An impossible impostor, p.23
An Impossible Impostor, page 23
“Why is it always gargoyles?” I murmured.
Mrs. MacGregor ignored me. She gestured towards her cohort. “This is Göran. He will attend you, and he has a dreadful temper, so mind you don’t provoke him. He will show you the way to your quarters and I will follow with this,” she said, brandishing the gun, “just to make certain everyone is cooperative.”
We looked at Göran, who gave us a broad grin as he fondled his clasp knife, polishing it with an exaggerated gesture on his lapel. When he had made his point, he pocketed the blade and unlocked the front door whilst we stood a little way behind. I listened for any sign of neighbors, but there was nothing to be heard except country sounds—birds twittering in the bushes and the new green leaves of the trees rustling in the wind. Clouds were building, scudding across the sun and throwing the house deeply into shadow as Göran threw open the door.
The house was exactly as I feared—a veritable architectural wedding cake with every possible extravagance and embellishment worked in plaster. With care and good furnishing, it might have been acceptable, for the proportions of the rooms were suitable for a large family home. But the roof must have been damaged, for every ceiling was bubbled and cracked, the plaster crumbling away. The floors were stained with watermarks that ruined the elaborate parquet, and I distinctly heard mice scrabbling about in the walls.
“What a lovely home you have,” I said to Mrs. MacGregor, baring my teeth in a smile.
She returned the gesture. “Rented for a song from an owner who has almost forgot the place exists. The nearest neighbor is six miles, so there is no one to hear you,” she added with an unmistakable note of menace, all the more disconcerting for being delivered with a smile.
I decided against goading her further, and we followed the taciturn Swede down a corridor and through a door, down a flight of stone stairs and through another door. Through it was a small chamber, cut into the earth and built of stone. The seams in the stone floor were packed with black dust, and I realized we were standing in the former coal store. A trapdoor high in the wall above us showed where the stuff had once been delivered, but I could see the shiny new hinges even at a distance. No doubt the hasp and lock on the other side were new as well, and the inside of the coal store had been fitted out as a sort of jail. A pair of narrow mattresses festooned with dubious-looking stains had been thrown down, and a chamber pot stood expectantly in the corner. In the center of the room, a cast-iron column was bolted to the floor, running the height of the room and through the ceiling some fifteen feet above. Around it were lengths of bright new chain, heavy stuff, with shackles to match. While Mrs. MacGregor watched from the doorway, Göran secured the shackles around our arms and legs. Wound as the chains were about the column, we were free to shuffle about the room but could not make it as far as the door. A single lantern had been lit and hung on a peg next to the door, well out of reach.
“We will bring food in a while,” Mrs. MacGregor said brightly. “I do hope you will be comfortable.” With that she slammed the door, and I heard the familiar, desolate sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Well, here we are again,” I said calmly. “This is usually the point at which you become hysterical.”
Stoker stared at me. “I have never become hysterical. I have, upon every occasion, reacted with perfect candor and appropriateness to the situation at hand.”
“You shout a great deal,” I reminded him.
“Because I am usually in pain,” he retorted. “I have been chained, stabbed, shot, beaten, nearly drowned, and subjected to every possible insult regarding my upbringing, breeding, conduct, appearance, and intelligence. I think that is quite enough to send any man into a froth of emotion.”
“See, you admit. You are prey to your emotions. And you, a man of science,” I added, tutting audibly.
My remarks, as the clever reader will no doubt have already deduced, were designed to distract Stoker from the predicament at hand. The fact that we had been abducted was not in itself surprising or particularly alarming. That sort of thing had been occurring with such regularity, I had almost come to expect it. But during the course of our investigations the previous October, Stoker had been the recipient of some particularly nasty attentions on the part of our abductors. Ribs had been broken, a cheekbone fractured, a lung punctured, along with various and sundry abrasions and contusions, any one of which might have felled a lesser man. He had not even begun to recover from the depredations when he had been shot, a wholly unnerving experience on my end and one I did not wish to repeat. (Stoker will protest that his was the more harrowing ordeal, but as he was unconscious for most of it whilst I was left to worry, I think I may claim the greater share of distress.)
Malefactors, I had observed, were seldom as unchivalrous as one would expect. Despite often being deprived of my liberty, I had yet to be boiled in oil, stretched upon a rack, poked with hot pins, or subjected to whatever tortures were in fashion at the time. I was usually left to worry through the long, lonely hours of darkness when Stoker was off being tormented, and the experiences had left me with nerves flayed to ribbons. I did not anticipate this new ordeal with any great fortitude, I must admit. The Swede was a tall and muscular fellow with a neck like that of a slightly malnourished ox, and I did not like the gleam in his eye when he looked at Stoker. He would take his time with it, I feared, and perhaps even subject Stoker to a few new experiences. He looked entirely too fond of his knife, I decided, and whilst I cherished each and every scar upon Stoker’s excellent physique, there was no great need to add more.
