Format: Hardcover, 320 pages
Release Date: March 10, 2020
Publisher: Berkley Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery & Detective / Historical
A Murderous Relation is the 5th installment in author Deanna Raybourn's Veronica Speedwell series.
London, Autumn of 1888; Upon returning from Cornwall, at the urging of Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk, lepidopterist Veronica Speedwell, along with natural historian, explorer, and taxidermist Revelstoke "Stoker" Templeton-Vane, are
swept up in a mystery involving crowned Prince Albert
Victor. Lady Wellie, who believes it is her duty to protect the royal family from scandal and gossip, requests that Veronica and Stoker help Princess
Alexandra of Denmark, Veronica's stepmother due to her marriage to the Prince of Wales.
FYI, the Prince of Wales is Veronica's father but she is considered to be illegitimate and therefore unrecognized by the Royal family led by Queen Victoria. It seems that Veronica's half brother Prince Albert
(affectionately known as Eddy) has been frequenting a club of bad
reputation and has given a expensive gift to the enigmatic owner of the
Club de l'Etoile named Madame Aurore. The scandal that could arise should this information be
made public is astronomical. Alexandra wants Veronica/Stoker to steal back Albert's ring that he's given away.
Lady Wellie is also worried about the Jack the Ripper murders happening in Whitechapel which might also lead back to Eddy. **Prince Albert Victor was the subject of many rumors
while he was alive, and some scholars theorized (later disproven) he
was Jack the Ripper.** Even though Veronica has been treated unfairly by the family, she has always chosen to protect them instead of burying them under scandal after scandal. Veronica's own uncle once tried to overthrow the monarchy for her. The fact that Veronica initially tells Alexandra, then ends up doing it anyway doesn't matter.
Although Raybourn has been teasing Jack the Ripper storyline for a couple of books
now, it's in no way a major part of this story which is too bad. Raybourn focuses on
the women, the victims, rather than placing too much inherent focus on
Jack the Ripper himself. Veronica and Stoker have gained quite the
reputation for sleuthing and surviving against unbelievable odds. They might have to do so again in order to walk away from deadly twists and surprises. They have admirers and adversaries like Sir Hugo Montgomerie Head of Special Branch at Scotland Yard. Sir Hugo and Lady Wellie both consider their most important role is to protect the royal family.
Inspector Mornaday from Special Branch is also a character to keep an eye out for. He's coveted his bosses position for some time now, and ends up right in the middle of Veronica and Stoker's investigation. Intrepid female reporter J.J. Butterworth can definitely be added to the admirers category after this story. Veronica has a decidedly un-Victorian her view of relationships between the sexes, and of the role of women in society which makes her stand out. Between Veronica and Stoker, however, they still haven't yet acted
on the feelings they professed to one another in Cornwall. I liked seeing Veronica interact with Eddy who has been given quite the reputation by historians. Eddy might actually that Veronica is his sister and if circumstances were different,
possibly have an actual familial relationship.
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Chapter
1
London, October 1888
What in the name of flaming Hades do you mean his lordship wants me to officiate at the wedding of a tortoise?“ Stoker demanded.
He
appeared properly outraged-an excellent look for him, as it caused his
blue eyes to brighten, his muscles to tauten distractingly as he folded
his arms over his chest. I dragged my gaze from the set of his shoulders
and attempted to explain our employer’s request again.
”His
lordship wishes Patricia to be married and asks if you will do the
honors,“ I told him. The fact that the Earl of Rosemorran had made such a
request shouldn’t have given Stoker a moment’s pause; it was by far not
the most outrageous of the things we had done since coming to live at
Bishop’s Folly, his lordship’s Marylebone estate. We were in the process
of cataloging and preparing the Rosemorran Collection-amassed thanks to
a few hundred years of genteel avarice on the part of previous earls-in
hopes of making it a proper museum. With our occasional forays into
sleuthing out murderers and the odd blackmailer, we were a bit behind,
and his lordship’s latest scheme was not calculated to improve matters.
