A Curious Beginning

I lifted my eyes from the cup. “Montgomerie?”


He nodded and we said no more. I washed and dressed and finished my tea, and Stoker and I presented ourselves at police headquarters for our interview with Sir Hugo. I had expected endless miles of corridors and functionaries to navigate, but we were met at an unmarked street door by one of his men and whisked up a private stair and directly into Sir Hugo’s office—as discreet an entrance as it was possible to make at Scotland Yard.

Sir Hugo was settled behind his desk, and I was surprised to find he used a slender Regency writing table instead of a more traditional—and expected—barricade of mahogany. The effect was one of intimacy. Even opposite him, we were seated near enough that I could make out the lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked a little fatigued, but not much the worse for wear after our ordeal. His beard was neatly groomed, and his clothes were expertly tailored. I suspected Sir Hugo of having a private income as well as his stipend as head of the Yard—or perhaps his shadowy master rewarded him handsomely, I reflected with some cynicism.

Mornaday stood quietly in the corner, his posture not entirely relaxed. I wondered how harshly he had been disciplined for his easy treatment of us. Stoker sat in a chair scarcely large enough to contain him, and I perched on the edge of mine, tipping my head inquiringly at Sir Hugo.

To my astonishment, he smiled, a rather beautiful smile, and when he spoke, it was with something approaching sincerity. “Miss Speedwell, it might surprise you to know I am pleased that you emerged unscathed from the activities of last night.”

“It would,” I acknowledged.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, his tone warmer than I had yet heard it. “In fact, we have a thing or two in common. For instance, I am a butterfly collector myself. Inspector Mornaday tells me you have a very fine ring net, although I must say I am partial to a clap net myself.”

I returned the smile. “Sir Hugo, I know when a man wants something from me. You needn’t exercise your charm on my account—particularly as I suspect that only my destroying those papers prevented you from taking my life.”

He gaped at me. “My dear Miss Speedwell—”

“You deny it? Was there really no plot at all to kill me and lay the blame squarely upon Mr. Stoker? Forgive me, Mr. Templeton-Vane, as you know him,” I amended.

Sir Hugo continued to gawp as I went on in the same gentle tone. “I believe there was. Furthermore, I believe that only my prompt action last night prevented you from carrying it out.”

“I am a gentleman,” he returned coldly. “I would never have gone through—” Too late, he realized he had acknowledged the plot. I dared not look at Stoker.

Sir Hugo cleared his throat and began again. “Miss Speedwell, I do not deny that there were certain parties that believed only your complete removal would ensure the security of this nation, and indeed the empire itself. I disagreed, most strenuously,” he said with special emphasis, “and I would never have countenanced such an action, either from myself or any of my subordinates.”

He fell to silence and I let his words sit for a moment between us. At last, I gave him a grudging nod. “My instincts seldom fail me, Sir Hugo, and I believe you to be a man of honor who would balk at murdering a woman whose only crime is an accident of birth.” His stiffness eased a trifle, but I leaned forward, skewering him with a glance. “I also believe that you are very glad I destroyed those proofs so you did not have to test your own conscience.”

Before he could respond, I sat back, folding my hands in my lap. “Now that we have dispensed with the pretenses, why don’t you tell us what you want with us.”

His mouth slackened. “Very well. I will be as forthright as you wish, Miss Speedwell.” He opened the blotter on his desk and removed a piece of paper, folded over. He slid it across the desk towards me.

I opened the paper to find it was nearly blank. Except for a figure penned in neat, exact numbers. “What is this?”

“Your pension. I have spoken with my superior,” he said, his mouth twitching upon the word. Clearly he remembered my taunts of the night before—remembered and resented. “Destroying the proofs of your possible legitimacy was taken as a gesture of good faith,” he told me with deliberate stress upon the word “possible.” “You must consider this a reciprocal gesture of goodwill.”