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

by Colleen Gleason

  “Good gad. Is he in his cups?” said the inspector, releasing me from his grip. “Excuse me, Miss Holmes.”

  I didn’t mind that he left me standing in the center of the waltz as he went off through the crowd—presumably to see what on earth was happening with Lord Cosgrove-Pitt.

  I began to make my way off the floor in his wake, of necessity more slowly than Grayling due to the weight and circumference of my costume. But I didn’t take my eyes off the dignified man, who had never looked less dignified than he did now, perched as he was on top of the balcony’s railing more than twenty feet above us.

  Who would have believed the leader of Parliament, one of the most somber and grave men in London, would do such a thing?

  By now, others had taken notice of the strange activity. The room was beginning to go quiet, as if a silencing wave passed through it while turning the attention of its occupants to look up at the balcony.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Cosgrove-Pitt cheerily as he gripped the edge of the balcony wall. “I hope you’re all having a marvelous time tonight.”

  There was a smattering of murmurs in response, but the majority of his audience remained silent, watching with goggling eyes and arrested expressions.

  “I encourage you to take advantage of the food and drink, and enjoy the beauty of my lovely wife’s Winter Garden theme decor—did I get that right, Isabella? Winter Garden?—because it’s the last party I’ll ever be hosting at Cosgrove Terrace.”

  A more intense murmur rippled through the crowd, and though most of us had turned to look for Lady Cosgrove-Pitt upon his mention, everyone’s attention snapped back to the man on the balcony when we heard the last part of his sentence.

  Where was Grayling? I stood on my tiptoes, trying to see if there was any movement behind Lord Cosgrove-Pitt in the balcony, but I could see nothing to indicate Grayling had gained access to the chamber.

  “Yes,” Lord Cosgrove-Pitt continued, “this will be my last fête at Cosgrove Terrace. And I regret to inform you all that I will not be returning to Parliament on Monday either. This is my farewell—to all of you. Please give the prime minister my regards.”

  He released his grip on the edge of the balcony wall, and, as the spectators gasped in one communal breath, he teetered there on the railing before grabbing at the wall and regaining his balance.

  As I was certain Grayling was doing everything in his power to get to Lord Cosgrove-Pitt before he did—well, whatever he was going to do—I forced myself to turn away from the spectacle and seek out Lady Isabella in the crowd.

  She was still standing where I’d last seen her—across the room from the balcony where her husband floundered about on the railing. Her face was a mask of shock: eyes wide, mouth agape, body still as a statue.

  She even mouthed, silently but obviously enough that it was noticeable, “Belmont!” as if to beseech him not to go on with whatever it was he meant to do.

  I began to push my way through the crowd—not in the direction of the balcony this time, but toward Lady Isabella. And as everyone else was so stupefied by Lord Cosgrove-Pitt’s speech and activity, it was relatively easy to maneuver through the stock-still partygoers.

  I had expected something to happen, and this had to be it. And somehow, Lady Isabella was involved. She’d fairly told me so.

  Behind me, someone gave a soft shriek, and the entire room drew in a great, shocked gasp.

  “And so…farewell, my friends,” cried our host in a robust voice.

  “Look out!” someone shouted.

  There were the sounds of running, a tumbling noise…and then a dull, ugly thud that seemed to reverberate in the silence.

  I spun around to see that Lord Cosgrove-Pitt was gone from the railing and the balcony. I knew precisely what had happened, and though I wanted to continue watching the scene of chaos, I didn’t need to know the details. The thud had been terrifyingly final.

  For it was Lady Isabella at whom I’d been looking—purposely—when it all happened, and so it was only I who saw the flash of triumph over her face as someone shouted, “Look out!”

  And then the flash of triumph was gone, and she screamed.

  Right on cue.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ A Startling Revelation ~

  I’d seen all I needed to see—that moment of satisfaction on Lady Isabella’s face—so I changed my direction and charged back through the crowd toward the place below the balcony where Lord Cosgrove-Pitt’s life had ended.

