A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(75)

“Men have killed for less,” I agreed grudgingly. “But would he really murder his uncle’s bride just to preserve his place in the succession?”

Stoker shrugged. “He might. We do not yet know enough of his character.”

“We know some,” I replied. “He is passionate, resentful, impulsive—qualities I rather like, if I am honest—and not entirely trustworthy when it comes to money, I suspect.”

“I’ll grant you the first three, but how can you possibly know the last?”

“Because the little blackguard still owes me a pound.”



* * *



? ? ?

Without ever quite discussing it, we somehow found ourselves walking down to the village. The atmosphere of the house had become oppressive, and the late-morning weather had taken a turn for the dramatic, the sea winds whipping color into our cheeks and the falling temperature causing us to walk quickly, drawing in great drafts of fresh, brisk air.

“That’s better,” Stoker said, breathing deeply.

“The air here is different. Do you feel it?” I asked.

He stopped and breathed again, slowly, savoring the salt-tinged scent. “It smells of the sea, like any island. And apples from the orchards. And something else, something cold and mineral, like flinty wine.”

I nodded and we set off again. Something tight within my chest eased a little. We had a mystery to solve, and such a quest never failed to bring out the best in us. As the temperature dropped and the seas swelled, my mood rose, as did Stoker’s. He began to recite poetry as we walked, lines from Keats:


Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine

Than mine host’s Canary wine?

Or are fruits of Paradise

Sweeter than those dainty pies

Of venison? O generous food!

Drest as though bold Robin Hood

Would, with his maid Marian,

Sup and bowse from horn and can.



“Is there any occasion for which you cannot find a poem from Keats?” I asked as we neared the Mermaid Inn.

“Of course not,” he replied happily. “It was one of the greatest discoveries of my life when I learnt that Keats was a man for all seasons and all situations. There is not a person, a feeling, a moment, that Keats did not address.”

I stopped to face him. “He has no poem to fit me,” I challenged.

He grinned, a devilish expression that nearly robbed me of breath. “Of course he has. ‘I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.’ ”

“‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’?” I demanded. “That is how you see me? A beautiful woman without mercy who kills her lovers?”

He tipped his head with a thoughtful look. “’Tisn’t so much that she kills them. I think it’s more that she isn’t terribly fussed when they die.”

“Of all the—” I broke off when I saw the unholy glint in his eye. “You are in an unaccountably buoyant mood.”

“I am near the sea,” he said simply. I remembered then how many years of his life had been spent aboard ships, first of Her Majesty’s Navy, and then of his own expedition as he traveled to Amazonia in search of undiscovered species and perhaps a little glory as well.

I glanced to the sign above the door, the lascivious mermaid with her hands cupping her breasts and beckoning the weary traveler. “I wonder if you ought to go alone,” I suggested. “Mother Nance might be susceptible to your masculine charms. You could ask her about Rosamund and perhaps unearth a little local gossip.”

He laughed. “For all your knowledge of men, you still haven’t discovered that we are by far more prone to gossip, only we call it telling tales. I will put on my manliest demeanor and speak to the fishermen in the taproom. You can convene a coven meeting with the old woman and discover what she knows.”

He turned to open the door and I put out my tongue behind his back. He would enjoy a few pints of the delicious and potent local cider and some decidedly manly talk while I was forced to sit by the hearth and engage in ladies’ prattle. I longed to be amongst the men, but I understood his point. He was one of them, work roughened and stalwart for all his elegant vowels and good breeding. They would talk to him where they would not to a woman, no matter how engaging she might be.

Mother Nance welcomed me into her parlor with no sign of surprise. “I’ve just put the cider on to warm. The lads drink it cold, but I think a bit of warmth is just the thing on a day like today. Put a little heat in your bones, it will,” she promised. I looked to the hearth, where two copper tankards were standing expectantly.

“You anticipated company?” I asked as I took the seat she indicated.

She slanted me a look that might have been chiding under other circumstances. “I anticipated your company, my dear.”

I made no reply to that—there seemed no possible reply to make—so I sat in silence until she had warmed the cider. She snapped a cinnamon stick in two, dropping a piece of the bark into each of the tankards, followed by a pair of cloves she cracked upon her teeth. When the cider was sufficiently hot, she poured it carefully over the spices and added a slender thread of dark golden honey.