Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles

by Cooper, Karina

  “Dead,” she said. “A broken neck, I’d— Cherie, wait!”

  No time. “Get the bobbies!”

  I darted back up the stairs, into the portico, and didn’t bother making sure it shut behind me. My footsteps pounded through the halls, up the stairs, following the path I’d taken already.

  There was no one to pass me in the corridor. Nothing in the lecture hall but the glass stars, winking in the light spilling from the open office door.

  And a window, gaping wide. That explained the absence of broken glass and lacking sound of a struggle.

  I hurried to the sill, leaned out of it to gauge the distance.

  It would not be a straight fall to where I could just make out the dark blot in the heavy fog. He would have hit the pediment first, rolled one way or another. Bruised and broken, and still alive. He could have impacted the pointed pediment face-first. That would account for the damage.

  Which meant he’d flung himself—or been flung—headfirst through the window.

  I winced in sympathy, even as the fine hairs on the back of my lampblack-smeared neck prickled in shuddering awareness. The leap was a deadly one, obviously.

  But what, or who, had demanded its effort?

  The doxy? Certainly not, it would take great strength.

  Or surprise.

  I straightened from my perch, turned a shade too quickly, as if I expected a looming shape from the darkness of the lecture hall.

  There was, of course, nothing. Only the shadows I’d already forged through thrice, now, and the crystal stars. They swung gently, refracting the ambient light in clever facets.

  Empty, yet still my heart rattled in my chest.

  I hurried to the office. “Is anyone here?” I demanded. “Collector’s business, let’s see you come out.”

  No answer. I did not expect one. My suspects, at this point, were hardly numbered among the many. A single unknown girl, a dollymop without a name.

  As I stepped into the office, I glanced over two sets of desks, strewn with papers. A struggle? Or simply an untidy disposition?

  I rifled through them, saw nothing of note, and rounded the first desk.

  My foot came down on something that rustled.

  Surprised, I raised my foot and peered at the crumpled material half pushed underneath the desk.

  A skirt?

  Why on earth would there be a skirt, and no woman to wear it?

  My continued search soon uncovered the rest of the apparel. A single petticoat, a blouse, and the jacket to match the faded green skirt I now held. I raised it to me.

  Too narrow to fit my waist. I looked about the floor and saw no underthings beyond the obvious.

  Even more curious, I saw no woman, unclothed as she clearly would be, and no evidence that there had been anyone else within. Only a single snifter upon the desk beside me, its contents now a sticky residue.

  I dropped the material, left it where it lay. Let the constables make of that what they would.

  I sniffed at the glass; brandy. Simple stuff, not the finest, but ostensibly the drink of gentlemen.

  Another search of the second desk revealed a handful of papers shoved back into the corner. I had only enough time to glimpse a list of some kind before the first sound of a shrill whistle split the silence. Shoving them into a pouch at my belt, I hurried to make good my escape.

  Why would a woman strip off every stitch and kill a man? All right, perhaps a better question would be, why would a woman commit a murder and leave her clothes behind?

  The honest truth of that was no woman would. To run naked as a babe through the cold streets of October’s grimy London below was simply asking for trouble. The kind of trouble no lone woman, not even myself, could handle alone, much less nude.

  An accomplice?

  Again, to what purpose? I’d seen no one else.

  Was I wrong? Had he been the murderer after all, frightened by my questions? Had he sent his doxy packing without clothing, or had she run when he threw himself from the window?

  I met with Zylphia at the edge of the square, and shook my head grimly at her questioning glance. “A mystery upon a mystery,” I said, and patted the pouch containing the papers I’d taken. “We have a clue, I hope. Let us return home and peruse it.”

  Chapter Eight

  There was no chance to do so.

  Although we made it home in good time, my friend—who would have to take her place among my house staff in less than a blink—lacked the energy and time to sort clues with me. As Zylphia drew my bath, I clipped the article regarding Professor MacGillycuddy’s murder from the newspaper, folded it with my own calling card, and insisted Zylphia deliver it immediately to Lady Rutledge’s salver.