”Veronica,“
Stoker said with exaggerated patience, ”Patricia is a Gal‡pagos
tortoise. She does not require the benefit of clergy.“
”I
realize that. And even if she did, you are not clergy. The point is
that Patricia has been quite agitated of late and his lordship has taken
advice on the matter. Apparently, she requires a husband.“
Patricia
had been a gift from Charles Darwin to the present earl’s grandfather, a
souvenir of his travels to the Gal‡pagos, and she occupied herself with
eating lettuces and frightening visitors as she lumbered about with a
disdainful expression on her face. She was as like a boulder as it was
possible for a living creature to be, and the only moments of real
interest were when she managed to upend herself, a situation that
required at least three grown persons to rectify. But lately she had
taken to hiding in the shrubbery, moaning mournfully, until the earl
consulted a zoologist who suggested she was, as the earl related to me
with significant blushes, tired of being a maiden tortoise.
I
explained this to Stoker, adding, ”So his lordship has ordered a
suitable mate and has every expectation that when Patricia is properly
mated, she will be right as rain.“
Stoker’s expression was pained. ”But why a wedding? Tortoises are not precisely religious.“
I
resisted the urge to roll my eyes. ”Of course they aren’t. But Lady
Rose is home just now and overheard her father discussing Patricia’s new
mate.“ I started to elaborate but Stoker held up a quelling hand. The
mention of the earl’s youngest and most precocious child was sufficient.
”I understand. But why am I supposed to perform the ceremony? Why can’t his lordship?“
”Because the earl is giving away the bride.“
Stoker’s
mouth twitched, but he maintained a serious expression. ”Very well. But
whilst I am marrying two tortoises, what will you be doing?“
”Me?“ I smiled graciously. ”Why, I am to be a bridesmaid.“
I
would like to say that a tortoise wedding was the most eccentric of the
tasks to which we applied ourselves during our time in his lordshipÕs
employ; however, I have vowed to be truthful within these pages. Even as
I persuaded Stoker to officiate at reptile nuptials, I was keenly aware
that we were perched on the precipice of a new and most dangerous
investigation. Our previous forays into amateur detection had been
largely accidental, the result of insatiable curiosity on my part and an
unwillingness to let well enough alone on StokerÕs. (He claims to
involve himself in murderous endeavors solely for the benefit of my
safety, but as I have saved his life on at least one occasion, his
argument is as specious as LamarckÕs Theory of Inheritance.)
We
had just emerged from a harrowing ordeal at the hands of a murderer in
Cornwall when we were summoned back to London by Lady Wellingtonia
Beauclerk, Lord Rosemorran’s elderly great-aunt and Žminence grise
behind the throne. For the better part of the nineteenth century, she
and her father had made it their mission to protect the royal family-not
least from themselves. Lady Wellie meddled strategically, and no one
save the royal family and a handful of very highly placed people of
influence knew of her power. She dined twice a month with the Archbishop
of Canterbury and regularly summoned the Foreign Secretary to tea, and
the head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch held himself at her beck and
call. This last, Sir Hugo Montgomerie, was my sometime ally, albeit
grudgingly on his part. He knew, as did Lady Wellie, that my natural
father was the Prince of Wales. I was unacknowledged by the prince,
which suited me perfectly, but my very existence was dangerous. My
father had undergone a form of marriage with my mother-entirely illegal,
as she was an Irishwoman of the Roman Catholic faith and he was
forbidden by law to wed without the permission of his august mother,
Queen Victoria.
”Bertie always was a romantic,“ Lady Wellie once told me with a fond sigh.
”There
are other words for it,“ had been my dry response. Lady Wellie did not
appreciate levity where her favorites were concerned, and my father
occupied a particularly cozy spot in her affections. For that reason,
perhaps, she was sometimes indulgent with me, turning a blind eye to my
unconventional occupation as a lepidopterist. Butterfly hunting was a
perfectly genteel activity for ladies, so long as one was properly
chaperoned and never perspired. But I had made a comfortable living from
my net, traveling the world in search of the most glorious specimens to
sell to private collectors. Even if my parents’ union had been a
conventional one, sanctioned by both church and state, the fact that I
frequently combined business with pleasure-using my expeditions to
exercise my healthy libido-would have made it impossible for the prince
to recognize me officially as his child. That Lady Wellie had, in the
days of her robust youth, indulged regularly in refreshing bouts of
physical congress no doubt influenced her attitude of bland acceptance
to my discreet activities.
