Clarice called back, “Please hurry, Miss Hatter. Anyone will guide you to the ladies’ parlour.”
“Just thanking the nice officer,” Maddie said. As the automatons flowed around them with the luggage, she asked Obie softly, “How can I find Madame in London?”
“I don’t know if she’s there yet,” Obie replied. “She was en route from the Hungarian-Imperial Parasol Championships in Frankfurt. We haven’t had a chance to get a message off save that we’d reached Venice and would advise, and we don’t know how long that news will take to find her. What do you want me to pass on, since you can’t send TD up from this garish vessel unseen?”
“Tell her . . . say I will go to Claridge’s Hotel to seek an interview with Mrs. Midas-White, to save my job with CJ. Once I find a quiet professional ladies’ club for the night, I’ll let her know where to find me.” Obie was about to protest, but Maddie shushed him. Yes, walking into Claridge’s might put her into the path of ladies who had known her. However, she had often stayed there as Madame’s assistant, in purple hair, a lab coat, and thick magnifying goggles, and would readily find another disguise to shield her from passing glances. She squeezed his hand, thanked him for his help, and followed the last automaton over the black gangplank.
Stepping inside was like going home. A human footman bowed and led her inward without daring to inquire of her identity or destination. The aerodrome noises hushed. The thick carpet gave beneath her boots. The servants stowing luggage stepped aside and lowered their gaze as she passed. It mattered not that the livery and carpets were not in her family’s colours, or that the veneered walls with their raised scrollwork were black rather than brushed oak, or that the handrails, sconces, and doorknobs were silver instead of gleaming bronze. The whisper of steam in unseen pipes was the life-beat she had heard since the day of her birth. She relaxed and walked calmly onward, ready to face the young mistress of this magnificence.
At the bottom of a wide staircase, an oval foyer opened. Beyond an archway was the grand salon, consuming the forward quarter of the ship with its velvet, fringes, and panoramic view. To the left an open double door revealed a billiard table and other accoutrements of idle entertainment. The footman took her to the right, to an elegant parlour done in shades of teal from the silk damask upholstery and draperies to the flocked wallpaper. Even the ladies’ gowns were teal, one conservatively cut as befit a young, brown-haired bride from the Old Nobility—Lucy—and the other a daring splash of turquoise tulle over a black lace dress slit so high up the thigh and down at the cleavage as to be barely there at all. Knee-high black boots and fingerless, black lace gloves completed the ensemble. One of the sisters-in-law had come along after all. Maddie quickly decided this must be a married woman, for no Steamlord papa would permit his unwed daughter out in such apparel.
The owner of the dashing couture looked at Maddie from under natural teal hair cut into numerous black-edged wedges. Her eyelashes were impossibly long, tipped with black hearts, over eyes painted in sweeps of water hues that mimicked the sea beyond the lagoon. The flawless artistry of the cheeks ended in deep teal lips shaped in the most perfectly plump cupid’s bow Maddie had ever seen. Surely the loveliest lips in London.
The lips . . . oh, hell. Serephene Aquatiempe, the one member of this family who might possibly have seen enough of the Honourable Madeleine to recognize her in Maddie’s working-class face. And how under the heavens did she get away with that daring dress?
The room was bathed in the glaring electrical light most likely to highlight the greeny-bronze undertones beneath Maddie’s mousy brown dye job. Exposure might occur as soon as she removed her hat. She cast her eyes down, tilting her wide blue brim forward to shield most of her face, and curtseyed clumsily, as if she had not been trained to it since birth. How could she spend the next thirty-six hours in close confines with this young lady and not be revealed? Better to claim air-sickness and keep to her stateroom. She repeated the curtsey to Lucy.
“I hope,” she said, aping a Yorkshire accent as far as she dared, “the misses have not importuned you for me to join your family party. If this is not convenient, I will debark at once and find a place on a commercial airship.”
