“Miss Hatter, isn’t it?” He bowed.
Maddie smiled. “It is. Stanislaus Swithin, is it not?”
“At your service. Do not say you are departing?”
“I’m not leaving Cairo yet,” Maddie assured him. “Although, with the days growing ever hotter . . .”
“You are fortunate to have the option. I will be posted here until September. May I join you?”
“Please do.” While he seated himself and waved for a waiter, she pulled out the image of the widow again. Leaving it face down on the table for the moment, she said, “I am writing an article on what is needed to fit out an airship for desert travel. This interest is inspired, as you may surmise, by the mystery of the Jules Verne, that flew thousands of miles since its refit here in Cairo. Could it have survived across the desert without a pilot?”
“Not across the desert, in the springtime, with the prevailing winds. Beyond that, I cannot see how it would end up in England without a steady hand on the tiller. There are all those Alps in the way, you know, and gales over the Mediterranean and the English Channel. No aeronaut would believe it.”
“Then you think the baron must have been steering his ship most of the way?”
“Or someone was.” The young officer ordered a hearty snack and collected his coffee from the cart that paused by their table. This was a most elegant machine, brass with chased silver knobs, although as loud in its explosion of steam through the grounds as any other machine of similar function. He turned the crank to add a foam of milk and sent the cart on its way.
“The baron’s fate has the whole mess-hall in fervent debate. Some say he must have been taken by air pirates over the Sahara, while others point to his frequent mentions of Nubian treasure as proof he was going the other way. Yet, if the ship were pirate-taken, why go to England at all? The chance of being hailed for an identity check over Europe was great, and the winds weren’t right to circle the ship out over the Atlantic instead. No, there is some greater mystery here. Oh, I say,” he added as she flipped open her notebook. “Don’t put me on the record. I’m not authorized.”
“That’s too bad.” Maddie smiled at him. “You have been more quotable than anyone else I’ve spoken to here. I don’t suppose you could direct me to someone who is authorized to speak?”
“I’ll introduce you to my commander, if you will permit me.”
“Delighted.” After a short burst of social nothings, Maddie turned over the image. “I’ve been looking for this woman for a quote too. She was friendly with the baron. But I don’t recall her name, and didn’t ask where she was going when she moved from Shepheard’s. I don’t even know if she’s still in Cairo.”
The officer glanced at the image. “Oh, yes, her. She booked through to Venice in early February. I remember because the base admiral was most shocked that a Steamlord’s daughter was traveling alone, and expedited matters to get her onto the next liner bound for Europe. Nobody wants to wear the stigma of losing somebody’s daughter. Of course, you’re somebody’s daughter too, but your father’s not a Steamlord kind of somebody. The Navy won’t sail close to that breeze if we can help it. The Admiralty is almost totally dependent on Steamlord technology nowadays, and it wouldn’t do to anger one of them.”
Maddie didn’t bother wondering why a Steamlord’s daughter had lived in Cairo under an assumed name. She was doing it herself. She had not recognized the widow, but had they ever met, at school or in a drawing room? Had a kindred spirit lurked under a meek demeanor and a head of family-hued hair?
“What’s her name? I could write to her care of her family.”
“The Honourable Madeleine Main-Bearing, daughter of the Marquis of Main-Bearing.”
Maddie dropped her cup.
Chapter Four
THE EARLY-AFTERNOON streets were somnolent as Maddie returned from the aerodrome. Her driver seemed half-asleep too; she poked him in the back with her pen whenever the vehicle strayed. In stark contrast to the earlier cacophony of camel and horse hooves, steam-whistles, and the eternal cries of sellers and beggars, now the rattle of the wheels and the intermittent hiss of the carriage’s boiler were her only accompaniment. Minarets and screens, delicate mosaics, and carpets left hanging out in the sun to “antique” for the tourist trade, all passed her by unseen. The narrow roadways were stifling, with no breeze to flap the sunshade above her head or cool the fury in her veins.
