The Spiritglass Charade (21 page)

A
s we strolled along the crowded path in New Vauxhall, my hand curved around Dylan's arm. As requested, Evaline inserted herself into a conversation with Mr. Ashton. I hoped she didn't forget she was actually supposed to obtain information. She seemed more interested in smiling up at him and making flutter-eyes. Anyone watching would think the two of them to be engaged, or at the very least sparking.

After we extricated ourselves from the midst of some energetic harlequin-garbed jugglers, I saw that Evaline, Mr. Ashton, and Dr. Norton had stopped to listen to a violinist. The musician wasn't particularly good—frankly, the screeching notes were torture to my ears, and I couldn't understand the attraction—but at least my partner was still with her quarry.

“I need to speak with Mr. Treadwell,” I murmured.

Dylan bent closer to me than was strictly necessary, and I found myself surrounded by a pleasant male scent as he replied, “Shall I distract Miss Norton for a few minutes? Get her to walk on ahead with me?”

“If you can dislodge her from Mr. Treadwell's side, yes. And Miss Ashton and her aunt as well.”

“And then afterward, maybe we can take a boat ride. Just you and me, you know, if it's proper. I'd like to talk to you.”

“I'd like that.” My tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of my mouth. A boat ride. Alone? Under the moonlight?

It wasn't proper at all . . . but I didn't care. Hardly anything I'd done in the last month or so had been strictly proper.

“Cool. I'll approach Willa and Amanda, and—”

“And I'll pretend to have a problem with my shoe,” I said. “Mr. Treadwell seems gentlemanly enough to stop and assist while you move the others on ahead.”

Things worked precisely as planned—no surprise, given my foresight in waiting until Miss Ashton and Miss Norton were safely in Dylan's presence before I pretended to trip.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Treadwell,” I said when I had “fixed” my heel. “The Gardens are lovely, but I'm afraid I wouldn't have been comfortable walking along this path alone. I see the others have left us behind. Although there are several other people about, I prefer to be with ones I know.”

“I don't know where Mr. Ashton and Dr. Norton have gone off to.” He glanced back. “Or your friend, Miss Stoker. She seems to have disappeared.”

I was about to reply when a small creature bounded out of the shadows in front of me. Startled but not frightened, I halted, still clinging to Mr. Treadwell's arm.

It was a spotted dog with floppy ears that nearly dragged on the ground. He was running about, barking as if released from some sort of confinement. His long ears went every which way as he dashed about, making awkward figure-eights on the path around us and the others in the vicinity. One of his rear legs was a mechanical one. It gleamed in the moonlight, making a soft metallic click as the limb leapt and bounded. He stepped on one of his ears and tripped, tumbling onto his face in a somersault, then twisted back onto his feet and dashed about some more. I could hardly contain a giggle.

“Angus!” called a voice from the shadows. “Angus, where are you off to?” Thrashing sounds and vibrations amid the shrubbery commenced.

As a rule, I don't care for animals, but this particular creature was utterly endearing with its too-big ears and stubby legs. I empathized with his ungainliness, having tripped over my own two feet (or skirts) more than once. I released Mr. Treadwell's arm and crouched on the path, calling for the beagle to come to me.

“Come here, doggie.” I felt the unfamiliar strain in my legs and ankles from such an unusual position. My corset felt uncomfortably tight at the same time; I'd have to adjust my Easy Un-Lacer in the future. The green lace of my overskirt
poofed out in a circle around me. “Oh, there you are. Nice doggie.”

He settled on the ground, right on the edge of my lacy skirt, writhing in some expectant manner. His ears lolled about like a child's arms when making snow angels, flopping back and forth. His round white tummy was exposed and his mechanical leg fell wide from his torso, still moving reflexively. I got the distinct impression he expected me to rub his belly.

“Angus!”

Recognizing the voice, I looked up as the beagle's apparent owner emerged from the bushes. “Inspector Grayling!”

He looked from me to the beagle, then over at Mr. Treadwell, and then back down to me. “Miss Holmes. I do believe this is the first time I've found you crouched over something other than a dead body.”

