1
Extradition
Just as no scientific or military expedition would set off without adequate supplies, equipment, and reconnaissance, the same is no less important for leisure travel.
—Hardcastle’s Practical Travel Companion: A Compendium of Useful Advice for the Modern Tourist, Including Select Destinations of Note, Vol. I, 1893
“Think of it as an academic exercise.”
Miss Judson, my governess, dropped another armload of chemisettes onto the bed. Peony let out a mew of protest and sought refuge in the trunk.
“In what discipline?” I surreptitiously withdrew two petticoats from my luggage, replacing them with the latest edition of English Law Reports and three volumes of my encyclopædia. Taking the whole set seemed excessive, but I could not be sure Fairhaven would have a bookshop or a lending library. The Brochure had not specified.
“Put that middy* back,” Miss Judson said. “Aunt Helena will expect to see you in it. And discipline is exactly right. You and I shall be practicing our Exceptional Forbearance.”
“I thought we were going to frolic on sunny beaches and partake of Family Amusements.” The Brochure had likewise not specified what, precisely, a “Family Amusement” entailed, but I suspected nothing good. “Besides, that dress is ridiculous! I’m not a naval recruit.”
I felt like one, though, press-ganged into a Seaside Holiday by ruthless schemers who were entirely unsympathetic to my objections.
Miss Judson retrieved the garment and folded it anew. “We have been over this. Your aunt wants to take you on holiday—”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Myrtle. You have exhausted your appeals. Accept your sentence gracefully.” As soon as she said that, I could tell she wanted to take the words back.
“My sentence?” I cried. “I am being punished.” I threw down the heap of petticoats.
“Of course you’re not,” said Miss Judson. “Stop getting carried away.”
“What happened this summer wasn’t my fault! Father told me that himself.” Arms crossed, I willed Miss Judson to prove me wrong.
“He meant it. This holiday is to get away from all of that—”
“Father went all the way to Paris to get away from me.”
She stepped back a pace, hand to her chest. “Is that what you think?”
I turned away and shoved the chemisettes into the trunk. If this were a proper holiday, Father would be coming with us, not separating us with a whole ocean.* On a Proper Holiday, Father and Miss Judson might even frolic on the beach together. They’d Promenade on the Pier together. We could be a Proper Family, just the three of us. Instead, Miss Judson and I were being Exiled to the seaside, while Father got as far away from us as possible.
Miss Judson turned me to face her. “You may not believe this, but your father just wants you to have a good time—”
“I’d have a good time in Paris. With him.”
“—doing something that does not involve murder.”
I glowered at her. “An ordinary holiday. Like an ordinary girl.”
“Exactly. I’m sure you can manage that. Rumor has it you’re clever and resourceful.”
She plucked the Ballingall Excursions brochure from my hands and slipped it into my valise. “Finish packing. We’re going to miss the train. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes, and if that hat is not on your head when you appear, I shall make you sit next to Aunt Helena for the entire trip.”
She would, too. Peony offered a little warble of sympathy.
Defeated, I beheld the sea of garments before me. My great aunt Helena had been sending shipments of new clothes for weeks. My Holiday Wardrobe was now three times the size of my regular wardrobe, and included the aforementioned sailor suit (for yachting), a Promenade Ensemble (for walking), a Walking Dress (for . . . ?), and a perfectly horrifying bathing costume, of which no further mention shall be made, for the protection of the Reader’s delicate sensibilities.
Objections aside, the notion of a holiday was not necessarily unwelcome. The past several weeks had been rather trying. The Redgraves Murder was national news, but even I’d stopped collecting newspaper clippings about it. I hadn’t been called upon to testify at all, despite having (almost) single-handedly solved the crime myself! It had been my first professional triumph as an Investigator, but Swinburne’s Prosecuting Solicitor—that is, Father—had engineered matters to keep my name out of the official version of events, and refused to see the logic in permitting me to give evidence. Instead, while the case proceeded miles away in London (an entirely reasonable destination for a holiday, I might point out, boasting the Natural History Museum, Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, and the Central Criminal Court), I had already been judged, and this was Father’s verdict.
And where was Father to be, during all the Family Amusements? In Paris! At the Symposium International sur la Médecine Légale, a conference on forensic science. The most brilliant criminologists from all over the world were going to be there, sharing the latest developments in crime-scene analysis and post-mortem pathology. Famous French experts like Dr. Lacassagne, founder of Europe’s most prestigious forensics school, and Mssr. Bertillon, the policeman who invented mug shots and anthropometry,* would be speaking, and there was going to be a debate on the merits of fingerprinting.
While I languished in sunny Fairhaven, collecting seashells.
“Exceptional Forbearance, indeed,” I said to Peony. “Assuming I don’t die of boredom.” I hadn’t yet seen a case that could reliably cite Tedium as a cause of death—but if I had to be the first case study, at least the holiday wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.
“Mrrow,” Peony agreed.
“It’s all very well for you,” I said. “You’ll be here with your sunbeams and your fish heads and Cook.” With a final wretched sigh, I picked up The Hat—the crowning humiliation, quite literally, of this ordeal. With its enormous puce* bow, tiny velvet pumpkins, and sprig of dried wheat, it looked like a rotting autumnal meadow. All it lacked was a couple of flesh-eating beetles.
Peony hissed and swatted at the ribbon.
I beheld Peony. I beheld the hat. I beheld my trunk crammed full of holiday clothes and not nearly enough books. Peony beheld them as well.
“No,” she said, firmly.
“If I have to do this, so do you.” I scooped her up and dropped her unceremoniously into the hatbox,* along with a nice flannel petticoat and a leftover biscuit. Before closing the trunk, I defiantly tossed in my magnifying lens, slingshot, and a sturdy pair of Wellies that may or may not still have been wet from earlier. The hat, like a martyr, I wore.