She looked at him squarely. “This is Grace Child, one of the kitchen staff.”
Lord Bancroft barely stirred at the news. There were doubtless more drudges where Grace had come from.
Lestrade narrowed his eyes—an expression that did not match his polite nod. “Thank you, miss, but I’d appreciate it if you stepped away. There’s a chance you might disturb the evidence.”
“Of course.”
As she moved toward the door, the evidence in her pocket, she counted the uniforms Lestrade had brought with him. There were three, all crowding into the cloakroom with chests puffed out and brass buttons shining.
One had a chemical whistle strapped to his belt, set to give off a shrill alarm if its plunger was depressed. Her uncle, something of a chemist, had designed the prototype and given it to Scotland Yard. If only the coppers’ brains were as sharp as their gear.
With a pang of frustration, she wondered if anyone had thought to search the grounds. Or was that too much a breach of His Lordship’s privacy? Lucky for Nick, they weren’t combing the upstairs rooms, but …
She thought again about that moment in the upstairs corridor. Had Grace surprised someone? The idea gnawed at her.
But Lestrade’s eyes were on her. The only thing Evelina could do right then was retreat, so she returned to the hall where Dora sat. Maisie and the housekeeper were gone, but someone had brought tea, the universal restorative. A little steam-powered trolley sat huffing to one side, smelling of Assam and brandy.
Evelina sat next to Dora. “How are you?”
Dora sniffed wearily. “I’ll be all right, miss.” But she shook her head, as if nothing would ever be right again. “Poor Maisie’d done the last of the pots and was going to bed. Taking the short way rather than the servant’s stairs like she was supposed to. Saw the light and went to shut it off and then there was Gracie.”
Evelina thought a moment, trying to picture the scene in her head. “There was a woman’s footprint by Grace, and I noticed she was wearing walking boots that would have left a much larger outline. It couldn’t have been hers. Do you know if Maisie went right up to the body?”
“No, miss. She barely set foot in the room once she saw the blood. I didn’t, either. I get all hot and shuddery at the sight of a scraped knee, to say nothing of … of this.”
Then whose shoe made that mark? She would have to find out where all the servants were tonight. She moved on to the next question. “Do you have any idea why Grace was in the cloakroom?”
A flush crept from the neat white collar of Dora’s uniform, turning her ears crimson. “I wouldn’t know that, miss.”
Obviously she did. Evelina softened her voice. “Was she going to meet someone there? After all, it is a quiet room, and no one was using it. A private place.”
“I don’t know, miss. She wasn’t a careful girl.”
“Careful how?”
“To hear her talk, you’d think her latest beau was the crown prince.”
“What do you mean?” Evelina asked, more sharply this time.
Dora suddenly looked very frightened. “I don’t mean anything by it, miss.”
“Was she someone’s …” Evelina trailed off, thinking about the fancy petticoat.
Dora tucked in her chin, resembling a turtle on the defensive. “If it were anything much, she wouldn’t have been peeling spuds all day, if you know what I mean.”
“But she was seeing someone who had money?”
A sidelong glance shot from under the maid’s lashes. “That would have been a bit of all right, but her bad stomach in the morning said there was trouble on the way.”
Evelina caught her breath. Grace had been about to be ruined. She would have lost her place. There weren’t many options open to an unwed mother, especially a poor one. Usually those stories ended with death or emigration. “Did she ever say who the father was?”
Dora shook her head. “She never said any names.” There was clearly more she wanted to tell, but she pressed her fist against her lips, as if to hold back the words.
“What, Dora?”
The maid shook her head again, tears glistening in her eyes. “Oh, miss, I saw Grace barely a half hour before Maisie found her.”
“Alive?”
Dora nodded in quick, jerky movements. “I saw her out the window. She was in the garden, as if catching a breath of air before coming in to bed.”
Evelina automatically calculated the hours. That narrowed down the time of death considerably. “Right after you left Imogen’s room?”
Dora nodded. “When I went to fetch the sleeping draft.”
