by Julie Berry
“Did you know, girls, that after his father nearly bankrupted the family estate, the present Mr. Bromley made a fortune for himself in buttons?”
That got my attention. Alice had never mentioned it. We’d been friends for months, sharing a room the entire time, and Alice never once spoke of where her family’s wealth came from. Many girls would talk of nothing else.
“Buttons?” asked Polly. “Is there a fortune to be made in buttons?”
“Of course there is,” Aunt Vera declared. “Just look around this tea shop at all the buttons on bodices, on men’s waistcoats and jackets.”
It was true. Fashionable ladies’ dresses and coats were positively studded with buttons, many of them elegant and elaborate. Spread that button count across London, across England, and there were more than enough buttons to maintain an elegant London townhouse and a country estate, swans and all.
My button-hunting gaze rested upon the back of a man’s head, seated near us. His ginger hair was combed slick, and his bowler hat sat in front of him on the table. He turned to one side, and I caught sight of his whiskers. It was the man from our cab. What were the chances that he’d be right here, with half of London, it seemed, jostling about St. Pancras? Then again, there at another table was the older gentleman with the homburg hat. Naturally, folks would look for tea before continuing their journeys. Nothing surprising there. The old man’s waistcoat had five buttons, at least.
We drank our tea and ate our biscuits, then Aunt Vera glanced at the time and shooed us toward the platform. “Let’s find a compartment, girls,” she said. But by the time we’d reached our train, a long queue had already formed, and the dining car and private compartments were full once we got onboard. The only spots remaining to us when we boarded were in the general seating cars.
We sat facing each other. Aunt Vera pulled out her knitting, and Polly opened her novel and adjusted her spectacles. I looked out the window, facing the rear of the train, but I saw little as we slid out of the station. The horses, carts, dogs, bicycles, delivery boys, hawkers, vendors, shoppers, and stores that would ordinarily command my attention held little to interest me now.
Without my djinni, my future would be to remain at Miss Salamanca’s school until I grew too old or they threw me out. And then what would I do with myself? Sit about at home, listening to my mother talk about table linens and neighbors’ hats forever? The day would soon come, if it hadn’t already, when cricket with the lads would not be an option. The only escape from that prison was too disgusting to think about. Marriage, eventually. Thank goodness Polly hadn’t been hauled off to that particular kind of execution yet.
Our train car was full of people of all shapes and sizes. Most of the men’s faces were masked by newspapers. One man lowered his paper and looked directly at me, before he realized I was looking back, and then he vanished again.
It was Mr. Ginger Whiskers.
I stared at his newspaper, and at the heavy gold ring on the hand holding it over his face, as though my eyes could penetrate the Daily Telegraph and read his thoughts.
Odd. Was it merely one coincidence after another, him taking the same cab, the same tea shop, the same train, the same car? It could be.
But what if it wasn’t?
I turned this thought over in my mind. Might this man be an admirer of my sister Polydora? My sister Deborah used to say no man would ever take a fancy to spinsterish Polly’s spectacles, but that was just Deborah being Deborah.
Could it have anything to do with Aunt Vera? Unlikely.
Could he be following me? Why would a man follow a thirteen-year-old girl? Unless he were sent by Mr. Treazleton. But Mr. Treazleton already had my djinni. So, he’d have no reason to send someone to spy on me.
It must be my imagination, I told myself. His presence here was a mere coincidence, and nothing more.
But when he got off the train at the Luton stop, just as we did, and disappeared into a cloud of engine steam and coal smoke, I had a hard time persuading myself of that.
Chapter 22
Going home on holiday presented me with a curious conundrum. On the one hand, it was marvelous to be away from the wrath of Miss Salamanca and her minions, the Miss Gunthersons and Bickles and Salisburys and Nerquists (though I did enjoy the latter’s geography class). On the other hand, going home dropped me right into my tangled web of sisters, plus my fussbudget mother (though Polydora was always a good sport). It was hard to know which I liked best, or least, home or school. I’d need a third hand to break the tie. I did wonder, would a third hand be somehow useful in cricket?
