Thomas stood, lifting the edge of her outer skirts to better inspect the missing fabric length. It was a beautiful garment—pale as freshly fallen snow with bits of silver threaded through. The contrast of the purity of color against her sudden death seemed gruesome. She appeared ready for a wedding, not a funeral.
“Whoever committed this particular murder seems to have an obsession with pretty fabrics. Despite how odd that may sound,” he said, straightening up, “I believe that’s at least part of our motive, though not likely the main reason.”
The three of us looked at one another, minds seemingly racing in new directions. There was one person who immediately sprang to mind while thinking of nice fabrics; the same young ringmaster that I kept defending. I glanced back down at the missing length of silk. I could no longer deny that it was becoming harder to clear Mephistopheles from at least some guilt. Though I could also not deny that something about the motive didn’t quite sit right in my center. Uncle had taught us the importance of trusting our instincts, but I no longer could. At least not where the ringmaster was concerned.
Dozens of costumed performers emerged from each corner of the room, picking their way around tables, silent and ironically frightening in their joker’s hats with dangling bells. Their full masks were white with tarry black diamonds painted around their eyes that dripped down to crimson lips. It seemed no matter what horror the afternoons brought, the evening shows would go on. A symphony composed of Renaissance instruments fiddled an old tune, the violins and harps sounding mournful, giving the impression of having gone back a few centuries in time.
Against my best efforts, I shuddered at the puppetlike performers. If these Venetian jesters were terrifying, I hated to see the plague-mask act come to life. Mephistopheles’s imagination was a dark and treacherous place.
Stiff white tulle ruffles around their collars and hips evoked images of ballerinas who’d broken free from Hades, but at a great cost. Black and gold triangles of fabric completed the collar and skirts, and also made up the waistcoat and sleeves. I didn’t know how these hellions could ever be considered humorous—they certainly didn’t invoke any feelings of levity as they danced and hopped from one nimble foot to the next in quiet procession through the room.
I couldn’t help imagining their costumes being pieced together from a collection of fabrics stolen from victims—a macabre trophy that the killer could secretly admire each night. I knew it wasn’t probable or likely, but it didn’t prevent gooseflesh from rising on my arms.
Thomas eyed them the way one might stare at a horrid accident, his lip curled. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the will to do so after our somber afternoon studying Mrs. Prescott’s corpse. I also couldn’t ignore the tension from our earlier argument—it had been stuffed away in light of the larger issue, but the uncomfortable feeling persisted.
“The flame-tossing jugglers I understand,” he said, “but this? What exactly is their purpose? They’re simply peculiar. Mephisto is losing his touch. Perhaps he’s finally made a bad bargain—which isn’t unexpected. No one’s as perfect as me.”
“This entire carnival is peculiar,” Uncle muttered. “I’ll be glad to be done with it all. One more night after this now.”
Liza lifted a delicate shoulder. She was unable to participate in the show, since Uncle was in attendance this evening, but didn’t appear too upset by it. Her gown was exceptionally gorgeous tonight—beaded crystals sewn onto a rose-petal pink. “That’s precisely the point. Their peculiarity is the draw—you’re so focused on them, I bet you haven’t noticed what’s being hauled out onto the stage.”
My attention snapped to the next act that had quietly come in when all eyes were focused elsewhere. Liza sat back, a smug look on her face. Even Uncle appeared surprised for a brief moment before tucking into his meal again.
“Love or loathe him—you have to admit Mephistopheles is remarkable. He knows exactly what distractions to use.” My cousin’s gaze landed on me for emphasis, and I wished to slowly crawl under the table—she was most decidedly not helping my cause. “Harry has learned so much in just a few short weeks. Mephistopheles is quite the teacher.”
“And,” Uncle said under his breath, “possibly quite the murderous fiend as well.”
Deciding to don bravery like it was my most exquisite accessory, I glanced at Thomas. He looked like he’d swallowed a toad. I politely coughed a laugh away. At that he offered a tentative smile and I did, too—it was good to be back on the same side.
