The Case of the Missing Moonstone

by Jordan Stratford

  Ada grew to control her temper and insecurities and, at nineteen, was married to William King, a baron who became the Count of Lovelace three years later. This is why Ada is more commonly known as Ada Lovelace. She had three children—Byron, Annabella, and Ralph—and died of cancer at the age of thirty-six. She continues to inspire scientists and mathematicians to this day, and many worthwhile projects are named after her.

  MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN (1797–1851) was the daughter of the famous feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft (who died ten days after giving birth to Mary) and the political philosopher William Godwin. William Godwin married Mary Jane Clairmont in 1801, and Mary grew up in a mixed household of half siblings and stepsiblings in Somers Town, in northern London. She read broadly and had an appetite for adventure and romanticism. She ran away with Percy Shelley at age sixteen, and over one very famous weekend with Shelley, Lord Byron (Ada’s father), and the early vampire novelist Dr. John Polidori, Mary came up with the idea for the world’s first science-fiction novel, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, which she wrote at age nineteen.

  In real life, Mary was eighteen years older than Ada—old enough to be her mother. But I thought it would be more fun this way—to cast these two luminaries as friends.

  PERCY BYSSHE (rhymes with “fish”) SHELLEY (1792–1822) was an important poet and the best friend of Ada’s father, Lord Byron. Percy came from a wealthy family, and he offered to support Mary’s father and the Godwin family. At age twenty-two, he ran off with sixteen-year-old Mary to Switzerland, and they were married two years later. He drowned at the age of twenty-nine when his sailboat sank in a storm.

  While in reality Peebs had died even before our story begins, I have extended his life so that he, Ada, and Mary can be in this story together. It is Peebs, as Ada’s father’s friend and Mary’s future husband, who provides a real-life link between our two heroines.

  ANNE ISABELLA NOEL BYRON (1792–1860) was the wife of Lord Byron, and Ada’s mother. Extremely intelligent and well educated, she was an accomplished mathematician in her own right. Her marriage to Byron was difficult, and he left her shortly after Ada was born. It wasn’t actually the baroness who first called Ada’s father “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” but that does describe her feelings toward him. She became very religious and very strict, and she found Ada too much like her father, calling Ada “it” in letters to Ada’s grandmother. She was not all bad, though. She committed much of her life to antislavery causes and prison reform. And she nursed Ada through the illness that eventually killed her.

  MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (1759–1797) was an early feminist writer most famous for A Vindication of the Rights of Women, in which she argued for education and equality for all girls. She lived in Paris during the French Revolution and was a friend of, and correspondent with, many leading intellectuals of the day, including Thomas Paine. She later wrote Original Stories from Real Life, the children’s book that Mary finds in the Byron library in our story. Mary Wollstonecraft married the political philosopher William Godwin, and she died from complications following the birth of her second daughter, Mary.

  GEORGE GORDON BYRON (1788–1824) was Ada’s father and a famous poet of the romantic movement. He rejected many of the ideas of his time, particularly about love, marriage, the roles of the rich and the poor, religion, and being a “responsible adult” in general. He was a man of many love affairs, huge debts, heroic acts, occasional cruelty, and terrible sadness. He was born with a deformed foot that was very painful through his whole life, but he was a capable boxer, horseback rider, and swimmer. He traveled throughout Europe into Persia and the Ottoman Empire. At the time, Greece was under the control of the Ottomans, and despite not having military experience, Byron led a force of Greek rebels against the Turks. During the military campaign, he became ill and died of fever.

  A brooding, tragic, and noble figure, Byron likely inspired the character of Dracula in Bram Stoker’s classic novel. He never knew his children, Ada and Allegra, having abandoned Ada to her mother and Allegra to nuns.

  CHARLES DICKENS (1812–1870) is considered one of the great writers of Victorian England. He really was fourteen in 1826, and he really did work in a boot-polish factory gluing labels. He loved books and was a keen observer of everyday life in London. The description of Newgate Prison in this story comes from his Sketches by Boz (1836). Other names in this book come from his writings: Flintwinch, Datchery, Havisham, Snagsby—even Chuzzlewit. He is best known to young readers as the author of A Christmas Carol. The bit about the carriage and pretending not to be there is made up, although he was certainly clever enough and cheeky enough to have gotten away with it.

