I gritted my teeth. No, they weren’t, but she didn’t need to remind me of it . . . and the fact that I’d failed the single time I’d faced one. “The reason they aren’t a threat is because of people like me who ensure that they aren’t.”
“Right.”
I quickly changed the subject. “I had a beast of a time of it, leaving tonight without my guardians. Did you have difficulty obtaining permission to attend the ball?”
“Permission?” Miss Holmes gave a short laugh. “My father rarely darkens the door of our house, and even if he does happen to find his bed for the night, he’d hardly notice whether I was present or not. Of course, it’s because he’s quite busy helping the government at the Home Office and spends long hours at his office or club.”
“And your mother didn’t object?” I’d had to lie and tell Florence I was attending a small musicale at the Tylingtons’. If she got wind that I was attending the Cosgrove-Pitt ball, the event of the season, nothing would have kept her home . . . which was why I’d hidden my invitation when it came two weeks ago.
“My mother is gone.”
The tone of Miss Holmes’s voice snapped my thoughts from dear, practical Florence. “Gone? Do you mean dead . . . or . . . ?” My voice trailed off.
“She left my father and me a year ago,” she said in a voice that tried too hard to sound nonchalant. “Obviously, she cares even less than he does what I do and where I go.” She shifted, her skirts rustling, and sat up ramrod straight. “Which is precisely why Miss Adler chose me to be part of this society, knowing I wouldn’t be hampered by such authority figures as parents.”
I couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to have any adults about, meddling in my daily life. The thought made me uncomfortable rather than envious.
Miss Holmes changed the subject, her voice brusque. “Miss Adler and I determined it was of importance for us to attend the party tonight at the Cosgrove-Pitts’ because of what we learned today at the Hodgeworth home. It was Miss Mayellen who was last night’s victim, and her sister and mother were gracious enough to allow us to search her bedchamber.”
“Did you find another beetle?”
“Aside from a scarab that was left on the floor next to her body, Miss Adler and I found this.” She produced a creamy notecard from some hidden pocket. “Observe.”
The engraved invitation to the party at Cosgrove Terrace this evening was familiar to me. I had the same one tucked in my small reticule. It was identical except for the faint mark in the bottom corner, hardly noticeable unless one were looking for something. “A beetle,” I said.
“Look more closely,” she said impatiently. “Do you not notice anything else of importance?”
“Perhaps if I had a bit of light,” I retorted, then snapped my jaw closed when she produced a little device that flared into some bright illumination. Blasted cognog. But even though I stared at the invitation, with its formal script and detail of the party, I could see nothing else out of the ordinary.
Lord Belmont & Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt
extend a cordial invitation to
The King & Queen of the Roses Ball
Wednesday, the 15th of May, 1889
at eight o’clock in the evening
Beneath the Stars
Cosgrove Terrace
St. James Park
I read the words thrice, turned the card to the reverse, and found nothing remarkable but for the small beetle drawing. At last admitting defeat, I looked up at my companion.
“That is precisely the problem with most people,” she muttered. “Uncle Sherlock is right. People look, but do not observe. They examine, but they do not see. Behold,” she said, pointing her light at the invitation. “Beneath the nine, do you not discern the tiny dot? And also beneath the word Stars?”
I frowned and peered down. She was correct . . . now that it was pointed out to me, I saw the small dots. “But that means nothing,” I protested. “A drip of ink from a careless scribe.”
“Miss Stoker, please observe. Those dots were made purposely. See how perfectly uniform and round they are? A drip would have an oblong shape. And aside from that, notice that the text is engraved upon the card, while those markings are not. Finally, although you likely cannot see it in our faulty light, the shade of ink used to draw the beetle is precisely the same shade of indigo ink as the two dots. From Mr. Inkwell’s specialty shop on Badgley, I’d wager.”
“So what’s the purpose of these markings? Some sort of message?”
“That would be the logical assumption,” she said crisply. “But what, I’m not yet certain. We’ll both have to be vigilant this evening to determine what it could mean. I suspect that the nine might refer to a time, thus at nine o’clock, I shall be quite attentive to anything related to stars.”
“What else?” I asked as she clicked her light closed and tucked it away. I could see her face only during the brief flashes of illumination from the streetlamps as we trundled along.
“We found no envelope or seal. So we have no way of knowing who made the marks or when—whether it was before it left the Cosgrove-Pitt residence, or afterward; whether Miss Hodgeworth did it herself for some reason or whether it was given to her that way by someone else who received the invitation or someone involved in the sending of the invitation.”
“And so the rest of the plan for tonight is to . . . what? Look for more beetles?” I asked, trying not to sound bored. I was going to be subjected to simpering young men and gossiping ladies simply so Miss Holmes could look for beetles? The most dangerous and exciting part of the night would be to avoid getting my feet trod upon or a lemonade spilled upon my gown.
“Of course. We must look for more beetles or Sekhmet scarabs and attempt to direct conversations whenever possible to the topic of Sekhmet. Even superficially,” she added as the carriage pulled up to the drive at Cosgrove Terrace. “If anyone should show interest in Sekhmet, that could be a lead. As well, I should like to gain access to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study to see if we can find the list of invitees.”
“Do you mean break into her study?”
Miss Holmes once again managed to look down at me from her seated position. “I prefer to think of it as accidentally stumbling upon the chamber. Regardless of how it occurs, once we ascertain whether Miss Hodgeworth is on the original invitation list, we will then have narrowed down the identity of the person who made the marks.”
“How?”
Miss Holmes sighed. “If Miss Hodgeworth isn’t on the original list, then we can assume someone else marked up an invitation—presumably his or her own—and sent it to her. Narrowing down who the invitation was originally meant for, or who marked it up, will assist us in identifying the messenger, and hopefully provide us a connection between Miss Hodgeworth and Miss Martindale.”
I blinked at her convoluted explanation. Yet it made sense. “But her mother or sister would have known whether Mayellen received an invitation to one of the most talked-about parties of the year.” The carriage lurched forward, then stopped. I peeked out the window to see a long line of people disembarking from other vehicles. “The Roses Ball is the event of the season, and only the crème de la crème would be invited.”
“Of course,” my companion replied with a hint of aggravation. “That was my first question to the Hodgeworths. Neither Mrs. Hodgeworth nor her other daughter were aware of an invitation from Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.”
I nodded and handed back the notecard, which she might need to gain entrance. I had my own, of course. “Very well, then.” Sneaking into Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study would at least bring some intrigue into what was sure to be a boring evening.