  As I made my way through the still stunned and mostly paralyzed crowd, I observed several things, which in turn led me to a number of conclusions:

  First, Evaline had reappeared, and she was helping a rather stout man to his feet. Based on their location and the disheveled look of her hair and skirts as well as his rumpled coat and askew necktie—along with the fact that Mr. Ned Oligary was nearby—I surmised that it had been her running footsteps I’d heard, and that the immediate tumbling sound after was her knocking the stout man out of the way from beneath Lord Cosgrove-Pitt’s swan dive.

  It was a good thing she’d acted so quickly, for surely the man would have died—or at least been gravely injured—by the weight of a two-hundred-pound man falling atop him from twenty feet in the air…slamming him onto a cold marble floor.

  Second, I saw that Grayling had accessed the balcony, but too late to do anything to stop his distant relative from this strange and uncharacteristic action. Grayling took one look down, his face pale and grim, then spun back into the depths of the balcony—presumably to race down here.

  Third: Lord Cosgrove-Pitt was most certainly deceased, but whether it was an accident or suicide…well, I had my suspicions. I pushed my way through the frozen throngs of people, ignoring a few hands that attempted to stop me, until I got to an open area around the body where the spectators seemed unwilling to broach.

  A pool of dark red blood was quickly spreading from his nose and ears, puddling beneath his misshapen, clearly shattered head. He’d landed facedown, and his limbs were akimbo. I was the only one who moved close enough to examine him, for the others appeared to still be in shock. Many of the women clutched their male counterparts, burying their faces in shoulders and arms (although several eyes did peek out slyly).

  I did hear a few murmurs directed at and about me: “What is she doing?” “How vulgar!” “Step back, miss!” “A young lady has no business…”

  I blocked out the hissing and muttering and crouched down to study the body—not at all certain what I was looking for. The entire ballroom had witnessed the event; clearly Lord Cosgrove-Pitt had acted on his own.

  “What on earth are you doing!” Someone had broken from the crowd and was standing over me. He sounded infuriated. His shoes were shiny and his feet fat, but I declined to look up any higher to see more. “You have no business interfering in this—this tragedy. I demand you remove yourself at once!”

  I ignored him, confident that whoever he was, he wouldn’t dare place his hands on me to forcibly move me away. However, he was encroaching on the scene, as well as my pooled hems, which so far I’d been able to keep free of the spreading blood stain.

  Apparently the man didn’t get the hint, for he continued to harangue me. “Miss! I must insist that you leave this to the police! It’s unseemly for a young woman to view such a horrific scene—”

  “It was unseemly for Lord Cosgrove-Pitt to create the scene,” I snapped without looking up.

  “Good gad! What a horrible—”

  “Scotland Yard! Let me through. Excuse me, let me through, sir.”

  I was still kneeling in my froth of layers of shimmery gold fabric when Grayling arrived at my side. Naturally, he took care that his shoes avoided treading on my gown.

  “She’s not Scotland Yard,” someone grumbled, to which Grayling replied over his shoulder, “She’s a Holmes. If you please, give us some room. Sir,” he added to the man still looming over me in his fat shoes.

  I wa
s so stunned by Grayling’s endorsement that I almost didn’t hear his murmured question to me: “What have you found?”

  I glanced at him from the other side of Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and discovered our faces were quite close together. I replied in a low tone, “Nothing unusual yet. No strange mottling of the skin. He doesn’t smell like spirits, either. Or almonds, for that matter. No frothing of the mouth, no bluish tint to the skin—and obviously he wasn’t in any pain.”

  Grayling nodding, appearing to concur with my unspoken but obvious conclusions: Lord Cosgrove-Pitt didn’t seem to be poisoned; nor did he appear to be intoxicated.

  But he had certainly acted uncharacteristically. And yet he’d shown no signs of being under any sort of duress. He’d been upbeat and calm during his so-called farewell speech. As if it were the most normal and natural thing for him to do—to climb onto the balcony railing and give a sort of suicide note in the form of a speech.

