How to Get Away with Myrtle

  Contents

  1: Extradition

  2: Caveat Viator

  3: Highway Robbery

  4: Dereliction of Duty

  5: Veni, Vidi

  6: Unclaimed Baggage

  7: Grand Hotel

  8: Frustration of Purpose

  9: Promenade

  10: Inter Rusticos

  11: Prima Facie

  12: Perverting the Course of Justice

  13: Room Service

  14: Amicus Curiae

  15: Side Trips

  16: Cui Bono?

  17: Salvage Operations

  18: Local Curiosities

  19: Inevitable Discovery

  20: Do Not Disturb

  21: Mare Apertum

  22: Wish You Were Here

  A Note from the Author

  1

  Extradition

  Just as no scientific or military expedition would set off without adequate supplies, equipment, and reconnaissance, the same is no less important for leisure travel.

  —Hardcastle’s Practical Travel Companion: A Compendium of Useful Advice for the Modern Tourist, Including Select Destinations of Note, Vol. I, 1893

  “Think of it as an academic exercise.”

  Miss Judson, my governess, dropped another armload of chemisettes onto the bed. Peony let out a mew of protest and sought refuge in the trunk.

  “In what discipline?” I surreptitiously withdrew two petticoats from my luggage, replacing them with the latest edition of English Law Reports and three volumes of my encyclopædia. Taking the whole set seemed excessive, but I could not be sure Fairhaven would have a bookshop or a lending library. The Brochure had not specified.

  “Put that middy* back,” Miss Judson said. “Aunt Helena will expect to see you in it. And discipline is exactly right. You and I shall be practicing our Exceptional Forbearance.”

  “I thought we were going to frolic on sunny beaches and partake of Family Amusements.” The Brochure had likewise not specified what, precisely, a “Family Amusement” entailed, but I suspected nothing good. “Besides, that dress is ridiculous! I’m not a naval recruit.”

  I felt like one, though, press-ganged into a Seaside Holiday by ruthless schemers who were entirely unsympathetic to my objections.

  Miss Judson retrieved the garment and folded it anew. “We have been over this. Your aunt wants to take you on holiday—”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Myrtle. You have exhausted your appeals. Accept your sentence gracefully.” As soon as she said that, I could tell she wanted to take the words back.

  “My sentence?” I cried. “I am being punished.” I threw down the heap of petticoats.

  “Of course you’re not,” said Miss Judson. “Stop getting carried away.”

  “What happened this summer wasn’t my fault! Father told me that himself.” Arms crossed, I willed Miss Judson to prove me wrong.

  “He meant it. This holiday is to get away from all of that—”

  “Father went all the way to Paris to get away from me.”

  She stepped back a pace, hand to her chest. “Is that what you think?”

  I turned away and shoved the chemisettes into the trunk. If this were a proper holiday, Father would be coming with us, not separating us with a whole ocean.* On a Proper Holiday, Father and Miss Judson might even frolic on the beach together. They’d Promenade on the Pier together. We could be a Proper Family, just the three of us. Instead, Miss Judson and I were being Exiled to the seaside, while Father got as far away from us as possible.

  Miss Judson turned me to face her. “You may not believe this, but your father just wants you to have a good time—”

  “I’d have a good time in Paris. With him.”

  “—doing something that does not involve murder.”

  I glowered at her. “An ordinary holiday. Like an ordinary girl.”

  “Exactly. I’m sure you can manage that. Rumor has it you’re clever and resourceful.”

  She plucked the Ballingall Excursions brochure from my hands and slipped it into my valise. “Finish packing. We’re going to miss the train. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes, and if that hat is not on your head when you appear, I shall make you sit next to Aunt Helena for the entire trip.”

  She would, too. Peony offered a little warble of sympathy.

