“Charles Hathaway and his wife would not thank the housekeeper for recognizing Jonathan Hathaway,” Stoker mused. “That would certainly upset the apple cart.”
“It would indeed,” Sir Hugo agreed. “The estate has come to Charles quite legally, and Jonathan—if it is indeed Jonathan—would have to challenge their grandfather’s will in court. That would be an expensive proposition and I doubt he has the means to do it, but it would still sow enormous discord in the household. As yet, the inhabitants of the Hall seem divided. Lady Hathaway has recognized him and she has the support of one old family retainer, a nanny who lives in a cottage out on the moor. Her health is poor and her eyesight unreliable, so her opinion carries little weight, but it is something.” He held up two fingers of one hand, then began to count off the fingers opposite. “Then Charles and his wife, Mary, are on the other side, doubting Jonathan’s identity and fearing they are entertaining an impostor.” He spread his hands apart. “That leaves Euphemia in the middle. She has not committed herself either way. She is not certain of what to believe.”
“Was she fond of Jonathan?” Stoker inquired. “It seems curious a younger sister, who might well have idolized her elder brother, would not give full support to someone who could be he.”
A faint smile touched Sir Hugo’s lips. “Euphemia is a scientist—an astronomer, to be exact. It was Sir Geoffrey’s avocation and she has followed in her grandfather’s footsteps. She prefers to deal in facts, in that which may be quantified. She would believe nothing unless there is evidence.”
“What sort of evidence?” I put in. “Do you mean to say this person has none of Jonathan Hathaway’s papers?”
“He has documentation—letters and a passport—which appears to be in order, but these things can certainly be falsified.”
“What does he say about his claim?” I pressed.
“That is the most intriguing part,” Sir Hugo told us. “He says nothing at all. He appeared one day at Hathaway Hall, bruised and in a state of collapse. On the directions of Mrs. Hathaway, Charles’ wife, the stranger was carried into the hall as an act of Christian charity. They bathed his wounds and put him to bed. In the hopes of identifying this stranger and perhaps notifying his family of his whereabouts, Mrs. Hathaway had his pockets searched and examined the papers that were found upon him. He had letters from Ada, much worn and tattered, addressed to Jonathan Hathaway in care of various postes restantes around the world. When Lady Hathaway discovered this, she insisted upon seeing the young man herself. She forced her way into the sickroom just as the fellow was regaining consciousness. He opened his eyes, said one word, and lapsed into insensibility again.”
“What word?” Stoker asked.
“‘Granna,’” Sir Hugo said. “It was an endearment all of the Hathaway children used for Lady Hathaway. That, coupled with a resemblance to Jonathan, was enough to persuade her that the man lying in the bed was her grandson, returned from the dead.”
I shook my head. “It is too fantastical to be believed.”
Sir Hugo’s expression was sympathetic. “I know it must have come as a shock to you that someone purporting to be your friend should appear.”
“How did you know he was my friend?” I demanded.
“My dear Miss Speedwell, I do hope you have not forgot what resources I have at my command,” he said blandly.
“You investigated Jonathan Hathaway,” I surmised. “And you discovered we traveled together.”
“I was hoping to avoid involving you,” he assured me. “I have dealt with one or two such cases in the past, and I understand how difficult they can be. But I must have the truth, for Effie’s sake. For Ada’s. Even for Jonathan’s. If this man is an impostor, then he must be made to pay for his crimes. If it is Jonathan, then all shadow of suspicion must be lifted so that he can live his life in peace.”
“And you expect Veronica to do that,” Stoker said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Of course he does,” I answered with a tinge of bitterness. “I am to be the test.”
“You knew him,” Sir Hugo said simply. “You traveled with him and were friends. Believe me, if I could have unearthed any other of his companions, I would have done so. I have investigated a dozen people known to have accompanied Jonathan Hathaway in his travels, and it came down to you and a fellow called Harry Spenlove.”
I said nothing, but my breath was tight in my chest. Jonathan Hathaway. Harry Spenlove. Names I had not thought to hear again. They had been the best of friends, generous to me when our paths had crossed in New Guinea. Jonathan had had a passion for lepidoptery to rival my own, and Harry was simply game, always up for an adventure. What had begun as a lark, sailing to a new island on the hunt for Papilio iswaroides, had become a sort of good-natured rivalry. Jonathan and I would challenge one another, choosing a species and separating, meeting again at dinner to see whose hunt had been the more successful. Jonathan played a gentleman’s game. He was heir to a fortune and had no need of the money our trophies would fetch from eager collectors. More often than not, his specimens found their way into my jars as he pleaded laziness. “I cannot be bothered to mount them properly,” he protested. Or he claimed to have mislaid his chemicals, misplaced his materials, any excuse to pass his superfluous specimens my way.
He was not entirely altruistic, I remembered with a sharp pang. He often kept the most beautiful, the most unusual, for his own collection. But he had given me more than enough to earn my forgiveness. Coupled with his generosity, he had been a quiet, courtly companion. There was a serenity about him that belied the restless spirit that had sent him around the world, far from kith and kin. Unlike Harry, bright and reckless Harry, Jonathan had been restful. If Harry was a spark, Jonathan was a steady ember. I had adored them both in very different ways and for very different reasons.
“You have not discovered Harry Spenlove is alive, I presume?” I said, attempting a lightness I did not feel.
Sir Hugo shook his head. “Buried on the island of Java. I have telegraphed to the Dutch officials there and it has been confirmed. They have sent a rubbing of his gravestone, although one would prefer a photograph. Apparently, he died of a fever. Sanitation issues,” he finished with a distasteful twitch of the nose.
“There was much illness after the eruption,” I said dully. “I had not imagined that Jonathan survived.”
“Krakatoa erupted six years ago,” Stoker remarked. “Where has he been all this time?”
Sir Hugo pursed his lips. “Effie was not particularly forthcoming on that point. I gather the fellow was badly knocked about in the eruption. Suffered some injuries, worked his way across South America, that sort of thing. In due course, he made it to Bristol, where he was apparently involved in some sort of altercation with a few sailors. He took the worst of it and it seems to have aggravated his old injuries. He was in a state of confusion as he made his way to Dartmoor, using the last of his funds to pay his train fare. He alighted at the small moorland village of Shepton Parva. There is a goodish road, but the most direct route is across the moor. He was found in the summerhouse of the Hall. It marks the boundary of the garden from the moor itself. In fact, the summerhouse is the only way into the grounds of the estate from the moor. The rest is walled off for gardens and inaccessible by foot. He had collapsed by then, in a pitiable state, Effie says. No doubt that is what roused Mrs. Hathaway’s pity, although I wonder if she regrets her impulse to take him in,” he finished ruefully.