(Hmm. There was an idea for a new device that might come in handy for an investigator: a mechanism that measured the amount of dust and calculated the time lapse based on the environment and the layer of debris collected.)
I looked around the chamber with different eyes. Where had Miss Adler gone, and why? Now I had yet another puzzle to solve, and where there was a problem, there would always be clues that led to a solution.
I began by sitting at her desk and studying the papers, books, and other items arranged thereon. Then I settled back in her chair and looked around the room carefully and slowly. When my attention rested on the Tome-Selector, I paused then bolted out of the chair, bumping my knee painfully on the underside of the desk.
Muffling an unladylike curse while rubbing the top of my screaming knee, I limped over to the shelf. Then I moved the Tome-Selector’s metal digits out of the way so I could pull the Poe book from its place on the shelf.
Ah.
No, I must agree with Uncle Sherlock. There were no coincidences.
Of course the collection included “The Raven,” and upon my examination of the volume—that is, allowing it to fall open naturally—I made a sound of satisfaction.
On the page where the book opened, near the beginning of the contents, there was a deep impression made in the pages—as if something had been wedged inside and left its mark after the book was closed and perhaps even weighted down. The indentation wasn’t very large; hardly the size of my littlest finger. But its shape was distinctive, and familiar to me.
I removed the pendant I had pinned to my collar earlier today. I was not the least bit surprised when its shape fit perfectly in the depression of the pages.
Someone—likely Miss Adler—had hidden a carnelian crow pendant inside this book, right at the beginning of “The Purloined Letter.”
Miss Stoker
~ Of Ales, Pickles, and Carnelian Adornment ~
“Why, Miss Evaline,” Pepper said the morning after the tragic Yule Fête.
My maid had just risen from bending over near the wall behind my dressing table. “Wherever did you get this?”
“What is it?” I asked listlessly. I hadn’t slept well last night after Ned had kissed me and left.
I’d half expected someone to climb through my window, or to at least throw a stone at the glass to get my attention.
But no one had.
Not that it mattered.
Pepper opened her hand to reveal the tiny crow pendant Mina had given me and ordered me to wear—which I had thus far neglected to do. It must have fallen out when my jewel box was upended the other day, and had been missed during the cleanup.
Despite my glumness, I felt a spike of interest. “Have you seen something like it somewhere else?” I asked Pepper.
“Yes, that’s why it caught my eye. Kitty—she used to work at Varrel House, for Lady Firgate—she was wearing one just like it, pinned to her blouse.”
I sat up straight. “A lady’s maid was wearing a carnelian crow pin—like this?”
“That’s right.”
“I need to speak to her. As soon as possible.” I surged up from my seat, at once excited about the prospect of the day. “Let’s go to Varrel House and talk to her now. I’ll think of some excuse—”
“No, miss, that won’t do, ’cause she ain’t working there no more.”
“Well, where is she working? We have to find her.” I was already digging through my wardrobe to locate something to wear. It was a relief not to have to choose something that “matched my eyes,” or “brought out the color in my cheeks.”
“That’s just it, miss. She got another position. I don’t know where she’s working now.”
“I need to find out where she got that pin. It’s very important. Can you help me?”
“Right, miss. I can ask around with the other ’elp at Varrel House. She used to go walking with one of the footmen there. He might know, or Bessie from Sir ’emington’s ’ouse.”
“We need to find her, and find out what she knows about it.” I dragged out a bodice and simple skirt ensemble in light blue wool with navy French knots embroidered along the hem and cuffs. “I think it’s time for you and I to go to the market in Smithfield. That’s where you might see the others, correct? Bessie and anyone else who might know Kitty?”
“Yes, miss. Even though it’s Sunday, they’ll be there.” Now that we had a solution, Pepper’s expression changed from concerned to bright with interest.
I considered sending word to Mina, but decided not to. I might be getting out of the house without being on the arm of a beau—or without my sister-in-law—but that didn’t mean I wanted to be lectured or otherwise have my ears talked off.
