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

by Colleen Gleason

  He grinned, which had the pleasant effect of making his eyes light up and attractive crinkles appear at their corners. There was even the hint of a dimple in one cheek. “Indeed. It’s quite extraordinary, and I’ve found it immeasurably helpful when studying crime scenes. Perhaps you’d like to try it out yourself, Miss Holmes. You could compare the hair you’ve been examining to the other two.”

  I beamed back at him as my cognoggin heart gave a pleasant little thump. “Would tomorrow be convenient?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” he replied. “Any time you like. I can meet you at my office. Angus would be delighted to see you as well.”

  “I’ve become rather fond of the little beast,” I confessed.

  We smiled at each other for a moment before I realized it.

  “And as to the other cases?” I prompted. “Perhaps we should discuss them. The Bartholomew-Oligary affair?”

  “Clearly you’ve previously familiarized yourself with that incident.” By the way he was looking at me with an exasperated and almost affectionate expression, I realized he was referring to the time I’d nearly been caught digging through the files he kept in his office desk.

  Drat. I didn’t think he’d noticed. But if he had, he then knew that I knew he also had a file called “The Individual Known as the Ankh,” as well as “The Possible Evidence of Vampires in London.” Which meant he knew more than I thought he did.

  And then there was the file I had decided I would never mention—the one named “Melissa Grayling.” His mother, whom he’d found stabbed to death when he was nine.

  “I am aware of the particulars of the Bartholomew case, yes,” I replied blandly. “My understanding is there is an individual known as Edison Smith who is the prime suspect for what happened in an electrical accident.”

  “That is correct. Mr. Oligary is certain Smith had something to do with the accident—and that it wasn’t an accident after all, but a business deal gone bad. But the man seems to have disappeared. No one has seen him since then, and it’s been nearly four years.”

  “Do you have any leads on his whereabouts? One would assume if he were involved in such an accident—if it was truly an accident—he would have returned to America as expediently as possible.”

  “One would assume.” Then Grayling frowned. “Did you say Miss Stoker was with Mr. Oligary? That seems… Well, he is quite a bit older than she.”

  “Miss Stoker was with Mr. Ned Oligary—the younger. He appears to be courting her, and I anticipate seeing both of them here at Cosgrove Terrace tonight.” I sighed, suddenly reminded of the unpleasant reality my colleague faced. “It’s become apparent that Miss Stoker is going to be required to marry very soon. She is not at all pleased.”

  “Required? Pardon me for saying so, Miss Holmes, but it sounds as if you disagree with that—er—necessity as well as Miss Stoker.”

  “I should say I do.” I realized my tone was rather sharp, but I saw no reason to hide my feelings. “Miss Stoker has no desire to wed, and neither do I.”

  “You don’t?”

  I hardly heard his faint, shocked response, for my locomotive was barreling along once again. “There might be some women who wish to marry and have a family and manage a household, but I have other things I intend to do, such as solve murders and investigate crimes and—and any number of interesting things. Travel. Experiment. Perhaps go on an archaeological dig.

  “A husband would only be a nuisance. And Miss Stoker is of the same mind. Inspector Grayling, once a woman is wed, she is no longer considered her own person. She belongs to her husband, who is able to make all decisions for her: where she goes, what she does, how much money she can spend—even if it’s her money—and on what. She’s expected to sit at home and accept callers in the parlor and serve them tea and biscuits, and to wear clothing that is more restrictive than a yoke or horse bridle, and to have no thoughts of her own about politics or science or law or—or anything. She—”

  I stopped suddenly when I observed his stunned expression. Clearly, I’d rendered him speechless and, most likely, utterly appalled at my point of view. Not that I cared about his opinion, when it came down to it.

  And then there was the fact that Dylan Eckhert had told me that in the future, in the twenty-first century, women were free to do whatever they wished and when—and that they’d had the vote since the early twentieth century. I knew I was just a hundred years before my time.

  If I had hoped a man of my time might understand my opinion and feelings, I was bound to be disappointed—as was evidenced by the baffled expression on Grayling’s face.