  CHARLES BABBAGE (1791–1871) was an English inventor, engineer, and mathematician who designed the first mechanical computer. Though he worked with Ada Byron to develop the mathematical models that would make the machine work, it wasn’t built until over a century after his death. He really was a friend of Colonel Sir George Everest, who came back from India with philosophical ideas about mathematics.

  First built in the twelfth century, the prison was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666 but rebuilt in 1672. Daniel Defoe, author of Robinson Crusoe, was imprisoned there, as was Captain Kidd, the notorious pirate. It was truly a terrible place and was taken down in 1904. The expression “as black as Newgate’s knocker,” referring to the prison doors’ heavy iron rings, was popular in the nineteenth century.

  The word “hypnotism” didn’t exist in Ada and Mary’s time, but “mesmerism” means the same thing. Magnetism wasn’t really understood by the scientists of the day, and so it was used to describe any kind of influence on something without touching it. Specifically, mesmerism was about “animal magnetism,” an “uncanny influence” on people (and presumably animals).

  An 1868 novel by Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone is often considered to be the first detective novel written in English (although Edgar Allan Poe had already written some short detective stories). Our mystery is a nod to some of the elements of this classic: an heiress receives a jewel as a birthday present from her uncle—an adventurer now dead—only to have it stolen, with the lady’s maid confessing to the crime. I thought it would be fun to have the world’s first computer programmer and the world’s first science-fiction author solving the world’s first fictional detective mystery.

  THE SISTERS: JANE AND ALLEGRA While we’ll find out more about these new girls in Book Two, Mary really did have a stepsister, Jane (who would later be known as Claire), and Ada really did have a half sister, Allegra. As with Mary, Jane’s timeline is moved so that she can be young alongside Mary and Ada. In real life, Allegra died of fever at age five, so I have extended her life in this series, as I felt rather sorry for her.

  THANK YOU

  Thanks to the many kind people who supported my Kickstarter campaign and gave this project momentum: Niki Whiting and Adam Blodgett; Steve Turnbull; Phoebe Reading; Charles Alvis; Amanda Zoellner and Bryan Fink; Dave Griffith; Geoff, Melissa, and Daniel Tidey; Shoshana and Amelie Reed; Bill Hovingh; Elaine Barlow; Matthew Mattei; Atlee and Benjamin Sharpe; Heidi Berthiaume; Laura and Alyssa Gluhanich; Jason Driver; Mike Firoved; Lawrence McAlpin; Jenny Jacob; Cyd Harrell; Lynda Forman; Michael, Eliza, and Juliet Quinn; Jocelyn Scheintaub; Mara Georges; Jason Stevens; Jason Roop; Martha and Peter March; Wilma Jandoc; Jessica; Chris Coyier; Agnes Ponthus; Wanda L. Anderson; Karine; Melia and Ryanne Gordon; waipo5; Kathryn Blue; Brian McCormick; Paul Hedges; Ingrid; Roelof Botha; Mathew and Annika Kayley Beall; Bryce Platt; Andy Flood; Tracy Ann and MaCaybreh Daily; Cindy, Sophie, Konrad, and Anna Zawadzki; Megan; Sabine Schoenbach; Stephanie McMillen Sherry; Colin Samuels; Nawaf Bahadur; Eileen Chow; Jen Sparenberg; Tracey Gaughran-Perez; Dan Romanelli; Robin Borelli; Mark, Sabrina, and Zoey Taraba; David and Kashi McKellar; Tony Lamair Burks II; Carolyn and Nick Atkins; Julia, Isabella, and Grace Arrese; Alexander Cheng-Chien Yao; Shannon and Anais Hammock; the Edwards family of Narberth, Pennsylvania; James, Connie, Katherine, and
Angelica Hall; Maura Donohue; Ryder, Hayden, and Lane Lack Daniels; Mock; Glenn Slotte; Jorge Zamora; Bruno Maitre; Charles Hansen; Aaron, Bethany, and Alexander Reiff; Joy Lock; Tanja Norwood; Margaret Sheer; Benjamin Listwon; Alan Salisbury; Kim Worsencroft; Mike Smith; Mary Rose Mueller; Deborah Goldsmith; Felomena Li; Christine Hatfield; Taroh Kogure; Mark Reynolds; Naer Chang; Kassandra and Sammie Jo; Warren Cheung; Bing; Rosie; Lee Ann Farruga; Nadia Cornier White; Deanna Jones; Joseph Goethals; Jonathan Cameron; Niki Tan; Dave Hoover; Daniel Abraham; Susan Standiford; Kristophor Bex; Cameo Wood; Jean Teather; Matt Brooks; Roger Hoffmann; Matthew Oliphant; Micheal Hoffa.