  Grayling’s face was grim when he looked up and pointed to Ned Oligary. “Send word to the Met, if you please, and have them notify the morgue so they can dispatch a wagon. And everyone, I insist—you must step back.”

  Two of the other gentlemen began to help clear the area of weeping, gawking, whispering partygoers.

  “Miss Stoker,” I said, looking up and projecting my voice over the throng. She wouldn’t be lingering near anything with a lot of blood or gore, but she could be useful in another way. “Ah, there you are. I’m certain Lady Cosgrove-Pitt is in need of some comfort,” I suggested firmly. I couldn’t see the newly made widow anywhere, but then again, I was crouched on the floor in the midst of a crowd.

  “Right.” After an odd glance at one of the maidservants, Evaline pushed off into the people in search of Lady Isabella.

  I sat back on my heels and managed to keep from tipping off balance as I considered the body, the distance he’d fallen, and everything that had occurred.

  Was there some reason Lord Cosgrove-Pitt would have wanted to take his own life—and in such spectacular fashion? Was it possible he was having financial problems—like Bram and Florence? Or did he have some other reason for ending his life—a terminal illness, perhaps?

  How could Lady Isabella have known this would happen? Or, more specifically, how could she have made it manifest?

  Perhaps she hadn’t known what would happen—just that something would? If I hadn’t seen that moment of pleasure and triumph in her face, I would be asking myself far different questions. But the fact was, she’d hinted at an unexpected event, and the expression on her face had not been surprise or shock but satisfaction.

  It was as if she had planned it. But that was absurd. I stared down in the vicinity of the dead man, no longer seeing him or Grayling’s long-fingered hands as he continued to adjust and examine the body.

  Did Lady Isabella have some sort of incredible control over Lord Cosgrove-Pitt?

  My eyes flew open wide.

  With a stifled cry of comprehension, I lurched forward while still in a crouch and lost my balance, barely missing slamming my hand onto the poor man’s corpse.

  “What is it?” Grayling gave me a startled look as I attempted to right myself.

  I didn’t respond immediately; instead, I maneuvered so I was next to Lord Cosgrove-Pitt’s head while still managing to avoid kneeling in the congealing blood. Grayling had allowed him to remain facedown—likely in deference to the many people still hovering about, looking for the opportunity to satisfy their curiosity about what the results were when a man landed on a marble floor after falling twenty feet onto his face.

  Lord Cosgrove-Pitt was wearing a high, stiff collar held in place by a necktie, which made it very difficult for me to pull it away from his person—especially considering the fact that I wasn’t very well versed in assembling and removing male attire.

  “What are you doing, Miss Holmes?” Grayling asked as I fumbled beneath the man’s chin in an effort to unfasten the tight clothing around his throat.

  But the tie came loose before I had to respond, and I pulled the shirt collar away. “A light, if you please, Inspector?”

  He obliged quickly and efficiently, shining a light down over the back of Lord Cosgrove-Pitt’s shirt. I moved the dead man’s thin, graying hair away, baring the nape of his neck and where it curved into the back of his shoulders.

  He and I must have seen it at the same time, for Grayling drew in his breath sharply and looked at me just as I raised my eyes to meet his.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, then snapped off his illuminator. “That changes everything.”

  Miss Stoker

  ~ The Evening’s Second Unsatisfactory Tete-a-Tete ~

  “Evaline, I cannot believe you did such a thing!” Florence hissed as she settled next to me in Mr. Oligary’s carriage. “I’ve never seen such vulgar, unladylike behavior in my li— Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Oligary, for seeing us home. What a tragic event! A terrible way for the evening to go.”

  “Think nothing of it,” replied my suitor as he climbed into the vehicle, taking care not to step on our hems. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you to your own devices, Mrs. Stoker. I can only imagine the nightmares you might incur.”

  “It was quite a frightening, startling experience,” she replied. There was true sympathy in her voice. “But poor Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. How absolutely horrifying for her. All of it.”