That would have put the time at around twelve thirty. Evelina again remembered the voices she’d heard when she’d been outside. That had been much earlier, almost an hour and a half before.
“Alone?”
“No, miss.”
Evelina felt her scalp crawl. “Who was she with?”
The maid was silent, gaze falling to her hands, where they kneaded the fabric of her apron.
“Dora, I won’t repeat what you say. You know me better than that.”
That seemed to reassure her. Dora leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Mr. Tobias.”
Evelina felt her jaw fall open, but couldn’t summon the presence of mind to close it.
What has the great ninny gone and done now?
Tobias chose that moment to walk out of the cloakroom, pausing to look her way. Dora stiffened, obviously sharing Evelina’s dangerous thoughts. His shirt and hands were pristine, free of blood, but the bruise on his face seemed darker in the shadows beyond the gaslight. Someone had fought him hard.
A paralysis came over Evelina, pinning her where she sat. Frustration bubbled up, a painful pressure in her chest. She wanted to jerk her chin away, to ignore the steady searching of his gray eyes.
They both had secrets. Even though he’d learned nothing about her girlhood in the circus, much less her magic, he knew other things about her—such as her unorthodox taste for science and mechanics, and that she understood far more of the world than any young lady ought to.
She knew more than was proper about his gambling and women. She didn’t need to be a detective for that—just have the eyes of a girl half in love. Neither of them ever spoke a word about what they saw in the other, and yet they both knew that the mutual knowledge was there.
Any other day, Evelina treasured that shared complicity as something that bound them together. Tonight, with so much suspicion in the air, it felt unsafe.
Tobias’s mouth twitched downward, as if he sensed her discomfort. He turned with a slight hitch in his shoulder—the merest suggestion of a shrug—and left the room. A moment later, Evelina heard his footstep on the stairs. Going to bed. Returning to bed, if one believed his tale, though how one got a black eye while snugly tucked beneath the covers beggared her imagination. Of course he knew Grace. He saw her just before she died.
Yes, keeping his secrets forged a link between them, but it wasn’t at all the kind of intimacy she had dreamed of sharing with Tobias Roth. And for that merest sliver of time, she hated him for it.
Chapter Four
Let it be known that the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events was formed this twenty-first day of September 1887, for the exploration of practical science. The charter members of this society are the Honorable Tobias Roth, Mister Buckingham Penner, Captain Diogenes Smythe, and Mister Michael Edgerton. Membership private and by recommendation only.
They have selected for their motto the phrase “Beware, Because We Can.”
—Official Charter of SPIE,
filed in the archives of the Xanadu Gentlemen’s Club
London, April 4,1888
THE ROYAL CHARLOTTE THEATRE
8 p.m. Wednesday
In a just universe, a special circle of hell awaited bad opera singers. And lo, the self-appointed administrator of that justice was to be Tobias—but very few knew that just yet.
At four o
’clock that afternoon, The Flying Dutchman dropped anchor in the Royal Charlotte Theatre with all the gravitas of Wagnerian excess: elaborate sets, a massive orchestra, and singers with the lung power of bull elephants. Following some logic that Tobias couldn’t fathom, the performance had started at an uncivilized hour, too late for a matinee and too early for an evening performance—but all the better to bombard the poor audience with hours of Sturm und Drang. In short, the long-awaited London debut of the Prinkelbruch opera company was not so much entertainment as a juggernaut flattening the senses.
From his throne in the balcony, Tobias scanned the horseshoe of gilt and velvet boxes. The Royal Harlot—er—Charlotte resembled a cross between a whore’s boudoir and a stale wedding cake. There was not a single surface that was not swagged, tasseled, or crusted in flaking gold paint.
Anyone who mattered in fashionable London was there, and the scent of overwarm humanity mixed with competing perfumes like an expensive fog. The heat was making Tobias itch wherever the flannel of his perfectly creased trousers touched his bare skin.
His companion, Buckingham “Bucky” Penner, lolled in his seat as if fatally shot, fanning himself with the program. “I rather like opera, but would say this Dutchman is a sinking occasion. And I, for one, am ready to walk the gangplank.”