There was no way to anticipate precisely when the tortures would commence, but the time would pass more quickly in spirited conversation, thus the prick to Stoker’s temper. I thought to distract him, and I did a masterful job. He spent a good while giving vent to his various resentments, cataloging his numerous umbrages until his voice was almost hoarse, and he suddenly broke off in mid-rant.
“You are doing this on purpose,” he accused.
“Of course I am,” I returned calmly. “There is no possibility of escape at present, and we needed to pass the time.”
“How do you know there is no possibility of escape?” he demanded.
“We have been in similar peril upon enough occasions that I know how to evaluate a makeshift prison when I see one,” I said. “To begin, the floor and walls are stone, solid and immovable. There is no window to permit egress, and the door is six inches of good English oak, locked from the outside. That leaves the coal doors,” I said, pointing upwards, “which are no doubt padlocked from the outside even if we could reach them, but there are no handy bits of furniture or ladders, and the stone walls are too smooth to permit even the tiniest fingerhold in order to climb them.”
He grunted his agreement. “I don’t suppose you have a weapon stuck somewhere on your person?”
I glowered a little. “No.”
His brows steepled upwards. “Not even a corset stay you’ve sharpened into a stiletto?”
“I am, for your information, wearing a new corset and I have not had the opportunity to alter it to my satisfaction,” I replied in considerable annoyance. It was a new fashion, the ribbon corset, and had been the product of a Parisian corset maker’s atelier. I had swooned at the delicate latticework of the satin ribbons, and I had taken immense pleasure in the greater liberty of movement it permitted.
His eyes took on a significant brightness. “Is it the rose-colored one from Paris?”
“It is,” I replied. He stared off in the middle distance for some time, the rose corset having proved a particular favorite of his—in fact, on the occasion of its first appearance, he had not removed it at all, preferring to tender his attentions while it and the matching rose garters remained in place—until I snapped my fingers to get his attention.
He came to with a start, but a smile of fond reminiscence still played about his lips. “And you are quite certain you have nothing upon your person which you can use against our captors?”
“I do hate to dash your hopes, but I am afraid I am dressed for calling at the Sudbury, not my working costume,” I said, plucking at the heavy violet velvet of my day dress. “I have no knives, no pins, not even a handy bit of garrote wire.”
“Garrote wire?” he asked in a choked voice.
“I purchased it during our trip to the Alpenwald,” I explained. “I was studying a cheese wire one day, and it occurred to me what a nice garrote it would make with those lovely little wooden handles. And so easy to tuck into a pastille tin! Unfortunately, it is in my reticule,” I added darkly. “Which that woman has taken.”
Stoker looked distinctly unnerved. “Do you really mean to strangle someone with a cheese wire?”
“No one ever thinks it will be necessary until it is,” I replied calmly.
“Touché. But as to your assessment of our predicament, you are entirely correct. And they have left us here a few hours, enough time to come to terms with our situation and become a little uncomfortable. Soon, they will come, either to bring food or to take me out and begin their interrogation.”
“To which I say, give them what they want,” I told him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Give them the Eye of the Dawn. You know where it is hid. I do not. Therefore, it is up to you to tell them the truth. The diamond is what they want. And possibly Harry. Give them both and let us go and have a nice dinner.”
His laugh was incredulous. “Veronica, do you really expect them just to let us go after that? We have seen their faces. We can identify them. Hardened criminals do not let witnesses live.”
“How do we know they are hardened?” I countered. “They engage in financial schemes and plots. They may be most reluctant to actually shed blood. Besides, I am quite certain they are anticipating trouble from us. If we are amenable and cooperative, it might prove profitable for all of us.”
“And the diamond? Are we simply to hand over a jewel of immense wealth that does not belong to us?”
“I would give them half the earth if it stopped them harming a hair of your head,” I said fiercely.
He wrapped his arms about me, clumsily because of the chains, which clinked and clanked. It was a noisy but ever so effective embrace. “I have no intention of giving them the diamond. It belongs to the maharani,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And I will see justice is done.”
Just then the door opened and Mrs. MacGregor appeared. “What a charming picture of domesticity!” she said in an arch voice. She came near to us, an action she dared since her compatriot was standing directly behind her, arms folded, a revolver now stuck into his belt. It was a much larger weapon than hers, and something in the gleam in his eye told me I might have misjudged how willing the pair might be to engage in an act of violence. Mrs. MacGregor was holding a key, tapping it idly against one cheekbone as she circled us.
“Where to begin?” she mused, almost more to herself than us. She stepped up to Stoker and surveyed his face, running her gaze from the dark tumble of his overgrown locks to the silvered scar that ran from his eye to the sharp plane of his cheekbone. She put out a finger to trace it, making a sympathetic sound deep in her throat.
“Whoever did this to you ought to be horsewhipped,” she said softly. “To mar such handsomeness is a crime.”
“I killed the creature responsible,” he replied.
The lovely mouth curved into a smile of pure delight. “I am glad to hear it.” She cupped a hand under his chin and lifted it, turning his head this way and the other. She was looking at him the way Stoker looked at his thylacine, and I did not much care for it.
