She didn’t make any comment about the situation—it was obvious what happened—but she was also as excited as a teakettle at full steam. “Evaline! You’ve just received a message from Mr. Oligary.” I sighed and pulled to my feet as Florence continued to prattle on. “I do believe the man is becoming attached to you. That makes three days in a row since your first meeting.
“It was flowers the day after New Vauxhall Gardens—it was a shame you had to decline his invitation to the dinner party that night, but one must keep one’s prior commitments. Besides, I believe it’s best that he know how much in demand you are, Evaline. We can’t make it too easy for him. It must be the perfect balance of availability and being in demand, you understand. And yesterday, he came to call and stayed longer than anyone else—even Mr. Broomall. Now today he’s sending you a message—surely it’s another invitation.” She thrust it at me.
Shockingly, she hadn’t broken the seal.
I was, of course, completely aware of everything she’d just said. Including her opinion that I needed to not be particularly available to Mr. Oligary—but I couldn’t dissuade him, either. She’d been saying such things for days. Whenever possible. I’d even dreamed about it. In my nightmare, she’d had a list and kept going through it over and over and over again until I woke with a start.
Listlessly, I opened the invitation. “He’s inviting me to the Yule Fête tomorrow night. He’d like to send a carriage.”
Florence’s eyes grew so wide I thought they were about to explode from her face. “He wants to take you to the Yule Fête? At Cosgrove Terrace? The biggest event of the holidays?”
All at once, she began dancing around the bed, laughing and clapping and even giggling. She was swinging her skirt and petticoats as if she were a little girl.
“Evaline, do you know what this means? Do you realize what a statement he’s making by taking you? Everyone in Society will know that he has serious designs on you if you show up on his arm at the Yule Fête!”
If there was any chance I might have misunderstood the implications, it was gone.
Well, I thought sourly, at least Mina will be happy about me going to Cosgrove Terrace.
Before I could stop her, Florence snatched the message from Mr. Oligary out of my grip. Oh, drat. Things were about to become even worse…
“And he has invited me to come as chaperone! Evaline!” Flo’s blue eyes were bright and filled with tears of joy. Her cheeks flushed pink with happiness. “Good heavens! I’m going to Cosgrove Terrace! I’m going to Cosgrove Ter— Oh my goodness, what am I going to wear?”
With that, she spun from the room, leaving the rest of the invitations in a sprawled mess on my bed.
I looked at Pepper, our eyes meeting in the mirror: mine filled with misery, and hers quiet with understanding.
The wild, downstream situation was feeling more and more out of my control. The river was going faster and faster, and I felt as if I was not only unable to navigate it, but that up ahead was a big waterfall drop-off.
A big drop-off called marriage.
The only good thing—and it was a very small good thing, hardly even worth noting—was that surely Florence would leave me alone. She wouldn’t expect me to do any other social activities today or tomorrow.
She’d be too busy planning our clothing for the Yule Fête.
I was mistaken about one thing.
For the rest of the day and most of the next, Florence was indeed in a tizzy, planning our clothing (and hair and accessories and shoes…) for the Yule Fête. And I was correct—she didn’t expect me to attend or host any social activities between the time we received Mr. Oligary’s invitation and the moment his carriage was due to arrive Saturday evening.
However, I was wrong if I thought I’d be left to my own devices during that time.
No. In fact, I’d hardly had a moment to myself—except when I was sleeping Friday night. And even then, my dreams were filled with the same activities as my day had been: trying on clothing, sampling fabrics, traveling to Bond-street to visit a lace shop, a milliner, and several modistes.
Thus, by the time eight o’clock rolled around on the day of the event, I was desperate for Mr. Oligary’s carriage to arrive. I could hardly wait to be whisked away to the fête. Maybe then I’d have some relative peace.
The carriage arrived precisely at eight o’clock, a full hour before the party was due to begin.
