But one thing nagged at Evelina’s mind. She had no illusions that a gentleman’s son would want a magic user for a wife. She would have to keep her abilities secret forever.
She lifted her face from her hands, looking out her window over the back garden. She didn’t see the pale green of springtime trees as much as she did a fondly desired future. One in which magic and science held equal sway, and no one cared how many biscuits she ate or whether she preferred fixing a clock to embroidering handkerchiefs. Where she could marry where she loved, or not at all. She allowed herself a plaintive sigh. That, Evelina Cooper, is what fantasy looks like. There’s a murder to solve. Get to work.
She immediately felt better. However morbid and terrifying, murder seemed easier to manage than suitors.
Where do I begin? She knew Uncle Sherlock sometimes struggled to find clues. That wasn’t her problem. There were clues aplenty, but they all led to questions. What was Tobias doing last night, and why wouldn’t he talk about it? Was there a connection with the automatons? Who was Grace’s lover? Why was a penniless scullion carrying a fortune hidden in her clothes? Why had Nick chosen that moment, after five years, to visit? And do I need to go to Ploughman’s to find out?
The questions flickered, a luminous web, in her mind’s eye. She could almost see the connection from one to the next, but they eluded her vision if she looked at them too hard—almost like the afterimage of a bright candle in a dark room. The longer she stared, the blinder she became. It would be delicate work to tease those will-o- the-wisps into concrete facts, and that meant a lot of investigation.
But I have no authority to ask questions, because I am a young woman barely out of the schoolroom. As it is, I’m relying on a clockwork bird for help.
And she wasn’t one-quarter as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes. One person had died already, and trying to solve the case herself carried the risk that her inexperience might put someone else at risk. She wanted to write to her uncle for advice.
But that had its own challenges. Her uncle was never so much invited into a case as unleashed on it. He would surely uncover dangerous secrets—just as she feared in the event Lestrade brought him in. Uncle Sherlock’s involvement could well negate any hopes Evelina had of protecting Imogen and her family. Even worse, he might decide a household visited by murder was unsafe, and insist she return to the country to stay with Grandmamma Holmes. That was … categorically unthinkable.
She had to find a way to ask advice in a very limited fashion—only about the cipher. Puzzles and abstract problems were topics they corresponded about anyhow, and as such it would not arouse his curiosity, especially since he would make her figure it out herself. What she wanted was a clue as to the type of cipher she was looking at. She sat down at her desk, taking several pieces of writing paper from the drawer. Then she copied out the cipher text, careful to keep the nonsensical letters exact.
JEYRB AGZTL JLPWG WPPEF LEOZV ZI
Once that was done, she began a letter.
My dear uncle Sherlock,
I hope this finds you well. I am enjoying good health and a pleasant visit at Hilliard House.
To come directly to the point (as I know this is your preference), I am writing to express my gratitude. I understand that through some act of yours, Mr. Jasper Keating has engineered my presentation. As you can imagine, this has caused a great deal of happiness and excitement for Grandmamma and me, your humble niece.
In addition, I have encountered the enclosed cipher, which you might find of some slight interest. While I have done my best to absorb such methods as you have cared to share with me, I am afraid this is beyond my skill. As I do not have the key, any advice you might offer toward its solution would be much appreciated …
London, April 6, 1888
HILLIARD HOUSE
11 a.m. Friday
My dear girl,
You are most welcome to your presentation. Quite simply, Mr. Keating has asked that I consult on a case for him. I agreed, and he made the arrangements. And that is all that there is to say on the matter.
As for your cipher, please consult my monograph. Everything I have to say on the matter of ciphers will be there, and it is best to make an attempt on your own at first. Write and let me know how you get on with it. The world would be a better place if more young ladies were so fond of exercising their minds instead of indulging in shoddy thinking.
I suppose it falls upon me, as your elder, to offer some gem of wisdom to guide you through your first London Season. What little I have, I am afraid, is based strictly on observation. First, no one looks intelligent dancing the polka. Second, fifty percent of masquerade balls are held in order to facilitate espionage. Third, and above all, do not attempt to engage dangerous men in flirtatious conversation. Whatever second-rate novelists might say, such individuals are called dangerous for a reason. There, that is the sum of my advice to young ladies.
I have been called away unexpectedly on a matter of some importance and shall be on the Continent for the next few days. Watson will be joining me in a day or two and can bring any letters you send. I shall see you in person as soon as I can.
Her uncle signed the letter with a simple S. Evelina refolded it, sliding it back into her pocket. A feeling of reassurance emanated from the heavy paper, easing the tension that knotted the back of her neck. Her uncle was a complicated man—just witness the terse explanation about her presentation—but he was as good an uncle as she could wish for. Except that she wished he’d solved the cipher for her instead of referring her to a book. She was no further ahead.
Her fingers brushed the other piece of paper in her pocket—a clipping from the Prattler that announced Ploughman’s was performing at the Hibernia Amphitheatre. She had told herself not to pay it any mind, but her fingers picked up the scissors and cut it out anyhow. For some reason, the prospect of being ushered into Society had made the urge to revisit the past almost painfully acute— and, if possible, even more unwise. If her past was found out, there would be no presentation, no Season, no future. If her magic was found out, that would be even worse. And yet … she couldn’t bring herself to throw the clipping away.
Light streamed into the morning room, bringing the soft greens and yellows to shimmering life. The place smelled of the freesias sitting in a blue and white jug Evelina had set on the windowsill. Outside of her own room, this bright haven was the place she spent the most time. As was often the case, today she had the room to herself.
The table where she worked was littered with small pieces of metal. Evelina had out her tiniest set of pliers and was trying to shape a scrap of gold wire to match the loops in a beaded necklace that had broken apart. It was an old piece and not particularly valuable, but she needed every bit of finery she had for the Season. Besides, working with her hands helped her to think.
She picked up a coral bead no bigger than a lentil and slid it over a piece of wire. With the pliers, she looped the wire through the bottom chain of the necklace, leaving enough play so the bead could dangle freely. We all love our pretty things, even poor Grace and her petticoat.
An image of the girl’s dead body floated through her mind—bloody, still, and pale. It’s been a
