Miss Judson shook her head and stashed her valise in a cubby sized for exactly that purpose. Peony, liberated from the hatbox, immediately settled atop my pillow in the adjoining compartment. I followed her in but could still hear Miss Judson through the communicating door.
“Did you see the Tiare Aurore?” She pronounced this with a decidedly French accent, making it sound even more alluring. “I wonder if I can capture those colors. I ought to have brought my oils.”
“Sir Quentin was supposed to store it in the safe.” I summarized his quarrel with Mrs. Bloom.
Miss Judson swung into my compartment. “Perhaps we’ll be beset by highwaymen.”
“We’re on a train.” Although that did happen all the time in America.
“Or maybe even”—she scooped Peony up and dandled her white forepaws—“cat burglars.”
“No,” Peony said, wriggling free.
I could not decide whether or not to be disappointed in Miss Judson’s utter lack of reaction to my smuggling of Peony aboard the train—but I decided not to remark on it, if she wasn’t going to. Instead, I just stuffed the Decaying Hat into a cubby and gathered up my newspapers.
“Ahem.” Miss Judson held out an expectant hand, and I handed them over. She gave a little sigh.
“What?”
“You know perfectly well what.” She sorted through them, frown intensifying. “This goes against our express purpose of being here. You are on holiday.” She waved her hand at the Positively Luxurious compartment for emphasis.
I watched the newspapers with a visceral longing I could scarcely explain. Especially with Father in Paris, someone had to monitor things. “I need to know what’s going on. In London. At—at the sessions.” I couldn’t bring myself to say trial.
Her frown softened. “Your father is keeping abreast of the case and has promised to inform you of any important developments.”
“They’re all important!”
“Really.” She flipped through the Upton Register. “What revelations do you expect from an interview with Mr. Ambrose’s first-form teacher?” She tossed the papers over to Peony on the bed, shuffled me into the corridor, and shut my compartment door with a decisive click.
v
Back aboard the Ladies’ Lounge carriage, everyone was admiring the tiara. The cover had been removed from the case, and the jewels glowed blue-green in the afternoon sun. Our party had been joined by the matched pair of elderly ladies, as well as the invalid woman with her nurse, and even her weary eyes were drawn to the gemstones.
“Aren’t they stunning?” twittered one of the old ladies. The tiara was twice the size of her head, and she had to stand on tiptoe to blink myopically into the case.
“Stunning,” her companion chirped back.
Aunt Helena peered through the glass with her lorgnette. “I was at the Royal Wedding* myself, of course.” She made it sound as though she’d been a guest, and hadn’t merely crabbed for a view through the crush on Marlborough Street like thousands of other people in London. “What a coup for Sir Quentin to have them here on his train for us to see up close.”
“They’re such an extraordinary color—colors.” Cicely gazed at the jewels, dark eyes huge and luminous.
“Aren’t they?” said Miss Ballingall. “Alexandrite stones appear green in sunlight, but take on their enchanting violet cast by artificial light. Father had the electricity installed especially to show off the Northern Lights to their best advantage. The effect is so much more brilliant than by gas or candlelight.”
“They really do evoke the aurora borealis,” said Miss Judson. “What do you plan to do with them in Fairhaven, Sir Quentin? Forgive me, but I don’t think they’ll go with your suit.”
Sir Quentin’s laugh rumbled like cannon fire. “They’ll be the centerpiece at my new hotel. Crowds will come from miles around to see them—maybe even convince the House of Jolie to open up a branch in town.”
“It seems a shame to keep them locked up.” I Observed that Miss Judson was working on a sketch of some unknown woman, face not yet filled in, coronet of dark braids crowned by the tiara.
“They’d look smashing on you, Miss Judson! Ought to have you model them for me. Catch all the rich young men’s eyes.”
Miss Judson regarded him mysteriously. “Hmm.”
I glanced over to Observe Mrs. Bloom Observing all of us, watching us with cold calculation, as if working out who was most likely to “make a move” on the stones. It made me uncomfortable, and I tugged at the collar of my coat. She’d taken out some knitting, and her flicking needles reminded me of Peony’s sensitive whiskers, seeking out danger.
While Aunt Helena’s attention was elsewhere, I approached Mrs. Bloom and took the chair opposite. “Do you really think there’s any risk something might happen to the tiara?”
Clickety-click went the needles, as the wheels rumbled away underfoot, a stimulating rhythm that thrummed into my bones. “Miss Hardcastle, I make my living assuming there’s always a risk.”
I still had her calling card, and now I finally gave it a proper inspection. An engraving of a cloud-ringed mountain sat above text which read:
mrs. isid. bloom, investigator albion casualty insurance co. manchester • leeds • london
“Investigator!” I breathed, scarcely believing it. “Like the Pinkertons or something?”
“Hardly anything so melodramatic. I’m an insurance investigator.”
“What’s that?” I hadn’t realized there was anywhere in England a woman could be a professional Investigator. I’d been expecting to make my way to America and the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, if Scotland Yard didn’t work out.
“Loss prevention. I make sure all the claims made against stolen or damaged goods are authentic.” She rummaged in her carpetbag and held out a paper package of sweets. “Humbug? Assuredly not poisoned. We hardly want a repeat of Bradford, do we?”
My eyes widened in appreciation. The infamous case of arsenic-laced candy from 1858 had killed twenty-one people and led to important laws to protect food from contamination. I took one and sucked on it companionably as Mrs. Bloom knitted. Checking up on insurance fraud didn’t sound terribly interesting—not like investigating murders—but even so! “What makes you think the tiara is at risk?”
With a shrewd look, Mrs. Bloom produced a newspaper of her own, the Portsmouth Evening News, dated a few days ago. The front page was dedicated to John Monson’s upcoming murder trial in Scotland (yet another place we might have gone instead of Fairhaven). “Have a look at page three.”