An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(18)
“What of the thefts?” Stoker inquired.
“At Hestia’s encouragement, I will of course write to Mrs. Baker-Greene to inform her of the loss of the summit badge,” she said evasively.
“And the rope?” I challenged.
She smoothed her skirts. “There is no need to mention it further.”
“You cannot possibly mean to condone theft,” I began.
“I am not condoning anything because I do not know who has perpetrated this deed and it will profit no one to pursue it,” she pointed out in a too-reasonable voice. “It is out of my hands, Veronica, and the decision has been made. The matter goes no further.” She looked around. “Very tidy,” she said, giving an approving nod. “Your hard work is much appreciated. Now, if you do not mind, I have to leave and I am under orders to permit no one to remain without either myself or Hestia in attendance.”
“You do not trust us alone in the exhibit we are helping to mount?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
“It is not a matter of trust,” she said, moving towards the door. “It is a matter of knowing when to let things be for the greater good.”
She escorted us from the room and locked it firmly behind us, pocketing the key. “Thank you for your assistance today. You have been most helpful.”
“Not as helpful as we might,” I protested, sotto voce. It occurred to me to storm Hestia in her aerie and demand she take the matter seriously, but I did no such thing. To begin with, I had Stoker in tow, and gentlemen were not received in the offices except by prior appointment. And, if I am to be honest, I was distracted and unhappy at the turn of events.
“I am rather put out with Lady C.,” I quibbled as Stoker and I journeyed back to Bishop’s Folly. “I thought she had more spirit than to simply accept a directive from on high. She seems to forget that we are highly experienced in these matters and brushes us aside as if we were kitchen maids! Come to think of it, she might as well have summoned maids to tidy up that mess and I wonder she did not.”
“She needed people she could trust,” he pointed out as he stared at the passing scenery.
“She did not trust us,” I reminded him. “She set us to clearing up and then ordered us out.”
“She trusted us with the truth of the burglary.”
“Until she decided to take orders from Hestia and sweep the whole matter under the carpet,” I said darkly. It was the first time Lady C. and I had even approached a falling-out. We had traveled together the previous year and she had shared confidences with me that I knew she had enjoyed with no other soul on earth. It rankled then that she would not trust me now with something so much less personal.
“I thought we were friends,” I muttered when Stoker did not reply.
He continued to stare out the window, distracted.
I poked experimentally at his ribs, and he jumped a mile. “What in the name of seven hells was that for?” he asked, rubbing at his torso.
“I was abusing Lady C. Your response to that ought to be one of undiluted support for my position.”
“I was friends with Lady C. before you and I were ever acquainted,” he reminded me. “And I happen to think she is right in this case. The Alpenwalders are a notoriously touchy lot. It would no doubt sour relations between our countries to pursue this incident.”
“It is not an incident,” I corrected sharply. “A woman has been murdered and I am apparently the only person who cares.”
He sighed. “We have no proof—”
“Because it was stolen.”
He gave a growl of frustration and reached for me, but I slid to the far end of the seat. “Do not put a hand on me or I will demonstrate for you the Corsican stranglehold taught me by a very nice bandit chief of my acquaintance.”
He gave me a wary look as if he doubted my purpose, but he remained where he was, clearly reluctant to risk my willingness to inflict bodily harm.
“You seemed eager enough for me to put a hand on you at the club,” he said mildly.
“That was different.” My cheeks were hot, beating with blood. “That was when I thought you cared about innocent victims and righting injustices.”
“Or,” he said slowly, “was it when there was a possibility we might be discovered and you found yourself excited by the danger of it?”
I said nothing, keeping my gaze pinned to the seat opposite. He gave a little laugh and settled back in the seat. His hand crept near mine and I slapped it away. He laughed again and when the cab drew to a stop outside the little side gate at Bishop’s Folly, I sprang from my seat, leaving him to pay. By the time he had sorted out the fare and bade the driver farewell, I was halfway to my vivarium. I did not look back.
CHAPTER
6
For the remainder of the day, I busied myself in the vivarium in contemplation of my chrysalides. The butterflies were proving decidedly reluctant to emerge, but I attended the Indian birthwort faithfully, watering it and pruning the odd dead leaf, to ensure a proper food supply when they chose to make their appearance.
When I had finished, I moved on to a special corner where I was nurturing the last of my Malachites. I had secured a very small population of Siproeta stelenes caterpillars from the Iguazu Falls of the Argentine and had guarded them fiercely through their pupation. They had rewarded my care with a brilliant display of color and size, the largest growing to an astonishing four and three-quarters inches, well beyond the average for that particular lepidopteron. They were, as their common name suggests, a pretty shade of green, albeit without the emerald flamboyance of the Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing, one of my personal favorites.