“Or even the carriage,” Miss Judson returned. “We should all be searched, in case he slipped the jewels into our skirts or bags.” She was doing her best to hide it, but Miss Judson was plainly enjoying herself, too.
“Oh, yes!” One of the Bird Ladies applauded this suggestion. “Do me first. I don’t think anyone’s hidden a tiara in my petticoats, but I should like to know for certain!”
I gazed round the dark carriage, trying to piece together exactly what had happened. “Did anybody notice someone enter or leave this car? For all we know, the thief might be one of us!” (Although we’d barely managed to scrape together candles. Clearly no one in present company was capable of engineering such a heist.*)
“Helena Myrtle!” Aunt Helena snapped. “What an absurd suggestion. I don’t intend to be ‘searched’ by anyone—and nor will you.”
Mrs. Bloom tossed up her hands in exasperation. “Then we’ll call in the guards to do it.”
“We shall do no such thing, Bloom.” All pretense of friendliness had left Sir Quentin. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting everyone? Accusing my passengers of thievery!” (Actually, Miss Judson and I had done that, but nobody corrected him.) “We’re the victims here!” He bundled Temperance to her feet. “I’m taking my daughter to her rooms now. Don’t even think of disturbing her.”
Mrs. Bloom tugged on her gloves, watching them leave. “This is far from over, Mr. Ballingall.”
He paused in the doorway, arms around his daughter, who sagged against his shoulder. “Your meddling isn’t going to help anything this time. What do you suppose your superiors will do when they find out you’ve let the tiara disappear, right under your nose? Don’t think you’ll get away from this scot-free, either.” His face was nearly as purple as his jacket, and he might have meant to keep on berating her, but Miss Ballingall emitted a warbling sigh, as though about to swoon again.
Aunt Helena shoved past all of us. “Let me help, Sir Quentin. Come, Cicely.” She snapped her fingers at the girl, like she was a trained spaniel. Cicely gave us all an apologetic look.
“I could—” she said tentatively, glancing helplessly around the carriage. “If you need . . .”
Lips pursed, Mrs. Bloom just sighed. “No, Miss Highsmith. It’s all right. Go on ahead.”
I watched this unfold with dismay. This wasn’t proceeding sensibly at all! We had no more idea what had happened to the tiara than when Miss Ballingall started screaming her head off, and now the crime scene was dissolving before our very eyes. I turned to Mrs. Bloom. “Can’t we do anything?” I pleaded. “You’ll never see that tiara again!”
Mrs. Bloom’s jaw was set as she watched everyone leave. “Don’t worry. Unlike our thief, they’re not going anywhere. And we still have work to do.” She hoisted up her carpetbag and gave me a businesslike nod. “Coming, Myrtle?”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. “Do—do you mean me?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Is there another Myrtle Hardcastle aboard?”
Faintly dazzled, I looked between her and Miss Judson. “May I?” My voice was a sorry little squeak, tripping over my disbelief.
Miss Judson’s expression was inscrutable. “Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, and I expect you to return to our compartments immediately if there’s any danger.” She paused, met Mrs. Bloom’s eyes, and repeated: “Immediately.”
“Yes, Miss!” I retrieved my notebook from my seat and hastened to make myself look as Professional as possible for a twelve-year-old girl on a train who has been dressed by her great-aunt. But as I scurried at Mrs. Bloom’s heels, Miss Judson watching us depart with satisfaction, a mad little laugh threatened to bubble out of me.
Aunt Helena couldn’t have picked out a better holiday if she’d tried.
4
Dereliction of Duty
The success of every enterprise depends on the quality, training, and dedication of its staff. The Excursion Industry is no different.
—Hardcastle’s Practical Travel Companion
I hastened after Mrs. Bloom through the dining carriage, notebook and pencil clutched tight. Assisting a real Investigator in the search for a jewel thief! I could scarcely believe my good fortune.
The broken dynamo had only affected the Ladies’ Lounge, and the lights were still functional here. The staff had cleared up from dinner, and the car was dim and empty. The train rumbled along, my heart keeping pace in my chest as we swooped through the dark night. Not breaking her stride, Mrs. Bloom sniffed the air.
“Smells like someone burnt their supper,” she said.
Belatedly, I noticed that, too, chagrined I hadn’t picked up on it right away. I could learn so much from Mrs. Bloom, about what to look for, what to . . . smell for. Did Insurance Investigators take on apprentices?
“Now, Miss Hardcastle, what’s our next move?”
My breath caught—was she asking for my opinion? Or was she quizzing me? Either way, I knew the answer. “We interview the witnesses.”
“Exactly. We’ve covered the Ladies’ Lounge. Now let’s go check up on the gentlemen. Next stop, the Smoking Carriage.”
Here I balked. Behind the next door, beyond that vestibule, was a Foreign and Mysterious Land, full of cigar smoke and leather and men with their boots off. It was one thing seeing Father at home in his shirtsleeves, or even visiting his club (which I had done once, in an emergency), but a railway car full of strange gentlemen at midnight? I bit my lip, wishing for Miss Judson, who would be entirely unfazed by the threat to propriety.
But my present companion was unfazed, as well. Mrs. Bloom was, I decided, most definitely Irrepressible—and I was beginning to see what a virtue that could be, for a grown-up. I ventured a personal question. “What does your husband think of you being an Investigator?” She wasn’t dressed like a widow, so I’d already surmised there was still a Mr. Bloom. Perhaps they were even in the Insurance Investigation business together!
Hand on the door handle, she quirked her mouth. “Well, to tell you the truth, I haven’t asked him lately.” That curious tone again. She turned to me, answering the question I hadn’t figured out how to ask. “One day, I decided I was done letting Bertram make up my mind for me. And here we are.”
I had no idea what she meant by any of that, but had no chance to ask more. She’d yanked open the vestibule door, letting in a swirl of October night, brisk and smoky, and we stepped out. The Smoking Carriage was blocked by a tall, stocky guard I recognized as the man who’d been arguing with the driver in Upton. He reminded me of a Staffordshire terrier: arms broad as sleeper beams crossed over his chest, jaw jutting out defiantly. Something small and rectangular bulged his uniform jacket pocket.