The devious widow had parlayed one of Maddie’s visiting cards into an escape from Egypt. Not only had that woman been inside Maddie’s chamber uninvited, she had snooped very thoroughly indeed.
Worse still, she was long gone to Venice under Maddie’s name, creating who knew what destruction to Maddie’s reputation. If Lord Main-Bearing heard rumour that his daughter had been carousing publicly during Carnivale, she could not only lose her allowance but be air-dropped into a nunnery on a remote island off Scotland.
Maddie’s best hope for discovering the extent of any damage was that second, possibly brass bird in the hangar. Its presence implied someone in Madame Taxus-Hemlock’s immense family conglomerate had an interest in Cairo, and that meant their long-range birds would be circling the skies. If one of them passed within reach of the hotel, TD would know. At dark, he could be sent aloft to pass along a message. Madame’s family–it was acknowledged by governments in several countries–had more spies in more places than any European power. For them, finding one woman using Maddie’s name in Venice would be as easy as pouring a cup of tea.
Further, if anyone could advise Maddie on how to retrieve her reputation, track down the nefarious card-thief, and mitigate any parental ire, it would be Madame Taxus-Hemlock. She had seen everything and been everywhere, and, being a distant relative of the queen, could, in a pinch, over-awe Lord Main-Bearing into showing mercy to his daughter. Yes, the sooner Madame was informed of the imposter, the better. Still, Maddie seethed all the way to the hotel. If she ever caught up to that woman . . .
Maddie had barely flung her hat at her writing table when a hawk landed on her windowsill. It looked real but TD leapt to meet it, his little beak tapping at the glass. The hawk, its brass pinions cunningly painted to resemble a common Egyptian brown hawk, stared impassively back at its smaller cousin. Maddie hurried to open the window, allowing the two birds to stare eye to eye. Faint clicking and a fainter hum came from the pair. After a bit, the hawk looked away. TD hopped to the table. He peered up at Maddie and warbled. She bent close.
“Speak.”
Instead of cheery chirps, a man’s voice issued from the shiny beak. “Mad-kin, saw you at aerodrome today.” Aha! Maddie’s old shipmate, Oberon O’Reilly, possessor of TD’s twin, Tweetle-C. Obie went on, “Heard you were in Venice lately, kicking up your heels. Seems odd if you’re trying for a low profile but you must have had reason. Figured I’d missed you here, glad you’re back. If it’s safe to meet up somewhere for a pint and a natter, send word to TC.”
Maddie leaned down. “Tweetle-D, listen. To Oberon O’Reilly via Tweetle-C. Obie, it wasn’t me in Venice. Some woman is using my name. If Father hears, I’m doomed. Ask Madame to have her investigated if possible. I’m at Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo. Dress in best uniform and you can appear here unremarked any day. Ask for Miss Maddie Hatter. SO glad you are here; why are you here? Oh, and find out anything about Baron Bodmin and his airship, the Jules Verne, too. Ta.”
TD communed with the hawk again, and then it leapt from the windowsill with a startlingly lifelike cry. As it soared away into the afternoon’s heat-haze, Maddie sank onto a chair with a sense of relief quite unbecoming to a modern, independent young woman. After a moment she straightened and reached for the inkwell. There, in the hidden compartment, was a single remaining visiting card. Whew! She was not entirely stranded. Then she noticed the bent corner. It meant, “Called while you were out.”
Chapter Five
“THE UNMITIGATED gall of that woman!” Maddie finished her recounting of yesterday’s events rather louder than sh
e’d begun.
Obie wafted the lieutenant’s white hat he held in one hand, disturbing the dark curls on his forehead. “My, but you are hot under that delightful collar. Understandably so. If Madame is delayed, I will make inquiries when my ship next touches at Venice.”
