The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Right, then. When you are with Mr. Oligary, perhaps you could do some detective work there as well. Young men seem to fall all over themselves when you give them your full attention, and you could easily get him speaking, I’m certain. It’s quite an advantage, really. You did a remarkable job coaxing information from Mr. Ashton during the spiritglass case.”

  I supposed that was a compliment. “What kind of detective work?”

  “One of Inspector Grayling’s few unsolved cases is that of the accidental death of Mr. Emmett Oligary’s business partner, Mr. Bartholomew. I thought I might—well, since I’m not working on anything else at the moment, perhaps I would offer my assistance with that.” Her face lit up. “Perhaps that was why Inspector Grayling visited my residence. I had previously offered to assist with the investigation about Mr. Bartholomew. He must have intended to take me up on that offer.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. For someone as smart as she was, Mina could be a complete rock-head. “So…what about Mr. Oligary?”

  “Right, then. Perhaps you could attempt to find out what he knows about that night—the night of the accident. That’s how Mr. Oligary the elder got his limp, you know.”

  That task didn’t sound nearly as exciting as digging through Lady Isabella’s house looking for clues. (My pulse was already bumped up from excitement—but that was two days away.) However, Mr. Ned Oligary and I had to talk about something while we were strolling through the amusement gardens. “I’ll do my best.”

  I slid off the stool, and the weight of my bustle and petticoats fell into place. I suddenly felt ten pounds heavier, and not just because of the fabric. “I promised Florence I’d be home by noon.”

  “One more thing.” Mina offered me one of the carnelian crow pendants. “Wear this when you can.”

  “Why? It’s not really my style.” It was too small. And bright red.

  “Wear it.”

  I huffed. But when I left, I had the tiny pendant in my hand.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ A Sparkling Evening ~

  “Miss Stoker, you are very punctual. And you look incredibly lovely.” The warmth in Mr. Ned Oligary’s eyes matched the admiration in his voice when he greeted me at the gates of New Vauxhall Gardens later that evening.

  I admit it—I felt particularly pleased. I normally didn’t much care what potential suitors thought about my looks or attire because I didn’t want to attract their attention. However, Mr. Oligary didn’t strike me as the sort to layer on meaningless compliments.

  He was a more serious person than the type of young man I normally needed to fend off. He seemed more mature (of course, he was nearly thirty, which made him quite a bit older than many of the other potential husbands). And he was different from the other males I encountered at balls and parties—most of them titled “lord” and “sir”—because he wasn’t a member of the gentry. He was from a family that had worked to become wealthy—a fact that most of upper-crust Society looked down upon.

  Perhaps that was why Florence had allowed me to go to the Christmas Lighting Extravaganza at New Vauxhall Gardens with Mr. Oligary, taking Pepper as my chaperone. My maid and one of her friends, Hillie, would be following us at a proper distance, along with Mr. Oligary’s footman.

  I also assumed my sister-in-law was being unusually accommodating in order to make it as easy as possible for Mr. Oligary to fall in love with me and offer for my hand. She didn’t seem to care whether my husband had a title, as long as he had a bulging bank account.

  I wondered if it even mattered to her whether I loved my husband. Whoever he might end up being.

  She loved Bram, didn’t she? Surely she would want the same for me…

  As I slipped a hand through the crook of Mr. Oligary’s arm and back into my fur-lined muff, I caught a glimpse inside the gates of the amusement gardens. I couldn’t contain a gasp. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” I said, quite honestly. Of course, I had seen New Vauxhall Gardens several months ago, but it looked so different decorated as it was for Christmas.

  “But it is only a proper setting for one as lovely as yourself, Miss Stoker. You sparkle as brightly as the lights and candles,” he replied, leaving a puff of white in the frosty air. “I confess, I haven’t looked forward to an outing like this for quite some time. If ever. Thank you again for accompanying me.”

  Despite the chill, I felt my cheeks warm and a small squiggle in my belly when our eyes met. Then I was immediately irritated. He was flirting with me, and I found myself wanting to respond in kind. But I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

  Or did I? I was supposed to be looking for a husband, after all.