“Bosh,” said Serephene, her exquisite eyes fixed on Maddie still. “Lucy, dear, do take your cousins to their stateroom, and I will show the chaperone to her quarters. Come this way, Miss . . . Hatter.”
Maddie followed. Nobody actually from the lesser orders refused a . . . request . . . from a Steamlord’s daughter.
Serephene led the way along the starboard corridor, her tulle side-bustle briskly brushing the wall and a maid who was squeezed flat in a doorway to stay out of the lady’s way. More black paneling and silver fittings, room upon room, broken by a single open space with wide windows, comfortable chairs, and bookshelves on either end. One lace-gloved hand waved in that direction.
“The library, such as it is. You will be right next to it, should you desire to read. Your choices are popular literature and dozens of treatises on the water-clock miniaturizations for which the English Crown found my grandfather worthy of a peerage. There’s a brass monkey comes down from the ceiling; just hit the blue button on any chair-arm. We depart at once, and dine over the Alps. En famille, so you need not unpack an evening dress.” She opened a door and ushered Maddie into a stateroom almost as comfortable as the one she’d had on her own father’s air yacht. “Unless you’d like to borrow one of mine?”
“That would not be suitable, milady,” said Maddie, “for one of my class.”
“Pity,” said Serephene. She opened a panel to show a bathing closet with full-sized tub and a wall filled with colourful jars, towels, sponges, scents, and at least eight shades of toenail lacquer. “I’d hoped you would admit it, and not force me to say so. I know who you are.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, milady.”
“Bosh, darling.” The lady flung herself into an armchair tapestried with gondolas on water. “What I want to know is how you managed it. If I have to sleepwalk through one more Season shoving away the chinless would-be bridegrooms with the toe of my boot, I shall go utterly mad with boredom. You ran off two years ago, or were kidnapped, but anyway you have survived in a world in which we pampered daughters are expected to perish from sheer terror, and yet here you are, in blooming health. Although more shabbily dressed than I ever expected to see the Honourable Madeleine M—”
“Hush! All right then. It’s me. And I was desperately hoping not to be recognized. If my father finds out I’ve come to London, I’ll be forced home. Or worse.”
“What could possibly be worse?”
“A convent in the Shetland Islands.”
The magnificent eyes opened wide. “Your secret is safe. Tell me how you escaped.”
Maddie sighed and sank into another armchair, spreading her two-year old skirt and wishing she dared appear, just once more, in a properly fitted gown of some decadent fabric.
“All right, but it’s not something I recommend. I stole clothing and a satchel from my maid, covered the bronze in my hair with brown shoe-polish, and stowed away on a runabout that was moored near the Admiralty. They thought I was a servant, one who was late for duty. I ended up working for a strange lady botanist as her lab assistant, on a trip halfway around the world. When that one ended, she helped me negotiate a peace with my father and I got a job as a Fashionista. But only on condition I never be recognized by any of my father’s acquaintance. I’m doomed if you tell anyone you saw me.”
The ravishing teal lips turned up at the corners. “I’m not acquainted with your father, darling. It doesn’t count. But did you really make enough to live on that way? No wonder you haven’t any gowns worthy of your name.”
“I have some older gowns, retrieved from London last fall. As for money . . .” She explained about the allowance, and stressed again how vital it was that her father not learn she had come to London. Her entire future was at the mercy of this strikingly beautifu
l, bored woman. Would Serephene betray her for a moment’s excitement?
The other girl was thinking deeply, but not about that, for she said a moment later, “I’d like to dress you for evening anyway. Humour me, would you? As you may surmise from my current attire—which you must never describe in your fashion columns lest my papa hear of it—I long to design clothing that emphasize a woman’s unique nature and personality rather than reinforcing her conformity to the expectations of her class and family.”
“Won’t your papa hear of it from the crew?”
Serephene’s magnificent eyes opened wide again. “Never! They’ve been my kind protectors since my earliest tottering footsteps. For Papa, you see, has the erratic temper of many creative persons and did not always moderate his language or behavior out of consideration for his children.”
