hallboy came to fetch Lady Rose, as she was very late for teatime, the one hour each day his lordship insisted upon spending with all of his offspring. She left, smudged with chocolate and bits of fur and beaming. Stoker was likewise in excellent spirits and helped himself to a large handful of sandwiches whilst I gestured to the teapot.
“It will want hotting up,” I advised him. “It has gone quite tepid during the course of your lecture.”
“I was not lecturing,” he said, pouring himself a cup of the lukewarm beverage. “I was merely pointing out to Lady Rose—”
At that point I stopped listening, knowing Stoker was thoroughly capable of repeating his remarks of the last two hours verbatim.
“Oh God, not the bloody Tasmanian tiger again,” came a muffled voice.
Stoker and I exchanged startled glances. The voice seemed to be coming from the sarcophagus we used as a buffet. It was of mediocre Greco-Roman design, the mummy long since lost. It could hold an admirable selection of hot dishes as well as stacks of periodicals. But I noticed that it had been swept clean, the usual piles of papers moved to the floor. Furthermore, the assortment of prosthetic limbs—historical examples of wax, wood, and even clockwork metal—that usually resided within had been stacked beneath the trestles upon which it rested.
“Stoker,” I said slowly, “I believe we have an intruder.”
“What sort of intruder would conceal himself inside a mummy case for the better part of two hours only to announce his presence?” Stoker asked.
“The sort who did not realize how blasted heavy the lid is and is now trapped,” the voice replied.
Stoker bolted to his feet to render aid. The sarcophagus, meant to hold the dead with a minimal amount of decay, would have been sealed when first used in order to protect the mummy from the effects of light and air. Ours, fortunately, had been lightly damaged. The toes had been sawed off at some point, no doubt for ease of packing the unwieldy thing, but this had the benefit of permitting a bit of air to circulate within, although I imagined it would have grown unbearably stuffy after a while.
Of course, had I realized who was inside, I might have been inclined to leave him there, but Stoker was already engaged in an heroic rescue. He snatched up a pry bar and wedged the narrow end beneath the lid. One great shove and it slid open enough to reveal the last face I wanted to see ever again.
“Jonathan Hathaway, what in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ are you doing in there?”
CHAPTER
20
The fellow in question blinked at the sudden light. “I say, would you mind terribly helping me out before we begin the inquisition? And might I trouble you for a bit of food? I’ve had nothing all day and I am famished.” He said this with the winsome air of a stray pup begging for scraps, and Stoker was instantly moved to oblige.
Within a very few minutes, our visitor was ensconced upstairs in the little bolt-hole we fondly referred to as the snuggery. He looked thoroughly disreputable, unshaven and dressed in evening clothes that were creased beyond redemption, a deep violet bruise darkening one eye. But he appeared entirely at ease, seemingly viewing the entire experience as some sort of grand adventure. He draped himself on Napoléon’s campaign bed, and the dogs had come to investigate him, smelling as he did of the ancient and interesting confines of the sarcophagus. He tolerated their snufflings and licks with good humor until Huxley, the undisputed chieftain of this particular clan, turned away and settled at Stoker’s feet, clearly content to let the intruder remain. Having witnessed this imprimatur, the other dogs relaxed. Betony, the Caucasian sheepdog, took up a post near the stairs, whilst Vespertine sat at my feet, her heavy head resting upon my knee. Nut, the Egyptian hound, settled herself daintily next to our visitor, now and again looking up at him in adoration as he fed her scraps of ham. I had always maintained that Nut was a dreadful judge of character, and her instant affection for our guest confirmed it. He eased into a comfortable position, one hand wrapped around a fresh cup of gently steaming tea, the other holding a half-eaten sandwich. It was his fourth. He no sooner finished one than he began the next, giving a gentle moan of satisfaction as he helped himself to Cook’s best efforts.