  Ugh.

  “It’s rather more cold than I’d anticipated,” he said, “although I see you’ve dressed for the weather.”

  Indeed I had. Somehow, Florence had managed to come up with an incredible ensemble of luxurious pine-green velvet, lush sable fur, and glittering gemstones (probably faux) around the cuffs and hem…and that was just the hooded cloak and muff.

  “Oh, this way, Miss Stoker,” Mr. Oligary said when I began to walk toward the main entrance. “We—er—go in through the private gate here.”

  Right. I should have known. His brother owned the place, so of course we weren’t normal, paying guests. We didn’t have to wait in line, either—a queue that stretched three blocks.

  “As I was saying,” he continued as we approached the small side gate, tucked unobtrusively behind a gas lamp. “It’s rather more cold than I’d anticipated, so I took the liberty of arranging for a more comfortable way for us to view the Lighting Extravaganza.”

  I was hardly listening, for the moment the private door had swung open, I found myself in a wintry world of frosted trees, twinkling lights, and glowing orbs of all sizes. Two women dressed in gauzy, glittering gold offered peppermint sticks to everyone who passed by. A trio of young boys sang a carol just inside the entrance. As I watched, the small platform on which they stood began to carefully trundle along the path. When they passed us, I noticed they were safely enclosed by a railing, though I couldn’t tell how they were being propelled along.

  “Our carriage awaits, Miss Stoker.”

  I turned. There was an elegant two-seater open sleigh fashioned of bronze, copper, and brass scrollwork that made it appear as delicate as a snowflake. A small lamp dangled from the front, casting its own circle of gold. The driver sat beneath it—holding not reins, but a small steering device that looked like it belonged on a bicycle.

  On the back of the horseless sleigh was a neat, comfortable bench seat with a foot rest where Pepper and Hillie could sit comfortably. This arrangement provided the proper chaperonage, but also gave the occupants of the mechanized sled a bit of privacy.

  The footman had already opened the side door, and Mr. Oligary helped me up into the sleigh. I wrangled my petticoats, skirts, and cloak into place, then sank onto a plush, chocolate-colored velvet seat. I immediately realized it was warm.

  Before I could speak, Mr. Oligary climbed in next to me. As the sleigh was hardly the size of a landau, this put him quite close on the bench—a fact that was both slightly disconcerting and exciting.

  “Thank you, Greer,” said Mr. Oligary as the footman produced a thick blanket made from gold-tipped brown fur that settled over our laps like a cloud, but provided immediate warmth. It felt as if it had been pulled from an oven, and I removed my fingers from the muff to burrow beneath the heated covering.

  There was another few moments of activity while the two maids were settled on their bench and buckled in, then also offered a warm blanket (not as thick and likely not preheated).

  “Very good, sir,” said the footman. “Shall we be off?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Oligary, checking his pocket watch—which appeared to have its own illumination. “The extravaganza is to begin in only a quarter of an hour.”

  The sleigh began with the slightest of lurches, and though its self-propellin
g engine was a trifle too loud, the ride was smooth as the vehicle’s blades slid over the snow.

  I settled back in my seat and looked around the amusement gardens, struck with awe. Everywhere I looked were tiny, twinkling golden lights: suspended from trees like streams of glowing raindrops, hanging in curtain-like swaths that were pulled back from the pathway as if to beckon us on through, and dancing in the air on tiny mechanized dragonflies.

  We passed decorative orbs arranged in clusters on the ground. They were as large as carriage wheels, as small as dinner plates, and every size in between. Each was illuminated from within by a coppery, silvery, golden, or bronzy glow. Many of them moved, rolling along gently, shivering, or even spinning in their place.

  There were more singers along the way, in trios, quartets, and even a quintet. When our trail ended in a T-intersection, an actual piano was sitting in the middle of the snow! It was being played by a man wearing a black topcoat and tailcoat, as well as black gloves. An array of candles in golden glass bottles hung from the tree just above the musician and instrument, creating a sort of glittery canopy over his head.

