“No ladies beyond this point,” he growled.
“That’s all right, then,” Mrs. Bloom said smoothly. “We’re on duty. No ladies here.”
“Did you see anyone come through here?” I asked eagerly. “Anyone out of the ordinary? Besides us, I mean,” I added. The guard’s eyes had narrowed perceptibly.
“Been at my post,” he grunted. “Just got off. Minding my own business, I am.”
I held my tongue. A railway guard’s business was looking for anything out of the ordinary on his train—for instance, a fellow sprinting down the corridors with a massive great purple crown—but apparently this one saw his job as making sure that Mrs. Bloom and I didn’t step out of line as Ladies of Quality.
Mrs. Bloom flipped through her notebook, never taking her eyes off the guard’s broad chest, or his brass nameplate, I realized. “Now, let’s see here . . . You are Bartholomew Coogan, is that correct?”
“Bart, aye.”
Mrs. Bloom made a tsk. “Mr. Coogan, I see that you’ve been written up three times this quarter for disorderly conduct. Twice for drinking on duty, and once for—oh, dear—brawling with another guard?”
“He weren’t no guard.” Mr. Coogan was scornful. “Some desk man in Portsmouth. And it weren’t a brawl.” He drew out the word. “Just a friendly disagreement between men.”
“Glad to hear it.” Mrs. Bloom looked up at him. “What was the disagreement about, if you please?”
“Don’t remember.”
She jotted notes in her book—far too long to be any of Mr. Coogan’s curt answers—until he and I were both fidgeting. “Is there anything else you ‘don’t remember,’ Mr. Coogan? Anything that didn’t happen tonight, for instance? Perhaps something you didn’t happen to see while you weren’t taking a nip from that flask I don’t see in your jacket pocket? This is a temperance train—no alcohol permitted. This would be your third such offense. A man might lose his post for so many demerits. I’d hate for Mr. Ballingall or Driver Urquhart to hear about it.”
Mr. Coogan stretched up taller to loom over her, but I could see Mrs. Bloom was making him nervous. She was making me nervous, and I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I hoped.
I appealed to Mr. Coogan. “You must have seen something,” I urged. “Someone coming from the Ladies’ Lounge carriage about an hour ago? Or maybe tampering with the dynamos?”
Mr. Coogan was still glaring at Mrs. Bloom like a thwarted watchdog, but he unfolded his arms and eased back a breath. “What time you say this was? About half ten? Now you mention it, somefin’ did ’appen. There were a fire in the kitchen on the dining car—cook spilt some oil on th’ hob. Weren’t serious, but it did fill up wiv smoke, and the boys ’n’ me, we got pulled off our stations to help put it out.”
“A fire?” I exclaimed. “We didn’t hear anything about a fire!”
“It’s our job to make sure you don’t hear about it,” Mr. Coogan said with pride.
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Bloom said, scribbling in her red journal. Her eyes lifted over the edge, peering back toward the carriage we’d just come through.
“Could it have been a diversion, do you think?” I asked. “To distract the guards at the crucial moment? Our thief wasn’t acting alone.”
Mrs. Bloom snapped her notebook shut. “No, Miss Hardcastle, I don’t believe he was. I’ll need the name of that cook, if you please.”
Mr. Coogan shook his head. “Coulda been anyone. Two chefs an’ three undercooks on the dinner shift. You’d ’ave to ask them.”
She eyed him, long and steadily, in a gaze that recalled Peony stalking squirrels. Finally, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Coogan, you’ve been very helpful. If you remember anything else, please let me know.”
He nodded warily. “We’re square, then? You won’t say nuffin’ to Ballingall about—” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his coat.
“I make no promises, Mr. Coogan. If I find the guards might have prevented the theft, you’ll have much bigger things to worry about. Good night.” She heaved open the vestibule door without Mr. Coogan’s help. I could still feel his bulldoggy eyes on us as we stepped into the overheated, choking air of the Smoking Carriage.
In truth, it was really no different from the Ladies’ Lounge, with the exception that the piano had been replaced by a billiard table, and they didn’t have their own tiara. But there were the same plush purple furniture and electric chandeliers, and half the occupants wielded pipes or cigars. A middle-aged gentleman in evening dress rose to his feet.
“Ladies,” he said, as if speaking on behalf of the whole car, “are you in the right place?”
I was speechless with uncertainty about that—but had enough presence of mind to Observe the occupants. A black-coated footman with a coffee trolley stared at us, white-faced and wide-eyed, barely turning back in time to catch his coffeepot before it poured all over the young moustachioed gentleman he was serving. Two men circled the pool table, careful not to impale innocent by-sitters with their cue sticks, as the billiard balls haplessly fell prey to the motion of the train.* A sheepdog roughly as large as the locomotive was squeezed into an armchair, snoring away, white fringe puffing with every breath. I saw no sign of the tiara (although it could have been beneath the dog), and everyone here seemed perfectly calm—not at all as if their peaceful journey had been interrupted by a jewel thief. Either the culprit hadn’t come this way, or these fellows were all being maddeningly Victorian about it, and pretending not to have noticed.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bloom. “You’re Mr. Penrose, am I correct?”
“Yes,” said the man who’d stood to greet us. “But I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.” He was tall and straight-backed, with neat silver hair and a warm, velvety voice.
“Bloom and Hardcastle, on official business.”
I felt a flutter of responsibility and pride as she said my name, and stood a bit taller myself. Penrose—he must be the invalid girl’s father. As soon as Mrs. Bloom spoke, his face drew tight with concern.
“What’s going on? Is my daughter all right?”
“Miss Penrose? Oh, yes, she and Nurse Temby retired before everything happened.”
Mr. Penrose’s fingers tightened on his coffee cup. “What happened? I insist you tell me at once.” His calm voice vibrated with command. Mr. Penrose was a man accustomed to getting his way about things, without raising his voice or lifting a finger.
Mrs. Bloom didn’t tell him at once. Lips pressed together, she took a few more steps into the Smoking Carriage, gaze skirting the occupants, who had all turned to gape at the Wild Females in their midst, uninvited and unwelcome.