Tobias spared a glance for his friend. “We’re not here for the music. We’re here to win the bet.”
“Ever the general, with your mind on the plan.”
“It’s certainly not on the opera. I’d run mad. That baritone oomphs his arias like a morose foghorn.”
Penner snuffled a laugh. He reminded Tobias of a mischievous spaniel, always in search of food, soft pillows, and pretty young women to snuggle up to. About half the time, he was steady, sensible, and a good listener. However, behind those mild brown eyes lurked a talent for creative geometry. No one knew how to calculate the trajectory of projectiles quite like Bucky. Given a fulcrum and a sufficient amount of force, he made things go “splat” excellently well.
And splattage was key to their machinations. The preceding autumn, Tobias Roth had wagered that he could scandalize fashionable London, land on the front page of every important newspaper, and mobilize the armed forces of the Empire in a single night without being arrested or dropping his pants.
The reason he had done so had subsequently vanished in an alcoholic haze. Nevertheless, a bet was a bet, duly recorded and witnessed at the Xanadu Gentlemen’s Club. Thousands of pounds rested on Tobias’s word, not to mention a stellar opportunity to annoy his father.
“You are mad,” Bucky observed placidly. “But in a pleasant way.”
Tobias lifted the chased silver handle of his opera glasses to once more peruse the audience. “A man needs an antidote to boredom. A man needs ambition.”
“To do what?”
The question summed up Tobias in three words. At the advanced age of twenty-three, he was more familiar with all the things he didn’t want to do with his life. The founding of the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events was his one great accomplishment, and the most fun to be had since Diogenes Smythe tried to jump his father’s prize stallion over a moving locomotive. Sad. Really. Surely you’re good for more than this?
Or maybe not. That was the scary possibility, wasn’t it?
“Abercrombie put you up to it,” Bucky carried on. “I remember that much from the night in question.”
“So?”
Bucky sighed with disgust. “Abercrombie is a jam tart and you were drunk. Note that jam tarts are sticky and prone to leaving stains.”
Tobias hated the waiting phase of a plan. It always led to moments of doubt, and he was having a large one now. Not that he would admit that to Bucky. Were eight tentacles enough? Did I bribe the stagehands sufficiently? What the blazes will I do if this goes all wrong? I can’t put my hands on that much money. Dear old Dad will throw a wobbler. At least that has possibilities …
He swung the glasses farther to the left. In the penumbra of the gas footlights, the diamonds worn by the ladies in the audience shimmered like the Flying Dutchman’s faraway sea. At last, the girl who had caught his eye came into focus. A pretty thing, tall, slender, and crowned with a fall of walnut curls.
To his annoyance, he could sense Bucky leaning over, trying to guess whom he was ogling. “I say, is that whatsit—I mean your sister’s friend?” Bucky asked.
Tobias lowered the glasses, disappointed. “Miss Cooper? No. Just looks a bit like her.”
“Ah.” Bucky straightened, took a nip from an ornate silver flask, then passed it to Tobias.
“Ah?” Tobias feigned innocence, then started as he caught sight of his father in a center box. Now he knew how Macbeth felt during a Banquo moment. He pushed the image away before it spoiled his mood. Instead, he conjured Evelina’s heart-shaped face.
“Ah.” Bucky nodded sagely, giving him a sly wink.
Tobias took a drink, disgruntled.
Onstage, the bass-baritone imitated a dyspeptic tuba.
Tobias let the brandy linger on his tongue a moment before swallowing. Evelina Cooper would fit right in with Bucky and the rest of the society’s charter members. That is, if one overlooked the girl part, which was plainly impossible. Evelina’s girl parts were on his mind almost constantly of late. Imogen’s school friend had suddenly come into focus after years of existing as blurry backdrop.
Given her scanty dowry, she wasn’t the type of girl one married, not even with the Holmes name on her mother’s side. They were just country gentry. All right for a barrister or a civil servant, but not quite the thing for the son of a lord. If it hadn’t been for poor Imogen’s obvious attachment, Evelina wouldn’t travel in their set.