“There will simply be a crush of carriages,” Florence said nervously as we waited upstairs for Brentwood to open the door to Mr. Oligary. It would never do for us to appear eager, or even waiting in the parlor—even though we’d been ready for well over thirty minutes. No, Florence informed me.
We must Make an Entrance.
I didn’t think I’d ever been fussed over, poked and prodded and primped, as carefully and as forcefully as I had been for the last three hours. (That is not an exaggeration.)
I hated to think what I’d be subjected to on my wedding day, if I ever did get married. (Yet another reason for me not to go over that waterfall…)
“We’ll surely be waiting at least an hour in the carriage to get to the top of the line. And, Evaline, you’ve never looked lovelier. I have a good feeling about tonight,” Florence said, carefully smoothing her watered-silk skirt for about the dozenth time. “A very good feeling.”
All at once, my grumpiness faded and was replaced by a surge of affection and guilt. Though I would have happily missed tonight’s ball, the event was a very special occasion for my sister-in-law. She’d never attended anything at Cosgrove Terrace, which was one of the fanciest, most exclusive homes in London. And she’d be mixing with the crème de la crème of the peerage as well—something I didn’t particularly care about doing, but she certainly did. Bram was so busy at the Lyceum in the evenings that he rarely, if ever, was able to escort her to parties or balls. Since I made every excuse to avoid them, poor Florence hardly ever got out.
And, in all fairness, I suppose her anxiousness about the financial situation probably kept her and Bram up at night. If she thought it would soon be resolved by my marriage to a wealthy, powerful man, then no wonder she was so eager—and nervous.
Despite the fact that I felt like a sacrificial lamb going to the slaughter, I could understand her feelings. And because I did love and care about her and Bram, I resolved to stiffen my upper lip and be prepared to do what I must for the sake of my family.
Even if it meant giving up my limited freedom.
Yet even as I made this decision, even though it was made for a selfless reason, my stomach pinched painfully.
Surely there had to be another way.
It wasn’t until we were settled in the carriage with Mr. Oligary that a completely different thought crossed my mind.
The last time I’d been at Cosgrove Terrace, Pix had been there, dressed as a servant. He’d been snooping around (just as I had been doing, although I’d had a non-criminal reason to be doing so).
I couldn’t help but wonder—even hope—whether that might happen again.
Miss Holmes
~ Meanwhile, Our Other Heroine is on
a Runaway Locomotive ~
How extraordinary.
That had been my reaction when, on the day after we’d found Lady Thistle’s body inside her boutique, I received a message delivered to my door shortly after noon.
Due to the late hour in which I’d returned home after our nocturnal adventures, I hadn’t risen from my bed until nearly eleven o’clock. And then, after my toilette, I had been debating whether to visit the British Museum to see whether I could discover when Miss Adler had left and where she’d gone—and whether I should be concerned about her absence—or whether to continue to badger Miss Stoker into trying to obtain an invitation to the Cosgrove-Pitts’ Yule Fête.
It was a pity I wouldn’t be able to find a way to attend. For not only did I want Evaline to try and ferret out a clue—any clue—that could prove Lady Isabella’s identity as the Ankh,
but I also wanted to come face to face with the woman herself now that I knew she knew that I knew for certain she was the Ankh.
I was doing all of this internal debating while in my laboratory, closely examining a second strand of long, dark hair that Inspector Grayling had removed from Lady Thistle’s body—which presumably belonged to the elderly lady’s murderer—when Mrs. Raskill interrupted with the message, which had been delivered. The messenger, she informed me, was waiting for a response.
My first reaction, as I have indicated, was one of shock and delight, tied up with a bit of bafflement—for the message read:
Miss Holmes,
I would consider it an honor if you should agree to be my guest at the Yule Fête to be given at Cosgrove Terrace tomorrow night. If you are in agreement, I shall call for you at quarter past eight.
(Inspector) Ambrose Grayling.
How extraordinary, I thought more than once throughout the rest of the day, and even while I was preparing for the ball.
(Naturally, this was after I’d sent the messenger away with an acceptance of his kind invitation.)