  In my mania, developed of brutal recollection of the scene and many unanswered questions, I was eager to rouse all of London if that would deliver me answers.

  I had seen a man fall to his death. My mind replayed the tragedy, over and over, even while I paced the confines of my bedroom in stockinged feet. The dull sound of his flesh and bone connecting with fog-strewn cobbles, the gentle swing of the stars. Back and forth. So at odds with the sharp scream and sudden drop—

  Zylphia, much wiser than I in the grips of a mystery, promised to deliver it come a reasonable hour, but insisted I sleep.

  Even the word sleep leached all vigor from me. Although I sank into bed gratefully enough, lulled into complacency by a warm bath and my maid’s soothing hairbrush strokes across my scalp, sleep did not come but in fits and starts. I shivered myself into a slumber replete with nightmarish shapes and remembrances of things long past. I must have woken several times, for I dimly remember seizing with fear and staring wide-eyed and gasping at the darkness of my own bedroom, but I must not have stayed awake for long.

  The nightmares lingered, nothing I could paint now but clear enough at the time to haunt every second of the night. Twice I found myself reaching for the decanter of ruby liquid at my bedstead; I know I forced my hands back under the coverlet and gritted my teeth against it.

  There remained at least a fortnight before my stipend would once more be allotted. I could not risk being without in case my nightmares grew worse.

  Yet my soul demanded a balm. I must have slept through when I reached again for the decanter, because the pain eased in my dreams, and I woke with a start to find Zylphia’s hand at my brow. Her eyes narrowed in concern.

  Clothed as she always was, somber working dress and white pinafore, I could tell nothing but that it was sometime past the start of the servants’ day, and possibly time for breakfast. The smell of sausages filled the house.

  My stomach rumbled, hungry as I hadn’t been for days.

  “What time is it?” My first question, thickly spoken. My mouth tasted as if I’d stuffed it with treacle and forgot to rinse after, my head gummy with sap. The chill I’d experienced all through the night had abated, but I’d curled in on myself and my cramped muscles were not grateful for it.

  Her hand, warm and dark, curved around my cheek. “You’re feverish.”

  “I’ve only just woken, of course I’m not feverish.” I batted her hand away, pulled myself from the tangled nest I’d made of the covers and squinted at the windows. The heavy drapes masked much of the day’s light; a boon, for my head ached and I truly felt as if I’d been the one to fall from a window to unforgiving cobbles below.

  I rubbed at my shoulder, pleased to find only a dull ache beneath my probing fingers.

  “Cherie, have you any symptoms?”

  “No.” This came on the forefront of a yawn, and I confessed, “Save perhaps a lingering sleepiness. Time, Zylla.”

  She studied me for a moment, not quite convinced, one hand on her hip. Then, briskly, “Just nearing noon. I’ll fetch your day dress.”

  She crossed the room, a pleasant rustle of sound and—despite her lack of sleep—effortless vivacity. How she managed, I don’t know. Perhaps she was used to keeping long hours. Perhaps the Menagerie had provided ex
cellent training for the life my habits demanded she live now.

  “Did you deliver my note?” I demanded, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. I winced as my hips popped, one after the other, and flexed my feet gingerly.

  I’d slept for my usual allotment, although I could not place just when I’d dropped off for good. I reached for my watch, frowned when I saw the empty dregs of the decanter on my nightstand.

  So I’d taken a draught after all.

  Zylphia knelt at the foot of a large trunk, polished to a mahogany gleam and fitted with brass trappings. There were at least four in my bedroom, placed here and there as pretty decoration as well as storage for my various dresses. “I had Levi run it across this morning,” she said, elbow-deep in the trunk. “He says he gave it to one of the lady’s maids to place in her salver.”

  “Thank you, Zylla.”

  She flashed a smile, distracted though it was, and I drew my knees up, tucked them under the billowing length of my nightdress. I clasped my arms around my legs, rested my chin on one knee.

  I was tired, ’twas true enough a tale, but I also felt worn. Drained.

  It had been years since I’d had a screaming fit in the middle of the night, but I remembered them nonetheless. Not so much what it did to myself—much of the details were lost—but how my night terrors had affected my staff.