But she wasn’t that other kind of woman, either, the kind one kept about just for larks. Things would have been a lot simpler if she were. The problem was, he wanted Evelina to like him. It was ridiculous. He never wanted that from a girl.
“Do you think Edgerton’s in place?” he asked, mostly to distract himself.
Bucky pulled out his watch, flipped open the case, and peered myopically at the time. “Probably.”
Excellent. As he folded away his opera glasses, Tobias looked down at the stage and made a quick calculation. In about fifteen minutes, the ghostly captain would be bemoaning his curse, which meant the heroine would be drowning herself shortly thereafter. After nearly four hours, it was about bloody time. “My friend, let us take up our stations.”
Scandal, headlines, bring out the army. How hard could it be?
They exited from the back of the box to the gaslit corridor beyond. A few patrons stood chatting here and there, but none looked up at two impeccably gloved and top-hatted young gentlemen beating a path to the marble foyer. None saw them turn and go through a service door and out the back way.
Darkness had just fallen, the last traces of daylight just fading from the sky. The spring air was as crisp as an Italian wine, even if the alley itself was none too clean. Tobias could still hear the opera plodding along, muffled by brick and distance. They hurried down the muddy passage with one eye on the shadows. The Royal Charlotte, despite its wealthy patrons, was at the edge of a less savory part of London. Here, what few gaslights there were had pale indigo globes, showing that the Blue Boy gang of the steam baron they called King Coal ran these parts. Despite himself, Tobias looked over his shoulder. It wouldn’t do for their plans to end with their heads broken and their pockets picked, although he always relished a good fight.
Bucky gave a low whistle that was answered in kind. A small crowd trundled an object toward them. Tobias made out the cheerful features of their friend Edgerton in the lead. Tall and athletic, he wore a shabby brown jacket and an odd round leather helmet. Over his shoulder, he carried a large bag.
Behind him were a half dozen hired men pushing and pulling a low-wheeled handcart. On it sat a metal contraption resembling a large and ugly brass lotus flower surmounted with a kind of seat. Four feet in di
ameter and as many tall, the lotus emitted a slight wheeze of steam every few seconds.
The lotus-thing had taken the four charter members of the society nearly three months to design. It had taken that long again—plus a good chunk of money—to oversee its construction in a town far north of London, where Edgerton’s father had a foundry. It would have been impossible to build such an engine any other way, with the steam barons monopolizing anything that generated so much as a fart, and it had cost them yet more cash to smuggle it south. As Bucky said, Tobias was going a long way to win a wager, but if a bet was worth winning, he would do it right.
As Edgerton reached them, he grasped their hands, pumping them enthusiastically. “Well, here we are, gentlemen. Are you sure this thing is ready?”
“Utterly,” Bucky replied. “We calibrated it to a fraction of a degree.”
“You brought our gear?” Tobias asked.
“Here.” Edgerton indicated his bag.
“Excellent.” Fortunately, the alley was deserted except for the workmen who had come with the cart. Ignoring their curious stares, Tobias and Bucky stripped down to their shirts and trousers, then pulled on plain jackets, boots, and helmets much like Edgerton’s. In a few moments, they were unrecognizable. Edgerton wore what looked like a quiver slung over his shoulders, the pole of a rolled-up banner sticking from the top.
Tobias felt his heart thud with anticipation, the wine-sharp night fizzing in his blood. Everything was going right. The wager was all but won. It had better be—the price of failure was enough to give the family’s finances a serious jolt.
He suddenly thought of his sister’s upcoming Season. All those gowns and entertainments cost money. Just how much was he gambling, really?
Too late to think about it.
“Let’s do this,” he said, sounding oddly hoarse.
Edgerton handed Tobias a pair of thick leather gloves. Slipping them on, Tobias clambered into the wagon, mounting the seat atop the brass machine. It wasn’t very well cushioned, and he could feel the rolled edges of the metal beneath his rump, not to mention an uncomfortable warmth. He’d meant to fix that, but had run out of time. And what else did you miss?
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