Pandemonium erupted. In response to my whistle, the dogs hurtled down the stairs in a thunder of snarls and barks. The intruder gave a small scream and attempted to flee, but I had placed myself between him and the door, stepping out from behind the packing crate, putting my body directly in his path. We collided with extraordinary force, knocking me to the floor and sending the box flying. The intruder must have fallen as well, heavily from the sound of it. But he was quicker than I, for almost immediately I heard him recover his feet and rush to the door. I thrust myself to my feet to follow, but instantly I was surrounded by dogs and knocked to my knees again. Vespertine was the worst offender, bowling me over and sitting upon my stomach to reassure herself that I was quite all right. She remained there, an immovable force, giant paws resting on either side of my head as she licked my face.
“Get off, you daft monster,” I ordered as I attempted to shift her. She moved only slightly, just enough to crush me a little more. The other dogs circled around, setting up a howl until Stoker and Harry appeared, rubbing their eyes.
“What the devil—” Stoker began.
“Intruder,” I gasped. I made a flailing gesture towards the door, but Stoker was already in pursuit. Huxley, the bulldog, alone of all our pets, had given chase, and I was glad at least one of the beasts could be relied upon. Harry stayed behind to pry a reluctant Vespertine off me. I rolled over and whooped air into my lungs until I could breathe freely again, whilst Harry lit a few lamps and tried to settle the rest of the dogs.
I was just patting Vespertine—one cannot hold a grudge against dogs, after all—when Stoker returned. He had followed the intruder as he had risen from his bed, shirtless and bare of foot, and he bore the traces of the pursuit when he came back.
“He went through the pond and out through the back hedge,” I surmised.
Stoker nodded.
Harry gazed at Stoker in perplexity, then turned to me. “How do you know that?”
I gestured. “The only part of the property with thorns, mud, and moss is the hedge on the other side of the pond. You will observe the scratches on his torso—just the right height for a hedge. His feet are stained with mud and moss, and there is a lily pad lodged in his trousers.”
Stoker plucked bits of filth off himself as he spoke. “He is a fast runner, our visitor. I think the sound of the dogs spooked him, for he made straight for the water, no doubt hoping it would wash away his scent. In any event, he blundered out the other side and crashed through the hedge before climbing the wall.”
“And you couldn’t catch him up?” Harry asked.
Stoker’s nostrils flared in irritation. “I had an encounter with a tortoise that impeded my progress.”
I pointed to the torn knees of his trousers. “Patricia,” I informed Harry. “His lordship’s Galápagos tortoise. A venerable old thing, but a hazard sometimes. She is very keen on shrubbery and must have been taking a rest under the hedge.”
Harry shook his head. “This is the most astonishing and maddening place I think I have ever been.”
“And you have only been here a day,” I reminded him. I paused, remembering the crash I had heard when the intruder and I collided. The wooden box must have gone flying, for I found it on the other side of the packing crate where I had concealed myself. It had been smashed to bits. I was surveying it mournfully when Stoker and Harry joined me.
“What happened?” Harry inquired, leaning over the wreckage.
“He was attempting to steal this,” I said, moving one of the shattered boards aside.
“The Hathaway orrery?” Stoker asked.
I nodded as I examined the pile of splinters. “A pity. It is quite wrecked,” I began. But as I sifted through the broken bits of metal and wood, I saw something glint with unmistakable fire.
“Why on earth would a housebreaker come after an orrery?” Harry demanded. “What was so special about it?”
“This,” I said, simply. I stood up and opened my hand. On my palm, sparking and shimmering, lay the Eye of the Dawn.
“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed.
“Indeed.”
CHAPTER
22
Harry put out a hand to take it and Stoker intervened, neatly plucking it out of reach. “I think I will take custody of that,” Stoker said in a tone that dared him to oppose.
Harry’s smile was ingratiating. “Of course.”
“I presume these were your associates bent upon the diamond’s recovery,” Stoker said to him.
Harry shrugged. “If it was a giant Nordic fellow, then I suppose so, but how they found me or knew the diamond was in the orrery is unfathomable.”
“You might have told them,” Stoker pointed out.
Harry sighed. “But I didn’t know. I will be perfectly honest with you: had I known, I wouldn’t be here now. I would have taken the bloody thing, given it to Isabel, and got on with my life. That diamond is the price on my head, if you will remember.”
I looked at Stoker. “As much as I hate to agree with Harry, it does make precious little sense for him to have arranged a confederate to break in and steal the diamond if he knew where it was. It would be a simple enough matter for him to take it himself.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, attempting to look appreciative.
“Do not place your gratitude in me; it is misguided,” I informed him. “I grant you common sense but nothing more. Besides, the intruder was not your Nordic fellow. Does this Isabel creature have no other associates?”
“None that I know,” Harry said.
“She might have hired one,” Stoker pointed out.
“And thereby risk being double-crossed again when Harry has already cost her a fortune? I do not think so,” I said slowly. “I understand the female mind better than either of you. I suspect her methods will be completely personal, just herself and her most trusted companion—this pet Swede of hers.”
“Göran,” Harry reminded me darkly. “His name is Göran.”
“As it ought to be,” Stoker replied. “A good Scandinavian name.”
“I have always preferred Odin,” Harry said idly.
“For a dog perhaps, but it lacks a certain dignity for a human,” Stoker replied.
I cleared my throat. “If we might return to the matter at hand. I saw the fellow. He was most definitely not a Scandinavian. In fact, his was a most decidedly Indian face—and a good-looking one at that.”
“Indian?” Stoker’s gaze sharpened and I knew what he was thinking.