“Who’s this, Penrose?” That voice, thickly but indeterminately accented (German? Swedish?), belonged to the man with the blond moustache. Moustaches, really: they seemed to sprout from every possible location and swirl in all directions, like a tamarin monkey’s. “Madam, what are you looking for?”
I scurried to Mrs. Bloom’s side. “What do you see?” I whispered.
“What do you see?” she countered.
Throat tight, I looked round the carriage, straining to spot hidden clues, as though she might have concealed them here in advance to test me, and would know exactly what I missed. But—“Nothing,” I said, voice droopy with failure. “It doesn’t look like he came this way at all.”
She turned to me. “Agreed. Well done. Why?”
I stood up straighter still. A moment later, and you’d have to tether me down so I didn’t drift away like Billy Garrett in a hot-air balloon.
“Well,” I said slowly, “everyone is too calm. In our carriage, we were all shrieking and carrying on, and Miss Ballingall fainted.” I didn’t expect any of the gentlemen to faint, naturally, but even so. There ought to be some commotion.
“Excellent. What else?”
I took a deep, stalling breath—and had it immediately, as I was overcome with coughing. “Nobody’s been in or out of this carriage in hours. There’s no fresh air.”
Mrs. Bloom broke into her “brava” smile again, but this time she merely nodded. Giving the space a last look, she spoke up, voice clear and commanding. “Gentlemen, I must advise you to be on guard. There was a robbery aboard the Ladies’ Lounge carriage tonight. No one was harmed, but some quite valuable jewelry was taken. Please alert me or the staff if you hear or see anything unusual. My name is Bloom, and I’m in Compartment Two-F.”
“Robbery! By the gods!” The Swedish fellow was on his feet, looking thunderstruck. “Pickpockets?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Bloom said. “But do mind your own property, as the thief is still at large. That is all.”
“No, that is not all.” Mr. Penrose stepped between Mrs. Bloom and the door. “You can’t just drop news like this and then flounce away again. Tell us everything.”
“Mr. Penrose, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share any more details. If you wish a full report, you’ll need to take it up with Sir Quentin. Or perhaps you’d care to check on your daughter, instead? She left the carriage complaining she felt unwell.” This speech was delivered in a kindly, maternal tone that instantly calmed Mr. Penrose down. He slumped into his armchair, undrunk coffee sloshing.
“No, she’s always unwell.” He sighed. “Melancholia. That’s what Nurse Temby tells us, anyway. The doctors don’t know. She seems to do better at the seaside.”
With a lurch of painful recognition, I realized how drawn and strained Mr. Penrose looked. That was exactly how Father had seemed, years ago in the months before Mum died. I bit my lip and considered what Mr. Penrose had said. “She gets better with sea air?” I said. “Does she have green wallpaper?”
“Green—? Young lady, I hardly—”
“Does she?” Mrs. Bloom’s tone made it impossible not to answer.
Mr. Penrose answered faintly. “I’m not sure.”
Keenly, I explained. “You know that wallpaper often contains arsenic—from the dyes—and the fumes can be toxic. Green is the most common culprit.” That could cause muscle weakness in the legs.
Mr. Penrose’s warm eyes widened. “Is—is that true?” he asked Mrs. Bloom.
She gave an ineffable shrug. “I have it on good authority.” I very much suspected that the “good authority” was actually me. But it was true, Dear Reader: an American physician had done up a study on it, publishing quite a sensational book some years ago.*
“Oh,” said Mr. Penrose. “Well, thank you, young lady. I had no idea. I’ll investigate that immediately. Anything to help poor Maudie.”
As Mrs. Bloom and I made our way back from the Smoking Carriage, I considered Poor Maudie, and the Swedish Gentleman (when I inquired, Mrs. Bloom informed me that his name was Victor Strand, and he was a traveling salesman, which accounted for the huge valise I’d seen him lugging about the station), and Mr. Coogan. The gruff guard had decamped from his post outside the Smoking Carriage and was nowhere to be seen.
“If the thief didn’t head that direction, what happened to him?”
Mrs. Bloom’s pale hair ruffled in the night air. “Exactly, Miss Hardcastle. What, indeed?”
I recognized that as a Socratic Method sort of question, the kind Miss Judson preferred in her own lessons, meant to inspire me to think critically. “Either he got off, like Miss Judson said . . .” I began.
“Or?”
The thrill rippled through me again. “He’s still aboard?”
“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound convinced. “We must explore every possibility, including that this might have been an inside job. Where to next?”
“The lights might be back on in the Ladies’ Lounge by now,” I said carefully. “Maybe we should get a better look at the crime scene?”
“Very good. After you, Miss Hardcastle.”
I happily led the way, but we never made it. We had to pass through the sleeping carriage, and there, charging down the corridor like an oncoming locomotive—steaming and unavoidable—was Aunt Helena. She had her giant gold scissors, and pointed them at us like a skewer.
“You!” she thundered. “How dare you lead my niece astray like this!”
I didn’t feel astray. I felt quite well in hand, focused and responsible, and I was enjoying myself enormously (the express purpose of this holiday, so I’d been told—not that I was daft enough to say so).
Mrs. Bloom stepped between us. “Miss Hardcastle, please—”
“I told you, I don’t wish to hear your ridiculous accusations, and I won’t have you poisoning my niece’s mind, either. Helena Myrtle, go to your compartment at once.”
“I’m helping her.” That came out small and miserable, and I’m afraid I couldn’t help it—I cringed away from Mrs. Bloom. She might not have experienced my aunt’s wrath before, but I had.
Aunt Helena took a dangerous sniff, like they say angry rhinoceroses do before trampling you. “Helena Myrtle. Compartment. At once.”
“I—” I dithered, biting my lip. I didn’t want the evening to end so ignominiously, nor did I wish to leave Mrs. Bloom alone at the mercy of Aunt Helena. I was certain Mrs. Bloom could handle herself, but it still seemed cowardly to desert her just when she was facing down such a formidable opponent. And I still couldn’t see why Aunt Helena was so angry with her.