  “The Lighting Extravaganza is this way,” Mr. Oligary commented as the sleigh turned to the right.

  I could see the shadowy shape of Oligary’s Observation Cogwheel and its suspended carts in the distance in the opposite direction, and I had a pang of disappointment we weren’t heading in that direction. It would be an amazing sight to ride in the massive wheel and look down over the glittering carpet of gold, bronze, copper, and silver lights.

  “But the lights have already been lit,” I said as the view before us in this new direction turned into a wonderland of frosted silver and white forestry. Either side of the path was studded with a row of identical saplings (they might have been artificial, they were all so perfect), painted white and gilded with matching glitter. Each was decorated with a dozen lit candles, and topped by a silvery-white star. Swaths of sparkling fabric were strung in wide, filmy garlands across the path above our heads. The scents of pine and burning logs were strong, and I suspected they were somehow being piped into the air to add to the atmosphere.

  “Oh, you’ve not seen the best of it,” Mr. Oligary told me with a smile. “This is just the introduction. The best part will be turned on during the Lighting Extravaganza. See?” He lifted his gloved hand to point off to the right.

  I looked and saw that he was correct: the area was dark and shadowy, unlit and unremarkable. As we drew closer, however, I could hear the low rumble of voices and make out the crowds of people that gathered in the drassy area.

  Good heavens. There were already so many people here, and there were still three blocks’ worth of others waiting in line to get in. I also realized there would be an entrance fee for each of them.

  Mr. Emmett Oligary was going to make a great amount of money tonight.

  A little niggle of frustration clawed at my insides. So much money here, and my brother and sister-in-law were struggling to keep a roof over our heads. If the Lyceum Theater could have a third of the people gathered here tonight for only one performance, things would certainly turn around for the Stoker family.

  And I wouldn’t have to think about giving up my life.

  The sleigh eased into an area in the shadowy section that had been cordoned off—like a box at the theater for the higher-paying guests.

  “Greer,” Mr. Oligary called as soon as the driver had turned off the mechanism.

  “Yes, sir?” Greer extinguished the small lamp dangling from the front of the sleigh, eliminating even that bit of light from the area.

  “Please bring the girls on the back any refreshment they might want. Miss Stoker, would you like a beaded hot chocolate? Or a peppermint froth? I believe there is tea as well.”

  I had no idea what a peppermint froth was—or a beaded hot chocolate, for that matter—but I didn’t care. I never turned down chocolate anything. “Yes, please. A hot chocolate would be very nice.”

  Mr. Oligary nodded at Greer, who nodded in return, then moved around to the back of the sleigh to ask Pepper and Hillie what they wanted.

  “Now we wait,” Mr. Oligary said to me, shifting so he was angled slightly toward me as if he were preparing to converse. Our knees nearly brushed, and I felt a bit of a draft from where he’d been so close to my arm a moment ago, but I was not the least bit uncomfortable. “The Lighting Extravaganza isn’t due to begin for another…eight minutes.”

  The drinks arrived almost immediately, however—perhaps Mr. Oligary had had it prearranged. I wasn’t complaining at all, and when he handed me the bowl-sized cup, I took it eagerly.

  “I’ve never seen a cup of hot chocolate—or any other cup—this size,” I said, inhaling a breath of pure chocolate. “It smells heavenly.”

  “It tastes heavenly too.” He sipped—he’d received a peppermint froth—and I followed suit, getting a large taste of whipped chocolate cream before I even got to the beverage itself. “It’s… What are those little crunchy things in the cream?”

  “Yes—those are the vanilla and cinnamon ‘beads.’ They’ll dissolve and flavor the chocolate, or you can just crunch them if you like. The chef wanted to try something different for tonight.” Mr. Oligary used a handkerchief to brush away a bit of minty cream that clung to his mustache, then used a very long, corkscrew-shaped peppermint stick to stir his beverage.

