The Butterfly Conspiracy Page 12

  But Julia pursed her lips, took a deep breath, and said, “I will prove to you that Simon had nothing to do with it. I will get information that he has a fortune of his own. And that he never sold off items from the zoological collection either.”

  “But where is the collection?” Merula asked. They moved to a new painting, this time all blue with a few smears of green. “Canadian Forest,” read the card beside it.

  Merula had always wanted to see faraway places, like Canada, or America, and as she stood there staring at the blue dashes, she wondered if this situation meant she’d have to leave her homeland, not because she wanted to but because she had to.

  Could she stay here if Uncle Rupert wasn’t cleared? If he died on the gallows, because of her?

  She’d have to run, leave, never come back.

  She swallowed hard, fighting the despair churning beneath the surface of her purposeful attitude, waiting to break free and swallow her whole.

  Julia whispered, “I thought the zoological collection was in the curio cabinet at Lady Sophia’s estate.”

  “Royston and I were there this morning, posing as visitors, but they wouldn’t let us in. Us or anybody else. A man asked for his emperor penguin and was brushed off as if he were there to sell something. Very odd indeed.”

  “I can try to find out something about that too,” Julia said. Her pale face had color now. “I want to help. For Father, of course, but also for Simon. Poor darling. He must feel so alone now without his aunt. And then to be suspected. You are all wrong about him, I’m sure. All wrong.”

  “You find out what you can and send me word through Lamb.” Merula looked at her. “But be careful. These people are not to be trifled with.”

  “People? Plural?” Julia queried with a hitched fine brow.

  “Have you not seen the newspapers? It’s a real conspiracy.” Merula half smiled. “They are exaggerating, I think, but still, be careful. I saw Lady Sophia die, and it was terrible.”

  Julia looked her in the eye, and Merula saw the same urge there that rushed through her own chest. The need to embrace and hold the other tightly.

  But it wasn’t possible. She whispered, “Good-bye,” and rushed off, blinking against the burn behind her eyes.

  Outside in the fresh air, she inhaled deeply and clenched her hands into fists to regain her composure. At least Julia wanted to help her. The information about Foxwell’s alleged fortune and the zoological collection might prove very useful to them.

  And even if it wasn’t useful at all, the idea that her cousin didn’t hate her but wanted to help her with the case filled her with a rush of relief and joy. Finally something good and stimulating on this long hard day.

  “What is that on your dress?” Bowsprit asked as he stepped up to her.

  She glanced up at him in surprise. “On my dress where?”

  “There’s something on the back of your dress. As if it’s stuck to it.”

  Merula’s heart skipped a beat. A poisonous dart, the thought flashed through her mind. I have been pricked and I didn’t even notice.

  For a moment it seemed as if everything around her stopped moving: the carriage in the street, the telegram boy running behind it, the old woman with the basket on her arm.

  Merula could only hear the sound of the blood rushing in her ears as she held her breath, waiting for her heart to stop beating.

  Bowsprit had already leaned around her, and Merula felt a slight movement on the small of her back as he removed something. He showed it to her on the palm of his hand. It was a normal-size butterflylike creature. Brownish and grayish with markings on its back and wings. Forming a skull pattern.

  “Death’s-head hawk moth,” Merula whispered. “Portent of death.” Her mouth was dry, and her tongue seemed unwilling to obey her orders.

  Bowsprit frowned at her. “How did it get on your dress? Did you lean into anything in there? I didn’t know the art gallery had a butterfly display.”

  “It does not.” Merula tried to sound level. “This comes from someone’s private collection. It was pinned to my dress while I was in there. Somebody must have passed me, brushed me, and…”

  She swallowed hard. Someone had brushed her and stuck the portent of death on her back. As if death itself had passed her, touching her for a moment with an ice-cold finger.

  She had survived.

  This time.

  But it was another warning. Proof that whoever had killed Lady Sophia was watching her every move and wouldn’t tolerate her interference. They would stop her before she arrived at the truth.

  Bowsprit said, “His lordship must hear about this at once. Come.” He wrapped a supportive arm around her and ushered her along.

  Merula came willingly, her legs wobbly and her palms covered in sweat. If someone could just walk past her without her even noticing who it was, or what had happened, and pin the death’s-head hawk moth on her dress …

  She hadn’t seen anyone she knew inside the gallery. So how was this possible?

  Who had done it?

  * * *

  “Can the leak be inside your own household?” Royston half leaned over her as she sat on the sofa, a glass with a drop of brandy in her hand. She had never drunk strong liquor before, but Royston had insisted on it this time to steady her nerves.

  Royston continued, “How did they know you were here so they could send the parcel with the poison bottle in it? Lamb knew, didn’t she? And now we set up a meeting between you and Julia at an art gallery, with Lamb delivering the message, and again our adversaries turn up there. It must be Lamb who gives them information.”

  “No.” Merula shook her head fervently. “I know Lamb. She would never be involved in anything to hurt my family. Especially not me. I helped her with her mother, remember?”

