A Treacherous Curse Read online

  Sir Hugo picked up the thread of his tale. “They slept apart. In the morning de Morgan had vanished without a trace. At the insistence of his wife, the local police investigated and there was no sign of him to be found in Dover or in London. Notices have been placed in newspapers around the country. Passenger lists, ticket offices, railway porters—all avenues have been pursued, with no result. John de Morgan has simply disappeared.”

  I curled a scornful lip. “I am surprised at you, Sir Hugo, for making such a mountain out of a particularly sordid little molehill. Clearly the fellow wished to be rid of his wife. He saw her safely onto English soil, which was the gentlemanly thing to do, but at the first opportunity he absconded with his purloined diadem to start life afresh somewhere else. No doubt he pawned the crown to fund his escape from England. You above anyone must know that it is possible to elude the police with a bit of luck and proper care. It seems perfectly simple.”

  Sir Hugo said nothing.

  “There is more,” Stoker guessed shrewdly.

  Sir Hugo nodded, the tassel of his nightcap swinging like a pendulum. “Yes. You see, John de Morgan was not the only disappearance. When his wife came to wake him the next morning, his entire hotel room had vanished as well.”

  A damp little finger of horror crept up my spine. “What do you mean, his hotel room had vanished?”

  “Mrs. de Morgan insists that when they checked in, de Morgan’s room was blue with a rose-print wallpaper and walnut furniture. Mrs. de Morgan tucked her husband up into bed and sat with him for some time as he fell asleep. She amused herself by counting the rosebuds in each section of the wallpaper. The next morning, when she went to see how he had fared in the night, the room was empty. And the wallpaper—”

  “Was different,” I finished.

  “Forget-me-nots,” Sir Hugo informed us. “Rather a grim joke under the circumstances. The carpet had been changed to green, and the bedstead replaced with one of iron. The hard chair she had sat upon the night before was now a plush affair of striped yellow velvet.”

  “It sounds dreadful,” I remarked.

  “And nothing at all like the room John de Morgan had taken.”

  “What of the hotel proprietor?” I demanded. “Surely he must have some explanation.”

  Sir Hugo shrugged. “Proprietress, actually. According to Mrs. de Morgan, she checked them in upon their arrival the previous night, but when questioned by the Dover police, she said Mrs. de Morgan arrived alone.”

  “The hotel ledger,” Stoker said quickly. “John would have signed the hotel ledger upon checking in.”

  Sir Hugo shook his head. “Mrs. de Morgan signed for them both, as her husband was feeling ill upon their arrival. The only entry in the ledger bears her handwriting.”

  “If there is no proof John de Morgan ever set foot in this country, how can you possibly suspect Stoker of having anything to do with his vanishing?” I asked.

  Sir Hugo’s expression was pained. “In point of fact, I do not suspect Stoker. But with no clear answers as to de Morgan’s disappearance, naturally it became necessary to consider the possibility of foul play. And once the idea of murder was mooted, the next step was to determine if John de Morgan had any mortal enemies. As it happens, he has just one.”

  He raised his eyes to Stoker, who did not flinch from the scrutiny. “Yes,” he said calmly. “I hated him. But if I wanted to kill him, I would have done it openly and let you put the noose around my neck with your own two hands.”

  I stared at him. In the months we had known one another, I had come to understand him better than most. Some stories he told me; others I guessed. But there were secrets within him, dark and spiny things that scuttled from the light of day.

  “Who is John de Morgan to you?” I asked him softly.

  He said nothing. He simply sat, so still, so silent, I could almost imagine he was not there. It was Sir Hugo who spoke.

  “John de Morgan was the supporting partner of the Templeton-Vane Expedition to Amazonia in 1882.”

  I felt a jolt of something electric pass through my body. “He was your friend,” I said, forcing the words out through lips suddenly cold and stiff. “He left you there when you were about to die.”