But Christmas was Christmas, and family was family. Dejected though I was, I resolved to try to put on a brave smile and enjoy the season if I could, after being robbed of all my hopes.
True to her word, Polly fed me a bowl of soup and tucked me straight into bed that afternoon.
I knew I’d slept because, when I got up, I had to face the bitter truth that I hadn’t gotten even with Theresa Treazleton for stealing my djinni for her daddy by knocking out her two front teeth and stringing them onto Mermeros’s shark-tooth necklace.
I hate it when beautiful dreams turn out not to be real.
I got up in time for dinner, sadder but wiser, and went downstairs to greet my family.
Even if I was in no mood for it, and even if Mother, Deborah, and Evangeline were too full of wedding fuss to care about it, Christmas had arrived at the Merritt home.
Jenkins, the housekeeper, and Polly had been at work for days, stringing garlands of evergreen along the banisters and draping wide velvet ribbons along the mantelpiece of the drawing-room fireplace and along the tops of all the draperies. Extra candles glimmered in all the rooms, and a wreath hung in the front picture window. The house looked like a wonderland, and smelled of pine and cloves and cinnamon. It almost made me forget my troubles, for a moment.
Then we gathered in the dining room, and the old family nonsense broke the bubble and returned life to normal. Nobody can stay forever in wonderland, anyway.
Polly was her usual cheerful self, with bits of news to share about people we knew in Luton—babies and weddings announced, puppies born, relatives returning home to celebrate the season. Somehow, Polly kept tabs on everyone without being a gossip in the slightest. Dad seemed lost in his thoughts. Mother was still vexed with me for my transgressions at school. Whenever she looked at me, which she mostly avoided doing, she pinched her lips together as though she’d tasted a lemon. Fortunately, Evangeline’s impending wedding diverted most of her attention.
Deborah was in raptures about the pale-rose-colored bridesmaid’s dress that had been ordered for her. To hear her describe it, you’d think she was the bride, and the wedding her own, an observation also noted angrily by Evangeline. The blissful bride-to-be could think of nothing else but Rudolph, her intended, who joined us for supper. It didn’t take me long, after listening to him natter on to Father about the Irish taxation question, whatever that was, to decide he was the dullest chunk of brick ever to propose to someone’s older sister. Apparently, the Irish had been overtaxed, and Parliament planned to pay them back, or something, or so the Daily News reported. I was happy for the Irish, but very sorry for myself, needing to be seen and not heard during such long, tedious talk.
What Rudolph didn’t notice, but I could see as plain as day, was that Father was in no mood to think about the Irish taxation question, nor any other matter not directly on his mind. Ordinarily, my father loved this kind of talk. A man of finance and business, he devoured the morning papers on the train to work and the evening papers on the way home. I should’ve thought having a son-in-law who was as much of a news-eater as he was warmed his banking heart to no end. But Dad was out of sorts and very low in spirits. Christmas apparently hadn’t affected him much.
“Are you unwell, dear?” my mother asked him, during a pause when Rudolph took a bite of pork.
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br /> “Hmm? What’s that?” Dad looked up as if roused from sleep. “Oh. Perfectly well. Just a conversation with Mr. Pinagree and…well, some troubles at work.”
Mother brightened. “Oh, that. I shan’t worry, then. There are always troubles at work.”
“That,” said Deborah, “is because banking is so incredibly dull. They need to stir up troubles just to give themselves something to do.”
Mother didn’t notice Dad’s expression then, but I did. His face said these weren’t ordinary troubles, and that it would be nice, now and then, if his wife and daughters took certain things more seriously. I itched to ask him what was the matter, but this was not the place nor the time. In any case, Dad would think I was a lunatic if I started asking him about his employer.