“Yes,” Thomas said blandly, “next we’ll be hearing that he’s walked across the sea.”
“If he attempts that, then I’m sure a Siren or whale will swallow him whole,” I said. Thomas perked up at the thought. I turned to my cousin and leaned close to avoid being overheard by the diners at the nearest table. “Would Harry use theatrics as a distraction to something more serious? What—what if one of his experiments went terribly wrong? Would he tell anyone, or simply try and make the bodies disappear? You have to admit, the trunk is a very Houdini way of disposing of something.”
Liza stared at me as if I’d gone mad. “Missing and murdered women are not the best way of having his performances end up in the papers, Cousin. Harry wants fame, not infamy. Same goes for Mephistopheles. You can’t honestly believe they’re to blame?”
“What if that’s what he wants you to believe?” Thomas asked. “Perhaps fame is the misdirection. Do you really know what he’s after?”
Liza opened her mouth, then shut it. I imagined she was taking her mother’s advice to count to ten before speaking when a kind word couldn’t easily be found. “Harry would not be involved with anyone who was—what? Do you both think Mephistopheles is actually a murderer?” She snorted, forgetting about manners. “If you want to throw accusations around, you ought to investigate Captain Norwood. Have you seen the way he treats his crew? I wouldn’t doubt he’d be capable of tossing people overboard if they displeased him. The man is an absolute nightmare.”
On that much we were agreed. I could see the captain shoving someone over the railing in a fit of rage. He was an odd character—at once completely pleasant and docile and, when angered, fierce and nasty as they came. But I did not believe he had an ounce of theatrical violence in that well-structured suit of his.
Mrs. Harvey leaned across the table, lips still trembling from the shock she’d received earlier. I wished to reach over and embrace her. Shaken though she was, she refused to sit alone in her chambers. Thomas had offered to stay and dine in with her, but she’d have none of it. I had an inkling it had to do with the rumor of Houdini sporting his underthings once again that gave her an extra push to attend the show.
Though most other passengers must not have felt the same—the dining saloon was even more empty tonight than it had been yesterday. The ship was slowly turning into a ghost vessel, places once filled with life now seemed haunted and silent.
“What do you think is behind that curtain?” she asked. “I hope it’s not another milk can. I didn’t care for that act one bit. Too much tension isn’t good for your constitution. I don’t think I can handle another fright so soon.”
“Cousin? What secrets can you offer?” I turned to Liza, ready to lighten the mood with a joke when the lights flashed, then went out, leaving us in darkness broken only by candles flickering on our tables. Uncle muttered something about not being able to see his entrée, but I decided not to comment.
“Esteemed guests.” Mephistopheles’s disembodied voice hung in the air like fog. “Tonight we ask you to turn your attention skyward, as the Empress puts on her most heavenly show. Note there are no nets, and should she fall, well, let’s not worry on that now.”
A single light illuminated Cassie as she sat on her trapeze, staring out at the crowd. On her head was a crown with twelve glittering stars at the points; her bodice had pomegranate seeds sewn across it—to represent her ruling over the earth, according to Mephistopheles’s lesson on tarot card meanings—she was reg
al and elegant, haughty and proud. With her hair in golden ringlets cascading down her back tonight, I could see how she embodied an ideal angelic figure. Though I knew better than to be fooled by her innocent appearance.
Her act started off slowly; she swayed from one end of the room to the other. Swinging from one trapeze to the next, seeming to delight whenever her fingertips left the safety of one and grabbed onto the other. I recalled longing for that sense of freedom when my brother and I had attended a circus during the Ripper murders. There was something beautiful about letting go.
A second floodlight announced another performer joining her ranks. The young man twisted and flipped, crisscrossing over Cassie as their tricks became more intricate.
“That’s Sebastián,” Liza whispered. “He uses the contortion angle quite well for this act.”
