“What did Mrs. Bloom ever do to you?” I burst out—causing all the color to vanish in an instant from Aunt Helena’s creased face.
Mrs. Bloom stepped in before Aunt Helena could reload. “It’s all right, Myrtle. You’ve been a great help tonight. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Not if you know what’s good for you!”
“But—”
The argument had drawn attention. All along the carriage, compartment doors cracked, releasing slits of golden light. I saw the white hair of one of the Bird Ladies and Nurse Temby’s dour face. The vestibule door eased open, and the bulky form of Guard Coogan took shape, a dark shadow behind Aunt Helena. My own compartment door opened, and Miss Judson poked her head out, holding Peony. I took that as my cue to retreat, although I felt more cowardly than ever, deserting Mrs. Bloom in the corridor with my aunt.
5
Veni, Vidi
The first murder aboard an English railway occurred in 1864, when Franz Muller beat banker Thomas Briggs to death on a London commuter train, then accidentally took the victim’s hat by mistake. This also marked an early example of another common travel hazard: mixed-up luggage.
—Hardcastle’s Practical Travel Companion
Eager to meet Mrs. Bloom the next morning, I scarcely slept and woke before dawn, well ahead of both Miss Judson (an early riser) and Peony (who believed in all-day breakfast). I hastened into yesterday’s dress and thence to the dining carriage to scope out a spot far from where Aunt Helena would want to be.
I claimed a noisy, drafty table for two near the vestibule, and settled in to study my notes from the Investigation. The Empress Express’s exceptional staff had done their job, and there was no trace of the smoke smell from last night’s fire.
As the sun rose, the rest of the Excursion passengers filed in. The Penroses were present—that is, grim-faced Mr. Penrose and Nurse Temby, seated unspeaking across a table, but not Poor Maudie. The sea air had not yet had a chance to do its revivifying work. The Bird Ladies flitted in together, swallowed up by their frilly and lacy morning dresses. Miss Causton (or perhaps Miss Cabot) led the way, clutching her reticule for dear life. Her companion’s wide-eyed gaze flicked to each passenger they passed, as if hoping we might leap out at them, seize their valuables, and provide another thrilling entertainment this morning.
They alit beside the unsuspecting Mr. Strand, the salesman, who moved aside his catalogues (and his moustaches) to make room. Miss Judson appeared with Aunt Helena, trailed by Cicely, wobbling somewhat beneath her armload of fur stole, Aunt Helena’s walking stick, the knitted bag, and a small needlepoint footstool. I Observed Aunt Helena’s face darken as she spotted me in the corner, and I suspect mine did something not dissimilar. But Miss Judson deftly steered them to the far end of the carriage and chose a seat that put Aunt Helena’s back to me. I gave her a salute with my teacup.
The footmen brought me a pot of tea and a dish of marmalade. Then a neat little stack of toast. Then a covered plate of kedgeree. But as the car filled up, there was no sign of Mrs. Bloom.
“Have you seen Mrs. Bloom?” I asked the next footman to appear, with a second pot of tea. The footman’s expression did not change. “The Insurance Investigator?” I persisted. “You must have seen her last night, after the robbery.” She’d probably questioned the rest of the staff after I’d deserted her.
“No, Miss,” he said, in a gloomy, sepulchral voice, then vanished with no further word.
Where was she? I sloshed my tea around, trying to tell myself that Mrs. Bloom had important business to attend to and I mustn’t be disappointed. I knew I was only a twelve-year-old girl she was being nice to, but she’d arranged this breakfast meeting. She wasn’t the sort to be flighty and forget—or dismiss it. If she hadn’t meant to meet me after all, she’d have sent word.
While I waited, I reviewed my notes and Observed the other passengers. Mr. Penrose, absorbed in his newspaper, never looked up from his coffee, and Nurse Temby crumbled her toast to bits and glowered out the window. The Bird Ladies appeared to be re-creating the events of the robbery for Mr. Strand. Miss Causton pantomimed singing, then succumbing to a swoon, as Miss Cabot swooped in to swipe an imaginary tiara from her snowy-white head.
I closed my notebook and sighed, looking out the window. We were still hours from Fairhaven, our winding coastal route having been chosen not for efficiency, but to give the Excursionists a Luxury Rail Travel Experience, including dinner, breakfast, the finest sleeping accommodations, and a jewel theft. Gloomy clouds hung over the vast, desolate emptiness. The coastline bumped past in rocky clusters, scrubby hillsides breaking into occasional flashes of dark water. What had become of the thief and the tiara? Had they disappeared into the night, after all? Perhaps there’d been a boat waiting nearby. They could be halfway across the Channel by now. Discouraged and confused, I finally packed up my notes and wandered back to my own party.
“Helena Myrtle. How kind of you to join us at last.” Beady eyes studied me through the lorgnette.
“I had a breakfast meeting with Mrs. Bloom,” I said pointedly, then turned to Miss Judson. “She didn’t show up.”
Miss Judson’s brow furrowed, but with sympathy, not concern. “I expect she had important work.”
“No one has seen her this morning. I asked.”
Miss Judson started to rise from the table, but Aunt Helena uttered an exasperated sigh. “Don’t encourage the girl to meddle, Judson. Sit down, Helena Myrtle, like a civilized person. Don’t stand about loitering in the passage.”
Sulking, I squeezed in beside her, since Cicely and Miss Judson hadn’t left any other place free. “The porters and footmen haven’t seen her, and she didn’t send word that she wasn’t going to meet me. What does that say to you?”
“That she’s careless and inconsiderate,” put in Aunt Helena. “Not the sort of person you ought to be associating with. Cicely, what are you doing to that tea? I want it sweet, girl, not jellied.”
“We’ll be in Fairhaven shortly,” Miss Judson said. “You can find her then.” She tapped her spoon against her teacup with finality. I glared at my tablemates. None of them understood.
“Perhaps we should speak to Sir Quentin.” I glanced about the dining car, but there was no sign of the Ballingalls.
Cicely took a hasty gulp of tea. “They have their own carriage. They always take breakfast together. I expect they’re still shaken up, after last night.” This was the longest utterance I’d heard from her, and she seemed worn out from the effort.
“Poor Temperance,” Aunt Helena cooed. “Such a shock to her, after everything she’s been through.”