  Stoker’s smile was a thin and mirthless thing. “He did more than that. He married my wife.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  A surge of laughter, exquisitely balanced on the knife edge of disbelief, rose within me. I smothered it as Sir Hugo gave a solemn nod of assent. “Mrs. John de Morgan was, before her marriage to him, Caroline Templeton-Vane.”

  My thoughts spun and tumbled. It appeared another shard of Stoker’s past was coming to light to add to the slender collection I had hoarded. I knew that he had led a failed expedition to the jungles of the Amazon, an expedition that had cost him his marriage and his honor as well as his career as a rising star in the firmament of natural history. I had never learnt the details; he seldom mentioned that period of his life and never without obvious pain.

  That Caroline Templeton-Vane had left him in Brazil and returned to England to petition for divorce on the grounds of cruelty was public record. Reporters had scented blood in the water and gathered for a feeding frenzy with Stoker’s reputation the casualty. If he had returned at once, he might have mitigated the damage, mounted some defense that could have turned the tide at least a little. But instead he had lingered in Brazil, healing from wounds sustained in a jaguar attack, not bothering to book passage home for three long years.

  By then the damage was beyond repair. He had sunk into obscurity and poverty, and only the efforts of our mutual and much-mourned friend, the Baron von Stauffenbach, had kept him from complete degradation. The baron had sent him taxidermy commissions and provided a workspace, and since his death I had taken it upon myself to be Stoker’s prop and support. There was a spark of genius in him, but sparks are fragile things, and they need careful attention. I had seen progress in the past months, a reviving of the spirits and the confidence that had been broken to splinters by his experiences. A surge of dislike for Caroline de Morgan threatened to choke me. I had kept Stoker hard at work, coaxing and bullying him into the best state he had known since she had annihilated him, and now her name was spoken once more, like a terrible incantation summoning a ghost that had never been entirely laid.

  “I believe I require fortification,” I said succinctly. I rose and went to the bedside table, where I helped myself to a glass to accommodate the measure of aguardiente I poured from the flask I always carried on my person. I drank it down in one swift motion, capping the flask and wiping my mouth carefully. When I had cleaned the glass and resumed my seat, I looked at Sir Hugo.

  “You can prove motive. You cannot prove murder. You have no body.”

  “How many times must I say that I do not wish to prove murder?” he asked in some exasperation, throwing his hands heavenwards. “I do not believe he was murdered.”

  “What do you think happened?” Stoker asked in a voice rather unlike his own.

  Sir Hugo passed a hand over his fevered brow. “I am inclined to agree with Miss Speedwell. I think the fellow saw an eye to helping himself to a fortune and ridding himself of a wife at the same time. For these reasons, he took the jewel and slipped away. A rotten thing to do, but apparently the fellow had money troubles and a tempestuous marriage.”

  I perked up a little at this last snippet of information. “Did he indeed?”

  “The members of the expedition indicated that the de Morgan marriage was not always a cordial one. They were frequently cross with one another—money being a constant source of friction.”

  “It would be,” Stoker said quietly. “John could never keep two shillings together in his pocket. His wife wouldn’t like that.”

  The mention of the woman caused something green and slimy to slither in my belly. “What does Mrs. de Morgan have t
o say about the state of her marriage?” I asked.

  “Mrs. de Morgan is not answering questions. She spoke with the Dover police, but has refused all efforts to reach her since. The chaps there were not as tactful as they ought to have been, and the whole ordeal was too much for her. Her father came and took charge of her and has made it perfectly clear that we are not to trouble her again. Our hands are tied.”

  “Mrs. de Morgan cannot cope with difficult realities,” Stoker said. “If John left her, it would shatter her entirely.”

  “Perhaps she killed him,” I offered pleasantly.

  Sir Hugo huffed into a handkerchief. “Unlikely. I am told she is of middling height but slim and fine-boned. She might be able to kill a man, but she could never dispose of the body.”

  Stoker rose and went to the window, staring out as Sir Hugo and I continued to talk.

  “Why are Special Branch involved? This sounds like a matter for the Dover police. Ought it not to have begun and ended with them?”