Maddie counted herself fortunate for once: her father, stern though he unquestionably was, had resolutely lived up to his clear and oft-stated guiding principles as the head of his household. You always knew where you stood with him.
Her hostess was looking her up and down. “I see you in . . . crimson. Something practical, that you’ll feel good in. Silk would pack well, if you’re continuing your adventures.”
A new silk gown! Whether Serephene’s idea of practical would accord with the reality of Maddie’s working image remained to be seen, but to say no to a new dress? It could not be done. Maddie nodded.
Serephene sprang to her booted feet, one hand fluffing her teal bustle. “I’ll fetch my tape measure and a few lengths of fabric for a pattern. And the most modest gown in my wardrobe for you to wear tonight at dinner. The new one won’t be made until we reach London. You will have to see me again to collect it.” She surprised Maddie further by clutching her in a fierce hug before dashing out, yelling for her maid.
“Well,” said Maddie to TD as she took off her hat at last. “That was unexpected. I do hope she can be trusted. Now, I’m going to take advantage of that library next door to look up old news on those cherished friends of Baron Bodmin, something I have not had time for since this whole affair began. You can fly around in here as long as you hide when someone comes in. These Artificer types would have you apart in a tick-tock to find out how you work, and that secret is not ours to share.”
In the library, she settled into one of the pillowy chairs and pushed the blue button. The ceiling panel opened above her, a pole descended, and the monkey climbed down it, hand over paw, just like a living creature. It sat on the wide chair-arm and looked up at Maddie with mischievous brown eyes. A short circus tune jingled. The monkey chortled as it opened its vest with its own paws and demonstrated what each of the buttons did. This was far more capable machinery than any public monkey. Clearly Artificer families kept the best creations for themselves.
After a bit of playing around with the controls, Maddie came up with every mention of Colonel Muster in the past six months. The sum total of reports confirmed what she already knew: he was retired, he gambled, he spent Christmas in Cairo, and he’d vanished from London around the time the baron’s airship was found. Searches for Mrs. Midas-White brought nothing beyond the report that had so infuriated Maddie. For the professors she found just two articles, a week apart, showing their bad blood still simmering. Both articles were published before the baron’s body came ashore.
The University Times
WINDY BROWN GASSING AGAINST PROFESSOR PLUMB
A new wrinkle arose in the mysterious case of the missing baron, when American Windsor Jones leveled a public accusation at Professor Polonius Plumb of Cambridge for the theft of his research into the fabled Eye of Africa mask.
Interviewed at the Royal Air Arms Club in London, where he has visiting-veteran privileges, Jones stated, “We both attended the same conference in New York City. We came to England on the same airship. He was in my stateroom for drinks. I showed him the map I’d worked out from years of studying tribal legends. I put it into my book trunk right in front of him, and next day the whole trunk had vanished. As soon as I heard that baron guy was on the trail of the Eye of Africa, I knew the prof had shanghai’d my research for him. When I catch up to Plumb, I’ll fix him good. And if that baron makes it back alive, I’ll punch him right in the schnoz!”
Professor Plumb, not unexpectedly, had proclaimed his innocence.
The Goggles Grapevine
EVIL EYE DIAMOND GLOWS RED SAYS PROF
Scotland Yard today confirmed there is no case against Professor Polonius Plumb for the theft of Windy Jones’ trunk. “Our only possible witness to any sale has gone missing,” said Chief Inspector Snidely Bellows. “You know, that chap whose airship was just found floating off the South Coast. Without him or the trunk, we’ve got nothing.”
Plumb proclaimed his innocence and demonstrated his expert knowledge with a long, technical explication of the geological processes by which other rare minerals are compressed into the midst of a diamond to form a so-called ‘bloodshot diamond’ such as that rumoured to be part of the Eye of Africa mask.
“As for it glowing red when touched by an evil man’s blood, that’s likely a trick of refracted light when the mask is held at the proper angle.”