In
fact, she had encouraged them on more than one occasion, at least as
far as Stoker was concerned. In spite of his numerous attractions-and
the fact that we were both more than a little in love with one
another-we had hitherto resisted the more primitive blood urges. Stoker
frequently swam in whatever available pond or river provided a chilly
respite, and I submerged my yearnings in rigorous scientific study and
the odd evening spent sampling the collection of robust phallic
artifacts I had been sent by a grateful gentleman who had escaped the
noose thanks to our efforts on his behalf.
But
in the course of our most recent adventure, Stoker and I had cast off
our reticence at last, acknowledging that the curious mental and
emotional bond we shared seemed to comprise a physical element as well.
At least that was how I liked to phrase it. The truth, dear reader, is
that I was as ready for him as any filly ready for the stud. My blood
thrummed whenever he came near, the air crackling between us like one of
Galvani’s electrical experiments. It was a mercy that we had not been
alone in our train compartment on the journey back to London; otherwise,
I suspect the urgent swaying of the conveyance would have proven too
much for my increasingly limited self-control.
Stoker,
as it happens, was possessed of more decorum. Lady Wellie would have
pronounced him a romantic as well, for he insisted that our inaugural
congress must be properly celebrated-to wit, in a bed. A comfortable
bed, he added firmly, with a wide mattress and a sturdy frame and a
headboard that would bear some abuse. I blinked at this last, but
agreed, realizing that time and privacy would be required to fully sate
us both.
The
result was that we arrived back in London in a fever of anticipation,
bickering happily about which of our lodgings should provide the better
setting for our genteel debaucheries. Lord Rosemorran housed us in two
of the follies on his estate, Stoker in a Chinese pagoda, and me in a
miniature Gothic chapel.
”Mine has a wider bed,“ I pointed out.
”Mine
is nearer the Roman temple baths,“ he reminded me. I fell into a
reverie, distracted at the notion of a very wet, very imperfectly
clothed Stoker and the hot, heavy air of the baths with their vast pools
of heated water and comfortable sofas.
”Excellent point,“ I managed.
But
we returned to find that the plumbing in the Roman baths had exploded
modestly, damaging the temple and Stoker’s adjacent pagoda.
”No
worries,“ Lord Rosemorran told him, unaware of our predicament and
therefore jovially oblivious to our dismay. ”I have had Lumley move your
things into the house. You can sleep upstairs. There is a very nice
guest room next door to the night nursery.“
I
spent the better part of that day trying to decide whether Stoker
should break out of the house that night or whether I should break in,
but in the end, the matter was decided for me. Preparations for the
upcoming tortoise nuptials had set the household at sixes and sevens,
and amidst the chaos, Lady Wellie sent for us. We had been summoned back
to London at her insistence. The audacious killer known as Jack the
Ripper had begun a murderous rampage, slaughtering his victims so
brutally that it had caught the nation’s attention-and Lady Wellie’s. We
knew the villain had struck again, two victims in the same night, and
it was this heinous double crime that caused her to dispatch a telegram
insisting upon our return and ending our Cornish adventure.
After
the bracing air of Cornwall, London was a contrast of sooty fogs and
afternoon lamps lit against the early October gloom. Lady Wellie awaited
us in her private rooms, her dark gaze alert. A clock on the mantel
ticked softly, and in the corner stood a large gilded cage in which two
lovebirds chattered companionably. Lady Wellie flicked a significant
glance towards the clock.
”It is about time,“ she said by way of greeting.
Stoker bent to brush a kiss to her withered cheek. She did not simper as she usually did, but her expression softened a little.