  We enjoyed our drinks for a moment, then my companion said, “Emmett mentioned that you were involved in the scare with the Princess of Betrovia that night at the ball. He said you and your friend—Miss Holmes, was it? Is it true she’s the detective’s niece?—were quite helpful in calming her down.” He smiled again, and his eyes seemed to twinkle in the dim light. “The princess, I mean. Not Miss Holmes.”

  “Mina—Miss Holmes—and I were showing Princess Lurelia around London during their visit, so we were familiar to her. I’m certain that helped ease her mind.”

  I was glad Mr. Oligary had brought up the subject of his brother so I didn’t have to. I didn’t want to sound like I cared about his family’s money—which I suppose I did (or, rather, Florence did)—by asking about his rich brother. But Mina wanted me to find out what I could about Emmett Oligary’s partner’s death. I would rather seem gauche by asking prying questions than face Mina’s wrath by not at least trying to get information. After all, she still groused about me not interrogating the UnDead before I staked them.

  “I heard about the tragedy that caused Mr. Oligary’s limp,” I said, ignoring the fact that it was really stretching the bounds of propriety to mention it so bluntly. “Is it true he was injured while trying to save his partner’s life?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Hiram was working late one night—I believe he and Emmett were considering a plan to bring electric machinery into one of their factories—”

  “Electric? But isn’t that dangerous? And I thought Mr. Bartholomew’s name was Edgar. Are there two Mr. Bartholomews?”

  “Right. Yes. Er, no. His name was Edgar Hiram Bartholomew. But having a partner named Emmett, he generally went by Hiram. Except my brother often called him by his given name. Which created some confusion of its own.”

  By now, the two other sleighs that had been pulled into the cordoned area were filled with people. It was too dim for me to tell whether I recognized any of them, but I was certain Mr. Emmett Oligary was one. Surely he’d want to watch the festivities—unless he was managing the lighting himself.

  “Your brother and his partner were considering an electric machine?” I said, realizing I was actually curious about the story now.

  “This was before Moseley-Haft, you understand. In fact, it was this catastrophe that changed my brother’s mind from embracing electricity to realizing the dangers of it. You might not be aware that Emmett was instrumental in getting Lord Moseley to sponsor the bill that outlawed electrical power in England. And then there was the matter of bringing Mr. Haft on board—ah, but I’m certain the inner workings of politics is not the
most exciting topic for you, is it, Miss Stoker?” He gave a little laugh.

  He would be correct. If Mina were here, she might be interested. But not me. I wanted to hear about the actual tragedy. Oh, not because someone died, but because Mr. Oligary had clearly been heroic, and I would rather hear about that than the details of some old, rich men making laws in their offices.

  “What happened? How did Mr. Oligary injure his leg?”

  “As I said, Mr. Bartholomew was working late. He’d had a meeting with a representative from Boston, I believe it was. Or maybe New York? I can’t recall. Someone from the Edison family from over there, who was a proponent of electrical power and would help set up the electrical system we needed. And there I go again—giving too many details.”

  If Mina were here, she’d be kissing his feet and begging for more. As such, I knew I had to be patient and try to remember everything he was saying. It was too bad there wasn’t such a thing as a small recording device so I didn’t have to.

  “No one is quite clear on what happened in the meeting, but obviously things went badly. My brother, who was returning to his office—which was down the hall from Hiram’s—to pick up some work he’d forgotten when he went to a dinner meeting, heard a loud disruption from down the hall. The way he described it, the noise was like a large fish, flopping about on the floor as if it had been pulled from the water.

  “Emmett rushed down the hall and burst into Hiram’s office to find his partner being—well, there is only one way to describe it: being electrofied.”

  “How terrible!”

  “Emmett still can’t talk about that moment without turning pale gray,” Mr. Oligary said with a frown. “He tried to disconnect Hiram from the machine—he was vibrating and flopping all over, as if he were having a seizure. It appeared he had fallen into or against the machine, with all its wires poking out. Some of them were lying against his skin, burning into it or poking in it, and— Oh, dear—Miss Stoker, I’m sorry.” His voice rose a little, then eased. “Forgive me for being so—so insensitive. You surely don’t need those sordid details. I apologize.”