A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

I passed through the gate and onto the path to the castle. I returned the way I had come, up the path that wound from terrace to terrace, each forming a little wooded place or patch of wilderness. As I moved through the last copse, the sunlight faded, replaced by thick grey cloud and a mist that seemed to materialize from nowhere at all. One moment I was walking jauntily through damply dappled woods, the next I was surrounded by wisps of incoming fog.

“Bloody islands,” I muttered. The path before me was obscured as the cloud rolled in, smothering sound and stifling even the shrieks of the gulls. They sounded faraway now, and eerie, as if they were crying, and I shook myself free of the fanciful notion that they were shrieking a warning.

Even as I told myself there was absolutely nothing to fear, I heard a footfall upon the path. It was the unmistakable sound of a boot upon the gravel, and then another, and still another, coming closer to me. Someone was walking up from the village, and I had a sudden, thoroughly ridiculous urge to run.

“Don’t be so missish,” I told myself firmly. I walked with deliberation back towards the castle. But the prickling feeling between my shoulder blades returned. The footsteps did not stop. They sounded, each a little louder than the last, and in between, the gulls shrieked their muffled screams.

I quickened my steps. Surely whoever was behind could hear me as well? I had made no effort to disguise my presence. They must know I was there, and yet there was no greeting, no friendly hail through the mist. I stopped sharply, and the footsteps stopped as well. There was no sound except the beating of the blood in my ears. Even the gulls had fallen suddenly silent.

My mouth went dry and my hands dropped instinctively to my wrists. It had long been my custom when walking abroad to stick my cuffs with minuten, the tiny headless pins of the lepidopterist’s trade. Useful for mounting specimens, they were equally useful for fending off unwanted attentions. Unfortunately, I had left the little box of them in my room along with the knife I habitually carried in my boot. That had been a gift from Stoker—a souvenir of one of our murderous little adventures—and I had had recourse to use it once in defense of his life. I almost never went without it, but something about this peaceful little island had lulled my defenses. Even my hatpin was not to hand, for I had worn a modest cap instead of my usual enormous brimmed affairs. I had nothing except my wits and my courage, I realized, and I intended to make the most of them.

I set off again, quickening my pace further still. I must have caught my pursuer off guard; the footsteps did not resume until I had gone a little distance. But then I heard them, coming on, faster now. I looked ahead to where the orchard wall stood atop the next terrace. It was above the mist. If I could reach it, I could see clearly who was behind me, closing the gate if need be. I had noticed on my way down that the key was in the lock.

I stopped in my tracks. Mertensia was in the garden by the orchard. If I was being followed by some sort of miscreant bent upon bad behavior, I would be leading him directly to where she was, possibly endangering her as well. There might be safety in numbers, I reflected, but I would not have it said that Veronica Speedwell was afraid to fight her own battles.

Hardly realizing what I was doing, I whirled upon my heel, hands fisted as I raised my arms and unleashed a Viking berserker battle cry and launched myself down the path, directly at my pursuer. There was a flurry of activity, limbs entangling as we went down. Somehow my pursuer got the upper hand and landed atop me, driving the air out of my lungs as I fell. He was a weighty fellow and I shoved with a massive effort, but could not dislodge him. I drew back my knee and rammed it upwards, earning a howl of pain and outrage for my efforts.

“Unhand me or I shall tear you apart like hounds on a fox!” I demanded with the last of my breath.

“I should bloody well like to see you try,” came a familiar voice in a low, grating growl. He gave a great shudder and rolled off of me and onto all fours, panting heavily. I struggled to my knees and whooped air into my lungs. When I could speak again, I used one of his favorite oaths.

“Stoker, will you kindly tell me what in the name of bleeding Jesus you are doing here?”

“Returning to the castle, obviously,” he said as he staggered to his feet. “Until you decided to assault my person. Really, Veronica, what on earth possessed you?”

“I thought you were a criminal assailant,” I admitted. “You ought to have declared yourself.”

“To whom?” he demanded. “I had no idea you were here. That wretched fog is obscuring everything.”

“I heard you plainly enough,” I told him. I was unsettled by coming upon him so unexpectedly. We had left things so badly fixed between us that I could hardly anticipate a cordial conversation, and the knowledge irritated me. “Why have you come back on your own? I thought the gentlemen of the party were taking a grand tour of the island together.”

“Yes, well, one can only admire so many lumps of rock before a quarry grows tiresome. I decided to explore the village instead. I had a pint with the innkeeper and then the blacksmith and his apprentice and a brace of farmers turned up for a little refreshment.”

“The innkeeper? I suppose you mean Mother Nance? She might have warned me you were lurking about the village. And you must be the pirate her grandson told