She ran her hand down his shoulder and the length of his muscled arm, pausing only when she reached the iron cuff at his wrist. Slowly, she slid the key into the hole of the cuff, pushing herself forward so that her torso was almost touching his as she turned it. With a decisive click, the cuff sprang open and she gave a breathy sigh. She repeated the process for the cuffs on his legs and rose with a slow smile.
“There. Is that not better, my lamb?” she asked. “Now, you will come with me for a little conversation. Göran will walk behind us, so you must not think to misbehave,” she warned. Stoker gave an anguished glance back at me, but she poked him in the back with the key. “Walk on, my dear. She will be perfectly fine without you.” Once he had passed through the door, she came back to where I stood. “When we are settled, Göran will bring you food. Try not to be too lonely,” she said with a wolfish grin.
“Oh, do not worry about me,” I said carelessly. “My only fear is for Stoker. You are precisely the type of woman to bore him to sobs.”
I had judged, correctly, that she prided herself on her allure. The very suggestion that her charms might not appeal would prick her temper like nothing else. What I had not judged was exactly how she might give vent to that temper.
Still smiling, she reached out and slapped me, hard enough that tears sprang to my eyes. Later, when questioned about what happened next, I maintained that returning her blow was the only possible course of action. I laced my shackled hands together and landed them with a crack and set her back upon her heels. Her head snapped, shaking loose a few of her lush dark curls, and when she touched a finger to her lips, a bead of blood bedewed the tip.
If I had been free of my restraints, I daresay I would have bested her. I had been, after all, educated in the rudiments of physical combat by a genial Corsican bandit with whom I spent a most illuminating few weeks. He favored a sort of unhinged recklessness that I admired, although the Chinese monk with whom I shared a lifeboat after a modest shipwreck in the South China Sea counseled discipline and technique. When entering the fray, I have frequently forgot the monk’s training—I suspect regular practice is necessary in order to quash the natural impulses to mayhem. I have, as I have related, instead generally launched myself into the fracas with some fair imitation of a Maori battle cry or an Irish war whoop. (Stoker deplores this vocal embellishment, but I maintain it is a highly effective means of unsettling one’s opponent.) In any case, there was no opportunity for the sort of refinements I had developed in the course of my tuition. There was only rage, white-hot and rooted in the audacity of this woman to lay hands upon me after eyeing the man that I loved as if he were the prize bull at the market fair.
Of course, that was my mistake. Mrs. MacGregor had no horse in the race, as it were. She was simply toying with us, whilst my own emotions were very much engaged. That enabled her to step back and judge where her next blows might best be placed for the maximum impact with the least effort.
She doubled up her fist, the key gripped in her palm, and bent, pushing from the knees like any boxer of merit might have done. She hit me once, in the stomach, driving the wind from my lungs. I doubled over, twisting to avoid the next punch, but she had anticipated this and swung her fist in an expert arc, catching me neatly in the kidney. I dropped to my knees, whooping for air even as my hand grasped a bit of the slack chain.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, stepping back smartly out of reach. “Sit down and mind your manners,” she advised. “I do not think I will have Göran bring you any supper after all. You can eat when your gentleman friend does. If I choose to leave you any teeth,” she added, snapping hers at me for good measure.
She left then, the imprint of my hand standing out bright red against the pale olive of her complexion. It was a small satisfaction.
CHAPTER
25
The next few hours passed as slowly as any I have endured. I marked the passage of time by the candle as it burned away. The air in the room was close and warm, and I began to wonder idly about suffocation. But by peering at the coal doors, I could just make out slender gaps between the boards through which the setting sun drove the last rays of light, and if light could enter, so could air. It was long after these gilded bars had faded to blackness that the door opened once more. I had tortured myself with thoughts of what Mrs. MacGregor and the taciturn Göran might be doing to Stoker, particularly in view of my intemperate provocations. I had failed to consider the woman might revenge herself upon Stoker, but the fact that she knew him to be dear to me would make him a perfect target for her ire.
I do not know how long I remained alone, but it required considerable discipline to keep my thoughts productive. I slipped once or twice into elaborate fantasies involving the many and comprehensive ways I could employ to inflict pain upon Harry Spenlove should our paths ever cross again, and this greatly cheered me when the hours dragged on.
I was just imagining him tied to a roasting spit, being turned in front of a merry blaze, basted in oils, a plump and juicy apple in his mouth, when the door opened. I expected Stoker, battered and bloody, but instead, Mrs. MacGregor stood in the doorway, dressed in an entirely different ensemble to the traveling costume she had worn before. As it happened, I had been quite correct about crimson suiting her complexion. She fairly glowed from the richness of the scarlet velvet against her skin—a good deal of which was on display. The garment she wore was a sort of wrapper or dressing gown, edged with lavish plumes of feathers dyed to match the velvet. It was cut far lower than decency would permit any garment to be cut, and the skirt was likewise split to her hip. Her hair was unbound, waving in a dark cloud to her waist, and I could smell even at a distance her fragrance—something musky and almost feral.