When the American academic’s threat was quoted to him, Plumb said, “Jones yearns to discredit me because I held out for his expulsion from Oxford after that disgraceful incident. If he dares lay a violent hand on me, I’ll have him up on charges. Immediately after a sharp lesson in British pugilism.”
The professor is departing today for Bodmin Manor in Cornwall. While awaiting news of his friend’s fate, he intends to catalogue the baron’s papers for his university.
If anything of Jones’ was found with Baron Bodmin’s papers, Plumb’s reputation would be sunk. Maybe that’s why Plumb was on his way to Cornwall: to destroy any evidence connecting him with the theft. He was at least temporarily out of Maddie’s reach. Jones was who knew where, and Colonel Muster likely dead in some lonely wood, or wherever old soldiers went to die. If Mrs. Midas-White didn’t give an interview, there was no avenue in London to avail Maddie’s journalistic aspirations. She could only hope Madame had a lead for her about the imposter, or she had thrown away her entire newspaper career and risked her father’s wrath for nothing at all.
The lovely pale teal gown Serephene sent in for her to wear to dinner did little to cheer her despite its modish tulle neckline and the intricate leaf-work swooping around the skirt.
Forty hours later, Maddie was in London, saying goodbye to the excited nieces and to Serephene. In addition to the evening gown, the latter had unearthed last Season’s conservative blue walking suit from her older sister’s wardrobe on board, and insisted on Maddie taking it to match the blue hat “with the bird on it.” Thus Maddie was modishly prepared for England, and could walk into a professional women’s hostelry in London with her head high.
But not Claridge’s Hotel. Both outfits looked a smidge too much like her old self for that. Conveyed to Paddington Station in an Aquatiempe steam coupe that wove through traffic faster than any horse-drawn coach could manage, she checked her luggage for the day and walked the few blocks to Brooks Mews at the rear of the hotel. The staff entrance was busy, with maids and footmen, cooks and porters all popping in and out. She followed a pretty maid in a black dress and starched white cap to the maids’ dressing room. It was the work of moments to find a uniform from a rack, an apron from a shelf, and a cap from the stand beneath the room’s only mirror. Stuffing notebook and journalist card into the uniform pocket, and stashing her hat, suit, and handbag far back on an upper shelf, she settled TD into her cleavage and drew up the apron’s bib to hide him. Then she followed the clatter of pots to the kitchens.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” she said to the first waiter she saw. “My mistress would like a coffee tray brought up for her visitors. Where can I get one?”
“New, are you? This way.” He hustled past her to a long row of brass cylinders along one wall. Beneath them were open metal
racks containing coffee and tea services on trays. “Coffee from the black handles. Brown handles are tea. Cream and milk in the ivory and white. Mind your hands when the steam first releases.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She fitted up a tray with two cups and started up the back stairs, dodging footmen as they hurried down. On every guest floor, she knew from previous stays, there was a butler’s pantry, where the kitchen dumbwaiter brought hot meals up, and each one had a listing of that floor’s occupants. She would soon locate Mrs. Midas-White.
Starting on the first guest floor with its airships-in-flight woven carpets, she scanned the butler’s blackboard. No Midas-White. She hurried up the servants’ stair to the next floor. As she stepped out onto the cog-and-gear carpet there, a woman dressed all in black, from button-boots to veiled hat, left the ascender opposite. Maddie kept her eyes down and hurried toward the butler’s pantry, only to hear the woman call out.
“Maddie?”
Maddie kept walking.
“Madeleine Main-Bearing. Does your father know where you are?”
Chapter Nine
FROM BEHIND MADDIE came a peculiar whistle. Her bosom fluttered. Literally fluttered, as TD tried to scramble out from her apron. He chirped, loud and distinctly out of place in the stately hotel’s corridor. With both hands on the coffee tray, she could neither stop him nor shush him. She could only hurry away.
Maddie Hatter and the Deadly Diamond Page 7