Wind whipped down the open corridor with a low warning howl. Ropes creaked. Each new sound was like a needle pricking my veins. I held my scalpel tightly at my side, not wanting to strike out at anyone by mistake. I needed to rein in my emotions, or someone could get hurt. I longed to kiss Thomas, not accidentally eviscerate him.
As I neared the front of the ship, I slowed my pace. I didn’t see my future betrothed, but surely he had to have arrived by now. I strained to see around benches and slatted chairs that had been bolted to the ground. It was hard to make out anything more than silhouettes in the cloud-covered night; the dim lanterns lining the promenade were either turned off or didn’t extend this far. I swallowed my fear down. No one was out hunting me.
“Thomas?” I whispered, inching toward the prow. On this part of the ship, the wind was merciless. I tucked my chin to my chest, though that hardly helped. If Thomas didn’t appear soon, I’d—
He strode toward me, a silhouette in human form. My heart raced.
“Was the dramatic meeting place truly necessary, Cresswell?”
He stopped a few feet from where I stood shuddering. I all but rolled my eyes as he scanned me and then our surroundings. He did not move any closer and my annoyance reared up. This was not the warm greeting I’d pictured as I sneaked about the frigid ship.
“Well? I’m about to catch my death. What was so urgent that we needed to meet out here at this hour? Do you have any news on Miss Prescott?”
He tilted his head to one side, considering. And that’s when I noticed the slight reflection as light caught on his face. As if part of his features were covered in… I gasped.
“Apologies for any disappointment, miss, but my name is not Cresswell.” Mephistopheles took a hesitant step closer. “Though I am intrigued a young lady of your standing would agree to such an unchaperoned meeting.”
I held the scalpel up, cursing my hands for shaking. I did not want him to think my trembling was entirely due to how frightened I was.
“W-what do you want?” I managed to get out. I swore the wind bent to his will; it growled and hissed, finding every crevice in my clothing to claw its way through. Mephistopheles came forward, his cloak whipping about behind him. I did not believe in such things, but in this moment he appeared to be the devil’s heir Chief Magistrate Prescott claimed he was. “S-stop. Or I swear I’ll s-sever your artery. I know pr-precisely where to inflict the m-most damage, sir.”
I don’t know what I expected, but a surprised bark of laughter wasn’t it. He removed his own cloak, his movements unhurried as to not startle me into slashing out.
“Contrary to what you may think, I’m not in the business of watching young women die. Please.” He held the cloak toward me. “Take this. It’s an angora blend. You won’t find another garment as warm or soft, I guarantee it.” I gritted my teeth against their chattering and eyed the cloak. I did not want to accept any form of help from this wicked-looking young man. He slowly grinned. “Here. I’ll lay it over this chair and you can fetch it yourself.” He set it down with care, then stepped back, bowing in mockery. “Your cloak awaits, fair lady.”
“What d-do you want?” I repeated, holding my weapon at the ready. He simply crossed his arms, and stared pointedly at the garment. I exhaled loudly, then snatched up the cloak. I resisted the urge to rub my cheek along the downy softness. In a matter of moments warmth bloomed over my body, and my trembling decreased. He smirked, and I brandished my weapon once more, wiping the smug look from his face. “Answer my question or I shall leave.”
He unfolded the nearest chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. If he was cold, sitting there in his scarlet evening jacket as the wind howled its displeasure, it didn’t show. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely human. That at least would explain his seemingly inexplicable talent for magic tricks. For the first time I noticed his gloves—each one had a crescent moon stitched onto the back of it with stars across the knuckles. They were exquisite.
“I’ve a proposition for you.” I started shaking my head, but he held up a hand. “It’s a bargain that will prove most beneficial, I suspect. I saw the way you observed the unfortunate incident this evening. You were calculating and calm when others panicked. You searched for clues and details. Both are skills I am in need of.”
“Yes, it’s quite unfortunate to find nearly a dozen knives in someone’s back,” I said coldly. “What a tremendous talent you have, making the murder of a young woman sound no more horrendous than a simple act of misfortune. And then attempting to use it all to your benefit. You’re disgusting.”