  “Perhaps they are pressuring her to cooperate via her mother. These people might stoop to the lowest means to achieve their aim.” Royston shrugged. “What do we know?”

  He straightened up and paced the room, his hands on his back. “This has to stop. They’re just taunting us. They know everything about us, where we are, what we do, and we know nothing about them. Nothing!”

  Galileo said, “We know they are familiar with butterflies and have access to a collection that holds a death’s-head hawk moth.”

  Merula nodded in appreciation. “Not everybody knows—”

  But Royston cut her off, snarling at Galileo, “The murder happened at a lecture for members of a zoological society. They all know about butterflies, and most of them have specimens in their homes as well.”

  Merula’s shoulders sagged. He was right. The clue in itself meant very little. It was just chilling how it had been done. The killer or an accomplice coming so close to her … She could have slapped herself because she hadn’t noticed a thing. She prided herself on observing people well and drawing inferences from their appearance, but at the exhibition she had been blind. Probably because she had been so distracted by Julia’s emotions and her own. Never before had she felt quite so clearly that Julia was like a sister to her, and the idea of their bond being broken by the current trouble was unbearable. But such feelings were distracting and leading her away from a solution to her problems.

  She exhaled to compose herself and said, “At least Julia is willing to help us with information she can gather better than we ever could.”

  “What can Julia do?” Royston barked. “Foxwell lied to her, I wager, and he will do so again. If she even gets to see him. And other acquaintances, will they want to get involved? The matter is splashed across all the newspapers. No…” Royston shook his head violently. “We are on our own.”

  He halted and looked at her. “We aren’t safe here. We have to leave London.”

  “Where can we go?” Merula felt her cheeks heat as she added, “We can’t pose as a couple as we did this morning. We can’t just pretend to be Mr. and Mrs. Dutton and take rooms somewhere. It would be … highly improper.” So far she had disregarded any concer
ns about her reputation, but if Royston and she were to leave the city to stay somewhere together, she could no longer ignore the implications. She might consider him a friend, a helper she could trust, but to the outer world they were just a man and a woman associating far too freely.

  “I have a place.” Royston stared ahead as if speaking to himself more than to her or the others. “I haven’t been there in years, but I think we can stay there for a few days. We have to resolve the matter as quickly as we can. Nobody will guess we have gone there. It is isolated, so there is no risk of neighbors keeping an eye on us. We just have to make sure we aren’t followed from London. Bowsprit, you get a carriage for us. Make sure you get it from someone who doesn’t know you work for me. There must be no connection. You will be our driver. I’ll explain the route to you. You must make sure we are not followed.”

  Bowsprit nodded as if such tasks were an everyday matter. “I’ll go right now.”

  “Good. We must leave London as quickly as we can.” Royston looked at Merula. “You cannot tell anyone where we are going.”

  “How could I when I don’t know myself? You haven’t mentioned the name of the house or the location.” Merula held his gaze, trying to gauge his mood. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but I don’t know if your family and the servants at your house can be trusted. We have to be extra careful.” Royston glanced at Galileo. “Can you come with us? We might need your chemical expertise, and reaching out to you here would pose an extra risk.”

  Galileo sighed. “I could come for a day or two. I can’t leave my animals for a longer time. I will pack some items that might prove useful.” He began to walk about energetically, collecting equipment.

  Royston nodded and looked at Merula again. “We leave at nightfall.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was a night with a strong silvery moon in a deep-black sky. Merula had lost all sense of place and time as they moved along a winding country road, hearing nothing but the sound of the horse’s hoofs and the wheels rattling as they turned and turned.

  She might have dozed off for some time, until she jerked awake and looked out the window to see the silhouette of an elegant country house. Rubbing her eyes, she asked Royston what time it was. He didn’t reply. In the light of the lantern, his features were grim. The flickering light sparked in his eyes, which seemed to burn with an intensity of their own. In a low voice, he said, “Welcome to Raven Manor.”

  Merula eyed him. “You were named after the house?”

  He shook his head. “Raven is a name well documented in our family line. Dating back to a medieval warlord who rode the land on a big black horse, his garb dark as well.”

  “But this house can’t have been built in medieval times,” Merula said, puzzled. “It is far too elegant.”

  “As was my mother. She didn’t have anything in common with plunder and darkness. If only she had never come here.”

  Royston opened the door even before the coach had come to a full halt and stepped out. Staring up at the house for a moment, he muttered, “We meet again.”

  Then he reached into the coach to help Merula get out.

  Galileo said as he clambered out on his own, “I never knew you owned a place in the country. You sly fox. Must be ideal to hide out at in the summer. Take a friend or two.”

  He was obviously a little piqued that he had never been invited here, but Royston didn’t respond to his light teasing and just stood with the lantern in his hand. In the weak light his expression was suddenly weary, and Merula resisted the urge to touch his arm, draw his attention, smile at him. She had to keep reminding herself that he was a man, used to handling his own affairs, not in need of her support.

  Bowsprit had climbed down to get the luggage and placed it at the steps leading to the house’s front door.

