“They must be powered by some inertially-guided device to circulate around the hotel,” a voice said right at her shoulder. Harriet stiffened in surprise then glanced back to see Reginald Pratt standing far too close. He had noticed her twitch and was smirking.
“Well, obviously,” Harriet said, as witheringly as she could manage.
Reginald’s face dropped. He eyed her up and down. His gaze made her feel like she needed a wash.
“You scrub up… adequately.” He tipped his head to one side. “You’ll do, anyway. Probably won’t draw too many looks.” He faked surprise at her reaction. “What? That’s a good thing for a spy. You don’t want people noticing you.”
Harriet’s jaw tightened. The truth was, she didn’t much care what anyone else thought of her appearance. It was simply the sheer audacity of a man wearing two brightly colored waistcoats and a jacket covered in cogs and levers that sprung into motion whenever he moved to comment on her appearance.
A loud gasp made Harriet look past Reginald. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had entered the drawing room and was now striding toward them, her husband almost flowing after her.
“Have you no shame?” she demanded.
Harriet looked around, bewildered.
“Where is your guardian?”
“What? Bertrand?” Coming to think of it, where was Bertrand?
“You are unmarried, of course,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “It is true that you are unattractive, but with other accomplishments and a good dowry, that should not be insurmountable. However, you cannot afford to squander what reputation you might have by… conversing… with unmarried gentlemen.” She shot Reginald a piercing look.
Harriet cheeks reddened again. Why couldn’t she control that?
“I am in no hurry to marry, madam,” she said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s eyes widened. “Well. Well. How very impertinent!”
Reginald offered a bow, but his smirk had found its way back to his face. “I shall leave you. Your guardian is returning.”
Bertrand had appeared at the door, accompanied by the Edgewares. The two young children raced to the window, not even slowing as they shot past an outraged Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
“I say, Harry,” Bertrand called. “Mr. and Mrs. Edgeware are taking a trip out in one of the smaller submersibles to explore the ruins. They’ve invited us along. What do you say?”
Harriet shot a longing look through the window at the enticing ruins. No. She had a mission, and the sooner she completed it, the better. “I fear we must prepare for the ball.”
Bertrand’s face crumpled into confusion.
“But that’s not until—”
“Oh, I quite understand,” Mrs. Edgeware said, cheerfully. “I’m told that it can take hours to prepare for one of these events. Come on, Colin,” she said to her husband. “Let’s see what we can spot!”
Harriet took Bertrand by the arm and led him from the drawing room.
“I don’t understand,” he said, plaintively. “Is it going to take you that long to get dressed? We’ve got all day. Do we at least have time for cakes?”
“I just want to take a look around. You know. See who’s here.”
“Oh.” Revelation spread over Bertrand’s face. “You want to see if you can spot Sir Lancelot Coverdale, too.”
Harriet blinked at her brother-in-law. “Who?”
“The famously handsome bachelor Mrs. Edgeware was talking about.”
“What? No.”
Bertrand kept grinning.
“For goodness sake!”
The hotel was already filling. Harriet and Bertrand passed several dozen couples as they strolled around. Harriet kept her eyes open for newspapers, but while several gentlemen were carrying them, none were from the right date, and Harriet began to wish Lady Felchester had chosen a more unique identifier for her contact. All part of the test.
After half an hour, Harriet relented and allowed Bertrand to guide her to another drawing room where he had discovered cakes.
He let out a sigh of relief. “I was starting to worry they would all be gone by the time we got here.”
Bertrand poured them tea, and Harriet was just helping herself to a thoughtful petit four when a scream sounded so clear and loud it almost made her drop her plate. The room suddenly went silent. Then everyone rushed for the door.
Harriet and Bertrand hurried after them. The screams, which had now quieted to hysterical, muffled sobs, were coming from a wide, marble atrium. A grand staircase rose to a balcony. A crowd had gathered at the foot of the stairs, around a sobbing maid in the uniform of the Louros Hotel. As Harriet shouldered her way through, she saw what the crowd was staring at.
A body lay at the bottom of the stairs, sprawled half on the stairs and half on the floor. It was a young man, also dressed in the hotel uniform.
Bertrand pushed past and knelt beside the body. There was blood spreading from beneath the young man’s head.
Keep calm, Harriet told herself. She’d been trained not to react, to take in everything around her. He had fallen, that much was obvious, away from the balcony, like he’d hit it at speed. How? Had he tripped?
Bertrand looked up and shook his head. The maid let out another tearing sob. Shocked murmurs came from the crowd.
“Did anyone see what happened?” Bertrand asked.
The maid gave a minute nod. “I… I was just walking along when… when… he almost hit me! He almost landed on me.”
“He fell?”
The maid nodded. She seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“We were there, too,” an elderly lady said, “just behind the girl.” Her husband nodded.
“Did any of you see anyone else? Anyone on the balcony?”
A shake of the head.
Harriet slipped out of the crowd and joined Bertrand beside the body.
“Here! What exactly are you doing, young lady?” someone in the crowd demanded.
“I’m a police inspector,” Bertrand said. “She’s with me.” He leaned close to Harriet. “What have you noticed?”
“Not sure.” She reached down and slid her hand under the body, suppressing the urge to shudder. There. She’d been right. Her fingers closed on paper, and she slowly drew it out, careful not to tear it.
It was a newspaper. With a feeling of growing dread, she turned it over. The Tharsis Times. On the front page were the headlines she memorized about the new manufactory and the Mars-ship crash. Inside, on page four, Harriet noticed a story about a scandal at Mrs. Parkinson’s birthday ball, whoever Mrs. Parkinson was. She recognized that story, too.
There was no doubt about it. This was the twelfth of April, 1816 edition.
This man was her contact, and he was dead.
“Make way, make way!” a loud voice bellowed. The crowd around the body parted to admit Sir William Huntsworth, Bertrand’s boss. “What have you done, Simpson?”
Bertrand looked up, startled.
“This man seems to have fallen from the balcony,” Harriet said when it was obvious that Bertrand wasn’t going to answer.
“Tripped and fell, did he?” Sir William said. “Saw him, did you?”
Harriet flushed. “Well, no.”
“Thought not. Chap’s been murdered. What do you have to say for yourself, Simpson?”
“Um…”
“Do something about it, man!”
“But…” Bertrand stared at the body. Harriet knew exactly how Bertrand’s mind worked. Right now, her brother-in-law was thinking Sir William wanted him to un-murder the victim. Unfortunately, it seemed Sir William knew how Bertrand’s mind worked, too.