  Defeated, I beheld the sea of garments before me. My great aunt Helena had been sending shipments of new clothes for weeks. My Holiday Wardrobe was now three times the size of my regular wardrobe, and included the aforementioned sailor suit (for yachting), a Promenade Ensemble (for walking), a Walking Dress (for . . . ?), and a perfectly horrifying bathing costume, of which no further mention shall be made, for the protection of the Reader’s delicate sensibilities.

  Objections aside, the notion of a holiday was not necessarily unwelcome. The past several weeks had been rather trying. The Redgraves Murder was national news, but even I’d stopped collecting newspaper clippings about it. I hadn’t been called upon to testify at all, despite having (almost) single-handedly solved the crime myself! It had been my first professional triumph as an Investigator, but Swinburne’s Prosecuting Solicitor—that is, Father—had engineered matters to keep my name out of the official version of events, and refused to see the logic in permitting me to give evidence. Instead, while the case proceeded miles away in London (an entirely reasonable destination for a holiday, I might point out, boasting the Natural History Museum, Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, and the Central Criminal Court), I had already been judged, and this was Father’s verdict.

  And where was Father to be, during all the Family Amusements? In Paris! At the Symposium International sur la Médecine Légale, a conference on forensic science. The most brilliant criminologists from all over the world were going to be there, sharing the latest developments in crime-scene analysis and post-mortem pathology. Famous French experts like Dr. Lacassagne, founder of Europe’s most prestigious forensics school, and Mssr. Bertillon, the policeman who invented mug shots and anthropometry,* would be speaking, and there was going to be a debate on the merits of fingerprinting.

  While I languished in sunny Fairhaven, collecting seashells.

  “Exceptional Forbearance, indeed,” I said to Peony. “Assuming I don’t die of boredom.” I hadn’t yet seen a case that could reliably cite Tedium as a cause of death—but if I had to be the first case study, at least the holiday wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.

  “Mrrow,” Peony agreed.

  “It’s all very well for you,” I said. “You’ll be here with your sunbeams and your fish heads and Cook.” With a final wretched sigh, I picked up The Hat—the crowning humiliation, quite literally, of this ordeal. With its enormous puce* bow, tiny velvet pumpkins, and sprig of dried wheat, it looked like a rotting autumnal meadow. All it lacked was a couple of flesh-eating beetles.

  Peony hissed and swatted at the ribbon.

  I beheld Peony. I beheld the hat. I beheld my trunk crammed full of holiday clothes and not nearly enough books. Peony beheld them as well.

  “No,” she said, firmly.

  “If I have to do this, so do you.” I scooped her up and dropped her unceremoniously into the hatbox,* along with a nice flannel petticoat and a leftover biscuit. Before closing the trunk, I defiantly tossed in my magnifying lens, slingshot, and a sturdy pair of Wellies that may or may not still have been wet from earlier. The hat, like a martyr, I wore.

  v

  We took the tram to the railway station in Upton, where a painted banner pro
claimed, welcome, fairhaven excursionists! Aunt Helena marched along the platform, brandishing a walking stick like the drum major in a military parade.

  “She seems to be enjoying herself.” I shifted my grip on the hatbox, willing its contents to remain still and silent.

  Miss Judson murmured, “Perhaps if she’s very good, they’ll let her drive the train.”

  I bit my lip to keep from emitting a highly unlady­like snort, which Aunt Helena would certainly have noticed. It was a blustery October afternoon (and if that strikes you as a curious time for a seaside holiday, Dear Reader, you are not alone), and the station was crowded with expectant passengers juggling umbrellas, hatcases, and timetables. Everyone seemed to be admiring the waiting train, a modern affair of shiny purplish-black cars and a locomotive emblazoned ballingall empress express. A long red ribbon stretched the length of the platform, blocking off the train.

  A stout gentleman dressed like a circus ringmaster strutted about, smiling broadly through his copious sandy whiskers. I recognized him from his Brochure as Sir Quentin Ballingall, Excursion Impresario, the fellow behind this scheme of Aunt Helena’s. She’d spoken of him frequently over the last few years, always in glowing terms, and often signed on for his holiday packages. She’d been on some sort of seaside tour with him most of the summer. But this was the first time she’d roped Miss Judson and me into going with her.