  “I assume you don’t keep servants here?” Galileo asked.

  Royston said, “I don’t think anybody has been here in twenty years.”

  Galileo stared, and Merula felt her own jaw sag. If one had a place in the country to go to when summer turned hot and London was full and oppressive, why not go there?

  Royston produced a key from his pocket and went up the steps to unlock the front door. He then came back to take the luggage inside. Bowsprit took the horse and carriage to the stables.

  Inside the house, a deep silence permeated everything. It was as if she could feel the lack of human habitation. Wherever the feeble light of Royston’s lantern fell was covered with cobwebs and dirt. A door he opened creaked in protest, and a cold draft seemed to pull around them, sending a shiver down Merula’s spine.

  In London they had not been safe, but at least Galileo’s place had been comfortable and cheery, a far cry from this hollow, soulless place. The emptiness that echoed in every footfall on the wooden floors seemed to creep inside her.

  “We’d better go to bed right away,” Royston said. “I’ll show you your rooms.”

  He went up the stairs, holding the lantern ahead of him.

  Merula followed, clutching the damp railing. There were no family portraits here that could stare at her in dark disapproval, but still she felt as if eyes were watching her from the darkness. Even the sound of her own swallowing made her jerk.

  Galileo said behind her back that he wished he had brought his creatures because the place could use some life.

  Upstairs Royston opened a large oak door to their left and showed Merula into a room that hung full of shadows. The bed was covered with heavy blankets, and there were curtains on the windows. Royston tried to pull them shut, releasing a wave of dust into the room. Galileo was lighting the many candle stubs in the room: in a chandelier, on the dressing table, beside the bed. The wavering lights made the room look even more unappealing.

  Merula almost jumped when she saw a pale face in the mirror, then realized it was her own.

  “Whoever lived here all those years ago?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I did.” Royston sounded curt and dismissive. “I grew up here. I’ll get the luggage.”

  Merula looked at Galileo, who made a face at her. “Don’t ask me. He never told me anything about his life, let alone about his childhood. I had no idea this place even existed.”

  Merula didn’t want to be alone, but she knew it was pointless to say it. She ached for company and meaningless chatter, but Galileo couldn’t stay with her, and Royston was obviously eager to avoid her company. She had to get into bed and sleep. If she could at all after that day’s terrifying events.

  Royston brought her case into the room and said, “Sleep well, then.”

  “Are you sure no one followed us?” Merula glanced at the windows. “No one can try to come in?”

  “No one followed us,” Galileo said quietly. “You are quite safe here.”

  Royston looked as if he didn’t share the sentiment, but he turned away from her and walked to the door. “Good night.” Both men left and the door was shut behind them.

  Merula stood in the middle of the room, looking around her. Outside she heard the call of an owl, long and lonely in the darkness. She shivered, walked to the bed, pulled the blankets away, and lay down without undressing. Pulling the damp heavy blankets over her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of the hand that had stuck the death’s-head hawk moth to her dress.

  The same hand that could also have slipped a dagger into her back.

  * * *

  She awoke with a start, certain she had heard a sound at her window.

  Or was it at her door?

  Her heart pounded, and she wanted to crawl under the blankets and burrow a way out of this room, this house, this situation, back into her old life where everything had been normal.

  The sound repeated itself, and she forced herself to stick her head up over the blankets and listen better. It was not at her window.

  At her door, then?

  Was it a signal of someone asking for entrance?

  Royston, havi
ng had a brilliant thought about the murder case?

  As she was still dressed, she slipped out of bed and walked to the door. Most candles in the room had died, but two still spread a feeble light. She put her hand against the wood and called out, “Who is there? Is it you?”

  After a silence, she repeated, “Hello? Raven?”

  She hadn’t called him Raven before, but as she was now a guest in the house he had lived in as a child, their fates inexplicably intertwined by the murder case they were caught up in, it seemed odd to call him Lord Royston or just Royston or anything formal. In the darkness around her, she desperately needed a friend.

  But there was no reply.

  With a deep breath, Merula opened the door a crack and peeked out. The sound seemed to come from farther down the corridor. From one of the rooms there.

  She thought for a moment. It was none of her business what was going on in there and, if she was smart, she’d just dive into bed again and try to sleep some more.

  But how could she sleep in this mysterious place?

  Merula grabbed one of the two candles still burning and walked out of her room, across the corridor, and then to the door from behind which the strange sounds emanated. It sounded like wood being moved across wood.

  She took a deep breath and reached for the door. She turned the knob. She pushed it open and peeked inside. In the middle of the room, a figure stood looking at the opening door. His face was pale, his eyes wide as if he expected to see a burglar with a club.

  It was Royston in shirtsleeves. Around him were many wooden crates, which he was apparently moving about.

  He exhaled and said gruffly, “Almost gave me a heart attack. Must you sneak about in the night like that?”

  “Must you move things around like that? It woke me.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just looking for something.” He reached up and rubbed his forehead.

  Again it struck Merula how tired he looked.