“Well, thanks for that. Maybe I won’t be summoned home in a hand-basket just yet.” Maddie cast her eyes up at the archway on the second-floor landing. In her chamber, TD was romping with his twin, under orders to hide on top of the armoire if anyone came in. Could he be tweaked to click images of any future intruders? “Nice uniform. Did you re-enlist in the Navy?”
Obie flashed very white teeth, under blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you can be incognito, so can I. Besides, you said to wear my best uniform, and the crew’s togs of the White Sky Line are nothing to shout about.”
“You’re working on White Sky liners? Have you ever seen the owner, Miss, or Mrs. White?”
“Mrs. Midas-White,” he corrected. “Not personally, but I’ve flown with her aboard. And we’ve all heard the instructions: skimp everybody but the First Class passengers. Not that there’s much room for other classes; a half-deck of business travelers and missionaries in Second, almost inside the envelope, and amidships are servants and crew, all stacked up like pants in a press. But oh, the First Class is luxury itself. Huge staterooms, velvet everywhere, real wood paneling and lead-crystal glassware. Old hat to you, but smart enough for us plebs. Actual books in the library, which, I might add, is half the width of the hull and almost as long as the main dining room. They hold entertainments there, visiting lecturers and opera singers, that sort of thing. Doesn’t get my blood pumping like a dance-party on a surface ship, but what can you do?
“Anyway, the old lady’s got claws for fingers. For real,” he added as Maddie’s eyebrows rose. “Metal claw-things, a couple on each hand, that she uses for counting her money and poking anybody who wastes supplies. I saw her draw blood on a drinks steward, and all for letting a few drops extra fall into a snifter.”
“How many White Sky routes have you traveled?” Maddie listened with half an ear while she watched the nearest brass monkey. It would lower its paws from over its eyes to signal the daily aethernet news from London. Her article detailing the baron’s lavish spending and his investor’s identity might not have made the morning edition, but surely her earlier article about his friendships with Colonel Muster and Professor Plumb would appear today. She would still be “Our Correspondent in Cairo,” but the words would be hers.
Their coffee arrived before the aethernet update. They sipped while Obie recounted what he’d learned of the Jules Verne from his privileged position as an aerodrome insider.
“The labourers are worried about the Verne’s reverse-blower or its battery pack. Either might have failed over the desert. You know anything about the airship’s condition?”
“Not until I find someone up in Cornwall to look it over. What’s a reverse blower?”
“In desert travel, air-cooled engines can suck up a lot of dust over the course of a day. So, once a day or more, they disengage, and the fans turn in the opposite direction, drawing a mighty whoosh of filtered air out through them, carrying away any collected grit before it can damage the machinery. Battery-powered, since the engine has to be off while it happens. Then the engine starts up again, the right way around, and recharges the batteries for the next day’s cleaning.”
“And they think this might have failed on the baron’s airship? But that wouldn’t send him overboard, surely? No risk to him or the ship except that she was adrift. Why not wait for land and signal for help?”
“I understand his ship was almost over England anyway. No sandstorms to speak of at that latitude. None of us believe it got all the way there without him aboard, either. Mark my words, he’ll be found in England or France.”
France? Bodmin’s nephew had been in France when the news of the disappearance got out. Was that a coincidence, or was he helping his uncle—very much alive—escape the investor’s vengeance? After a moment she realized Obie was saying something about trans-oceanic crossings.
He repeated, “I said, I’m going to bid for America again as soon as we reach London, and then try for cross-country to California. Wouldn’t you love to come along?”
“Not enough to work on a White Sky ship. A servant wouldn’t be permitted to wander the First Class areas or attend the entertainments.”
“True enough. Although it’s a fair question whether even you, with all your book-learning, would find entertainment in a pair of professors arguing the location of a lost Nubian city when neither had ever set foot in a desert before. My pal Hiram was on duty up there, said half the audience nodded off.”
“Lost Nubian city? Was one of them a Professor Plumb? Cambridge man, who favours smoking robes over dinner jackets?”