“What about Mrs. Stoker?” Pepper said hesitantly.
I straightened from doing up the tiny buttons on my shoes with a hook. I never could understand why, with all the gadgets and devices and machinery that had been created to make our lives easier, no one had designed a better way to wear—and fasten—shoes than a row of tiny, tight buttons that required a tool to open and close them. “I’ll handle it with Florence.”
To my relief, I didn’t have to handle anything. Mrs. Gernum informed me that my sister-in-law had left the house not ten minutes earlier. She was heading out to make calls on her friends.
I grimaced a little. I hoped Florence wasn’t going to be spreading too much gossip about me and Ned (I still had to remind myself not to think of him as Mr. Oligary). She might believe an engagement between the two of us was a foregone conclusion, but I certainly didn’t.
Although…tomorrow was Monday. The day Ned said he meant to speak with Bram.
But probably Florence was mostly going to gossip about what had happened with Lord Cosgrove-Pitt last night. Having been an eyewitness to the most shocking thing to happen in Society would put her on center stage, as Bram would say. And Florence would love every minute of it.
I put it all from my mind as Pepper and I set out on foot to the market. It was a brisk day, normal for London with its cloud-laden sky and a constant drizzle in the air, but cold enough that my breath came out in a frosty gust. At least it wasn’t snowing.
“Miss,” Pepper said as we approached the dead-end street in Smithfield where all of the grocery and household merchants set up their wares. “Begging your pardon, but it’s best if you let me do the talking. Sometimes the upstairs people—well, they make those of us downstairs ones a bit shy when it comes to talking.”
“Right,” I said.
Even though I’d made a point of dressing in plain clothing and wore my hair in a simple braid wrapped around the back of my head, I wasn’t certain whether I could be mistaken for a housemaid.
Unlike Pix, who’d obviously gotten away with it for hours.
The thought of him soured my enthusiasm, and that just made me angry again. Drat him.
“I’ll just sit over here, Pepper.” I gestured to a semicircular bench positioned next to a large metal fire bowl. The roaring blaze gave off some welcome heat, and several people—judging from their clothing and accents, they were of the downstairs type—stood around it talking and warming their hands.
At the last minute, before I’d left my bedchamber, I’d affixed the small carnelian crow to the stiff, high collar of my bodice. Now, as I waited (wishing I’d thought to bring the sable muff I’d used at New Vauxhall Gardens three nights ago), I adjusted my cloak so it was open at the throat and the pendant could be seen.
Mina had told me to wear it, and Pepper had seen Kitty with one. Maybe someone would seek me out if they noticed. I sat idly, tracing a pattern in the dirty snow with the stubby heel of my shoe, and then with the pointed toe. Occasionally I looked up to watch what Pepper was doing, all the while trying not to feel bored. This was far better than sitting at home being fussed over or waiting for gentleman callers.
As I bided time, my attention skimmed over the shoppers. Everyone moved in and out and around like an infinite number of cogwheels, balanc
ing baskets and bags and packages.
One of those human cogwheels caught my attention. There was something familiar about the way he— My heart stopped, then began ramming again. I was on my feet in an instant, pushing through the people, keeping my attention focused on the smooth movements of one quicksilver, graceful figure as he made his way through the crowd. Slippery as a snake.
Pix.
If I was actually paying attention (unlike last night, when I’d nearly knocked him over), I’d know that man anywhere—his movements, the way he nearly oozed around and between people like a cat.
I didn’t even think about why I was following him when I didn’t have anything more to say to the man—but there I was, off on his tail.
Unfortunately, I’m not particularly tall, so it was difficult for me to keep him in sight as I wove through the shoppers. Today, he was wearing the dark gray cap of a young man and a battered overcoat that was too big for him and therefore hid the size and shape of his body. That was part of his disguise—along with the large ears that protruded through his hair and beneath the cap.
