I glanced at Miss Judson, reluctant to commit this particular transgression without waiting a few minutes, at least, but she was absorbed in her sketchbook. Flipping through, I spotted a small item wedged into the corner:
Brighton Bandit Strikes Again!
Police in Brighton, Southsea, and Eastbourne report that the thefts of jewelry plaguing holiday resort towns this summer—previously thought to have slackened—have recommenced. The thief or thieves have thus far absconded with properties surpassing £100. No suspects are yet identified, and none of the stolen items has been recovered.
I let out all my breath and my eyes flew over the edge of the paper to Mrs. Bloom. Jewel thieves! In seaside holiday towns! “That’s why you wanted the tiara stored in the safe.”
Mrs. Bloom sat back into her purple armchair. “Still, Sir Quentin’s probably right. You’d have to be mad to try something on a moving train.”
“Or daring,” I said, thinking of Billy Garrett, my favorite penny dreadful hero. I glanced around the carriage, trying to see the other passengers as Mrs. Bloom did—as potential thieves. “How did you know my name? Do you know everyone aboard?”
Now she gave me the shrewd look, indicating her bag. “Passenger manifest,” she said. “And employee rolls. Provided by Eastern Coastal Railways.” She had an air of satisfaction that reminded me even more of Peony. “I know more about this train than Sir Quentin, and he built the thing.”
Such a vast amount of information to possess—about us, about everyone. I couldn’t decide whether to be envious or uncomfortable. Yet preventing crimes before the fact—there was a novel idea. I wanted to know more. “What other cases have you worked on? Is it all famous jewels?”
“Wouldn’t that be fun! No, accidents, mostly. Sometimes suspicious deaths.” Her eyes slid toward me. “But nothing like what you’ve been up to, Miss Myrtle Hardcastle of Swinburne. The Redgraves Murder? Impressive.”
I could feel my cheeks color. “That was in the passenger manifest?” I said meekly.
Her grey eyes glittered. “I have my sources. But I would love to hear the real story.”
Twisting my fingers together, I glanced across at Miss Judson—she’d played a major role, as well. “I’m supposed to be on holiday.” My voice was faint and soggy.
Mrs. Bloom nodded. “I understand.” I couldn’t help the flood of disappointment that washed through me. “Perhaps another time.”
“Will you be staying in Fairhaven, too?”
“Indeed I shall.”
“On business?” My voice was eager.
“Visiting old friends. How long will Hardcastle and Associates be there?”
“A fortnight,” I said, with a tortured sigh.
She dipped into her carpetbag and handed me a thick book with a faded black cloth cover. “Here. If you run out of things to do, the shoreline hereabouts is an excellent source.”
“Source?” The book, Figures of Characteristic British Fossils by William Hellier Baily, was full of detailed sketches of snails and ferns and otherworldly creatures like insects gone nightmarishly awry. Trilobite, declared the caption: Actual Size. I shut the book again with a shudder.
“I find it a very satisfying sort of detective work,” she said. “The idea that the past is never buried for good, but always ready to reveal itself to someone determined to find it.”
I liked that. It did describe Investigation quite nicely.
“Keep that,” she added. “See what you can dig up on that beach.”
“But don’t you need it?”
Mrs. Bloom shook her head. “I’ve done my digging in Fairhaven,” she said—and the way she said it, the way adults often say such things, made me think she meant something entirely different.
“What do you mean? Are you here to ‘dig up’ some other old mystery?”
She just smiled that cryptic smile again. “It seems you’re being Summoned.”
With dismay, I turned and followed her gaze across the car, to where my impertinent chatter had drawn Aunt Helena’s attention. She was staring daggers at the both of us. “I’d better go,” I said. “She’ll say I’m bothering you.”
“You aren’t.” Mrs. Bloom’s voice was firm.
“When can I see you again?” I asked. “I have so many questions.”
“Perhaps breakfast tomorrow, if your party can spare you? Dining carriage, seven o’clock?”
“They can spare me.” I wouldn’t miss that appointment for all the alexandrites in Russia.
v
At night, the Empress Express seemed even more elegant. After dinner in the dining car (during which I was subjected to Aunt Helena’s Strong Opinions on everything from the Disgraceful Mrs. Bloom and Respectable Jobs for Ladies to the deplorable state of the drains in Most Seaside Towns), we assembled once more in the lounge carriage. The elderly ladies, who were called Miss Causton and Miss Cabot, sat together like eager children, bouncing in their seats and whispering, while Nurse Temby fussed over the sickly Miss Penrose. Sir Quentin had changed his ringmaster’s costume for a deep aubergine dinner jacket, but Miss Ballingall was nowhere to be seen. The glass case with the tiara had been covered once more, and I was itching to peek under the cloth. I wanted to see the exotic coloration of the stones come alive under Sir Quentin’s electric lights.
Miss Judson had drawn no fewer than four studies of the tiara, from all angles, trying to capture its shifting colors. But she had put away her sketchbook and we all sat in rapt expectation, waiting for the evening’s Entertainment to begin.
We did not have to wait long. A few minutes after ten o’clock, as we rumbled contently along the coastline, a porter heaved open the vestibule door, admitting a draft and Miss Ballingall. I let out a gasp, for she was transformed. Gone was the dowdy plaid, and in its place an elegant swish of loose blue velvet, long silvery gloves, and a hairstyle that must have taken all evening to achieve—upon which was perched, in a crest of dazzling violet, the Northern Lights.
Mrs. Bloom was on her feet in an instant, quivering with outrage, but as Miss Ballingall glided through the carriage like a frosty peacock, she made herself take her seat. She sat at the very edge of the plush armchair and fixed Sir Quentin with an accusing look, which he flagrantly ignored.
He had bounded to his own feet to take his daughter’s hand. “Now, my good ladies, I present to you the true treasure of the Empress Express, my precious songbird herself—in an exclusive debut performance, my daughter, Temperance!” He held her left hand aloft as she dipped a surprisingly graceful curtsy.