Obie shrugged. “Sounds like the English bloke, I guess. Beard like sheep’s fleece, spoke like a prime minister. The other fellow was a Yankee through and through. Leather coat always, and a pistol under it. Simple name. Smith?” He shook his head.
“Jones?”
“Ah, that’s the man. Professor Windsor Jones, Junior. From Indiana State University. Told me and Hiram about the wide open lands and skies. You can fly over the middle of America for three days without crossing a good-sized hill.”
Obie took his leave before luncheon, saying he had that night’s watch and wanted to sleep a bit first. “We’re leaving day after tomorrow, as soon as the sands warm sufficiently to assist the lift. Leave early and pay for that pound of extra fuel? Not on the White Sky Line, I assure you.” He kissed her cheek and strode away, tipping his hat in passing to Lady HH’s nieces, who were eyeing him with frank appraisal.
Maddie hurried upstairs to let TC out of her window, and admired how his painted feathers blended effortlessly into the cityscape. Maybe she should ask Madame about getting TD a paint job. She fed the little bird his weekly power pellet and sat down to compose a brief article about Mrs. Midas-White and the possibility of a reverse-blower failure. Then she flipped back to her Christmas notebook to confirm her hunch: Jones was the man Professor Plumb feared would learn of his association with Baron Bodmin.
So the professors had traveled together from America. They and the baron shared an interest in things Nubian; did that include the legendary Eye of Africa? Perhaps Jones was entitled to a share if Bodmin found it. Which led back to the question: could Baron Bodmin have deliberately abandoned his airship, in order to be presumed dead, rather than share the proceeds with his investor or anyone else?
And where did Colonel Muster, the last of the baron’s claimed expedition supporters, fit in? Muster was handling the baron’s estate while he was away, and would doubtless have to disperse it when eventually the baron was pronounced dead. If a treasure had been found, the estate would become immensely more complicated as various interested parties tried to claim a share. Otherwise, it was simple: the whole lot went to the nephew. Maybe Muster, too, could claim a share if the mask was found?
Speculation was fruitless until another source of information turned up. Maddie closed the notebook and got down to writing a by-the-number article on hair adornments seen on ladies at breakfast, luncheon, tea, and supper during Spring in Cairo. For this, she could still get paid.
As she approached the dining room a scant hour later, pink Clarice grasped her arm, gasping something so quietly that Maddie barely made out the word, “vanished.”
“Speak up.”
Clarice took a deep breath. “Colonel Muster is disgraced in London, vanished from his home, and feared dead by his own hand.” As Maddie stared at her, she added, “So maybe he was lying about the widow and she really was a broken-hearted soldier’s wife.”
“She may have been a soldier’s wife once for all I know, but I doubt very much if that was her real name.”
“You investigated her?”
Maddie ignored that. “How did you hear about the colonel? He’s be
en gone from Egypt more than three months.”
“It’s in the aether-news. The whole dining room is a-buzz.”
“Go in to luncheon. I’ll be there shortly.” Maddie hurried toward the nearest brass monkey and fiddled a penny out of her pocketbook. She yanked over a chair and sat fidgeting while the monkey rolled forward, opening its vest. Then she scrolled, and scrolled, through screens of tiny letters and slightly larger headlines until CARDSHARP COLONEL caught her eye. She cranked up the magnifier to read the article.
The Floating Fortress,
England’s Aeronautical Weekly
CARDSHARP COLONEL EJECTED
FROM ST. JAMES CLUB
According to reliable witnesses, Colonel Bilious Muster, long an habitué of fashionable gaming clubs on St. James Street, London, was recently ejected from the Royal Air Arms. The club refused to confirm or deny the incident, citing member privacy, but rumours fly of Muster’s cheating at piquet and failure to pay his club dues. Creditors are encamped outside the retired officer’s lodging, where the landlady admitted his rent is also in arrears.
Maddie Hatter and the Deadly Diamond Page 4