A Civil Conversation
After an hour digging through the makeup and costume closets at the Lyceum Theater with Miss Stoker, I had a generous cache of disguises. Apparently there was some benefit to having her as a partner. If I’d had to resort to raiding my uncle’s stash, I don’t believe I would have been as successful, because despite what some people might think, Uncle Sherlock doesn’t have a large variety of female clothing or accessories.
Miss Stoker and I took a smooth, silent lift up to the highest streetwalk and made our way back to the Strand. I took my leave in front of Northumberland House after lecturing her about why we couldn’t arrive at Witcherell’s together without inviting comment. And I reminded her to keep her gloves on at all times tonight, for hands could be very telling about one’s identity.
With traffic clogging the throughways at all levels, it took three quarters of an hour to travel home. But that was typically London, even during the later hours of the evening and night. It was impossible to move quickly from one area to another. By the time I walked into my house, it was after four o’clock, which gave me three hours to work in my laboratory before I had to eat dinner and assemble my disguise.
When I had been called to post bail for Dylan, I left my studies analyzing the different characteristics of ladies’ powder and creams. Because I hoped that giving my mind a rest from the Society of Sekhmet case might produce some deductions when I returned to it, I was determined to finish the analysis of the imported Danish face powder before leaving my lab today. To that end, I donned a protective apron and strapped on my goggles, then closed the door to my work area.
However, the best-laid plans tend to be wantonly disrupted, and mine were no exception. I’d just set fire to the small dish of geranium-scented powder when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” I called, taking no pains to hide my displeasure. The powder was burning more quickly than I’d anticipated, and the floral scent was distinct.
The door opened enough to show Mrs. Raskill’s sleek pepper-and-salt hair and small, inquisitive nose. “You’ve a visitor.”
I gave an unladylike huff. Since I wasn’t socially active, my visitor was likely her nephew Ben. “I’m quite busy,” I said, poking at the now-smoldering ruins of powder.
The geranium scent was still strong in the air, and the powder had turned an interesting shade of honey. I lifted one side of my goggles onto an eyebrow so I could peer through a magnifying glass to determine whether there were any other physical changes to the residue. I had only a handheld glass, not one of the fancy Ocular- Magnifyers I’d seen Grayling use at the museum. This limitation necessitated awkward contortions on my part as I bent, peered, poked, and held the magnifying glass all at one time—while jotting notes.
“He insists on seeing you,” Mrs. Raskill said. “I don’t think he’s going to leave until he does.”
“She’s quite right, Miss Holmes.”
I nearly dropped the magnifying glass at the sound of a familiar voice. Had I somehow conjured him up? “Inspector Grayling, what the devil—I mean, what on earth are you doing here?”
Grayling was standing in the doorway, which was now fully open. At the sight of him, his dark cinnamon- colored hair almost brushing the top of the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space in a dark blue wool coat with six brass buttons, my insides did a sharp little flip.
“I must speak with you, Miss Holmes,” he said, walking uninvited into my laboratory. “What are you doing?”
He’d noticed my awkward position, not to mention the clutter all over my table. And . . . oh drat, the way I had lifted my goggles off kilter, covering only one eye and the other lens raised up to my forehead. I could only imagine how ridiculous I appeared.
“I’m studying the residue left by various articles of the feminine toilette,” I told him primly, removing the goggles. I wasn’t going to think about the dark red circles that would be around one eye and imprinted on my forehead. “One never knows when one might encounter such a clue at the site of a crime.”
“Indeed.”
“I’m very busy, Inspector Grayling,” I said, raising my magnifying glass again and returning to the task at hand. That, I decided, was a better option than standing there like a silent fool, gawking at him. With random red circles on my face.
“Obviously.”
He’d stepped into the laboratory, and Mrs. Raskill made her escape. The latter realization surprised me, for I would have expected curiosity to get the better of the housekeeper.
“I’ve an Ocular-Magnifyer that straps to the head,” he informed me. “And it fits over the eye. I ken it would make your task much easier.”
I gave up and set down the glass to give him my full attention. “What is so important that you found it necessary to travel to my home and interrupt your busy day?”
At that, his expression became serious. “I thought it best to bring you the news directly. Lilly Corteville is dead.”
I gave a sharp jerk and knocked the magnifying glass to the floor. Even as it shattered at my feet, I was saying, “Dead? No! No! How? When?”
To Grayling’s credit, he made no comment about my clumsiness. Instead, he suggested, “Perhaps you’d like to step out for a moment where we can talk.”
I was aware of a terrible, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Lilly’s dead?” It didn’t seem real. I’d just been there, talking to her in her parlor, only hours ago.
Grayling nodded, his face still grave. “I thought it appropriate that you heard the information from an official representative of the Met instead of through other channels.”
By now I’d made my way around the mess of glass, and I followed my visitor out of the laboratory. Conscious of Mrs. Raskill’s sharp ears, I said, “There is a small park at the end of the block. Perhaps we could sit and talk there?”
As soon as I made the suggestion, I realized how forward it sounded. My dratted cheeks heated yet again, and I focused on the ground so that I didn’t have to meet his eyes and see the surprise or distaste reflected therein. To my relief, he kept any arrogant comment he might have made to himself.
Instead he said, “A seat in the park would be most welcome. I’ve been inside all day with this business.”
And that was how we came to be walking down the street together. He offered me his arm, which was proper and meant nothing but that he did have some habits of a gentleman. I took it, because there was always the chance that one might have to dodge a pile of something unpleasant while walking along the edge of the street, and being in heavy full skirts with hourglass-heeled shoes could make that difficult.
I didn’t want a repeat of my tripping incident at the ball.
He seemed willing to be candid with me, and as we approached the park, he said, “Word came to Scotland Yard at one o’clock today. Miss Corteville was found in her bedchamber at approximately noon, no longer breathing. She couldn’t be roused, and there was a bluish cast around her mouth and nose.”
“Poison or asphyxiation,” I said immediately, then cast a covert glance at him.
“It appears to be poison,” he said in a mild tone as we approached the park. “Evidence suggests that’s the case, but we haven’t finished the investigation.”
The park was hardly more than a mechanized bench beneath a large tree with a neat garden of flowers planted around it. I’d occasionally seen a child or two playing ball on the small plot of grass, but they’d been toddlers, with a short range and didn’t seem to need much space.
“What sort of evidence?” I asked, forcing myself to sound casual as I released his arm. I was still shocked at the unhappy news and cognizant that Grayling had decided I should be informed of it. Was he beginning to accept my involvement in the investigation?
Grayling gestured to the bench, which was currently motionless. But just as I moved to take a seat, he sprang into action, holding up a hand to stop me. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted off the surface, then stepped back as I settled myself and my bustle onto the bench. This was no easy feat on a seat with a back (there’s nowhere for the bustle to go, so one is generally required to lean forward). However, I tend to wear smaller, more practical bustles, and as today was no exception, I was able to sit with relative comfort.
“Next to her bed was a small vial, uncapped, and empty. I smelled the essence of bitter almond,” he
