“I barely slept at all last night,” Cicely said, with a shiver. “It was all so awful. Those beautiful stones.” Her fingers nervously brushed a brooch at her throat, as if the thief were still lurking aboard, ready to strike again.
“Mrs. Bloom will find them,” I said.
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in that,” said Aunt Helena. “She’s no doubt off somewhere trying to salvage whatever’s left of her post. I can’t imagine it looks good to your superiors, having the item you’re supposedly insuring disappear right under your nose.”
I Observed that Aunt Helena used the same words Sir Quentin had last night. Like a mynah bird.
“That was Sir Quentin’s fault,” I said. “He’s the one that put the tiara at risk. Miss Ballingall wasn’t supposed to be wearing it!”
Miss Judson intervened. “Let’s put the blame where it belongs, on the thief—”
“Thank you,” murmured Cicely. She was probably worried that if this argument continued, Aunt Helena would figure out some way to make it all her fault.
“—and hope the police do the same.” Miss Judson drained her teacup and rose from the table, hat feathers brushing the signal cord. “Myrtle. Come. You need to pack.”
“I haven’t unpacked,” I grumbled, but was only too happy to make our escape. I tried to explain my concerns again as we crossed between carriages. A frigid wind, thick with coal smoke, buffeted our hats.
“I’m sure Mrs. Bloom is just busy.” Miss Judson’s words were sympathetic, but I heard doubt in her voice. “Aunt Helena wasn’t far wrong. She will have an awfully big report to write after what happened.”
“Then where is she? Why hide from everyone?”
“Yes, I’m sure she’s hiding. Let’s think about this sensibly. You’re not proposing that Something Has Happened to Her?” I could hear the capital letters in her voice.
“No,” I said. “Her absence is strange, not suspicious—”
“Excellent! Strange we can tolerate, and suspicious is not our purview.”
I grudgingly followed Miss Judson back to our compartments. We passed Mrs. Bloom’s, and at my pleading look, Miss Judson stopped to rap on her door.
“Mrs. Bloom?” she called in her firmest governess voice. “It’s Miss Judson and Myrtle Hardcastle. Are you in?”
There was no answer, and Miss Judson’s furrowed brow did not relax. I reached for the door, which opened easily at my touch.
“It’s not locked,” I said, nudging it wider. “Mrs. Bloom?”
The compartment was empty. Miss Judson put a hand to the doorframe, blocking my path.
“We ought to check,” I insisted. “There might be some clue to her disappearance.”
“Don’t get carried away. You can hardly ‘disappear’ on a moving train.”
Thankfully, I hadn’t left my gloves in my room. With mounting respect for finger-marks as evidence, an Investigator had to be careful not to contaminate a scene with her own greasy mitts. (Mine were clean. Miss Judson insisted on it. But still.)
There wasn’t much to see, really. Mrs. Bloom’s carpetbag sat at the foot of the settee, closed but unlatched, and a half-empty teacup waited on the side table. I put a hand to the cup. “Cold.”
“About an hour, then. At least. Assuming she didn’t simply forget about her tea before leaving.”
“Or it’s from yesterday. Maybe she never came back to her compartment. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“Unless she made it herself.” But she sounded doubtful; that was the maids’ job.
Mrs. Bloom’s red ledger book lay open across the arm of the settee. I reached for it, but Miss Judson forestalled me.
“That crosses the bounds of privacy,” she said. “Whatever’s in that book won’t tell us where she is right now.”
I sighed, but she was right. It really did look as though Mrs. Bloom had simply stepped out for a moment, intending to return straightaway.
“Why didn’t she lock her door when she left?”
“We’ll ask her when we see her at the station.” Miss Judson’s tone was final, signaling that this Investigative foray was, to her mind, concluded.
v
The Empress Express pulled into Fairhaven Station at 8:38 on the morning of 8 October, 1893, precisely on schedule. Sir Quentin wouldn’t have it any other way. The shrill whistle and squealing brakes announced our arrival, and as we eased along the platform, a black pelican perched upon a shiny green railing regarded us with sleepy eyes, then lifted its improbably large body aloft and flapped lazily away.
Like the train, the station sparkled with newness. It sat against the black hillside, a bright spot of cheery red brick and green roof and yellow signs. As we all queued up for a glimpse out the train windows, I Observed the stationmaster hanging a freshly painted sign on the side of the building: fairhaven-by-sea. Another version of weathered wood lay propped against the brick façade. I could barely make out the peeling letters, but it looked like it said eelscombe.
We decamped en masse, a more subdued and jittery party than Sir Quentin might have wished, but he was doing his best to drum up the holiday atmosphere (although the actual atmosphere had more than a hint of fishiness about it). A boy my age with a camera suspended from his neck awaited us, and Miss Ballingall, looking much recovered after last night’s drama, swept us all together for a group photograph. The boy had warm brown skin, sharp black eyes, and a shock of dark curls, and carried an impressive knapsack and a tripod nearly as tall as he was.
Mrs. Bloom was still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’d disembarked first and rushed into the station to wire Albion Casualty and the Railway Police. Or perhaps she’d captured the thief already and had him detained with the guards! I was even more disappointed to miss that than breakfast.
I tried to shake off the gloom, which was easier than expected, given Peony’s contribution to the effort. She had been . . . reluctant to be returned to the hatbox, so I was now carrying her, the hatbox, and my valise, which left me at least two arms short of what was required by the enterprise. I wondered how Cicely managed it, and eyed the photographer’s bulging knapsack with envy.
“Here now, Clive, lad, do our ladies credit!” Sir Quentin said. He’d donned his purple ringmaster’s coat again, though it was getting spotted by a salt-tinged mist. Sir Quentin shuffled me and Peony into position front and center, between him and Miss Ballingall.
“Right-o, sir,” the young photographer said, readying his equipment. “Hold still, then, everyone.” He squeezed the bulb for the shutter, then took a few moments to slide a new photographic plate into the slot on the back of the camera before taking a second picture. “That should do it, sir.”