I caught Pepper’s eye as I pushed through, and she nodded in acknowledgment that she saw me going off on a trail.
One of the many things I appreciated about my lady’s maid was her knowledge of my secret life. Any other maid would be in hysterics at the thought of her charge—a young, unmarried, wealthy (or, at least, presumably wealthy) woman—going off by herself in Smithfield. But Pepper was aware she had no reason to worry. And I knew I could count on her to make up explanations to Mrs. Gernum or Florence if I was delayed and didn’t return with her.
By the time I pushed through a particularly thick mass of people—they were crowded around a merchant selling lemons—I’d lost sight of Pix.
Drat.
I stood at the T-intersection of two streets and looked both ways. There was no sign of my quarry.
Unwilling to go back and sit like a toad on that bench, I turned left and began walking. I’d gone two blocks from the T-intersection when I realized the street was vaguely familiar.
When I saw the sign for The Pickled Nurse, I knew I was back in the same area I’d been while investigating the spiritglass case. The tavern’s windows were still dusty with coal smoke, but they gave a much better view—whether you were looking in or out—than anything in Whitechapel. Including Fenman’s End.
I strode up to the door of The Pickled Nurse in a brash, unladylike manner that would have made Florence wince. Without hesitation, I opened it and walked inside.
Though far cleaner than Pix’s favorite haunt, this pub was still dim and layered with shabbiness. The floor was made from broad, worn planks, and solid wooden tables were arranged throughout. As it was early afternoon on a Sunday, however, the tables were occupied by only a handful of patrons.
At the back of the small, square room was the imposing serving counter that had given it its name. The bar stretched from wall to wall across the rear of the place, and there was currently only one patron sitting on the stools that lined up in front of it. He was hunched over a tall glass and seemed uninterested in anything going on around him.
High above the bar, a row of large jars was suspended by a complicated copper and brass rack. The glass jars were filled with huge, flavored pickles—each about the width of two fingers. Beneath each container was a small sign with the flavor written on it. The last time I was here, the signs had been chalk written on slate. But apparently The Pickled Nurse had invested in an improvement, for now the description of each jar’s pickle flavor was engraved on a copper plaque in bold script.
There were, among others, signs for Honey-Ginger, Spicy Anise, Zook Spears, Sweet, Fancy-Hot and Orange-Clove.
The same pubmaster was behind the counter, and he was doing something I couldn’t imagine Bilbo ever doing: he was polishing the gleaming wooden counter with a rag. As if he cared that it should be clean and shiny. Or, at least, not sticky.
I pulled up a stool for myself and sat at the opposite end of the bar from the other customer. Because it was warm inside, I unfastened my cloak and draped it over the seat next to me.
The pubmaster glanced up from applying his elbow grease to a patch of the counter. “Sweet, right? And ye were light on the ale. Jes’ wanted mostly the pickle.”
“But only one pickle—unless I want to pay extra for more,” I replied with a grin.
He smiled back—something else I couldn’t imagine Bilbo doing—and exposed a missing tooth near the left corner of his mouth. “’at’s right, miss. Shall I pull a full one for ye, or ye jes’ want the pickle?”
Pull a full one for me? I wasn’t certain what that meant, but I replied, “I’ll take a small ale with a…oh, pull the lever on the tap to fill my glass. Right.” I considered briefly, then decided, “I’ll have a full ale today, sir. And put an orange-clove one in it for me this time.”
He winked at me then turned to do as requested. I watched with the same fascination as before as he selected the proper pickle flavor by pulling a lever beneath the corresponding jar. A set of metal contraptions clattered along the brass fittings, one part above and one part beneath the line of jars until the mechanism came to an abrupt halt beneath the orange-clove pickle jar.
A large metal claw reached down to grasp then lift the glass top of the jar. Then a set of brass fingers from the bottom portion of the rack extended up and over the container, reaching inside to pluck out a single pickle.
