He let the suggestion hang there, enticing as a juicy morsel of bait to a rising carp.
“I have specimens,” Stoker told him. “More than I know what to do with, I promise you.”
Sir Hugo smiled. “Oh, have you a thylacine then?”
Stoker stopped dead in his tracks. “You cannot be serious.”
“As the grave,” Sir Hugo assured him.
“Thylacinus cynocephalus,” Stoker breathed, his eyes alight with the sort of unholy lust other men reserved for women.
“The Tasmanian tiger?” I asked. “I thought they were near to extinction.”
“They are,” Stoker said, his color high. “It is the largest carnivorous marsupial in the world. The power of its bite and the dimension of its jaw . . .” I need not repeat the rest. He went on in that vein for some time, to Sir Hugo’s obvious amusement.
At length, I raised a hand to quell any further information about the creature, still grappling with Stoker’s overly detailed explanation of the uniqueness of the scrotal sac in the male of the species.
“You are clearly in a state of desperation, else you’d not have cast such a tempting lure,” I told Sir Hugo.
“I am,” he said.
In spite of the words, his expression was—not quite pleading. Imploring. He wanted a favor, I reminded myself. And although justice would have been enough to spur me to action, the thought of Sir Hugo in my debt was a powerful inducement.
“Miss Speedwell,” Sir Hugo said, “you cannot refuse me.”
“You are right,” I said, setting a mirthless smile upon my lips. “I cannot. When do we leave?”
CHAPTER
4
In spite of my insouciant response to Sir Hugo, by the time Stoker and I returned to the Belvedere, I was entertaining second thoughts. Not only had the mention of Jonathan and Harry revived the old, desolate feelings of panic and grief, but Sir Hugo’s parting words had been none too comforting.
After explaining that seats had been reserved for us on the first train the following morning at his personal expense, he shook us each warmly by the hand, an expression of relief etched upon his features.
“I really cannot thank you enough,” he said humbly. A sudden twinkle had come to his eye. “And if you find this possible impostor to be not enough mystery for you, you might turn your hands to an investigation of the supernatural variety. The moor is thick with ghosts, you know.”
He left off with a laugh, clearly pleased to have successfully shifted the burden of this matter onto our shoulders. Anticipating our acceptance, Sir Hugo had already written to Charles, a conciliatory letter smoothing over their previous contretemps and explaining about Lord Rosemorran’s plans for a museum. He had suggested that Charles write to us with an invitation to come and assess his collection with an eye to purchasing any specimens that would augment the pieces already in his lordship’s possession. Charles had been so eager, Sir Hugo told us as he produced the invitation with a flourish, that he had responded by return post and we were expected the following day.
“We ought to refuse,” I muttered to Stoker as we finished packing the oddments we would require. We were in the Belvedere some hours after dinner, collecting the necessary reference materials and tools of the trade.
“Why on earth would we do that?” he asked mildly as he surveyed a pair of calipers.
“This is a family matter of a most delicate nature,” I protested. “It is hardly within our purview.”
“Most of our investigations have been family matters and all extremely delicate,” he said. “In fact, most of them have been connected with your family.”
“I do not require being reminded of the fact,” I replied in an acidulous tone. I chose a selection of fine brushes, a fresh notebook, and a magnifying glass and wrapped them carefully.
“Then why the reluctance?” There was something in his tone, a note that sounded just slightly off, like the string of a violin that has been imperfectly tuned and indifferently plucked.
I shrugged. “We have only just returned from the Alpenwald, and Lord Rosemorran has been very accommodating of our absences. I should not like to take advantage of him.” I did not confess the truth, that an unease had settled over me, and I was reluctant to chase the ghosts of my past.
“It is hardly taking advantage if we secure specimens for his collection,” Stoker pointed out. “I spoke with him after teatime and he is most anxious to acquire the thylacine if it is in acceptable condition.”
I packed my things into a small carpetbag and paused, considering. Apart from the various varieties of fritillary, there were not many fine examples of lepidoptery to be found on Dartmoor, but the Rosemorran collection was a little thin on native British specimens. It was very early in the season, impossibly early, I reflected. It was likely that only Boloria euphrosyne, the Pearl-Bordered Fritillary, would be in flight before May, yet it was a sprightly little butterfly and a group of them might be worth the effort. I took up a box of minuten—the tiny headless pins used by butterfly hunters to secure mounts and by me to discourage men who tried to hold my hand without invitation. (A few tucked discreetly into the cuffs are wondrously effective.) I added the requisite killing jars, a tiny packet of cyanide salts, some cotton wool, and several specimen jars and boxes before selecting my favorite net. It was light and supple, crafted of ash, the bag sewn from the finest silk net I could afford. It was a thing of beauty, as much an artist’s tool as an implement of science, and I felt something that had lain dormant within me come alive again as I passed my palm over the sleek grain of the wood.
“Besides,” Stoker went on lightly, “I should have thought a ghost and a mystery would have been too much temptation for you to resist.”
I managed a smile, but Stoker had already returned his attention to his own interests—namely, the thylacine. He had unearthed a recent issue of the Semi-Annual Journal of the Natural Historian in which one of his colleagues held forth at length on the subject of the elusive Tasmanian tiger and was sunk in happy anticipation of getting his hands upon a specimen of his own when I murmured something about a necessary errand and slipped out the door.
A short time later, I arrived on foot at the grand entrance of the Sudbury Hotel, one of London’s most exclusive accommodations. A pair of doormen, smartly dressed in crushed bottle green velvet, sprang to attention, but I passed them by, nipping around the corner and down the alley until I came to the tradesmen’s entrance. I scribbled a quick note and passed it to one of the boys who loitered in such places in hopes of small commissions. I presented him with a shilling—a more than generous sum, in my opinion, but the child had the skinny, pinched look of undernourishment—which he took with alacrity before disappearing into the working heart of the hotel. I had taken the precaution of wearing a veil, and in the ensuing moments I was grateful. More than one waiter gave me an assessing glance, no doubt attempting to ascertain if I had come to ply a very old and specific trade.