  Thanks also go out to Team Wollstonecraft: Zandra and Claire and Kevin and Aimee; to Xoe and Sebastian, who left Daddy alone for five more minutes just ten more minutes just one more minute I promise; to my agent, Heather Schroder, at Compass Talent in New York for agreeing to champion the Wollstonecraft girls through the baroque and byzantine world of mainstream publishing; and to Nancy Siscoe for her myriad insights and contributions, for finding a home for this series—as it continues to evolve—at Knopf, and for sending me off in fascinating fact-checking directions.

  JOIN THE

  WOLLSTONECRAFT

  DETECTIVES

  ON THEIR NEXT CASE!

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Book Two,

  The Case of the Girl in Gray.

  Excerpt copyright © 2015 by Jordan Stratford. Published by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Mary’s stepsister Jane had first embarrassed her on their morning carriage rides to the Byron House by asking Charles (the boy behind the book) why he was there, and if he was being ungentlemanly and (she stressed the word) antisocial by reading in front of them.

  Charles, as Mary had expected, handled himself expertly, although his answer was too direct for Jane’s taste: Charles had no money for a carriage, but he traded with the coachman for a ride to work, which gave him a moment’s peace to enjoy his book, so long as he pretended he wasn’t there and nobody minded.

  “Which we don’t,” Mary assured him. “Mind, that is. Not at all.”

  Jane had further embarrassed Mary by insisting on calling Charles “Master Dickens,” something Mary then realized she ought to have been doing all along.

  After the first week of carriage rides, Jane had settled into the routine, and aside from what struck Mary as an overly formal “Good morning,” Jane had kept largely to herself, immersed in her own book.

  The carriage turned from their home on Polygon Road down Eversholt Street, seemingly in the wrong direction, only to turn again the right way some minutes later. This turn took them toward the outer circle of Regency Park proper, its manicured green all around them.

  Without warning, the carriage rocked back, bucking the girls nearly into Charles’s lap, and Mary’s knee landed hard on the rough wooden planks. The horses cried out in front, hooves hammering the autumn-wet road.

  “Are you both unhurt?” asked Charles, offering a hand. As they nodded and righted themselves, Mary opened the carriage door to see what was the matter, and in the gray of the sky and the road and the rain, she caught a glimpse of a girl, perhaps a little older than herself, in a gray shift, soaking wet and shivering.

  “It’s a madwoman!” shouted the coachman in the rain. “She ran in front of us like the devil were on her heels! Nearly ran ’er to ’er death, we did!” Mary didn’t hesitate, but shot after her, with Charles not long behind—but another carriage bolted past, cutting him off from Mary’s pursuit.

  The gray girl fled alongside a hedge bordering an important-looking building of white stone, before disappearing into some trees. Mary ran after her until all was a blur: the green hedge, the white stone, the gray girl.

  “Wait!” shouted Mary at the vanishing girl. “Are you all right?”

  Mary leant a gloved hand against a tree to catch her breath. A pale-faced girl peered out from behind another tree, a short distance on, auburn hair tangled and rain-pasted to her cheeks.

  “I say,” panted Mary. “I do hope you’re all right. You’ve had a bit of a fright, I should think.”

  “No,” replied the girl, as though from a great distance. “I’m not all right.” There was a strange, otherworldly note in her voice.

  Mary was alarmed. “Was it the horses? Were you hurt?”

  “No,” came the reply. “It wasn’t the horses. I’m just not all right.”

  “Please do come back to the carriage. Out of the rain. You’re soaked through. We can take you home.”

  “I’m not all right,” said the girl in gray. “And I’m not going home.” With that, she turned an even whiter shade of pale and fled into the forest alongside the path, quick as a bird.