I watched the contortionist with renewed interest. Was he capable of killing the women aboard this ship and staging their bodies so horridly? I hadn’t gotten to speak with him and noticed he’d shy away each time I’d get close. As he flew back and forth above us, tumbling across the sky, I could certainly imagine the hidden strength in his lithe body.
What remained of the dining saloon politely enjoyed the show, though there was a considerable feeling of subdued awe present. I wondered if it was fear of things turning deadly, or the lack of that very essence. These passengers were the most unaffected by the crimes. Though they might be putting on an act of their own until this nightmare ceased.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mephistopheles’s voice echoed, though he was nowhere to be seen. “Prepare to be enthralled. Our stage has been set, and this next act is sure to dazzle and stun. Please contain yourselves as the great Houdini attempts to escape death once more in his infamous torture cell!”
Thomas made to open his mouth when a third light suddenly flashed on, and the curtain hiding the object onstage was lifted away by invisible hands. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the intake of breath or the subsequent screams as people began piecing together what they were looking at.
Suspended inside the torture cell—a glass tank filled with water—a woman stared out at us with milky-white eyes. I would believe her to be a mermaid of legends if not for the obvious fact she was very real and very dead. What appeared to be five anatomical hearts were skewered with long rods through her limbs, discolored from being submerged. On the front of the glass, a playing card was posted, too small to make out from where I sat.
Someone vomited near us, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from the tank. It took a few moments to snap myself free of my own terror and realize this victim was familiar to me.
The woman in the tank was none other than Lady Crenshaw.
THIRTY-THREE
MOTIVE
DINING SALOON
RMS ETRURIA
7 JANUARY 1889
Venetian jesters near the stage faltered, their disjointed steps no longer part of their roles but from their fear that felt thick as tar permeating the room. They stood still, openly gaping at the dead woman, their silence more frightening than it had been while they pranced about from foot to foot.
If there had been any hope left of this being some horrid part of the show, it withered immediately. A heartbeat later, the audience fully grasped what had startled our entertainers enough to cease their creepy procession.
Knives clattered to plates, gasps went around the room, and, judging from the sound of a body slamming into a surface, at least one passenger had passed out. I could hardly blame them; the sight of Lady Crenshaw floating in that tank with her whitish eyes and long hair winding through the water was straight out of a penny dreadful. A tale almost too wretched to be real.
As if they were star performers accepting their own roles in this horror show, Uncle and Thomas sprang from their seats and rushed to the tank. I tossed my napkin on the table and half stood, ready to run after them, but didn’t wish to leave Liza and Mrs. Harvey unattended. Even with the steady hum of terror pounding through my body, one truth calmed me: I didn’t believe anyone else was in immediate danger. At least, not yet.
Uncle shouted at the frozen carnival crew, “Draw the curtains!”
Almost instantly, the demand was obeyed, and the inky curtains quickly fluttered shut, taking with them the view of the submerged corpse. I stared at the velvet drapery, thoughts churning. If Thomas and Uncle hadn’t acted so quickly, I might have been able to convince myself I’d invented such a morbid sight. Another staged body. It was almost unfathomable.
Last month I’d studied the insides of a drowning victim. I could not shake the image of those blue lips and bloated belly from my mind no matter how hard I tried. Only that man had died as the result of a horrid accident—Lady Crenshaw likely had not.
Captain Norwood appeared from somewhere near the stage and began ordering staff and crew about like a general commanding his army. Within seconds of his arrival, passengers were rushed through the doors. Regardless of how many bizarre murders we’d borne witness to, the patrons didn’t make the evacuation task an easy one.
Chaos and discord raced about the room, dragging people to the floor, crushing them under the fleeing crowd. I blinked, unmoving, at the scene as if I were a mere apparition spying on the goings-on in Hell. Surely if such a place existed, it would appear exactly like this. A small fire flared up near the back of the room—the result of candles falling onto the table linens.
