It was not at all like holding a well-behaved household candle. The fusee wasn’t much larger than an ordinary taper and felt nicely substantial—but it threw off a spray of wild red sparks, a sort of roaring hiss, and a huge, erratic, leaping flame. It’s a miracle I didn’t set the whole carriage ablaze. But I managed to keep hold of it, and crept behind Mrs. Bloom. Miss Judson produced a box of candles (she no doubt had them stashed on her person, for just such an eventuality), and we used the flare to light all four, jamming them into the lamps and sconces. It was only a mild improvement over the complete darkness, a few bright dots here and there.
Miss Ballingall’s cries finally subsided, as she succumbed instead to a swoon. She lay cradled in Cicely’s arms, strands of colorless hair scattered across her face—clear evidence that, indeed, the Northern Lights had been wrenched from her head. Cicely froze, like a terrified rabbit caught in the light of my flare.
Mrs. Bloom bent over them. “Get her up. Has anyone smelling salts? Miss Hardcastle?” She held out an expectant hand to Aunt Helena, who recoiled.
“Get away from the poor girl! She’s suffered a terrible fright. We all have.” Aunt Helena tried to shove Mrs. Bloom aside (in a ladylike way, of course), but Mrs. Bloom would not budge.
“She will be fine. The smelling salts, if you please. There’s been a robbery. The tiara is missing. We need to find and apprehend the culprit as soon as possible.”
I held the flare as high as I could, trying to get a better view of the whole scene. “Is anyone else missing anything?” I said.
“Good thinking. Everyone, please check your belongings.”
“Ooh, how thrilling!” The Bird Ladies’ voices rippled through the gloom. “So realistic!”
“How are we expected to do anything in this dark?” grumbled Aunt Helena.
“Like so.” Mrs. Bloom crouched beside Miss Ballingall—not, it appeared, to coax her back to wakefulness, but to examine her for clues. I held the light over them, but there was no sign of the tiara, no wink of violet-green leaping out from the shadows in the flash of the flare.
“Get off her! What do you think you’re doing? Guards! Guards!” Aunt Helena shrilled, somewhat belatedly.
“She’s looking for evidence,” I said. “We should do as she says.”
“Perhaps we ought to fetch help,” suggested Miss Judson.
“Wait.” Mrs. Bloom’s voice was firm. “Everyone stay exactly where you are. We need to contain the scene. I’ll go. Why didn’t the signal cord work?”
At this moment, Sir Quentin returned, crashing back through the vestibule door.
“Some problem with the dynamos. Should be back up any minute.” He halted, taking in the scene. “What the blazes happened in here?” Then he spotted the crumpled heap of Miss Ballingall. “Dolly!” He wrenched his daughter away from Mrs. Bloom and heaved her upright. Her eyelids fluttered. “Someone please, get us some water. Dolly, speak to me!”
On the whole, I’m afraid that the Ladies’ Lounge passengers did not acquit ourselves admirably in a crisis. Cicely failed to calm Miss Ballingall; the Bird Ladies chattered on like excited audience members at a melodrama; my flare sputtered out, singeing my fingers, and I dropped it on the purple carpeting (also singed); Aunt Helena quarreled with Mrs. Bloom; and Sir Quentin roared at everyone. Thankfully, Miss Judson’s level head prevailed, and she managed to get Miss Ballingall onto a settee, with her feet propped up on a cushion.
“Now, Dolly, tell me what’s happened.” Sir Quentin reminded me more than ever of a lion, bluff and golden in the candlelight.
“I’m not sure.” Her voice wavered. Miss Causton had produced a flask of brandy (“for medicinal purposes, of course”), and Temperance was giving it unladylike—not to mention intemperate—gulps. “I was singing, then the lights went out—”
“I know, pet, I was here for that.” He rubbed her hand as though she were suffering frostbite instead of a shock.
“Something—someone—yanked at my head.” She touched her disheveled hair and heaved a sobbing breath. “The tiara’s gone, Father. I’m so sorry.”
“Hush, it’s not your fault.” He was red-faced with fury, staring around the compartment like he couldn’t believe how we’d been violated. “Where the blazes are those guards? Er, excuse me, ladies.”
I could no longer hold my tongue. “Shouldn’t we—somebody—go after the thief? Before he gets away?”
“Train’s moving too fast,” said Sir Quentin. “He can’t have got off. We’ll catch him while he’s still aboard.” He bounded to the vestibule door and hailed two of the train guards. They appeared from the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps, bodiless pale heads in black-and-purple Ballingall livery.
“What the devil took you so long? There’s been a robbery! Search the cars. You two go that way, and send two more guards toward the loco. The man can’t have gone far.” At his word, the guards disappeared once more.
“Or woman.” I eyed my fellow passengers. Heavy skirts were a better hiding place than the comparatively few layers of men’s clothing—and ladies, with their Delicate Sensibilities,* were less likely to be subjected to a thorough search. According to the Billy Garrett stories, that is. I sucked in an excited breath. This was just like being in a penny dreadful adventure. A jewel thief—right here aboard our very own train. Family Amusements, indeed!
“We must stop the train immediately,” said Aunt Helena. “This is outrageous!”
“That’s exactly what we must not do, Miss Hardcastle,” Mrs. Bloom said. “If we slow or stop the train, he’ll make good his escape.”
“Perhaps he has already.” Miss Judson stood at a window, contemplating the passing countryside. “How fast are we going? About thirty miles an hour? Someone might well survive such a jump.”
Everyone turned to stare at her, but she regarded us serenely. I had a sudden apprehension of Miss Judson trying this for herself—or to an unsuspecting volunteer—and inched away from her.
“Unlikely,” Mrs. Bloom said. “It’s a hundred miles to the nearest town.”
“This was well orchestrated,” Miss Judson countered. “He—or she—must have planned this down to the minute.” Tapping her chin, she elaborated. “He knew exactly when Miss Ballingall would be singing, so he’d likewise have known exactly where along the route we’d be at that point. He may well have a hideout nearby.”
It was hard to see Mrs. Bloom’s expression, but she paused to weigh my governess’s theory. “Or he may still be aboard the train.”