In the meantime, the pubmaster had filled a tall glass with an amber-colored beverage topped with two inches of white foam. Even from down the counter a ways, I could smell the pungency of the ale. That told me it was at least slightly better in quality than the bile-colored stuff they served at Fenman’s End. That didn’t mean I was going to drink it. But if I did, it probably wouldn’t poison me.
The pubmaster used the pickle to give the ale a stir before dropping the spear into the glass and setting the whole thing in front of me.
I eyed the infused ale. The pungent, spicy odor from the pickle was surprisingly appetizing.
“You ever find that lady with the pet spider?” he asked, surprising me. He really did remember me. “She warn’t looking like a very nice lady.”
“She wasn’t a very nice lady at all.” That was an understatement. The lady with the pet spider had been involved in La société de la perdition, a secret group of normal people who enjoyed being around—and fed on by—the UnDead. If you could call them normal.
I’d later learned from Miss Adler that this place, The Pickled Nurse, had been a location where members of La société sometimes congregated or left communications for each other. I looked around with more interest, swiveling slightly on my stool. Only five other people in here, including the brooder at the end of the counter. There was a pair of patrons at two different tables—two men, and a man and a woman. None of them gave me any sense of danger or even interest. The back of my neck wasn’t chilled from the proximity of the UnDead, either.
I sighed and looked down into my ale. The juice from the pickle had given the foam an orangey tint. I had a feeling this was an indication of how my life was going to be once I got married (ugh!): something that seemed interesting or exciting turning out to be nothing but boring.
Then it came to me once again with a horrible, sinking feeling: after I got married, I wouldn’t be able to visit places like Smithfield or Whitechapel—or, at least, very easily.
I wondered again how my great-grandmother Victoria Gardella had handled it. She’d been married, hadn’t she?
Had her husband been worried about vulgar, unladylike behavior tainting his family name?
“Go on. Take a sip.” The pubmaster leaned his elbows on the counter and edged closer to me. He cast a glance toward the man at the other end of the bar, then returned his attention to me. I got the impression he wanted to say something without being heard.
Turned out I was right, for the pubmaster angled himself slightly away from the other end of the count
er and said in a lower voice, “So you got one o’ them too, do ye?”
I looked down, then I saw what had caught his attention: the red crow pin on my collar.
Ah. Finally. Something. “Have you seen another one like it?” I asked.
“Last time I seen it, was on a girl like you, she had it on. Kitty said she got herself a new position.” He gestured to the pin. “Working that place.”
“Kitty? Her name was Kitty, and she had a pin like this—and said she had a new position, working there? At the Crow?”
He slapped his hands on the counter. The hair around his ears seemed to bristle. But he still kept his voice low. “Now, ain’t that what I jus’ said? That Kitty’s a nice girl. Nice all around. She always got a smile when she come in here. Don’t tell me you gotta job there now too, miss.”
I didn’t even blink. “Why, yes, I do. As a matter of fact. I just…I don’t remember where the place is. How to get there.” I tried to look both innocent and determined. “I don’t want to be late for my first day.”
“Well, setting there and drinking a pickle-spiked ale before you goin’ in t’work ain’t really a smart idea.”
Now I was going for bashful and confused. “I know. I just don’t remember how to get there. It’s kind of a hidden place, isn’t it?”
He looked at me like he didn’t believe a word I said, so I began to layer on more to convince him. “Kitty used to work for Varrel House, and now she’s got this new position. I heard about it from her. Can’t you tell me how to find it—The Carnelian Crow?”
“You think I know?” He gave me a baleful look.
“Don’t you?” It wasn’t difficult for me to look disappointed. Here was my first real lead on The Carnelian Crow, and I was at a dead end already. “I thought you knew everything. You’re a pubmaster.”
He picked up the rag and began to vigorously rub the counter again. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single spot anywhere that needed cleaning. You could almost see your reflection in the shined-up walnut surface, except where people had stabbed it with their knives and carved names or initials into it.
The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4) Page 19