He eyed me from his seat. “Admonish me all you wish, but one fact remains: it is unfortunate. Would it make you feel better if I’d shed a tear?”
I had the impression his inquiry was sincere, as if he’d relish nothing more than turning this into an opportunity to practice his performance skills. “I’ve had quite enough mischief for one evening. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve—”
“I came to offer my tutelage in exchange for your assistance. I believe, based on the curiosity you displayed during the show, that you wish to learn sleight of hand. I desire to preserve something very dear to me. You can help with that.”
“I have no desire to learn tricks, sir.”
He offered a look that suggested I was a horrible liar. “You won’t find a better teacher.”
“But I may find a less arrogant one.” I forced myself to breathe. It wasn’t magic I desired to learn, but he was close to guessing the truth I’d rather hide. “Anyway, I’m sorry to inform you, sir, but I do not believe in such nonsense as magic. I am a scientist. Do not insult me with your cheap theatrics. If your charlatan’s fortune-telling practices worked, then you’d have known not to bother.”
“‘Cheap theatrics’?” He jumped from his chair and took a few steps in my direction. I held my ground, watching as he slowly reached out, then pulled a card seemingly from the air around us. “Magic is science. It’s simply a fancier term for showing people the impossible is attainable.”
I stared at the card, heart thumping as he rolled it across his knuckles. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it appeared similar to the unique playing card stuck to Miss Prescott’s body. I longed to raise my scalpel again, but didn’t want to alert him to my shift in mood. Either Mephistopheles was the person responsible for Miss Prescott’s death, or someone with access to his cards was. Since he’d been onstage, I knew the latter to be the most probable.
He watched me closely. Without the distance of the stage between us, I could easily see the intelligent gleam. “Do you deny the allure of sleight of hand, too? Are you only interested in one form of science, or would you care to expand your knowledge?”
“Weren’t you the one who warned against accepting midnight bargains with your lot? Contrary to what you may think,” I said, spitting his earlier words back at him, “I’m not in the business of being a fool. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s late and this was a waste of our time. Good night, sir.”
I brushed past him, not bothering to look back as he called out, “Our bargain remains yours to take. I have a feeling you’ll think of it differently soon enough. After all, murder is just another form of sleight of hand, is it not?”
I hoped he hadn’t noticed my steps falter as I hurried along the dark promenade, ignoring the chills that raced along my spine. Murder was another form of sleight of hand. And if the person responsible was talented enough, they just might get away with it.
FOUR
A TANGLED WEB
PRESCOTT’S QUARTERS
RMS ETRURIA
2 JANUARY 1889
I fiddled with the pearl buttons on my gloves as Uncle rapped his fist against the chief magistrate’s door. Mumbled voices rose on the other side, though they didn’t stop arguing. Uncle waited a few moments before repeating the motion. He’d been up earlier than I was and had completed Miss Prescott’s postmortem on his own, leaving me too much time to think over the last twenty-four hours without
any distractions.
I stared blankly at the bolts surrounding the door. I’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning until I thought I’d go mad. Aside from Mephistopheles’s strange midnight bargain and Miss Prescott’s murder, there was the constant weight of worry over Liza. I wanted to beg Captain Norwood to turn this ship around and sail straight back to England. Instead I had to settle for taking one wretched day at a time. Patience was a loathsome virtue.
“Have you heard anything I’ve said?” Thomas waved a hand in front of my face, one corner of his mouth quirked up. “It’s truly fascinating when you do that.”
“Do what? Think?” I batted his hand away. “Pardon me.”
“No need.” He grinned. “You know I don’t mind when you daydream about me.”
Uncle glanced over his shoulder. “Might the two of you act properly for five minutes?”
“I’ve done nothing!” I tossed my hands up. “The only thing I’m guilty of is thinking about last night’s murder. Mrs. Harvey said something about cartomancy. It might be worth investigating.”