  “Ah, Judson. Here you are at last.” Aunt Helena turned her severe gaze to me. “Helena Myrtle. What on earth is that thing on your head? That can’t possibly be the hat I ordered for you.”

  I gave them both a look of outrage, but my protest was forestalled by the arrival of a harried young woman in a severe black frock, toting a knitted bag and a rolled-up travel rug. “Miss Hardcastle,” she panted, “they said if you want to change your dinner order you’ll have to take it up with the staff on board.”

  “Has Aunt Helena fired another round of housemaids?” I said sympathetically, but the girl just looked at me blankly.

  “Miss Highsmith is my Paid Companion.” Aunt Helena spoke as if this were a great honor. “The Ballingalls have engaged her on my behalf. Ladies of Quality do not travel alone.” She turned to Miss Highsmith. “Never mind about that, Cicely. Go and see what the delay is. Sir Quentin can’t mean to keep us standing about in a draft.” She withdrew a coin from a beaded reticule. “Helena Myrtle, fetch yourself something to read on the train. I won’t have you disrupting the journey with your mindless chatter.”

  I swallowed my retort when I saw the money: a whole shilling, more than enough for a week’s worth of papers, which just goes to show you how many newspapers Aunt Helena had bought. Before Miss Judson could make me return it, I scurried across the platform toward the station. A woman waiting at the ticket window gave me a friendly nod as I slipped inside.

  The newsagent’s was well stocked, and I spent a few moments fortifying myself for the next fourteen hours. I selected The Times, The Strand, and Illustrated London News, which was not exactly reputable, but had the most entertaining headlines. Mindful of Miss Judson’s eyes on me (even through the station’s brick walls), I dutifully added a copy of the Girl’s Own Paper, in which to conceal the others.

  I took my newspapers, the hatbox, and my generous handful of change and returned to the platform, to Observe that Aunt Helena had gone off to complain about the Intolerable Delay, and that Miss Judson was now absorbed in sketching the Empress Express.

  She made a striking image herself, in her dark green traveling suit, far more elegant than her habitual attire. It set off her deep complexion, but looked exceptionally prone to being stained by salt water and sand. She’d brought along three trunks, in addition to her valise, and though I knew one was stocked with easels, pastels, her watercolor set, and fresh sketchbooks, I was powerless to imagine how she could need as many clothes as she seemed to have packed. I didn’t even know she had that many clothes.

  An alarming thought struck me. Miss Judson originally hailed from French Guiana, a part of the world known for its shining tropical beaches.* I bit the fingers of my gloves and considered this. Was she expecting to enjoy herself on this holiday? I felt a curious sting at this thought—something akin to betrayal, although I could not quite work out who was betraying whom.

  Well, I might have been crimped into a fortnight’s holiday, but that was no reason to let my skills get rusty. A busy railway station made an excellent venue for honing my Observational Techniques. I set up post by a brick pillar with a pasted notice warning passengers to be alert for Suspicious Characters, giving me an unobstructed view of the whole platform and the length of the snaky purple train. I tucked the hatbox neatly against my ankles and disguised myself behind my newspapers to survey the scene.

  Black-clad railway guards and porters swarmed the platform and the train, preparing for the journey. An identical pair of elderly ladies, clutching matching baskets, twittered and pointed, their fluffy white heads bobbing like pigeons, as a fellow with an oversized valise skulked by, hat pulled low, concealing his features in a manner that could definitely be considered suspicious. I made a mental note to track his movements aboard the train. A nurse pushed through the crowd, wheeling a frail-looking young woman in a wicker bath chair. She waved down a porter, who helped her wrangle the contraption and its passenger past the red ribbon and into one of the passenger carriages.

  As I Observed, the lady in red left the ticket window without buying anything and continued on to the platform—directly toward the Empress Express. She eyed the train with a critical manner that was entirely unlike the other passengers. She seemed oblivious to the fanfare, instead intent on her study of the train itself.

