Bustling forward in a gown of flowered blue silk, Lady Mary made him welcome. "How glad we are that you could make our dinner party. Come meet the others," she requested sweetly.
The first of the men to whom Ian was introduced was a Mr. Harre, who was visiting from the Isle of Man. His pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and he sniffled constantly. Lady Mary confided to Ian that Mr. Harre's pet turtle had recently died. He had come to her for the funeral, which was set for tomorrow. The tortoise was to have a full burial at sea. Feeling sorry for the grief-stricken Mr. Harre, Lady Mary had generously invited him to tonight's dinner.
The next man Ian met made a stark impression. The young man had dark, brooding eyes and a grave and stern decorum that made Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem a decade older than he really was and steeped in perpetual sorrow. With reluctance, Mr. Poe turned from his study of a beguiling raven on a perch. Both men observed the formalities.
Next Ian was introduced to a Mrs. Annabel Garwood, a woman of Lady Mary's age who was dressed in a bright yellow brocade gown with purple trimmings and a yellow turban set atop her flaming red hair. The turban had a speckled band which secured it in place.
Her daughter, Miss Arlene Garwood, made known as Clair's closest friend, was dressed in a less garish fashion than her mother. Unfortunately, she had inherited the carroty red hair color. The rather plain young woman, however, did have eyes a remarkable shade of green. Intelligent jade eyes, Ian determined after careful study.
But it was the next introduction that most captured his attention.
"Professor Whutson is an old acquaintance of the family," Lady Mary remarked, smiling warmly at the jolly middle-aged man. He was round of face with long grayish brown sideburns. "He and Clair are great friends, for they are always poking their noses in dusty old tomes or conducting some scientific study here and hence."
"Honored," Ian said formally. He had met Professor Whutson before. At the time, however, he had been in disguise—a disguise so total that no one except his own mother would have recognized him.
"Professor Whutson is interested in solving all sorts of whodunits and such. He is quite brilliant," Lady Mary professed proudly.
"No, no, my dear Mary. It is Dr. Homes who is the brain behind the brawn. His conclusions are genius, and his methods of reductive reasoning are truly remarkable. My friend Homes takes the most daunting and difficult of criminal cases and solves them with amazing aplomb. I am only a novice compared to one such as he," Whutson protested modestly.
"You work with Durlock Homes?" Ian knew two and two was four, but he didn't like the answer and he didn't like coincidence. Ian knew that Durlock Homes had a sterling reputation. Homes was a mastermind at solving puzzles and problems of any kind. He had met the redoubtable tuba-playing crime-solver when Dr. Homes was on the case of the Sine of Five. Homes had pursued the solution relentlessly, wearing himself down until he fell ill. He hadn't stopped until he solved the riddle.
Ian wanted to howl with frustration, distrusting and disliking the connection between Clair and Homes. If Homes were helping Clair with her research, then heads would fly… literally. United, Clair and Homes would undoubtedly uncover some secrets of the supernatural world. Blood would be shed, and Ian was afraid most of it would be Clair's and Homes's.
"Yes. We consult together on cases—or rather I provide a sounding board for Homes's theories," Professor Whutson replied.
"Nonsense. Quit hiding your light under a bushel. You are of great importance. Dr. Homes told me so himself when I saw him in July," Lady Mary scolded. "You always did take too little credit for yourself," she added as she patted Professor Whutson on the arm. She continued, "Homes may be a genius, but you have common sense, and that is worth more than I can say about most men of scientific bent. They all too often don't possess a whit. Most scientists and scholars I know are like little boys playing with matches. They do so regret it dreadfully when they get burned but are hell-bent on making their fires," she confided.
"You do me too much credit." Whutson waved off Lady Mary's comments, a slight flush on his rotund face.
"Fiddlesticks. You know my brother Victor is as bright as any scientist inside his lab, but if events fall outside his laboratory and his experiments, he is like a half-blind bull blundering through a china shop. While the resultant events might be fascinating to watch, the effects can be shattering," Lady Mary finished.
Whutson and Ian both chuckled, and the professor acknowledged it was true. Brooks's announcement of a Mr. Dudley Raleigh interrupted the congenial exchange.
Mr. Raleigh had a washed-out look. His skin was like fine, wrinkled parchment, giving him the impression of a man used up and spent by a life of folly. Again Lady Mary made introductions, relaying that Mr. Raleigh was an old beau of Lady Abby's from before her marriage and widowhood.
Ian was left standing with Professor Whutson as his hostess scurried off to converse with Mr. Raleigh. It was a fortunate event for Ian, leaving him to pursue his inquiry into just how much the good doctor knew about Clair's supernatural research.
"I take it you have known the Frankensteins a long time?" he began casually.
"Since Clair was in diapers and Lady Mary was a young beauty," Professor Whutson replied. "I met Victor when we were both enrolled at the University of Vienna."
"Then you've had the pleasure of watching Miss Clair grow into adulthood."
Professor Whutson's smile was kind. "Yes, she has always been a great delight. Always scampering in and out of her uncle's laboratory, putting her dolls among the beakers and Bunsen burners. Clair was a fearless child, filled with mischief, playing hide-and-seek in the cemetery when her uncle Victor was on one of his grave-robbing expeditions."
Professor Whutson reminisced fondly as if such missions were an everyday occurrence and the career of choice. Ian blinked, having the strangest feeling of descending into a kaleidoscope of Frankenstein follies—a most odd fall indeed.
"She used to wear her uncle and me out with her unending questions. 'What makes butterflies die so soon after they metamorphose?' 'Why do the stars live so far away and where do they go when they go to sleep?' 'How many vampires does it take to close a coffin?'" He chuckled. "She was always a whirlwind, a true credit to the Frankenstein name."
The last made Ian stand straighten So, he thought, it appeared Clair's interest in the preternatural was of childhood origin.
"Yes, Miss Frankenstein is quite an amazing student in the more mystic-type studies," Ian probed. His focus sharpened; yet outwardly he remained the perfect picture of a bored gentleman. If Professor Whutson was ignorant of Clair's recent work, Ian didn't want to alert him.
"Quite," Professor Whutson replied.
"Do you confer with her on her studies?"
"Clair confers with no one. She sticks that pretty little nose of hers to the ground like a good bloodhound and goes after the scent. I can tell you that she's caused a gray hair or two on her uncle Victor's head." The doctor chuckled affectionately.
Longing to breathe a sigh of relief, Ian merely smiled. Now he knew which enemies were at the gate, since Watson and Holmes were clueless about Clair's current quest. "How does Miss Frankenstein come up with her hypotheses? Does anyone help her?"
"No. She does that too by herself. Amazing brain that girl has. Probably the most forward of backward-problem-solving I have had the privilege to witness. She learned to walk before she could crawl, learned her alphabet from Z to A, and solves a mystery beginning with the end and working in reverse to the beginning. Truly amazing."