“Dead body?” Mr. Treadwell said with a horrified expression. (Of course the demure Miss Ashton would
never
be caught crouching over a dead body.)

I gave Grayling a quelling look, then replied to my companion. “Don't mind him, it's only a jest.”

“Would you like some assistance?” Grayling offered me his hand as I began to struggle upright.

“No, thank you.” I patted the canine creature on the head once more. Despite the weight and awkwardness of the layers of petticoat beneath my skirts, I was able to pull to my feet gracefully, without—for once—embarrassing myself. “Is this your dog, then?”

By the way Angus was jumping up on Grayling's legs and panting enthusiastically, the answer was obvious.

“Yes. The little menace slipped his lead and took himself off when we were walking through the park.” But now there was affection in his voice as he bent to scratch the dog, who'd flopped on his back once more and fairly wriggled in ecstasy. “It's no wonder ye lost a leg, you little blunderbunt. Always getting into trouble, aren't you, boyo?”

“This is the beagle from last week in Glasner-Mews—who caught his leg in the metal hasp on the streetwalk. You got him free and had his leg fixed.”

“How did you know about that?”

“I saw him trapped and crying, and then you . . . erm . . . you came out of Mrs. Yingling's window and jumped down a whole level to save him. Foolishly, I might add. What if you'd missed and fallen all the way to ground level?” The memory of his neat vault over the streetwalk railing was still embedded in my brain.

Grayling's expression changed into something unfathomable. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he seemed embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “You . . . er . . . saw that?”

“Yes.” Goodness, my voice sounded rusty. I was forced to clear my throat as well. “Despite its foolhardiness, it was very . . . athletic.”

“Aye. Right.” His Scottish brogue was evident now. “Well, then. Thank you for capturing Angus for me. I'll
tighten his collar to make certain he doesn't slip off again. Won't I, boy?” He attached a leash to the collar in question.

When Grayling stood, I realized for the first time he was wearing a coat with a badge pinned to it. (How had I not noticed earlier? Drat!) “You must not be here for pleasure, then, Inspector.” I gestured to the metal shield.

“Ah, well. As it happens, Mr. Oligary suggested the Met might provide a bit of extra manpower for security tonight.” He shrugged, once again seeming sheepish. “He was paying well, and Angus and I thought it would be an opportunity to see the inside of the New Gardens and get paid at the nonce.”

Before I could respond to that enlightening comment, Grayling's attention wandered to Mr. Treadwell, then returned to me. “But Angus and I have interrupted your party, Miss Holmes. We should get on with our business. Come along, you scoundrel.” He tugged firmly at the leash.

Angus didn't seem to like that idea, but after a moment, he succumbed to the inevitable and began to bound off happily once more—this time, attempting to pull Grayling along with him. It was a losing battle, for of course the pup was hardly a match for the tall, broad-shouldered detective. Nevertheless, he allowed his canine friend to lead him off.

It wasn't until they'd gone back into the bushes and, presumably, back to wherever the inspector was stationed, that I realized I'd forgotten to obtain an update from Grayling regarding Mrs. Yingling's murder. Where on earth had my brains gone?

“We should attempt to find the rest of our party.” Mr. Treadwell offered his arm.

As we strolled along, I brought my mind back to the matter at hand and contemplated a possible motive for Mr. Treadwell. He had the means and opportunity to be behind the nefarious scheme, but I could conceive no reason he would want to ruin Miss Ashton. Love was as good a motivation as anything—as I'd recently learned during the Affair with the Clockwork Scarab. But as she seemed to reciprocate his affections, I could fathom no reason he'd want to turn her mad. Every indication was that he truly cared for her.

Where on earth had Miss Stoker gone off to? I needed to find out if she'd learned anything from Mr. Ashton.

The scent of water was in the air, and I knew we were approaching the eponymously titled River Walk. Voices carried on the breeze, and I even discerned the distant calls of some wild creatures likely from the Animal Curiosities exhibit. An interesting duo of peacocks—one living, and one mechanized—strutted across the path. The gear-ridden bird's tail was a magnificent display of glittering jewels: sapphires, emeralds, jet beads, and aquamarines set in a bronzed fan. Fortunately, the discordant violin had ceased to play and now I could hear the tinny sound of an organ grinder and, beyond, the rumble of some mechanized vehicles or machinery.