Uncle muttered something that sounded quite rude and knocked once more. Thomas stepped into my line of view and mouthed, “And guilty of picturing me without clothing?”
Before I could offer him an unladylike hand gesture, the door swung open. In an instant, the teasing smile was gone from my friend’s face, replaced by the cold calculation that always entered his features when observing people. I’d expected to see Chief Magistrate Prescott, but a shorter, rounder man with a receding hairline greeted us.
“Good day, gentleman,” he said, not sounding at all as if he meant it. “And young lady. What may I assist you with?”
“I’m Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth of London, and these are my apprentices, Mr. Thomas Cresswell and Miss Audrey Rose Wadsworth. We’ve come to call on Mr. Prescott,” Uncle said. “There are a few questions we need answered regarding the days leading up to his daughter’s murder. It won’t take but a few minutes of his time.”
The stout man pulled his shoulders back, and tried looking down his stub nose, though Uncle was a good bit taller. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at present. I’ve administered a tonic to quell his nerves.” He stuck his meaty hand out. “I’m Dr. Philip Arden.”
Thomas and I exchanged raised brows. Gentlemen weren’t normally given elixirs for nerves, a foolish societal notion claiming men didn’t experience such emotions, but I was more concerned with the blatant lie. We’d just heard the two men arguing through the closed door.
Uncle nodded. “Any information Mr. Prescott may offer will do, even in his current condition.”
“I’m afraid I must insist you come back another time,” Dr. Arden said, slowly closing the door in our faces. “The Prescotts desire time to process the sudden death of their only daughter. Surely you understand the need for such delicacy?”
I bit down on my tongue. Part of me wanted to say I didn’t understand at all, to talk sternly about the importance of ferreting out any clues before they were lost to memory. However, I knew that was a harsh viewpoint given the circumstances. Their only daughter died brutally in front of them. If they needed time to mourn, it was the least we could offer.
A door creaked open down the corridor, yet no one stepped out. I caught Thomas’s eye and jerked my head in the direction. He took a small step toward the room and paused, nodding in assent. Someone was eavesdropping. I tuned back into the conversation between Dr. Arden and my uncle, hoping they’d hurry it along.
“Very well,” Uncle relented. “Please let him know I stopped by. I’ll return again later this evening.”
I dropped a polite curtsy, but before Dr. Arden could tip his hat, I was moving swiftly down the corridor. I was about to raise my fist and knock, when I noticed Mrs. Prescott staring blankly ahead, eyes rimmed in the red of the grief-stricken.
“Mrs. Prescott…” I moved slowly into her line of vision. “Do you need me to fetch—”
“I told him we shouldn’t accept the offer,” she said, eyes fixed on the ocean. “It was his pride that doomed her.”
I felt Uncle and Thomas hovering behind me and held a hand to stall them. “What offer made you uncomfortable? Was it something you received prior to boarding the ship?”
She blinked at me, as if realizing she wasn’t speaking into the void after all. “A letter. We’d received an invitation. As did the Ardens.” She laughed, the sound anything but amused. “‘Esteemed guest,’ indeed. Robert enjoys believing his own press—that his opinion is one to aspire to attain. There wasn’t any way he’d miss an opportunity to show off. Vanity is a sin.”
“Does Mr. Prescott know who sent the letter?” I pressed. “May I see it?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She turned her attention on me and her emotions punched me in my very core. “What good will it do? My Olivia is gone.”
Thomas shifted, fingers tapping his sides. He reminded me of a hound who’d scented a promising lead and wanted to hunt it down no matter the cost. I made to grab him, but he carefully sidestepped my reach.
“Mrs. Prescott, if I may offer my opinion?” he asked. I closed my eyes. Thomas was many incredible things, but subtle he was not. “You have suffered a tragedy most could neither imagine, nor endure. Yet here you stand, breathing, living. Which is the most difficult thing to do. People often admire physical strength, but I believe it’s the simple things one does after a tragedy that defines them. There is no greater show of power than continuing to live when you’d like nothing more than to lie down and let the world fade. Your strength and conviction are needed now—to assist us in capturing whoever did this to your daughter. Miss Olivia might be gone, but what you do next will help her seek the justice she deserves.”