”I
do apologize,“ I told her. ”His lordship waylaid us on the way in with
news of alterations in our lodgings, and then we were sorting the
details for a tortoise wedding. Patricia is to be a bride.“
Lady
Wellie’s clawlike hand curved over the top of her walking stick. ”I
know. I was asked to provide her with a bit of Honiton lace for a veil,“
she replied. ”But I have not summoned you here to discuss the latest
family foray into madness. I need your help.“
Lady Wellie was plainspoken by habit but seldom quite so forthright. Stoker shot me a glance.
”The
East End murderer,“ he supplied. ”We read the latest newspapers on the
train this morning. He has a penchant for prostitutes, this fellow.“
”Not
prostitutes,“ she corrected swiftly. ”The newspapers know what sells,
but the most one can say definitively of these unfortunates is they are
women who possibly turn to the trade in moments of necessity. None of
them has been a true professional.“
”Does it make a difference?“ I put in.
”I
imagine it does to them,“ she replied. Her hand flexed on the walking
stick, and I noticed she did not offer us refreshment. Lady Wellie kept
one eye on the ormolu clock upon the mantel as she spoke. For the first
time, I was aware of a taut stillness in the room, something expectant,
stretched on tiptoe. Even the lovebirds fell silent.
She
went on. ”It is still early days in the investigation, but it seems
each of them had a regular occupation-flower seller, hop picker. If they
sold themselves, it was only to make the price of a bed at night or a
pint of gin. When they had need of ready cash and nothing left to pawn,
they exploited the only asset in their possession.“
”Poor
devils,“ Stoker said softly. We lived in luxury thanks to his
lordship’s largesse, but we had seen such women often enough in our
travels about the city. Haggard and worn by worry and poor nutrition,
they were old before their time, their flesh their only commodity.
Whether they used their bodies to labor in a field or up against the
rough brick of an alley wall, every ha’penny they collected was
purchased at a dreadful cost.
Lady
Wellie cleared her throat. ”Yes, well. As you can imagine, the
newspapers cannot contain themselves. They are utterly hysterical on the
subject, whipping up the capital into a fever of terror and
speculation. I do not like the mood at present. Anything is possible.“
She narrowed her eyes, and I filled in the rest. ”You mean republicanism is on the rise again.“
”There
is agitation in every quarter. These journalists“-her voice dripped
scorn upon the word-”are taking this opportunity to stoke resentment
against immigrants, against the Jews, and against the wealthy.“
”Not groups that ordinarily fall in for resentment from the same quarter,“ Stoker observed.
”They
do now. The middle class is perfectly poised to hate in both
directions. They think the lower orders criminal and they fear them even
as they look down upon them. And they resent the rich for not taking
better care of the situation, policing the poor and the indigent.“
I
thought back to the tent city that had occupied Trafalgar Square for
the better part of the year, row upon row of temporary structures
sheltering those who had no other place to go. For months, the indigent
had slept rough, washing themselves as best they could in the fountains,
passing under the gaze of the Barbary lions. There were not enough soup
kitchens and shelters and doss-houses to keep everyone fed and warm,
and it was all too easy to step over some slumbering wretch upon the
pavement and dismiss it as someone else’s trouble to solve.
”The
mood, at present, is dangerous,“ she went on. ”The goodwill from last
year’s Jubilee seems to have evaporated." Queen Victoria, desolate in
her widowhood, had withdrawn from public life, immuring herself in stony
silence at Windsor Castle.
But
it had been two and a half decades since Prince Albert’s death, and the
queen’s unwillingness to show herself to her people had bred annoyance,
which had turned to outright debate about whether a monarchy was even
relevant in modern times. The previous year’s Jubilee had seen the queen
out and about, a rotund little figure swathed in black silk and larded
with diamonds, nodding and waving to the cheers that resounded as her
extended royal clan trotted obediently in her wake in a glorious and
glittering panoply. But a year was a long time in public memory, and
over the winter-the hardest in decades-privation and want had grown so
terrible that all of the warm feeling of patriotism and bonhomie towards
the royal family had melted like ice on a summer’s day.
i saw this one earlier and it looks like a good fit for me
ReplyDeletesherry @ fundinmental