“Oh, there is a way to stop him?” Harry asked, looking distinctly bedeviled. “I had a twenty-minute lecture on the mandibular structure.”
“Only twenty? Count yourself fortunate,” I advised. “Stoker can speak at length and extempore on any number of subjects so long as he has access to proper hydration and copious amounts of sugar. The longest I have personally witnessed was six and a half hours on a walrus, but that was a special occasion.”
“That particular occasion is the reason that Lady Torrington pledged a thousand pounds to build her own wing of the Rosemorran museum,” Stoker said mildly.
“Indeed. And your thylacine is very nice,” I soothed. “Harry does not appreciate it because he is a philistine. Perhaps you ought to mount him and add him to the collection.”
Harry eyed me narrowly over the breakfast dishes. “You are in a distinctly jolly mood this morning.”
“Nonsense,” I said, pouring out a cup of tea. I sniffed the steam appreciatively. “I am never jolly.”
“You are in higher spirits than when you retired,” he amended.
“That I am,” I agreed. I forked up a healthy bite of egg and savored it. I had, upon waking, and in that curious state betwixt dreaming and consciousness, finally placed where I had seen the intruder’s face before. I was on the point of sharing the information when the dogs began to prick up their ears.
“Someone is coming,” I said.
Harry groaned. “I already had to hide behind a packing case when the boy brought breakfast down.”
“George is a good lad with too much work to poke about. The Beauclerk children have far worse manners,” I said, whisking aside the breakfast dishes. “There is no time to climb up to the snuggery. Into the sarcophagus,” I ordered.
Muttering all the while, Harry climbed in and Stoker had just settled the lid into place when there was a scratch at the door and it opened. “Hallo,” called a familiar voice.
“Sir Hugo,” I said faintly. “Whatever brings you to the Belvedere?” He entered, hat in hand, and smelling of fresh aftershave.
“I am on my way to Scotland Yard and thought I would stop in,” he said.
“Marylebone is not on the way from your house to Scotland Yard,” Stoker pointed out.
“I was not at my house,” Sir Hugo returned. “I was in St. John’s Wood clearing up a matter for the Home Secretary, but you did not hear that from me,” he added. I flicked a glance at Stoker. St. John’s Wood was where the great and good stashed their ladies of light virtue. Whatever the Home Secretary had been getting up to in that particular suburb, it was a rather good wager that Mrs. Home Secretary did not know about it.
Sir Hugo settled himself into Stoker’s desk chair—the only other option being the camel saddle—and crossed one long leg over the other. His expression was expansive. He was clearly pleased with the results of his own night’s work.
“I am sorry to say there has been a development,” I began.
He waved a hand. “The diamond—the elusive and legendary Eye of the Dawn. Yes, I know. Effie wrote. That is how I knew you’d come back. She mentioned that a pair of natural historians had been to stay—she quite enjoyed meeting you, you know. But then this business of the jewel going missing set the cat amongst the pigeons and that was the end of your visit.”
“Did she tell you anything else?” I asked. I was conscious of Stoker, continuing to work quietly on his thylacine as Sir Hugo and I talked.
Sir Hugo shrugged. “That my instincts were correct. This ‘Jonathan’ was an impostor and helped himself to Lady Hathaway’s diamond before fleeing. Naturally, we are making inquiries. We know he crossed the moor and boarded the train to London at Batleigh, but the trail has gone cold at that point.”
I could almost hear the sigh of relief from inside the sarcophagus.
“But you will continue to pursue the thief?” I pressed.
“Of course,” Sir Hugo said, his brows raising in obvious astonishment. “The fellow has stolen a diamond worth almost as much as the Koh-i-Noor!”
“I imagine that sort of crime would carry a heavy penalty,” I mused.
“Oh, to be certain, but of course, we do not hang people for it these days, more’s the pity.” A stifled noise came from the direction of the sarcophagus.
“What’s that?” Sir Hugo asked, looking around.
“My apologies,” Stoker called. “I sneezed.”
“Ah, gesundheit,” Sir Hugo said. He sighed. “To complicate matters, Lady Hathaway is being most obstructive. She refuses to cooperate, claiming she gave the stone to the fellow, although the rest of them maintain it was stolen.”
“But without her cooperation, you cannot prosecute him,” Stoker said from behind his thylacine. “She is, after all, the owner.”
“Or is she?” I pondered aloud.
Sir Hugo blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Only that Lady Hathaway was oblique as to how her husband came to be in possession of the parure. She said he acquired it during the confusion of the Sepoy Mutiny.”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“‘Acquired’ is not the same thing as purchased,” I reminded him. “Things were chaotic during the mutiny, and many Englishmen proved they were not above a little light looting. If Sir Geoffrey stole the jewels—”
“Stole!” Sir Hugo looked thunderous. “Now see here, Geoffrey Hathaway was a fine man, stalwart and loyal to queen and country.”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “His queen. His country. Not India. He wouldn’t have been the first Englishman to help himself to something that didn’t belong to him.”
“Yes, well,” Sir Hugo said, grumbling as he sat back in his chair. “I hope you are not implying that it is within one’s rights to steal something from a person who has in turn stolen it. If so, you are sailing in muddy waters, Miss Speedwell. A veritable ethical swamp, if you will.”
I bared my teeth in an attempt at a smile. “I was just thinking aloud.”
“Well, perhaps you ought not to think if it leads you to such places,” he said with a touch of his old pomposity. “In any event, I wanted to thank you for bestirring yourself to help in this private matter. Naturally, your efforts will not be reflected in the formal records of Special Branch as this was not an official assignment, but you have my personal gratitude, and you may rely upon me to remember it.”
He rose to leave and I stopped him. “What of Euphemia?” I asked.
His expression was blank. “What of her?”