  Dear Reader, I need hardly note the danger posed by saboteurs on railways. The sensational newspapers were full of warnings about anarchists planting explosives aboard locomotives, knocking out bridges, or disabling signals so trains would derail. Though I would not mind should something happen to derail this holiday before it got started, I rather hoped to avoid disaster once it had begun. Juggling Peony’s hatbox and my newspapers, I decided to get a closer look.

  I followed the lady. Carefully, of course—I had been practicing Mr. Holmes’s shadowing techniques. Although my efforts to pursue Peony with stealth had met with some challenge, I was getting better at Observing Cook unawares.* I hung back a bit and pretended to focus on my newspaper—not, I’ll grant you, the most convincing of diversions (a twelve-year-old girl reading Illustrated London News does raise an eyebrow or two). Peony uttered a discontented warble from within the hatbox, barely audible above all the bustle and noise.

  My subject was somewhat older than Father, with curly fair hair beneath a red hat and carrying a well-worn carpetbag with her brolly stuck in the handles. She didn’t stand out especially from the other middle-aged ladies in their smart traveling costumes, but she was unduly attentive, striding up to the loco and peering into the cab and beneath the wheels. A commotion from inside the cab caught both our notice: the driver was arguing with a stocky, red-faced guard. I could not hear what they were saying without creeping too close and being discovered, but the woman paused to listen.

  A moment later, the guard stormed off the cab and disappeared down along the train. My subject moved on, evidently having decided to plant her sabotaging device elsewhere, and took a quick glance about the platform. I froze and focused on the sketch of a steamship explosion in Prussia, bodies flung everywhere. “Be glad we’re not sailing to Fairhaven,” I told Peony—and looked up in time to see the woman in red duck beneath the ribbon to climb aboard an unguarded passenger car.

  I darted after her, arriving at the vestibule mounting block just as a red flounce disappeared inside the carriage. I slipped under the ribbon, shoved Peony’s box before me up the stairs, and sneaked aboard the Ballingall Empress Express.

  Whereupon I was momentarily distracted from my quarry. I let out my breath and stared, quite
overcome. I’d been aboard trains before, of course, but this was less like a railway carriage than somebody’s overstuffed parlor. Every inch of it was purple—everything that wasn’t polished brass or glittering crystal or burnished wood or gilded fretwork, that is. A glass ceiling arched overhead, hung with electric lights that shone on the plush purple carpeting and plump velvet furniture. Even a piano had not escaped the decorator’s attentions.

  Now that I’d followed the saboteur onto the train, the jig was up: she could see me as plainly as I could see her. But she ignored me. She’d dropped her carpet­bag and brolly by the piano and was inspecting a cloth-covered case set on a plinth, like in a museum, and she looked downright unhappy about it. Forehead deeply creased, she was jotting in a notebook, shaking her head.

  “No, no, and no.” She punctuated this with jabs of her pencil. “Not satisfactory, not at all.”

  “Are you supposed to be in here?” I said loudly. The woman in red didn’t even turn around.

  “One might ask the same, Myrtle Hardcastle. This is the Ladies’ Lounge, and I am—last I checked—a lady.”

  A quiver of surprise went through me. “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s my business to know.”

  What did she mean by that? “Sir Quentin wouldn’t like you in here,” I hazarded.

  She looked up at last, with a laugh. “No, he would not. Come here. Tell me what you think.”

  I hesitated. But curiosity got the better of me—about her, and about what was in the case she was so upset about. I crept forward, bracing myself for something ghastly (rattlesnakes? shrunken heads?), and she pulled off the cloth.

  Inside was a crown, huge and delicate, glittering with diamonds and vast greeny-purple stones. A placard read:

  “Is that real?” The stones’ color shifted as I looked at them, like an enchantment in a fairy story. “What’s it doing here?”

  The woman clapped her notebook shut. “That, Miss Hardcastle, is my question. This is not what I agreed to at all.”