  “I see,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I’d never thought of it quite that way.”

  “Most men haven’t, I venture to say,” was my dry retort.

  I might have continued my lecture, but at that moment, our carriage pulled up to the main entrance of Cosgrove Terrace.

  “Miss Holmes,” Grayling said when I made a move to scramble to my feet unassisted, “you might not be in need—or in want—of a husband, but you might nonetheless wish to avail yourself of some leverage while disembarking from the carriage. I would hate to see your lovely gown tear or otherwise be ruined.”

  He’d risen and now loomed over me in the low-ceilinged carriage as he edged toward the door, which had been opened by the Cosgrove-Pitts’ footman.

  “Of course,” I said, mildly embarrassed at my show of overeagerness. “Thank you, Inspector.”

  His hand was, as always, strong and steady as he helped me down. He waited patiently while I collected all of my hems, ruffles, and gathers and made certain they fell into their proper arrangement beneath my cloak.

  Then he offered me his arm and we walked up the broad expanse of stairs that led to the front entrance of the house. The previous time I’d come to Cosgrove Terrace had been in June, and the Roses Ball had taken place on the rear of the house, where an entire wall had been opened so the party could spill out onto a terrace.

  As it was winter, and a brisk, cold evening being sprinkled with fat snowflakes, this fête would obviously take place inside.

  As we waited in line to be announced by the butler, Grayling assisted me in divesting myself of my cloak, and saw to it that we received a tag for both pieces of our outerwear. The tag was a number that would be typed into the automated coat-check machine that clicked through to the proper location and retrieved the garments, rather than having maids and footmen digging through piles of clothing at the end of the night.

  “Miss Alvermina Holmes and Inspector Ambrose Grayling,” announced the butler.

  I groaned inwardly at the use of my formal name, and glanced at Grayling, who, thankfully, didn’t seem to be offended by it. Nor did anyone else in the grand spread of the ballroom ten steps below us seem to notice or care. The noise from the crush of people was deafening, and I didn’t see how anyone would be able to make their way across the room with it being so tightly packed.

  Despite the roar of conversation, exclamations, and laughter, however, one smooth, throaty voice did reach my ears as Grayling and I stepped away from the butler.

  “Ambrose! You did make it…and you’ve brought a guest. Why—Miss Holmes, is it?”

  As my heart beat rapidly and my insides churned, I turned to face Lady Cosgrove-Pitt…also known to me as the cunning villainess the Ankh.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Our Two Heroines in a Night of Déjà Vu ~

  I thought I’d misunderstood when I heard the butler announce “Miss Alvermina Holmes and Inspector Ambrose Grayling,” but when I turned to look, there they were.

  Apparently she had wrangled herself an invitation after all. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mina was not one to be thwarted in her desires.

  “Evaline, look!” whispered Florence as she elbowed me in the ribs. “Those wreaths on the walls are made from fur! And did you see the tables of food? They’re longer than Fleet-street!” She hit me in the exact same place she’d done thrice already. I woul
d have a bruise that even my Venator vampire-hunting blood couldn’t immediately heal.

  Fortunately, Mr. Oligary had stepped away for a moment to fetch us something to drink, for Florence hadn’t stopped gawking and whispering since we’d arrived. She was beginning to embarrass me.

  Not that I could blame her. I was probably gawking a little myself—and so was everyone else in the room. The Yule Fête had turned the inside of Cosgrove Terrace’s high-ceilinged ballroom and dining room into a stunning, glittering blue-and-white forest.

  Pine trees of every shape and size had been brought in and draped with silver and blue tinsel. The scent of evergreen was so thick in the air that poor Miss Hasherby was sneezing uncontrollably. But a bit of discomfort was not about to keep her from the Event of the Year, so she put on a brave—if not red-nosed and watery-eyed—face and kept a handkerchief in her hand.