The Yule Fête was not the sort of event I would expect a Scotland Yard investigator to attend—despite the fact that he was “my husband’s cousin’s nephew by marriage,” as Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had once explained.
I gnawed over the implications not only of the surprising fact that Grayling was attending the ball, but that he had invited me to accompany him. I came up with a number of possible explanations for both, including the most likely being he wanted my assistance with the investigation into some case on which he was working—most likely the Hiram Bartholomew/Emmett Oligary incident. Or the Lady Thistle affair. Or perhaps even the mysterious Carnelian Crow establishment, despite his protestations to the contrary.
After all, I was the one who’d received the crow pendant—which Pix had told me to “wear.”
Regardless of the reason for my unanticipated but greatly appreciated invitation, I was going to the fête. Therefore, with the help of Mrs. Raskill (who could be quite a genius when it came to hair and if she was so inclined), I was ready and waiting well before the appointed time on Saturday evening. So when a carriage pulled up out front, I saw no reason to waste time waiting for Grayling to alight, stride up the walk, and knock on my door.
“Good evening, Inspector,” I said as I opened the door and came out to meet him.
He appeared startled by my sudden and brisk appearance. His gait hitched and he halted in seeming confusion only a few steps from the carriage.
“Miss Holmes. Why, there you are. How—er… I expected it would be necessary for me to—mm—wait for you to—er—be ready to leave.”
“As you indicated you’d be here at quarter past eight, I made certain to be prepared to depart promptly at that time. Why on earth would I be so inconsiderate as to keep you waiting?” I asked, breezing past him to the carriage.
When I saw that our mode of transport was a nicely sprung but several years outdated horse-drawn barouche instead of a hackney cab, I immediately deduced that Grayling had somehow managed to borrow it from a friend or acquaintance. To my knowledge, his only form of vehicular transport was that wild steamcycle, and of course it wouldn’t do to arrive at a formal occasion after riding astride on such a thing. He certainly couldn’t afford to own a private carriage—especially with the amount of money he obviously spent on gadgets and devices.
I nodded to the driver, and would have clambered in myself, but Grayling insisted on offering a hand—which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, considering my tendency to catch my feet on everything from petticoats and cobblestones, hat racks and door thresholds, and sometimes even themselves.
As always, it took me far longer to settle into my seat and arrange all the yards of delicate fabric that made up my complicated, glittering evening costume than it did Grayling. When I had finished that task, I looked up and across at him and realized with a start that he looked quite, quite handsome.
Even in the dim light from the lamp that dangled inside the carriage, I could see that he’d shaved closely and carefully, trimmed his dark copper sideburns, and tamed his thick, curling hair into a fashionable style. I could smell the lemon-rosemary remnants of pomade, and noted with appreciation that he hadn’t overused the product like so many other men did, leaving their hair slippery, stiff, or, worse, with remnants of the dried pomade falling off in flakes. (Not that I’d actually touched such overly pomaded hair, but it wasn’t difficult to visually assess such a condition.)
He was wearing a correct black topcoat with tails, and over it a heavy dark gray overcoat I hadn’t seen before. It was made from fine Betrovian wool and looked far too expensive for a Scotland Yard investigator’s salary. Perhaps Lord Cosgrove-Pitt had assisted in his nephew by marriage’s correct attire for this affair. Beneath, Grayling’s shirt appeared to be perfectly starched white cotton, and the waistcoat was a luxurious green and black brocade. His necktie matched the vest, and his gloves were so white they appeared to glow in the drassy light. A satin top hat and copper-fitted walking stick completed his ensemble. From his person wafted the gentle scent of peppermint mingled with the pomade, along with some other essence that I found particularly pleasing…yet I couldn’t define what it was.
As I finished this study of his person, my attention went to his eyes, wherein I discovered he’d been giving me the same close examination. Our gazes met, and all at once I found it difficult to draw in a breath. And though I had meant to say something, suddenly no words came to mind. My mind had gone strangely blank.