“Go.” Liza clutched my hands in hers, eyes wide but determined. “Uncle needs you up there. I’ll take Mrs. Harvey to our room. Again.” I blinked back a sudden prickling in my eyes and Liza tugged me into a crushing embrace. “Everything is going to be all right. We’ll be in New York by midnight tomorrow. We just need to make it through one more day.”
I nodded, unable to do more, and stepped back. Once they’d made their way toward the exit, I gathered my skirts and ran as swiftly as I could up the stairs and ducked behind the velvet curtains. Mephistopheles stood, hands on his hips, staring at the dead woman.
“I’m telling you, it’s simply not possible for her to have done this alone,” he said. His tone implied it wasn’t the first time he’d shared this information, and he was trying to remain calm despite the floating body in his show’s prop. He pointed to the top of the contraption. “See those locks? Someone slid them into place. It takes two of my men to fit the tank together. Once she’d gone in the water, there’s no possible way for her to maneuver the lid and then lock it. And do you honestly believe she skewered five hearts and then posted the playing card of the same name on the glass?”
“What does the Five of Hearts mean?” I asked, no longer worried about what suspicions I might raise. “You know cartomancy, right?”
Mephistopheles rubbed his brow. “Jealousy. It means ill will of the people surrounding you.”
“It makes sense, given her letter,” Thomas said.
“Letter?” I moved to Thomas’s side and noticed a square of paper in his hand. He glanced over and handed me the note while Uncle moved around the tank, taking in the details. I quickly scanned the paper, pulse galloping as I read the hurried script.
I reread the letter, brows drawn together. “Which girl is she speaking of?”
“That’s the question of the hour, Wadsworth.” Thomas lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps she’s discussing something that occurred off the boat. In fact”—he pointed to the second line—“I guarantee that whatever this refers to happened before any of them boarded this craft. I believe this is our murderer’s motive.”
Understanding dawned bright as the sunrise. “All we have to do is figure out who this refers to and then we’ll have our murderer.”
Mephistopheles sidled up to my other side and snorted. “Oh, is that all? That shouldn’t be difficult in the slightest.”
Thomas eyed him in a way that had me already shaking my head. “Perhaps not to someone such as yourself,” he said. “However, someone with a bit more wit and intelligence can make connections. Observe.” Thomas g
ently took the letter back and cleared his throat. “‘While she might have been pretty for a street wretch…’ Based on this line, one, with a semi-intelligent slant, might deduce that the ‘girl’ in question worked a profession that would be below Lady Crenshaw’s station, but not so low as to prevent them from interacting. Which leads one to consider a few possibilities.”
“You’re unbearable,” Mephistopheles muttered.
I smiled. “He’s only just beginning.”
Thomas ignored the commentary and ticked off probable jobs on his fingers. “Selling food. Selling trinkets. Selling ribbons or silks. Given Lady Crenshaw’s status, I doubt she’d be the one doing any shopping for food supply. It would be too far beneath her. That task would be left to the kitchen staff. Next, I cannot picture her buying a trinket that didn’t come from a more ‘suitable’ shop. Exempli gratia, she would not bother with anything that didn’t cost a significant coin to boast about with the ladies at her weekly tea. Flowers, ribbons, or silks might be the key. It would show her wealth and ability to spend money on frivolous things.”
Mephistopheles shook his head. “You’re quite smart, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” Thomas said. “Is that supposed to be insulting? Whatever will you comment on next; the golden flecks in my eyes? The sharpness of my jaw?”
“The extraordinary size of your ego?”
An impish grin slowly spread across Thomas’s face. “It’s not the only prodigious thing I can boast about.”
“Ignoring that sentiment, you’re saying if this were a story, you’d be the hero, correct?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thomas said, appearing truly offended. “I’m dark and mysterious. And as likely to kiss or kill you on a whim. Does that sound heroic to you? Not many heroes are good-looking masterminds. I, however, have harnessed my dark talents for the greater good.”
“Ah. I understand now.” Mephistopheles’s lips twitched. “You’re a lunatic.”
Escaping From Houdini (Stalking Jack the Ripper Book 3) Page 30