  I did not like to worry them. And besides that, I was twenty years old. Too old to be suffering screaming fits of hysteria in the dark.

  Next time I was below, I resolved to take care of a paying bounty. Certainly I’d have time for a side jaunt. A little extra coin could buy me at least one more night’s rest.

  Not enough for a full flagon of decent strength, but I’d make do.

  My forehead rested upon my knees, and I squeezed my eyes shut. That shiver, that shuddering feeling of terrible fear, clung somewhere inside me. I could just sense it, eager for an excuse to resurface.

  Perhaps I was taking all this excitement rather personally.

  “I think the plaid today,” Zylphia said as she withdrew two pieces of richly hued green, brown and cream fabric. “And perhaps the cream hairnet.”

  I grimaced. “You never recommend the net. Is my hair beyond help today?”

  Blue eyes glinted at me, a sidelong smile. “A touch.”

  Wonderful. I pulled the long braid of my hair over my shoulder, aware how much of it had escaped in my tossing and turning. Dark red curls hung beside my cheeks, sprung like ruby-tinted coils from the loose plait I examined.

  I looked more like a ragamuffin orphan than an heiress of any stripe.

  Ah, well. “Let’s get it over with, then,” I grumbled, less than gracious.

  Zylphia worked quickly, but not as effortlessly as her predecessor. I still gave the occasional direction. I didn’t mind; Zylphia had been a midnight sweet, not a lady’s maid.

  She was every bit as brutal with my stays as Betsy had been, however, and I gasped as she heaved on the ties with a surprising amount of strength. “Hell’s bells, Zylphia!”

  “All done,” she assured me, tugging the knot into place. As if assurance would make up for the steel grip around my ribs.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “If I faint,” I told her, my voice breathy, “I expect you to misplace the smelling salts for a few hours, at least.”

  Her chuckle, throaty with genuine amusement, did much to smooth my tired, ruffled feathers. “Almost there, let’s get you presentable. Mrs. Fortescue is already at the table.”

  Of course she was. “Is there any word of last night’s death in the papers?”

  “Death?”

  “I can’t in good conscience declare it a murder,” I admitted. A scream. A thump. A corpse. Tragic, but not necessarily a murder. “I was there in that room, there was no one else to come or go. I hesitate to say it, but it seems like suicide to me.”

  “What of the scream?” Zylphia asked me.

  “What of it?” I shrugged. “It was his own.”

  “Would a man who leapt to his death scream in surprise?”

  A fair point, yet I waved that away as quickly as I thought over it. “Surprise, no. However, no matter what demons drive a man to leap, I can’t imagine a mind would be prepared for the fall. Anyone might scream at such a force.”

  “I would,” Zylphia said, making a grim face. “That’s for bloody certain.”

  “As would I.”

  “Well, may God rest his soul, now.” She shook her head, busied herself with outfitting me in the two-piece dress. The blouse she chose was a starched linen affair, lace at the collar in a modified cravat, the same cream as in the plaid. Not much of it showed beneath the jacket, just a froth. A feminine take on a gentleman’s fashion, which I appreciated. Brown ruffles trimmed the skirt’s hem, while the petticoat she chose for under was edged in the same cream-colored lace.

  It would do. I had no real plans for the day, and did not expect to put on airs for company. To be quite honest, I even felt quite pretty. If a little bit fragile.

  By the time I seated myself at the table, my hair had been tamed as much as possible, pinned in soft curls, then trapped beneath a loose cream net accented by shining gold thread. A fringe of red draped over my forehead, wrestled into place by Zylphia’s clever tongs. She’d chosen a pretty gold brooch for me, a gift from Fanny some years past, and I at least looked the part of well-rested lady of the house.

  Fanny seemed to think no different as she smiled at me over her plate of toast, eggs and fresh fruit.

  Breakfast, to my relief, passed without excitement. The paper, once more the London Times, held nothing of import as I skimmed over the front page, but I was grateful. My eyeballs ached, and I noticed that my hands trembled. Exhaustion, surely. It caused the paper to crinkle noticeably, so I set it aside.