  Tiny blue lights twinkled from icy white bunting strung along the trio of balconies that overlooked the ballroom. More swaths draped overhead, creating a cloudlike, silvery canopy above us. Delicate ice-blue tapestries fluttered softly on every wall, fringed at the top and bottom with a darker shade. A huge ten-foot wreath made from white feathers and snowy fur hung in front of each tapestry. Elegant tree branches painted silver arched over every doorway and alcove, and were strung with matching round ornaments.

  More blue and white sparkled beneath our feet, for a clear glass covering had been laid over the permanent bleached pinewood floor. This revealed a spiral of flickering sapphire lights that glowed from below, frosting the bottom of each gown and pair of trousers with icy blue. I stared down at it for quite some time before I realized each light was a candle inside a blue glass holder. I couldn’t begin to imagine the cost and labor associated with only installing the floor!

  Mechanical snowy owls with huge sapphire eyes flew silently from tree to bunting to balcony, somehow either invisibly wired or currently managed by some unseen hand.

  There was more…so much more. Everything was ice blue and silver: the livery of the servants (I looked carefully at each footman I passed, hoping to recognize Pix beneath some obscure disguise), the trays (silver), the goblets (filled with some fizzing blue beverage), the orchestra (the piano and violins were white; the flutes and trumpets were silver; the musicians were dressed in sapphire).

  Even the food: vanilla-white macaroons, tiny blue frosted cakes no larger than a whole walnut, bite-sized pyramids that I discovered were cheesecakes coated with silver fondant. I also saw plates of blue cheese and pale crackers adorned with blueberries, as well as some other biscuit-like items I was told were blue corn cakebread. They were apparently brought from Mexico.

  “Where on earth did they find blueberries in December?” Florence whispered.

  I didn’t know, but before I could respond, Mr. Oligary had returned. He was carrying a fancy metal contraption. It had four silver champagne flutes securely fitted into place at their tops, which kept them safe from the constant jostle of elbows and shoulders.

  “One for each of you,” he said, carefully detaching them to present Florence and myself with a glass of champagne (champagne!), “one for me, and an extra for— Ah, isn’t this your friend Miss Holmes?”

  But I had already seen her, as she barged her way through the crowd with Grayling in her wake. As most always happened, I was immediately struck by the absolute gorgessity of her ensemble.

  For one who was so completely cloud-headed when it came to feminine wiles and social engagement, Mina Holmes had a shockingly flawless sense when it came to fashion. I supposed that was one thing she’d acquired from her mother Desirée.

  The best way to describe her gown was a froth of gold and copper. Though it was a winter ensemble, everything about it appeared light and airy—putting one in mind of a golden snowflake. It was made from layers of some crisp, shiny fabric I couldn’t identify but that made me think of thin, golden ice, along with tulle sprinkled with sequins that peeked from the petticoats beneath, as well as between the layers of ice fabric.

  Lush, almond-colored fur edged the bottommost hem of her underskirt and the gossamer wrap she’d draped across her throat, which dangled behind over each shoulder. There was a cunning little train that cascaded behind her, which was probably just asking for trouble when it came to Mina Holmes and her ability to trip and catch over nothing but her own two feet. Though I couldn’t see them, I guessed she was wearing shoes with slender gold or bronze heels (again, not a good idea).

  Her hair, already golden brown with glints of copper and bronze in it, matched the dress and was piled in a lovely array of curls at the top and back of her head. She wore an evening hat of almond fur, which was decorated with copper roses, gold mums, and a wide bronze velvet ribbon. Her gloves were a matching bronze velvet, covering her from upper arm to their fingerless tips. Tiny seed pearls and topazes glittered from all over her heart-shaped bodice, which was partially covered by a Street Fashion over-corset.

  “Evaline,” she said abruptly, “you look very nice. I must speak—”

  I laid a hand on her velvety glove and squeezed, quite firmly, to silence her. “Miss Mina Holmes, may I introduce you to Mr. Ned Oligary. Mr. Oligary, please meet Inspector Ambrose Grayling of Scotland Yard. Inspector, I’d like to make my sister-in-law Florence Stoker known to you as well.”

  “Of course Grayling and I have met,” said Mr. Oligary. “He’s the detective on the case regarding my brother’s business partner’s murder.” He gallantly offered the fourth flute of champagne to Mina.

