v
We took the tram to the railway station in Upton, where a painted banner proclaimed, welcome, fairhaven excursionists! Aunt Helena marched along the platform, brandishing a walking stick like the drum major in a military parade.
“She seems to be enjoying herself.” I shifted my grip on the hatbox, willing its contents to remain still and silent.
Miss Judson murmured, “Perhaps if she’s very good, they’ll let her drive the train.”
I bit my lip to keep from emitting a highly unladylike snort, which Aunt Helena would certainly have noticed. It was a blustery October afternoon (and if that strikes you as a curious time for a seaside holiday, Dear Reader, you are not alone), and the station was crowded with expectant passengers juggling umbrellas, hatcases, and timetables. Everyone seemed to be admiring the waiting train, a modern affair of shiny purplish-black cars and a locomotive emblazoned ballingall empress express. A long red ribbon stretched the length of the platform, blocking off the train.
A stout gentleman dressed like a circus ringmaster strutted about, smiling broadly through his copious sandy whiskers. I recognized him from his Brochure as Sir Quentin Ballingall, Excursion Impresario, the fellow behind this scheme of Aunt Helena’s. She’d spoken of him frequently over the last few years, always in glowing terms, and often signed on for his holiday packages. She’d been on some sort of seaside tour with him most of the summer. But this was the first time she’d roped Miss Judson and me into going with her.
“Ah, Judson. Here you are at last.” Aunt Helena turned her severe gaze to me. “Helena Myrtle. What on earth is that thing on your head? That can’t possibly be the hat I ordered for you.”
I gave them both a look of outrage, but my protest was forestalled by the arrival of a harried young woman in a severe black frock, toting a knitted bag and a rolled-up travel rug. “Miss Hardcastle,” she panted, “they said if you want to change your dinner order you’ll have to take it up with the staff on board.”
“Has Aunt Helena fired another round of housemaids?” I said sympathetically, but the girl just looked at me blankly.
“Miss Highsmith is my Paid Companion.” Aunt Helena spoke as if this were a great honor. “The Ballingalls have engaged her on my behalf. Ladies of Quality do not travel alone.” She turned to Miss Highsmith. “Never mind about that, Cicely. Go and see what the delay is. Sir Quentin can’t mean to keep us standing about in a draft.” She withdrew a coin from a beaded reticule. “Helena Myrtle, fetch yourself something to read on the train. I won’t have you disrupting the journey with your mindless chatter.”
I swallowed my retort when I saw the money: a whole shilling, more than enough for a week’s worth of papers, which just goes to show you how many newspapers Aunt Helena had bought. Before Miss Judson could make me return it, I scurried across the platform toward the station. A woman waiting at the ticket window gave me a friendly nod as I slipped inside.
The newsagent’s was well stocked, and I spent a few moments fortifying myself for the next fourteen hours. I selected The Times, The Strand, and Illustrated London News, which was not exactly reputable, but had the most entertaining headlines. Mindful of Miss Judson’s eyes on me (even through the station’s brick walls), I dutifully added a copy of the Girl’s Own Paper, in which to conceal the others.
I took my newspapers, the hatbox, and my generous handful of change and returned to the platform, to Observe that Aunt Helena had gone off to complain about the Intolerable Delay, and that Miss Judson was now absorbed in sketching the Empress Express.
She made a striking image herself, in her dark green traveling suit, far more elegant than her habitual attire. It set off her deep complexion, but looked exceptionally prone to being stained by salt water and sand. She’d brought along three trunks, in addition to her valise, and though I knew one was stocked with easels, pastels, her watercolor set, and fresh sketchbooks, I was powerless to imagine how she could need as many clothes as she seemed to have packed. I didn’t even know she had that many clothes.
An alarming thought struck me. Miss Judson originally hailed from French Guiana, a part of the world known for its shining tropical beaches.* I bit the fingers of my gloves and considered this. Was she expecting to enjoy herself on this holiday? I felt a curious sting at this thought—something akin to betrayal, although I could not quite work out who was betraying whom.
Well, I might have been crimped into a fortnight’s holiday, but that was no reason to let my skills get rusty. A busy railway station made an excellent venue for honing my Observational Techniques. I set up post by a brick pillar with a pasted notice warning passengers to be alert for Suspicious Characters, giving me an unobstructed view of the whole platform and the length of the snaky purple train. I tucked the hatbox neatly against my ankles and disguised myself behind my newspapers to survey the scene.
Black-clad railway guards and porters swarmed the platform and the train, preparing for the journey. An identical pair of elderly ladies, clutching matching baskets, twittered and pointed, their fluffy white heads bobbing like pigeons, as a fellow with an oversized valise skulked by, hat pulled low, concealing his features in a manner that could definitely be considered suspicious. I made a mental note to track his movements aboard the train. A nurse pushed through the crowd, wheeling a frail-looking young woman in a wicker bath chair. She waved down a porter, who helped her wrangle the contraption and its passenger past the red ribbon and into one of the passenger carriages.
As I Observed, the lady in red left the ticket window without buying anything and continued on to the platform—directly toward the Empress Express. She eyed the train with a critical manner that was entirely unlike the other passengers. She seemed oblivious to the fanfare, instead intent on her study of the train itself.
Dear Reader, I need hardly note the danger posed by saboteurs on railways. The sensational newspapers were full of warnings about anarchists planting explosives aboard locomotives, knocking out bridges, or disabling signals so trains would derail. Though I would not mind should something happen to derail this holiday before it got started, I rather hoped to avoid disaster once it had begun. Juggling Peony’s hatbox and my newspapers, I decided to get a closer look.
I followed the lady. Carefully, of course—I had been practicing Mr. Holmes’s shadowing techniques. Although my efforts to pursue Peony with stealth had met with some challenge, I was getting better at Observing Cook unawares.* I hung back a bit and pretended to focus on my newspaper—not, I’ll grant you, the most convincing of diversions (a twelve-year-old girl reading Illustrated London News does raise an eyebrow or two). Peony uttered a discontented warble from within the hatbox, barely audible above all the bustle and noise.
My subject was somewhat older than Father, with curly fair hair beneath a red hat and carrying a well-worn carpetbag with her brolly stuck in the handles. She didn’t stand out especially from the other middle-aged ladies in their smart traveling costumes, but she was unduly attentive, striding up to the loco and peering into the cab and beneath the wheels. A commotion from inside the cab caught both our notice: the driver was arguing with a stocky, red-faced guard. I could not hear what they were saying without creeping too close and being discovered, but the woman paused to listen.