Was Mr. Treazleton the cause of my father’s difficulties? It was hard to imagine what else might cause them. Daddy was so diligent and earnest about his work. He’d never give an employer cause to wish he weren’t there.
I wished I could do something to help. But if I’d really cared enough about helping, if I’d really been a loyal daughter, I would’ve given Mr. Treazleton the sardine can and spared Father any troubles at the bank. I was a hypocrite and a fraud, with no djinni to show for it, and now Father would pay a terrible price. What would happen to us then?
Three days later, on Christmas Eve, we attended a gathering at Aunt Vera’s home. She liked to throw parties, and her husband, Uncle Edgar, never minded the expense where celebrations were concerned. His big belly proved it. He ought to have trimmed his hat with holly and dressed as Father Christmas. So my sisters and my parents and I, as well as Rudolph, other relatives, neighbors, and friends all gathered for a late supper and games at their house. Normally I wouldn’t be allowed to attend this, being too young, but Mother made a Christmas exception. Polly played carols on the pianoforte, and we were a merry bunch. Even I got into the spirit of the occasion and played the part of an imp in our little Christmas tableau. My pretty cousin, Penny Anne, was the Queen of the Faeries. Naturally. More power to her. I’d rather be an imp anyway.
We returned home late, and I went upstairs to the room I shared with Polly. When I opened the door, my stomach sank. Yet again. As Miss Guntherson, my French instructor, would say, déjà vu. My bedroom, ransacked. My window, left open. My curtains, fluttering in the cold breeze.
“Thief!” I cried. “Someone has burgled my bedroom!”
Mother, Father, and my sisters came trip-trapping down the hall and crowded into the doorway. We gaped at the sight.
“Evangeline,” Father ordered, “check the other rooms and see if there’s been a burglar anywhere else.”
“Don’t make me do it, Daddy!” she cried. “What if I’m attacked? What if the burglar is still here?”
“Ring for Jenkins,” Mother said. “She’ll go with you.”
“Now, Mother, we need not wake the servants,” said Father. “Let them rest. It’s Christmas.”
“There’s no burglar,” Deborah scoffed. “This is just another of Maeve’s tricks.”
My vision flamed red. “It is not!”
“Didn’t you say someone stole something from your room at school?” she retorted.
Polly came to my aid. “Maeve would never do something like this maliciously.”
Mother pursed her lips. Clearly, she had her doubts.
Jenkins rose without us ringing for her and appeared with a candle, with her housecoat wrapped tightly about her. She and Evangeline took off on their brave exploration. Father inspected the windowsill and looked around the room at the disheveled bedclothes, the scattered papers, the dangling drawers of the bureau and desk.
Polly searched through her own things. “I don’t seem to be missing anything, Father,” she said. “My necklaces, my porcelain jewel box, my change purse—they’re all here.”
Father’s eyebrow rose. “Maeve? What are you missing?”
I sifted through my belongings, my mind racing. Surely the thief could only be after one thing: my sardine can. I didn’t have it, of course. So the thief was someone who didn’t know I’d lost it. Mr. Treazleton must know. What new enemy had I acquired?
The man in the ginger whiskers, of course. My heart went cold.
“I’m not missing anything, Daddy,” I told him.
Evangeline returned, breathless, with Jenkins at her heels to give her report. “No other room in the house is disturbed,” she said, “except the old nursery. Someone has dumped out the toy box and cleared all the dollies off the shelves.”
Mother and Deborah folded their arms across their chests and stared at me.
“I didn’t do it!” I yelped. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“There’s no one else who would,” said Deborah. “And no thief would be so stupid as to muss up your room and the nursery, and take nothing.”
“This is your wretched idea of a joke, Maeve.” Evangeline entered the fray. “I call that a beastly thing to do. Especially at Christmas!”
My fingers curled into fists. But I couldn’t sock my grown sisters. Especially not with Mother and Dad standing right there. Besides, it would be like striking old ladies. They were about that helpless.
But it still stung to have them suspect me so. Their own baby sister.