  Mystified by the disappearing girl’s odd behavior, Mary paused, unsure of what to do. Charles caught up to her at last.

  “Miss Godwin? Are you altogether well?” he inquired. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have, Master Dickens.” Mary adjusted her bonnet and pulled her cape against the rain as she gave Charles a nod of thanks. “Perhaps I have.”

  Up in the library, burrowed in a book, Ada heard the lion’s-head knocker, the sounds of doors, and the fetching of trays: all the formalities of “visitor.” Ada’s list of approved visitors had a single name on it, and as she was quite sure that this name did not belong to whomever Mr. Franklin had deposited in the downstairs parlor, she didn’t feel the need to investigate.

  Until, of course, she heard a flurry of light footsteps on the stairs. Allegra was on her way to investigate, and Ada knew she ought to head her off.

  Mr. Franklin loomed at the bottom of the stairs in such a fashion that Allegra was unable to find her away around him. He blocked her path until Ada, relatively composed, was behind her. The butler then pivoted like a hinged door, directing their attention to Anna, Ada’s maid, as she emerged from the parlor. Anna smiled and bobbed a quick curtsy.

  “Lady Ada, there’s a Mrs. Mary Somerville to see you.”

  Ada froze. “That’s impossible,” said Ada. “It can’t be.”

  “You were expecting her. She sent a note.”

  “A note?”

  “You read it at breakfast, Lady Ada.”

  “I don’t remember it. I would have remembered it.”

  “You were reading something else at the same time,” added Anna.

  “I can do that! I can read two things at the same time and remember them.”

  “I’m sure you can, Lady Ada.”

  “I would have remembered a note from Mrs. Somerville!”

  “No doubt, Lady Ada.”

  “Mary Somerville. The smartest person in England. The smartest, cleverest person in the whole world. Wrote me a note. I would have remembered.”

  “As you say, Lady Ada,” said a patient Anna.

  Allegra. The sister had entered Ada’s brain like a mosquito in a summer night’s bedroom. She was sure she would have remembered everything if her sister hadn’t simply …

  Allegra trotted into the parlor like a spaniel, not caring a bit who Mrs. Somerville might be, or that she wasn’t there to visit the younger sister.

  Ada, in something of a shock, followed.

  A kindly woman in a coffee-brown dress rose and extended her hand. She was perhaps thirty-five or so, with a prominent nose and slightly slanty eyes. Her plain façade could not mask a ferocious intelligence, which Ada recognized at once.

  “Lady Ada,” said the woman. “Delighted to meet you at last.”

  Ada froze once more, starstruck. She blinked forcefully, and as this didn’t help, she blinked again. The woman continued.

  “I’m—”

  “Mary Somerville.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I understand we have a mutual friend in—”

  “Mr. Babbage,” Ada interrupted again.

  Mrs. Somerville smiled, and her eyes motioned to the furni
ture in the subtlest reminder that they might all wish to sit down.

  “Trithemius,” Ada added, blinking yet again.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Mrs. Somerville.

  “Steganographia. 1499. I have your—I mean—Mr. Babbage left—gave me—I—you—”

  “Have I startled you, Lady Ada?” asked Mrs. Somerville, concerned.

  Ada continued to stare at Mrs. Somerville, and Allegra stared at Ada, trying not to laugh.

  Ada panicked and bolted from the room, leaving Allegra to hurl herself at the couch and begin chatting away at the now-captive Mrs. Somerville.

  Ada shot to the library, found her quarry, and flew back down the stairs to find Mary, looking soggy and pale, in the foyer with the curly-haired and perfectly dry Jane in tow.

  “What’s wrong?” asked both Ada and Mary of each other at once.

  “I’m fine,” said Mary. “Our carriage had a bit of a start. Well, a stop would be more accurate. But what about you? You look a shambles. How did you get so sooty?”

  Ada was still wide-eyed and flustered.

  “Mary Somerville. In my house. Behind that door. Trapped, with Allegra.”

  Mary knew that when Ada began to chop up her sentences, she was feeling overwhelmed.

  “Dear Ada, do calm down. Now, are you saying that Allegra has trapped some woman behind the door, and we are to set her free?”