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 creme de la creme 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.
“I think it might be prudent,” said Miss Holmes, “for your invitation to be marked up as well. One must be prepared for any eventuality.”
“One must,” I said, keeping my sarcasm to a minimum, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t happen to have in my possession any specialty indigo ink from Mr. Inkwell’s—” I stopped when I saw the look on her face. “Right. Of course.”
She produced a writing instrument that was, presumably, already loaded with the special indigo ink. I handed over my invitation without another word, and to my relief, she didn’t make any further comment or show any sign of smugness.
The carriage jolted forward again, then stopped. Miss Holmes used the little fan-like wings of her dragonfly pin to dry the ink and then handed me my invitation. We lapsed into silence until our door was opened and a white-gloved coachman helped each of us down. The sun had set and any natural illumination was only a glimpse of moon from behind wispy gray clouds and a faulty swath of stars arcing over the dark sky.
The mansion, which was one of the few in the city that boasted large, gated grounds, loomed above us. A flight of steps led up to a well-lit entrance on a side of the building rather than the door facing the drive. A smooth mechanical ramp ascended so ladies in their cumbersome skirts and high-heeled shoes wouldn’t wear themselves out from the climb. Some fashionable skirts were so narrow, with their high bustle over the rear, that the wearer could only take small, mincing steps. At least Mina had had the wherewithal to don a gown with petticoats that allowed for some movement, despite their weight and layers.
Medievaler that I am, I disdained the ramp in favor of the stairs and found myself waiting for Miss Holmes as she rode up the mechanized trolley.
A series of panels and doors had been removed from the building, leaving an entire wall of the foyer open to the night air, with no boundary between terrace and interior. The dull roar of people talking and laughing mingled with the music from a small orchestra, spilling into the outdoors. Even from where I stood, I could see glittering gold streamers and bunting, and hundreds of bloodred roses in vases, clustered on trellises and attached to potted trees. Someone had cut many large leafless branches, painted them dark red, and arranged them like trees. A number of self-propelled, copper-winged lanterns flitted about like hand-size fireflies.
“It’s beautiful,” Miss Holmes murmured. “Like a gilded English rose garden.”
I couldn’t disagree, but how often did they have to replace the gears in those silly flying lights anyway? “They’ll want to announce us,” I said. She grimaced, but stepped up with me to hand our calling cards to the butler.
“She pronounces her name Evah-line, not Evah-leen,” Miss Holmes informed the butler as she pointed to my card. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care.
“Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes,” the butler intoned.
The place was an absolute crush, with people hardly able to move about the room. Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt stood just inside the entrance to greet each guest, and we dutifully approached.
Lord Cosgrove-Pitt, who was older and grayer than his pretty dark-haired wife, was stately and a bit portly. He took my hand and bowed, but it was my companion who attracted his attention. “Sir Mycroft’s daughter?” he boomed over the noise. “Mr. Holmes’s niece? How can it be that we’ve never met? Bella, surely you’ve invited Miss Holmes to our parties, haven’t you? Important young lady, you know.”
“Why, Miss Holmes,” said his wife, taking my companion’s hand in her gloved ones. “I am so pleased to meet you, and I apologize for never having done so in the past. Mr. Holmes’s niece, you say?”
My companion’s nose had gone dull red, but she curtseyed and thanked Lord Cosgrove-Pitt for his kindness, then responded to his wife. “Yes, indeed, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. Sherlock Holmes is my uncle.”
“He is quite a clever man.” She looked up at her husband. “He assisted me with a little problem some years ago—you do remember, don’t you, dear?”
“Something to do with the upstairs maid filching the silver?” He rubbed his chin.
Lady Isabella patted his arm. “It was the downstairs maid, and Mr. Holmes proved she was innocent, as it turned out, of breaking one of the glass cases in the gallery.” She turned back to us. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.”
As we thanked her, turning to make our way into the throngs of people, I felt a sudden awareness sing down my spine. Someone was watching me.
I glanced around the party. Since we were still standing on the terrace, which connected the outside with the ballroom, we were several steps above the main floor. Through the dancing and visiting below, I could see
