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“Good day, gentleman,” he said, not sounding at all as if he meant it. “And young lady. What may I assist you with?”
“I’m Dr. Jonathan Wadsworth of London, and these are my apprentices, Mr. Thomas Cresswell and Miss Audrey Rose Wadsworth. We’ve come to call on Mr. Prescott,” Uncle said. “There are a few questions we need answered regarding the days leading up to his daughter’s murder. It won’t take but a few minutes of his time.”
The stout man pulled his shoulders back, and tried looking down his stub nose, though Uncle was a good bit taller. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at present. I’ve administered a tonic to quell his nerves.” He stuck his meaty hand out. “I’m Dr. Philip Arden.”
Thomas and I exchanged raised brows. Gentlemen weren’t normally given elixirs for nerves, a foolish societal notion claiming men didn’t experience such emotions, but I was more concerned with the blatant lie. We’d just heard the two men arguing through the closed door.
Uncle nodded. “Any information Mr. Prescott may offer will do, even in his current condition.”
“I’m afraid I must insist you come back another time,” Dr. Arden said, slowly closing the door in our faces. “The Prescotts desire time to process the sudden death of their only daughter. Surely you understand the need for such delicacy?”
I bit down on my tongue. Part of me wanted to say I didn’t understand at all, to talk sternly about the importance of ferreting out any clues before they were lost to memory. However, I knew that was a harsh viewpoint given the circumstances. Their only daughter died brutally in front of them. If they needed time to mourn, it was the least we could offer.
A door creaked open down the corridor, yet no one stepped out. I caught Thomas’s eye and jerked my head in the direction. He took a small step toward the room and paused, nodding in assent. Someone was eavesdropping. I tuned back into the conversation between Dr. Arden and my uncle, hoping they’d hurry it along.
“Very well,” Uncle relented. “Please let him know I stopped by. I’ll return again later this evening.”
I dropped a polite curtsy, but before Dr. Arden could tip his hat, I was moving swiftly down the corridor. I was about to raise my fist and knock, when I noticed Mrs. Prescott staring blankly ahead, eyes rimmed in the red of the grief-stricken.
“Mrs. Prescott…” I moved slowly into her line of vision. “Do you need me to fetch—”
“I told him we shouldn’t accept the offer,” she said, eyes fixed on the ocean. “It was his pride that doomed her.”
I felt Uncle and Thomas hovering behind me and held a hand to stall them. “What offer made you uncomfortable? Was it something you received prior to boarding the ship?”
She blinked at me, as if realizing she wasn’t speaking into the void after all. “A letter. We’d received an invitation. As did the Ardens.” She laughed, the sound anything but amused. “‘Esteemed guest,’ indeed. Robert enjoys believing his own press—that his opinion is one to aspire to attain. There wasn’t any way he’d miss an opportunity to show off. Vanity is a sin.”
“Does Mr. Prescott know who sent the letter?” I pressed. “May I see it?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She turned her attention on me and her emotions punched me in my very core. “What good will it do? My Olivia is gone.”
Thomas shifted, fingers tapping his sides. He reminded me of a hound who’d scented a promising lead and wanted to hunt it down no matter the cost. I made to grab him, but he carefully sidestepped my reach.
“Mrs. Prescott, if I may offer my opinion?” he asked. I closed my eyes. Thomas was many incredible things, but subtle he was not. “You have suffered a tragedy most could neither imagine, nor endure. Yet here you stand, breathing, living. Which is the most difficult thing to do. People often admire physical strength, but I believe it’s the simple things one does after a tragedy that defines them. There is no greater show of power than continuing to live when you’d like nothing more than to lie down and let the world fade. Your strength and conviction are needed now—to assist us in capturing whoever did this to your daughter. Miss Olivia might be gone, but what you do next will help her seek the justice she deserves.”
I blinked back the stinging in my eyes, completely and utterly speechless. Mrs. Prescott seemed equally dazed, but recovered swiftly and disappeared into her room. I stood there, mouth agape, not knowing who this Thomas Cresswell was. He flashed a quick grin. “A lifetime full of surprises, remember, Wadsworth?”
“Indeed.” I could not imagine a future that didn’t include unwinding each secret he possessed. Mrs. Prescott finally made her way back to where we lingered in the doorway.
“Here,” she said, sniffling. “For Olivia.”
Thomas took the letter with great care, holding it to his chest. “We will find who did this, Mrs. Prescott. And they will be made to pay.”
I glanced sharply in Thomas’s direction. His tone sent a creeping chill across my skin. I did not doubt that he would fight with everything he had to solve this case.
Mrs. Prescott swallowed hard. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to lie down again.”
We bid her goodbye and continued down the promenade. Uncle glanced over at us while we walked, expression shuttered. I wondered if he was thinking about Aunt Amelia, worried that she might be in an equally horrid condition, going mad with panic over Liza’s disappearance. So often we were only tasked with cutting open the dead, searching the aftermath for clues. Speaking with the living during their time of grief was much harder. It was nearly impossible to turn emotions off and disconnect from the gruesome work that needed to be done.
Once we were far enough down the promenade deck, Thomas stopped and handed the invitation to me. It was quite decadent as far as envelopes went. The paper was a shiny ink blue and the letters were a swirling silver and gold. Little stars littered the border as if someone had blown glitter across the page. It reminded me immediately of the Moonlight Carnival.
I traced my finger over the glossy finish and opened the letter up.
“What do either of you make of this?” Uncle asked. “First impressions.”
“It’s hard to say.” I drew in a deep breath, my mind turning over the words. “On one hand I understand Mrs. Prescott’s distrust—why seek endorsement from a judge? Surely there are more influential members of the aristocracy to target for that sort of thing.” I scanned the letter again, then handed it to Thomas. “I’d claim it was highly unlikely to have been sent by anyone associated with the carnival. Which of them could afford to purchase passage for four first-class passengers?”
“But?” Thomas urged, brow raised. I had the impression he’d come to the same conclusion and was giving me an opportunity to shine.