  My uncharacteristic agreeableness to Fanny’s chatter did not raise eyebrows, although perhaps it should have raised mine.

  Midday found me in the parlor, seated behind the writing desk, poring over a nearly blank page. The professors’ untimely deaths would have to wait, at least until I received reply from Lady Rutledge. If, that is, she deigned to reply at all.

  Instead, I studied the single page upon which I wrote a capital E and a smaller y.

  It still meant nothing to me. Elijah Woolsey was the name of a fellow he’d claimed to hate; why would my father use the letters to hide his laboratory?

  I was in my third turn sketching the ornate initials when Fanny bustled into the parlor, a folded card in one hand. Her eyes positively sparkled with good cheer. “At last!” was her greeting, and all I needed to be wary.

  I set my quill down in studied nonchalance, reached instead for the parchment I’d taken from the late professors’ shared office. “Is that from Lady Rutledge?” I asked, already sure it was not. “I am awaiting further discourse.”

  “Better,” Fanny replied, waving the card as if it were lined with gold and tipped by diamonds. She held it out, cheeks aglow, smile wide. “You have been cordially invited by Earl Compton—”

  “No.” Already in the act of accepting the card, I flicked it to the desk’s surface with casual disregard.

  Her smile dimmed. “Cherry.”

  “I am not going anywhere with him,” I said, with as much urbane disinterest as I could summon. My hands shook; I busied them by sorting through the pages.

  A list, on one. The titles of periodicals compiled for a syllabus, unless I was mistaken. Many were respectable titles of philosophy and science; it pleased me to see some of the same I read on the page.

  “ ’Tis only a request for a turn around the Balcony.”

  A clever renaming of the raised walkways around Hyde Park, as well as a favorite of those on promenade. More often than not, it doubled as a discreet method by which to promote gossip and interest. Or, as the case may be, fictionalize it.

  I could think of no good reason for Earl Compton to take me on a turn about the Balcony, save to create speculation. Perhaps he
was feuding with his mother, who continued to detest me. Perhaps he had other plans.

  I did not care to find out.

  She snatched the card up, smoothed it as if its skim across the desk might have bent a corner. “When are you going to forgive him, Cherry?”

  I did not look up, though one hand flattened beside my point of study. “There is nothing to forgive, Fanny. I do not fancy the earl for marriage, and that is final.”

  “Oh!” The sound was a flustered exhale as much as a soliloquy on my pigheadedness, I was sure.

  I looked up. “Is the estate in disrepair?” I demanded.

  Her eyebrows knotted. “What?”

  “Are we on poverty’s doorstep,” I pressed, “or hounded by debtors?”

  “No.” She glanced at the card briefly, then again to me. “Quite the opposite, I believe.”

  Exactly. “Then if, as I suspect, Mr. Ashmore is not currently rotting in an East India Trading Company cell, we are fine,” I told her, and withdrew a folded bit of parchment from the rest for lack of something better to do with my hands. “There’s no cause for me to woo a rich man just—”

  “Cherry St. Croix!” Another gasp, and this one sharper. The lines at her eyes deepened, mouth tight with disapproval. “You are doing no such thing.”

  “On that,” I said, “we are agreed upon. There is no call—” I stopped, my mouth half open as the words sizzled to nothing in surprise.

  “There is every call,” Fanny told me, unaware of my sudden and complete disinterest in the topic at hand. This time, entirely unfeigned.

  Ey. The tines on the first letter stretched out farther than it should, the latter character flourished. I skimmed the page quickly as Fanny lectured in the background. What was this? A list of terms, as it were, only lacking in definition or explanation.

  There were others. Ey, DG. And—I squinted—ppt with the first two letters underlined twice. A code, perhaps. Some kind of compressed lettering system that suggested . . . what? I looked up at the ceiling, lips moving. A smuggling ring, perhaps?

  No, too obvious. This was London, not some tawdry penny dreadful. Besides, what smuggler worth even a lick would scribe a note in the margins? King’s College, 4th of October.