  “Initially, we were not part of this investigation. The disappearance of one insignificant man is not enough to involve us,” Sir Hugo said, a trifle loftily. “But as he was connected with Sir Leicester Tiverton’s expedition, and since de Morgan may have absconded with a priceless piece of historical significance, we have been kept informed.”

  “Not our history,” I corrected.

  Sir Hugo smoothed his moustaches. “The expedition was funded and undertaken by Englishmen. If it were left to the Egyptians, the artifacts would still be moldering in the ground.” Seeing that I was about to argue, he held up a quelling hand. “But that is beside the point. Sir Leicester’s name is a prominent one, and we were obliged to take note. I should perhaps mention, there is another party who is quite enthusiastic about all things Egyptological and encouraged our involvement,” he said with a significant twitch of the lips.

  “My father,” I guessed.

  Sir Hugo did not like to acknowledge the relationship so openly, but he gave a short nod. “His Royal Highness sailed up the Nile in the spring of sixty-two.” He paused, knowing I would seize upon the significance of the date.

  “When in the spring?”

  “March. Two months before your birth and some three months after the death of his father. Prince Albert had planned the trip as a sort of royal tour, and in spite of her grief, Her Majesty thought it best that her son carry out his duties. It was a quiet affair, with no official entertainments. His Royal Highness spent most of his time smoking cigars and reading sensational novels and having himself tattooed,” he finished, his lips tightening in disapproval.

  “You seem to know quite a bit about it,” I said, attempting a casual tone I did not feel. Two months before my birth. My mother would have been heavy with child and expectation of a future with my father—an expectation that died with her before my first birthday.

  “I accompanied His Royal Highness,” Sir Hugo explained. “Special Branch did not yet exist, of course, but it was considered advisable for the prince to have companions of a sober and discreet nature who could encourage him to take an interest in the people and politics of the region as well as its history.”

  “And did he?”

  He pulled a face. “I regret to say, His Royal Highness was more interested in shooting crocodiles than in learning the intricacies of foreign policy. But he did bestir himself to ignore his mother’s dictates regarding invitations on at least one occasion. He met with the local authority, Said Pasha, and developed rather a remarkable rapport with the fellow. There are few men as personable as the Prince of Wales when he exerts himself,” he finished.

  “What was he like on the trip?” I asked in a small voice.

  “There are photographs,” Stoker said, not turning his head from the window. “A fellow named Francis Bedford took them and published them in two folios.”

  Sir Hugo said nothing, but I knew he must have been aware of the photographs. I had glimpsed my father once, in passing and at a distance. It was not enough. The prince I had seen was middle-aged and corpulent, exquisite tailoring not quite concealing his avoirdupois. But he had not always been so. He must have been handsome once, I knew, in order to turn my mother’s head. She had been the rarest beauty of the age.

  “You have seen these folios?” I asked Stoker.

  Still he did not turn. “Briefly. One of the gentlemen on the tour, Arthur Stanley, brought along a manservant named Waters who had a talent for stuffing birds. I can mount anything with feathers, thanks to him. He showed me the folios once. It should be a trifling matter to find other copies.”

  Sir Hugo gave a little cough. “I suppose I could hunt up my own set,” he said, not ungraciously.

  “Thank you. I presume his travels in that country sparked an interest in Egyptology?”

  He nodded. “He has been a keen observer ever since that trip, although it was Lady Tiverton’s writings which really kindled his interest. He found her to be quite knowledgeable on the subject.”

  “And knowing his reputation, I would hazard a guess that Lady Tiverton is an attractive woman,” I said in an acid tone. Every fact I gleaned about my father always seemed to come back to sex.

  “Most attractive,” Sir Hugo admitted. “She was the foundress of the Tiverton Expeditions, funding them through her private fortune and encouraging her husband to excavate in previously unexplored regions of the Valley of the Kings.”

  “She must be immensely gratified to have discovered a royal burial,” I mused.

