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I nodded, slowly seeing her last moments unfold in my mind. There were no signs of strangulation on her throat, no abrasions or contusions on her flesh; however, her lipstick was smeared, leading me to believe she’d been smothered by something. A glance around the room showed plenty of potential murder weapons. Pillows, silks, and fabrics—any one of them could have been the object that ended her life. I leaned over and lifted her hand, noting the body was warm to the touch. She’d been slain very recently. Andreas had apparently entered the cabin with Mrs. Harvey, but I’d no idea when Jian had arrived. I’d need to investigate his whereabouts more.
I pointed out the pillows and fabrics to Uncle. “If this is the murder scene—which I believe it is, since I cannot imagine someone dragging her body here without witnesses—then I’d wager we’ll find a bit of her lipstick on whatever was used to smother her.”
“Yes. What else?”
I slowly walked from her feet to her head and back again, taking in every outer detail I could. “Part of her skirts were cut… there. See? The fabric was snipped away in a line—too neat to have been torn in a struggle. I believe it happened after she’d been murdered.”
Thomas stood, lifting the edge of her outer skirts to better inspect the missing fabric length. It was a beautiful garment—pale as freshly fallen snow with bits of silver threaded through. The contrast of the purity of color against her sudden death seemed gruesome. She appeared ready for a wedding, not a funeral.
“Whoever committed this particular murder seems to have an obsession with pretty fabrics. Despite how odd that may sound,” he said, straightening up, “I believe that’s at least part of our motive, though not likely the main reason.”
The three of us looked at one another, minds seemingly racing in new directions. There was one person who immediately sprang to mind while thinking of nice fabrics; the same young ringmaster that I kept defending. I glanced back down at the missing length of silk. I could no longer deny that it was becoming harder to clear Mephistopheles from at least some guilt. Though I could also not deny that something about the motive didn’t quite sit right in my center. Uncle had taught us the importance of trusting our instincts, but I no longer could. At least not where the ringmaster was concerned.
Dozens of costumed performers emerged from each corner of the room, picking their way around tables, silent and ironically frightening in their joker’s hats with dangling bells. Their full masks were white with tarry black diamonds painted around their eyes that dripped down to crimson lips. It seemed no matter what horror the afternoons brought, the evening shows would go on. A symphony composed of Renaissance instruments fiddled an old tune, the violins and harps sounding mournful, giving the impression of having gone back a few centuries in time.
Against my best efforts, I shuddered at the puppetlike performers. If these Venetian jesters were terrifying, I hated to see the plague-mask act come to life. Mephistopheles’s imagination was a dark and treacherous place.
Stiff white tulle ruffles around their collars and hips evoked images of ballerinas who’d broken free from Hades, but at a great cost. Black and gold triangles of fabric completed the collar and skirts, and also made up the waistcoat and sleeves. I didn’t know how these hellions could ever be considered humorous—they certainly didn’t invoke any feelings of levity as they danced and hopped from one nimble foot to the next in quiet procession through the room.
I couldn’t help imagining their costumes being pieced together from a collection of fabrics stolen from victims—a macabre trophy that the killer could secretly admire each night. I knew it wasn’t probable or likely, but it didn’t prevent gooseflesh from rising on my arms.
Thomas eyed them the way one might stare at a horrid accident, his lip curled. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the will to do so after our somber afternoon studying Mrs. Prescott’s corpse. I also couldn’t ignore the tension from our earlier argument—it had been stuffed away in light of the larger issue, but the uncomfortable feeling persisted.
“The flame-tossing jugglers I understand,” he said, “but this? What exactly is their purpose? They’re simply peculiar. Mephisto is losing his touch. Perhaps he’s finally made a bad bargain—which isn’t unexpected. No one’s as perfect as me.”
“This entire carnival is peculiar,” Uncle muttered. “I’ll be glad to be done with it all. One more night after this now.”
