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Mephistophele
s patted down the front of his waistcoat, frowning. He turned out his pockets, felt along the rim of his top hat, and then bent down to fumble around the soles of his boots. “Just… another… moment.”
“Honestly?” I asked, rolling my eyes skyward once I figured out what he was searching for. “How do you of all people not have a lockpick?”
“Do I look like Houdini to you?” He bristled. “He’s the King of Cuffs.”
“Obviously, else we’d be inside investigating by now instead of dawdling.”
I removed one of my hatpins and nudged the ringmaster out of the way with my hip. He whistled in appreciation when I stuck the pin into the lock, jiggling it around until I heard the faint sound of tumblers clicking. Houdini wasn’t the only one blessed with that skill. Perhaps if I did run off with the circus, I might practice and call myself the Queen of Cuffs. Saying a silent thank you to my father for the trick, I took one quick breath and pushed the door open.
“Look who’s a wonder-worker now,” I called over my shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll assist Mr. Houdini with his next daring escape.”
“How—”
I swept into the cabin and stopped short. Though the cabin was unlit, moonlight spilled from the open doorway across the threshold, and I was able to make out a silhouette sitting upright in the bed. Either someone had stacked their pillows into a human shape, or we’d broken into an occupied room by mistake.
Mephistopheles bumped into me and cursed. “We ought to close the door—”
“Good idea. It’s a bit drafty otherwise,” the silhouette said, then unfolded itself to a standing position. “Perhaps you ought to lock it, too. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression of what you’re both doing here. Unchaperoned. After midnight. Doesn’t look very good.”
It had taken a few seconds to register that the voice was not at all who I’d expected it might be. “Thomas.” My heart nearly leapt from my chest in its haste to escape this dreadful situation. “What in the name of the queen are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
In answer, a light flared to life on a bedside table. Thomas held his lantern up and motioned to the room. It was perfectly intact—not a thing out of place. Corners of the bedsheets were pulled taut, the vanity carefully arranged with jewels and makeup. All seemed perfectly ordinary, with the exception of the three of us. Someone had obviously cleaned up the room since the last time we’d been here.
I opened my mouth, but words failed. His behavior was always somewhat peculiar; however, this was strange even by his standards.
“Sometimes I find it helps to place myself in the victim’s last known location. If I sit quietly, I can re-create a scene.” Thomas cocked his head. “What, exactly, brings you both here? Did you discover something about Miss Crenshaw or…”
His tone was composed and cordial enough, but the flash of whatever that was in his expression immediately set my teeth on edge.
“We were out for a romantic stroll and decided to cap off the evening with a visit to a dead woman’s room. Stolen kisses around rotting carcasses are all the rage. I’m surprised you haven’t given it a go yourself.” Before he schooled his features, I saw the hurt in his expression. “Honestly. What sort of question is that, Cresswell?”
Thomas drew back so suddenly I forgot my ire. He crinkled his nose. “What in God’s name is that foul scent?” he asked. “It’s awful.” He swatted the air in front of his nose. “Putrid, even.”
“What?” I leaned forward, annoyance forgotten. Last time we’d smelled something terrible it was back at the academy, and the discovery of a decomposing body had been close behind. I shoved that memory away, not wanting to think about the bats in that wretched chamber. I sniffed around, expecting the worst. “I don’t smell anything unusual.”
“Oh. Never mind.” Thomas leaned back. “It’s simply your attitude, Miss Wadsworth. It stinks.”
Mephistopheles actually bent over, wheezing with laughter, and I flashed him a glare that promised sudden death should he utter one more sound. He straightened and slowly backed away, hands up in surrender, though his chest shook with suppressed laughter.
“Well, now. This has taken quite a dramatic turn.” Mephistopheles pulled out his pocket watch as if he was only now remembering an appointment with Satan. “Miss Wadsworth?” I glanced at the ringmaster as he strode toward the door and wrenched it open. “Truth is poison. Beware how much you ingest at once.”
“Would you cease with the fortune-telling advice, already?”
“Be even more careful with how much you dispense.” He looked pointedly at Thomas, ignoring my jibe. “Good evening to you both.”
TWENTY-THREE
DEDUCTIONS AND DECEIT
MISS CRENSHAW’S CABIN
RMS ETRURIA
5 JANUARY 1889
I cringed. The ringmaster certainly hadn’t done me any favors by uttering that as a parting gift. Once the door clicked shut, Thomas sat back on the bed, the tension seeming to go out of him at once.