  She didn’t seem to notice, she was so intent on getting my attention and dragging me off. Fortunately, Grayling rescued the glass before she knocked it out of Mr. Oligary’s hand.

  I had a brief moment to admire how nicely Inspector Grayling was presenting this evening, and what a handsome couple the two of them made—and how he couldn’t take his eyes from her—before Mina said, “Please excuse Miss Stoker and myself for a moment,” and hustled me away.

  “Blooming Pete, Mina, what is wrong with you?” I said, while managing to avoid her stomping on my foot. Then my eyes widened. “Is it Pix? Did you see him here?’

  “Pix? No, of course not. Don’t be silly, Evaline,” she replied. “What would he be doing here? I saw Lady Isabella.”

  I lifted my eyebrows then spoke slowly, as if leading a child. “It’s her fête.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. “It’s— Something’s going to happen tonight. She practically told me so.”

  My skepticism evaporated. “What did she say? What do you think is going to happen?”

  “I have no dratted idea. But it was the way she looked at me as we came through the receiving line. And she pretended not to be certain of my name. ‘Miss Holmes, is it?’ she said—as if she’d never met me before and wasn’t quite aware of my identity. Which is complete rubbish, of course. She knows precisely who I am.”

  Mina was quite steamed, and I avoided a stray elbow as she continued on. “Then she took my hand and leaned toward me, saying very softly, just so I could hear, ‘I’m so very glad you’re here tonight. It’s going to be a very triumphant evening.’”

  I waited for more, but she’d stopped speaking. (A triumph in itself.)

  “All right,” I said after a moment of Mina staring at me with fish eyes, as if she expected me to whip out a stake or some other weapon and go charging off to fight some battle.

  “Evaline, she was warning me that something is going to happen. Something big.”

  “What do you think it is?” I asked, feeling quite at a loss. “I’m not sensing any UnDead in the vicinity.”

  “I don’t suppose you thought to bring a stake anyway,” she muttered.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” I replied haughtily. Pepper had managed to hide one cunningly beneath my skirts.

  Mina was flummoxed. “Miss Stoker, you are beginning to learn. Perhaps, one day, you’ll even concoct a plan.”

  I rolled my eyes. Planning took time. When one was a
vampire hunter, one didn’t have the luxury of time. One had to act.

  “Right, then. So what do you think is going to happen?” I asked again. “Are you certain she wasn’t just talking about the party being a triumph because—well, look at this place. Everything here is utterly perfect. People will be talking about this fête for years. Maybe that’s all she meant.”

  “I don’t know,” Mina replied, clearly frustrated. “I have no idea. If I did—well, we’d have to try and stop whatever it is. But I don’t know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep an eye out, of course. For anything that seems odd.”

  I couldn’t help a grin. “Seeing you and Grayling together without arguing or trying to one-up the other seems pretty odd to me. How did you manage to arrange that?”

  I’d never seen Mina blush before, but she certainly did right then.

  “He sent me an invitation yesterday,” she said, lifting her nose. “I assumed it was because he wanted assistance in a professional manner, but apparently he was simply in need of a guest to accompany him.”

  I barely restrained my laughter. “For a Holmes, you can be completely brainless sometimes. Of course he wanted to bring you to the biggest Christmas party of the year. He’s smitten with you.”

  “He is no such thing,” she retorted, with her cheeks going even redder. “Smitten? Why that’s a word no one would ever apply to me, in any way. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Dylan was smitten with you,” I reminded her. I was very much enjoying her discombobulation. “He even kissed you.”

  “That was—well, that was different. Dylan didn’t belong here. In our time. He didn’t think of me as strange for wanting to be on my own and do the sorts of things you and I have been doing.” Her eyes had gone a little sad. “Just think of it, Evaline. If we lived in the future—like Dylan—you wouldn’t have to get married. No one could force you to do it. It wouldn’t be expected. You wouldn’t be considered an old maid or on the shelf or unworthy if you chose to remain single.”