Liza lifted a delicate shoulder. She was unable to participate in the show, since Uncle was in attendance this evening, but didn’t appear too upset by it. Her gown was exceptionally gorgeous tonight—beaded crystals sewn onto a rose-petal pink. “That’s precisely the point. Their peculiarity is the draw—you’re so focused on them, I bet you haven’t noticed what’s being hauled out onto the stage.”
My attention snapped to the next act that had quietly come in when all eyes were focused elsewhere. Liza sat back, a smug look on her face. Even Uncle appeared surprised for a brief moment before tucking into his meal again.
“Love or loathe him—you have to admit Mephistopheles is remarkable. He knows exactly what distractions to use.” My cousin’s gaze landed on me for emphasis, and I wished to slowly crawl under the table—she was most decidedly not helping my cause. “Harry has learned so much in just a few short weeks. Mephistopheles is quite the teacher.”
“And,” Uncle said under his breath, “possibly quite the murderous fiend as well.”
Deciding to don bravery like it was my most exquisite accessory, I glanced at Thomas. He looked like he’d swallowed a toad. I politely coughed a laugh away. At that he offered a tentative smile and I did, too—it was good to be back on the same side.
“Yes,” Thomas said blandly, “next we’ll be hearing that he’s walked across the sea.”
“If he attempts that, then I’m sure a Siren or whale will swallow him whole,” I said. Thomas perked up at the thought. I turned to my cousin and leaned close to avoid being overheard by the diners at the nearest table. “Would Harry use theatrics as a distraction to something more serious? What—what if one of his experiments went terribly wrong? Would he tell anyone, or simply try and make the bodies disappear? You have to admit, the trunk is a very Houdini way of disposing of something.”
Liza stared at me as if I’d gone mad. “Missing and murdered women are not the best way of having his performances end up in the papers, Cousin. Harry wants fame, not infamy. Same goes for Mephistopheles. You can’t honestly believe they’re to blame?”
“What if that’s what he wants you to believe?” Thomas asked. “Perhaps fame is the misdirection. Do you really know what he’s after?”
Liza opened her mouth, then shut it. I imagined she was taking her mother’s advice to count to ten before speaking when a kind word couldn’t easily be found. “Harry would not be involved with anyone who was—what? Do you both think Mephistopheles is actually a murderer?” She snorted, forgetting about manners. “If you want to throw accusations around, you ought to investigate Captain Norwood. Have you seen the way he treats his crew? I wouldn’t doubt he’d be capable of tossing people overboard if they displeased him. The man is an absolute nightmare.”
On that much we were agreed. I could see the captain shoving someone over the railing in a fit of rage. He was an odd character—at once completely pleasant and docile and, when angered, fierce and nasty as they came. But I did not believe he had an ounce of theatrical violence in that well-structured suit of his.
Mrs. Harvey leaned across the table, lips still trembling from the shock she’d received earlier. I wished to reach over and embrace her. Shaken though she was, she refused to sit alone in her chambers. Thomas had offered to stay and dine in with her, but she’d have none of it. I had an inkling it had to do with the rumor of Houdini sporting his underthings once again that gave her an extra push to attend the show.
Though most other passengers must not have felt the same—the dining saloon was even more empty tonight than it had been yesterday. The ship was slowly turning into a ghost vessel, places once filled with life now seemed haunted and silent.
“What do you think is behind that curtain?” she asked. “I hope it’s not another milk can. I didn’t care for that act one bit. Too much tension isn’t good for your constitution. I don’t think I can handle another fright so soon.”
“Cousin? What secrets can you offer?” I turned to Liza, ready to lighten the mood with a joke when the lights flashed, then went out, leaving us in darkness broken only by candles flickering on our tables. Uncle muttered something about not being able to see his entrée, but I decided not to comment.
“Esteemed guests.” Mephistopheles’s disembodied voice hung in the air like fog. “Tonight we ask you to turn your attention skyward, as the Empress puts on her most heavenly show. Note there are no nets, and should she fall, well, let’s not worry on that now.”