“You—er—you look very pretty, Miss Holmes,” he said in a voice that sounded as if a frog had lodged near his uvula. He cleared his throat. “That is to say, particularly lovely. Tonight.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” I subdued a strong compulsion to shift in my seat and fuss with my skirt while looking anywhere but at him. Instead, I gathered my unusually scattered thoughts and said, “Now then, which one is it?”
“Pardon me?”
“Which one? Which case?”
Grayling looked at me as if I were speaking some strange language he couldn’t translate. “I’m afraid I’m not following your question.”
“Which case are we investigating tonight? I deduced that’s why you’re going to Cosgrove Terrace. You must have some sort of clue to follow up on. And of course you are in need of my assistance. Do you have a lead in the Lady Thistle murder? Or perhaps—and, may I remind you, I’ve offered my help previously—it’s the Hiram Bartholomew incident. In fact, Evaline did a bit of investigation on that when she was with Mr. Oligary at New Vauxhall. Perhaps her conversation with him might shed some new light on the subject—you know how witnesses can remember different things later on.” The words tumbled from my mouth like a wild locomotive whose brakes suddenly stopped working as it careened down a mountain. “And I did spend some time in my laboratory examining the hair you discovered on Lady Thistle’s body—the one presumably belonging to her attacker. It is most definitely a real hair, not from a wig. Nor is it horse hair.”
Grayling seemed to be having difficulty finding his words now. “Case. Right. Er…Miss Holmes, I regret to inform you that…och, well…that I had no particular case in mind to investigate tonight. I merely—that is to say—I merely thought it would be pleasant to attend the Yule Fête. With—er—you.”
I blinked.
And suddenly, just as my bedchamber had seemed to shrink in size when he’d gone in to investigate the crow markings outside my window, so did the interior of the carriage all at once become much smaller.
Not in an uncomfortable way, but in a very…aware sort of way. A strangely pleasant way.
“I see. I—”
He rushed on, “I do hope you aren’t disappointed, Miss Holmes.”
“No. No, no, no, I’m not disappointed,” I said quickly, aware that my face had become undeniably warmer. I certainly hoped he couldn’t see what surely must be a bright red tint in my ch
eeks. “Not at all.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” He hesitated, then continued, “After all, we had discussed perhaps meeting at the British Museum to take in the Japanese woodprint exhibit. And when Lady Cosgrove-Pitt insisted I attend the fête tonight, I…well, I thought of you.”
Now my cheeks felt as if they were on fire, and I shifted on the bench seat in an effort to move out of the small circle of light so as to hide the glow beneath my skin. Though it was so bright he probably could see it in the dark. “I am most obliged, Inspector.”
“However,” he went on as his lips curved into a smile (why had I never noticed before what a nice shape they were?), “if you’d like to discuss either the Lady Thistle murder, or the Hiram Bartholomew-Emmett Oligary case and what Miss Stoker might have learned, I do believe we’ll have ample time to do so.”
He gestured toward the carriage window, which revealed the very long line of vehicles leading up to Cosgrove Terrace.
“Right,” I replied, and was relieved to be able to focus on something I fully understood: mysteries. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me as to whether you’ve uncovered any suspects in the death of Lady Thistle. Have you been able to locate Magpie?”
“The individual known as Magpie—apparently her real name is Mary Kay Maggie—hasn’t been seen at the small room she lets for several days. Her two fellow boarders—three of them rent the small room at a boarding house—claim to have no idea of her whereabouts. However,” he added as the carriage lurched forward a few feet, “I was able to obtain a hair from the pillow on which she normally sleeps.”
“And?”
“It is long and dark, and under a hyper-magnifyer, it appears to be identical to the ones found on Lady Thistle’s body.”
“Interesting.” Then I narrowed my eyes. “A hyper-magnifyer? I suppose it’s a new gadget of yours.” I tried not to sound wistful, but am not certain I succeeded.
The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4) Page 14
