Page 85 of A Grave Robbery
“You mean to use them as teaching aids?”
“Certainly. That is why they were created, after all,” I reminded him. “And these are a particularly fine set. The Marquess of Harwich inherited his brother’s collection and decided to auction them quite inexpensively.”
The notion of using the models for their intended purpose seemed to mollify Stoker, and I decided it was best not to inform him just yet that whilst I promised to instruct the earl’s daughters on anatomy, the tuition of the boys would fall to him.
We returned to our chairs, and Stoker brought a glass of whisky for us each.
We sipped companionably for a moment in silence before I slipped off my shoes, toasting my toes in front of the fire.
“Well, another adventure concluded, and this one most satisfactory indeed,” I said. “Eliza and Julius Elyot will cause no grief to anyone ever again. Mornaday is reinstated with a promotion, and J. J. is in her editor’s good graces. Even Lady Rose is happy with her tamarin,” I added.
Stoker had, as a gesture of goodwill for robbing the child of her waxwork, given her the monkey. I would have laid money on the little creature fleeing from Lady Rose at the first opportunity, but to my astonishment, she was proving a devoted and responsible keeper, feeding her and cleaning her accoutrements with great care. I do not think the creature cared much for the bows she tied into her hair, but she accepted them with the same tired resignation most beings adopted when exposed to Lady Rose’s ferocious energy and will.
“And young Wilfred has proven himself an excellent investigator,” I reminded him. With Plumtree’s burnt, our friend had been at loose ends. He recalled what Eliza had related about the Beauty being taken from the workhouse and had combed through records to find young orphan girls going into service during the time in question. It had cost him the better part of a week to learn her name, but when he had done so, he had ordered a marker for the grave he had put aside for her at Plumfield. We had gathered for her burial, laying flowers as the glass casket was lowered into the ground, consigning her to her final rest. In the spring, when the ground had settled, we would return for the laying of the stone which would be graven with her name. Mary Smith. Whether that was how she was called at birth or the name given her by the orphanage, we would never know. But I thought of Stoker’s remarks upon the failure of dramatic events to happen to young women with commonplace names just the same.
“In short,” I concluded, “all is well that ends well.”
“I suspect Ambrose Despard would have preferred a different ending,” Stoker put in dryly.
Ambrose Despard had not deserved to be murdered in a train car, I reflected. But he had conspired to keep Mary Smith’s murder from the authorities as well as a dozen lesser crimes. I would not mourn him acutely.
“Still,” I said, “we solved the mystery of Mary Smith’s identity as well as unmasking Ambrose Despard’s murderer.”
“Wilfred discovered Mary Smith’s name, and Mornaday and J. J. deserve more credit than we do in identifying Despard’s killer,” he reminded me. “In fact, we bungled this investigation so badly, you began to wonder if we had lost our detectival instincts entirely.”
“Feathers,” I said with an airy wave of the hand. “Even the greatest scientific minds have occasional lapses. Aristotle believed in spontaneous generation. Sir Isaac Newton conducted experiments in alchemy. Even Mr. Darwin’s theories about heredity are untenable—”
“You do not really mean to suggest that you have a better grasp of scientific principles than Charles Darwin,” he cut in.
“Not all of them,” I replied smoothly. “But he is quite wrong about heredity, mark my words.” Before he could argue the point, I hastened to change the subject.
“Isn’t it curious that Mary Smith drowned and in the end came to rest amongst strangers, just like sailors swept overboard? And she has been given a proper burial.” I reached out a hand to touch one glimmering ring of gold threaded through Stoker’s earlobe, remembering what he had told me about the purpose of a sailor’s earring.
Slowly, he slipped the ring from his ear and dropped it into my palm.
“What is this for?” I asked.
“I wore it because my greatest fear was dying alone and uncared for.This bit of gold was my insurance that someone would give me dignity at the end.” His eyes never left mine as he closed my hand around the ring. “But I know now that I will never die alone and unclaimed. I have you.”
I opened my hand again and stared at the golden ring, glowing in my palm and warm still from the heat of his body. I took a silk ribbon from around my neck and threaded the ring onto it, knotting it securely before tying the ribbon back into place. The ring lay in the hollow of my throat, fitting the curve perfectly.
“Yes,” I told him with a smile. “You do.”
It was the first piece of jewellery he had given me, and though there would be other tokens of his affection through the years, none would ever move me quite so deeply as that slender gold ring. I promised myself I would wear it always, and I did—whether in peacefulness, passion, or peril, it was my constant companion through the escapades to come. I had no idea the day Stoker pressed it into my hand what dangers and delights lay before us, but I knew we would undertake them together and with the same indomitable spirit we faced all of our adventures.Excelsior!