  I brooded as Mr. Oligary and my sister-in-law chattered in the quiet tones people use when they’re discussing a tragedy. As we drove away, the smooth, rumbling carriage took on the feeling of a swiftly shrinking cage. I was trapped, surrounded by two people who wanted to control me…while leaving at Cosgrove Terrace the life I wanted to leave.

  And I wasn’t being dramatic.

  Mr. Oligary had made his intentions quite clear as we were waltzing. He mentioned calling on Bram—which meant only one thing: he was going to discuss marriage arrangements and get my brother’s permission to propose.

  Things were getting too serious, too fast. I was afraid that before I knew it, I’d find myself engaged or even married.

  The lights blazed from every window at Cosgrove Terrace as we drove away. Mina was still inside. She hadn’t been whisked away and bundled off to go home in order to protect her delicate sensibilities.

  Nightmares my eye.

  I glowered in the dim light. Florence was upset that I’d saved a man’s life by knocking him out of the way of danger (I was going to have bruises all down the side of my body)? If she only knew what else I’d seen and done…

  And Mr. Oligary. To be fair, he’d not said anything. He hadn’t needed to. The look he gave as he helped me to my feet after I threw myself at Lord Cunningham had been one of shock and dismay.

  And I absolutely wasn’t going to think about Pix. He didn’t figure into any of it. He hadn’t even seen fit to apologize for disappearing. And for not letting me know he was even alive.

  The reprobate.

  “And here we are.”

  I came out of my thoughts with a start. That had been a much faster trip home than to Cosgrove Terrace—or maybe I’d just been lost in thought.

  Mr. Oligary moved to unlatch the door, then stepped out gracefully. One at a time, he handed us down: Florence and then myself.

  I was still shaking out my skirt and petticoats and ensuring my cloak hadn’t caught on the door when Florence exclaimed, “Oh! Those dratted chambermaids. Will they never learn? I can see from here that they— Excuse me, Mr. Oligary, but I’m going to have to see to them at once. Thank you again for a wonderful evening.” She simpered up at our host, then hurried off toward the house at what I would consider a vulgar and unladylike pace.

  And considering the fact that we didn’t have chambermaids—plural—I knew exactly what she was up to.

  Mr. Oligary seemed to understand as well, for he took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as we made our way slooowly up the walk.

  “Alone at last,” he said with a smile, leaving a cloud of
white air from his breath in the cold night. “Your sister-in-law is quite amusing and her company enjoyable, but you know of course that it’s your company I prefer, Miss Stoker.”

  My heart was beating a little faster now, and I tried to increase our speed without appearing to do so. But my companion seemed in no hurry—despite the fact that the tip of my nose was getting cold.

  “She was very grateful to be included tonight. That was a particular kindness you did, asking her to come,” I said. “The Yule Fête was quite spectacular. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  I meant it. Mr. Oligary was a nice man—and almost handsome, and, of course, wealthy. I didn’t have any strong objections to him. It was the idea of marriage itself that put me off.

  “It’s unfortunate the way it ended—for all involved,” he replied. “I was looking forward to watching the yule log be lit. And to at least a few more waltzes with the most lovely woman in the room.” He smiled down at me in the frosty moonlight.

  “As was I. But I can’t imagine what made Lord Cosgrove-Pitt do such a thing,” I murmured. “Not only to himself, but he nearly killed Lord Cunningham as well. It was lucky I noticed in time to act.”

  That was not the right thing to say, for even through the layers of my glove and his overcoat and tailcoat, I felt Mr. Oligary’s arm bunch up a bit.

  “Quite. It was very near a double tragedy, to be sure. But my darling Evaline,” he said in a far too calm voice, and using my familiar name for the first time, “it was a bit…out of character…for you to become involved the way you did. That sort of heroic action is best left to the gentlemen of the world, don’t you agree?”

  A roar of tension rushed through me, and it took every bit of love for Florence and Bram to keep myself from retorting: If I hadn’t acted, Lord Cunningham would be dead. I saved his life.

  No one else had seen fit to act—or move quickly enough.

  Instead of responding to Mr. Oligary’s statement the way I yearned to, I merely made a noncommittal sound. Almost like Mina’s sniff.