  “She would be,” Sir Hugo agreed. “If she were alive. Regrettably, the first Lady Tiverton died some years ago. She was an invalid in poor health and made her home in Egypt. Consumption,” he said with a shudder. “Her widower, Sir Leicester, has made the find with his second wife, the current Lady Tiverton.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” I protested. “The poor woman spends her money and what little health she has pursuing a dream, and no sooner is she dead than her husband and his new wife see that dream realized.”

  “Fate ith a cruel mithtreth,” Sir Hugo said, ending on a heavy sneeze.

  “Stoker, Sir Hugo is becoming unintelligible again. Have you no remedy?” Stoker did not reply, and after a few minutes’ work with a handkerchief, Sir Hugo managed to retrieve the conversation.

  “As you say, Miss Speedwell. It is a sad irony that Lady Tiverton did not live long enough to see her life’s ambition fulfilled. One can only hope that her spirit is consoled. She did her very best during her short time on earth to create interest in Egypt and its history. She wrote a number of scholarly articles and published several volumes of her own essays. It is thanks to these books that the prince is keenly aware of the developments in the field of Egyptology.

  “He has read Sir Leicester’s reports as well, and naturally he became all the more interested in John de Morgan’s disappearance when he understood the fellow’s history with someone who is a close connection of yours. There is your safety to consider.” He flicked a meaningful glance at Stoker’s broad back. The implication was only too clear.

  “You cannot be serious,” I told him, my temper rising. “My father is not worried that I am partnered with a potential murderer. He is worried that if Stoker becomes notorious again, reporters will dig too deeply into his connections—specifically, his connection to me. And then what? They investigate my past? They uncover the truth about who I really am? The Prince of Wales is not concerned with my safety. He is worried that some stroke of misfortune will see all his sordid secrets come pouring out in the newspapers.”

  “His Royal Highness expressed no such sentiment,” he replied with unusual sternness. “His Royal Highness doesn’t even know what Stoker is capable of.”

  I fixed him with a cold stare. “What precisely is Stoker capable of?” I demanded.

  Sir Hugo had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Shall you tell her or shall I?”


  Stoker did not turn from the window. “It was a long time ago.”

  “A year,” Sir Hugo corrected. “Not so very long.”

  “I am hardly the same man.” Stoker’s protest was halfhearted.

  “What did you do?” I put the question gently, as if a soft tone would make the lash sting less.

  Stoker turned very slightly so that his face was in profile to me. “Our paths crossed last year, mine and John’s. I saw him in the street. I daresay if I had expected it, I might have behaved better, but I had no idea he was in London. I simply looked up and there he was, coming at me. I did not think. I did not consider. I acted.”

  “What did you do?” I repeated.

  He said nothing for a long moment, and Sir Hugo broke in. “He thrashed John de Morgan within an inch of his life.”

  I smiled. “Good.”

  “What a savage young woman you are!” Sir Hugo protested. But there was no condemnation in his voice, and it was apparent from his expression that he did not entirely disapprove either of Stoker’s action or my feelings.

  “I have seen Stoker fight,” I told Sir Hugo. “‘Savage’ is an understatement. De Morgan is lucky he escaped with his life, and Stoker is telling the truth. If he had meant to kill him, he would have.” I turned back to Stoker. “Out of curiosity, why didn’t you? I mean, I would have at least been tempted.”

  “I was,” he replied, still keeping his face in profile. “But after I knocked him down, he refused to get back up. I won’t kill a man on his knees.”

  “There,” I said with some satisfaction to Sir Hugo. “You see? Stoker has standards. He won’t kill a man on his knees, and I can promise you he also will not spirit away a man under the ridiculously Gothic circumstances you have described. Whoever is responsible for the disappearance of John de Morgan has clearly been reading too much Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  Sir Hugo did not disagree. “It does indeed bear the hallmarks of a ghoulish imagination. But the fact is, a man has gone missing, no matter how outlandish the circumstances.”