“Father,” said Polydora in her smooth, calm voice. “Hadn’t we ought to summon a policeman? I’m certain Maeve wouldn’t do this as a prank.”
Father poked and prodded at the windowsill. “It does seem,” he said, “as though someone did use a ladder here.”
Take that, Deborah. My nose might’ve poked a hole in the ceiling, and I’m not too proud to admit it.
“Jenkins, would you wake Henry and ask him to bicycle to the station and send over an inspector?”
Jenkins disappeared down the dark hallway, followed by Deborah and Evangeline in a shared huff of indignation. Mother drifted off to her boudoir, lamenting that we would all be murdered in our beds.
“Thank you,” I told my father as he passed by me on his way out the room.
He stopped and looked me directly in the eye. “You didn’t do it, did you, Maeve?”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
He patted my cheek. “Then I believe you.”
He may have been a fusty, dull banker, but my father leaped high in my heart then and there, and hasn’t ever fallen since.
“Why don’t you gather up your bedding, and Polly’s, and make beds for yourselves on the downstairs couches?”
I hurried to do as he’d asked.
As soon as I’d made the beds, I slipped down the stairs to the coal cellar, candle in hand, and dug at the base of the coal bin with a shovel. There it was, undisturbed—the tin of gingerbread Aunt Vera had given me, now devoid of gingerbread, containing the Persian king’s crest, bracelet, and ring. Though I felt certain these weren’t items any thief knew of, I still wanted to be sure they were safe. Satisfied that they were, I climbed the stairs, washed up, changed into my nightdress, and went to sleep.
I woke early in the morning to voices in the breakfast room and wandered in to see Polydora seated at the table in earnest conversation with a uniformed police officer. Father stood near the windows, half listening and half reading the paper.
“There was an intruder,” the officer was saying, “but as nothing appears to have been taken, and we have no leads on who the intruder might have been, there’s not much more that we can do.”
Polly nodded. Her eyes were bright behind her spectacles, and her cheeks unusually pink.
“We’re most obliged to you for coming out to attend to this matter, Constable—”
“Hopewood,” the officer said. “Matthew Hopewood.”
Polydora held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She certainly was. I’m no expert in such matters, but it se
emed to me that Constable Hopewood was equally pleased. He had a broad face and serious eyes. When he smiled, he seemed like a likable sort.
Romance was for the birds, but anybody who liked my Polydora had excellent taste, and I couldn’t help but approve. Besides, wouldn’t it be spit in petty Deborah’s eye if spectacled Polly found a beau before she did?
“It was most kind of you to come investigate this matter on Christmas morning,” my sister said gently. “Depriving you of your family holiday, no less.”
Officer Hopewood rose. “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t have any family. Least, not nearby. I have an aunt and uncle up near Oxford.”
“No family to spend Christmas with!” Polly repeated sadly.
“In that case,” my father said, peering over his paper, “you must have Christmas breakfast with us.”
When they appeared and discovered our guest, Mother and Deborah seemed rather put out by Father inviting him. Evangeline didn’t care one way or another, as her precious Rudolph joined us for eggs and bacon and kippers also. But I didn’t mind a bit. In fact, watching Polly blush as she poured the constable’s tea, and watching his eyes never leave her face, I almost forgot my lost djinni and the ginger-whiskered man. And when Father insisted that Constable Hopewood extend his visit through dinner, and Polly turned the color of Father Christmas’s big red coat, it was the best Christmas present he could’ve given me.
Besides, of course a certain sardine can. But on Christmas Day, I tried hard not to think of that.
Chapter 23
Aunt Vera rang the doorbell at 20 Grosvenor Square and pinched her cheeks to give them a bit more pink. I rolled my eyes and pretended not to notice. Behind us, the park bustled with activity, even in late December.
An elderly butler, tall and gaunt, answered the door. At the sight of me, a small smile appeared on his lips.
“Ah. Miss Merritt. And her mother?”