I blinked back the stinging in my eyes, completely and utterly speechless. Mrs. Prescott seemed equally dazed, but recovered swiftly and disappeared into her room. I stood there, mouth agape, not knowing who this Thomas Cresswell was. He flashed a quick grin. “A lifetime full of surprises, remember, Wadsworth?”
“Indeed.” I could not imagine a future that didn’t include unwinding each secret he possessed. Mrs. Prescott finally made her way back to where we lingered in the doorway.
“Here,” she said, sniffling. “For Olivia.”
Thomas took the letter with great care, holding it to his chest. “We will find who did this, Mrs. Prescott. And they will be made to pay.”
I glanced sharply in Thomas’s direction. His tone sent a creeping chill across my skin. I did not doubt that he would fight with everything he had to solve this case.
Mrs. Prescott swallowed hard. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to lie down again.”
We bid her goodbye and continued down the promenade. Uncle glanced over at us while we walked, expression shuttered. I wondered if he was thinking about Aunt Amelia, worried that she might be in an equally horrid condition, going mad with panic over Liza’s disappearance. So often we were only tasked with cutting open the dead, searching the aftermath for clues. Speaking with the living during their time of grief was much harder. It was nearly impossible to turn emotions off and disconnect from the gruesome work that needed to be done.
Once we were far enough down the promenade deck, Thomas stopped and handed the invitation to me. It was quite decadent as far as envelopes went. The paper was a shiny ink blue and the letters were a swirling silver and gold. Little stars littered the border as if someone had blown glitter across the page. It reminded me immediately of the Moonlight Carnival.
I traced my finger over the glossy finish and opened the letter up.
“What do either of you make of this?” Uncle asked. “First impressions.”
“It’s hard to say.” I drew in a deep breath, my mind turning over the words. “On one hand I understand Mrs. Prescott’s distrust—why seek endorsement from a judge? Surely there are more influential members of the aristocracy to target for that sort of thing.” I scanned the letter again, then handed it
to Thomas. “I’d claim it was highly unlikely to have been sent by anyone associated with the carnival. Which of them could afford to purchase passage for four first-class passengers?”
“But?” Thomas urged, brow raised. I had the impression he’d come to the same conclusion and was giving me an opportunity to shine.
“It’s very close to the opening statement Mephistopheles made.” I pointed to the one line that was practically identical. “‘You might lose your life, your very soul, to this magical traveling show.’ Who else would be privy to that speech, if not a carnival worker?”
Uncle twisted his mustache, focus turned inward. “Perhaps someone who’s attended the carnival before. This isn’t the first time the Moonlight Carnival is performing.”
“True,” I said, unconvinced. “It still doesn’t explain why they’d wish to frame the circus. Thus far there are no witnesses that we know of, no motive as to why Miss Prescott was targeted, and no decent reason to orchestrate such a tangled web to commit one murder. Why not simply wait until the lights are out, strike, then slip back to wherever they emerged from?”
Thomas paced the deck, his movements quick and precise, much like I imagined his thoughts to be. He stopped abruptly and moved to the railing, staring out at the endless sea. Uncle and I glanced at each other, but didn’t dare interrupt him while he traveled into that dark, twisted part of himself. A few moments later, he half turned, shoulders stiff.
“The murderer is likely someone who enjoys the spectacle. He isn’t interested in quietly committing his dark deeds—he wants drama, the thrill of seeing people recoil. I…” The wind blew a section of hair across his brow. He turned to us, expression hard. “Next time the victim will be revealed in a grander fashion, one that cannot simply be thought of as a performance. Wherever he is right now, he’s seething. Enraged that more people weren’t afraid of his opening act. When he strikes again, every passenger aboard this ship will be imprisoned by their fear. I guarantee he means to turn this cruise into a fantastical nightmare.”
Escaping From Houdini (Stalking Jack the Ripper Book 3) Page 4