To the northeast, I noticed the top of a massive cogwheel turning above the trees. It was lit with small lights and
appeared to have gondolas hanging from it, large enough to hold two or four persons. Oligary's Observation Cogwheel, I presumed. What a view one would have, sitting in a gondola at the top. Sitting beside a handsome young man . . .

Suddenly, there was a loud
pop-pop-popping
. A spray of red, blue, and yellow lights burst into the dark sky, coloring everything below. Mr. Treadwell and I, along with every other person on the pathway, stopped to observe the fireworks exploding above.

I watched in delight as a new round of dancing lights blazed above. Although everyone in the crowd was gazing up as well, I doubted they were calculating the trajectory of the discharged explosives, counting the seconds between launch and the resounding flare, and measuring how the different colors of illumination lasted for different lengths of time before they faded.

Uncle Sherlock had given Dr. Watson and me a lecture on his experimentation with explosives of this nature. I was attempting to confirm his theories regarding the angle of trajectory versus the span of the explosion, as well as using the smell that lingered in the air to identify the particular accelerant employed. If I had the opportunity to return in the daytime, I'd also examine the area for the detritus that would be left behind from the explosives.

Then someone screamed.

Perhaps everyone else thought it was part of the reaction of the crowd, or perhaps the sound was drowned out by the
pop-pop-popping
 . . . but I heard it and immediately determined from whither it was coming.

No one else seemed to notice, but I didn't care.

I started toward the sound, and then heard another scream, followed by more urgent voices. Gathering up my long overskirt, I ran as fast as I could down a side path toward the noise. I might not be an inhumanly strong vampire hunter, but I wasn't about to stand around and do nothing if someone was in distress.

“Thief! Stop, thief!” someone shouted.

I tripped over a rock but caught my balance and kept going despite the strain of my lungs fighting against the tight lacing of my corset. My petticoats and skirts whipped around my legs, and I could feel the unfamiliar sensation of my bustle jouncing over my posterior.

A figure burst out of the darkness, nearly bowling me over. He had something in his hand like a reticule or pocketbook. I stuck out my foot in his path.

The boy tripped, but kept going, and I started after him. “Stop! Thief!”

Unfortunately, I doubt anyone could have heard me. I was using what little breath I could drag in to propel me after the pickpocket. The stones were uneven beneath my speedy feet and the items I'd secreted beneath my bustle and in the hidden pockets of my skirt—a Steam-Stream gun, an Ocular-Magnifyer, and even a wooden stake in case Evaline forgot hers—bounced alarmingly.

I don't know how I managed to stay with the thief, but I kept him in sight as he followed the narrow footpath along the River Walk. Providence offered me a hand by providing a stick or stone along the way, and the lanky, fleet-footed pickpocket tripped, nearly tumbling into the river. But he careened upright after, giving me a few precious moments to catch up to him.

I threw myself at his person as he stumbled back to his feet. Grappling with his coat, I held on, trying to wrestle him to the ground. This was a losing proposition, for though he was probably only fourteen or fifteen, he was tall and strong, nor was he hampered by corsets and skirts. He flung me aside and I staggered, almost taking a header into the bushes . . . but still I held on to his lapels.

“Help!” I shouted. My cry came out as more of a croaking gasp. Where on earth were all of the other hundreds of people I'd seen earlier in the Gardens? The fireworks continued to explode above, the green and blue lights flickering over the sharp-faced pickpocket. “Help!” My lungs heaved weakly inside my corset. Blasted thing.

We struggled, doing an awkward dance along the path, wrestling our way up a small footbridge. My assailant twisted suddenly, brandishing something long and silver.

“Let go, ye blasted bitch!” The knife flashed, then surged down toward me.

I choked out a scream as pain blazed along my arm. But somehow I continued to hold on, spinning us about and
ducking at the same time. Then all at once, we were falling, tumbling over the side of the low bridge.

The water was a cold, hard shock and necessitated that I release the culprit. The river enveloped me, dark and heavy.