Page 14

“But Figaro is based upon Brighella, a character from Italian commedia dell’arte,” Miss Bolton piped up. “Variations of this personality have been seen onstage for hundreds of years!”

Thank heavens for Miss Bolton. If not for her chaperone’s interjection, Beatrice might have accidentally headbutted the saccharine Cecil Nightingale.

“Oh, poppet, this is England! Not Italy,” Mr. Nightingale replied.

“That explains why we haven’t been able to find the Colosseum. We were so confused,” Beatrice said dryly.

“Women are terrible with geography,” Mr. Nightingale said, shaking his head.

He withdrew a hideous yellow handkerchief and used it to dab at the perspiration on his brow.

Night had fallen, but the air remained stifling, and considering how many people were crowded into the candlelit room, it was unlikely to change.

Though Beatrice had almost nothing in common with Mr. Nightingale, she couldn’t deny that she was also uncomfortable.

“Perhaps the performance will be a welcome distraction from the heat,” Sir Huxley said, clearly trying to change the subject to something neutral.

“And with Mr. Nash in the spotlight, it will be easier to keep an eye on him,” Beatrice added, unwilling to talk about the dreaded weather yet again.

“True,” Sir Huxley agreed immediately. Then he pursed his lips, as if he should not have spoken. His quick reaction confirmed her thoughts: Huxley still suspected Percival Nash, in spite of whatever Mr. Vane had said. He cast a sidelong look at Beatrice, who smiled back innocently.

Huxley shook his head but turned back to Mr. Nightingale.

“Any word on installing a dipping pool in place of the rose garden? Seems like it would be quite refreshing on a night like this.”

Beatrice was disappointed by another change in conversation, until she saw Cecil Nightingale flush crimson at these words.

“Mrs. Vane suggested the dipping pool,” he said quickly, “but Mr. Vane refused. The rose garden was part of the building’s original construction. A pool is a modern contraption, and a garden is tradition. One cannot simply change tradition.”

“Why not?” Beatrice inquired. She had a feeling they were no longer speaking of gardens and pools but was not entirely sure what Mr. Nightingale meant.

Before Mr. Nightingale could reply, someone pushed their way into the circle.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Lavinia Lee said, “but I must offer my regards to Sir Huxley.” She dropped into a deep, reverent curtsy. “I did not think it possible, but you look even more handsome without the mustache, if I may be so bold. Oh,” she inhaled, “that was too bold, wasn’t it? Do forgive me—”

“Miss…Lavinia Lee, is it?”

“You know me?” Her eyes sparkled behind her spectacles.

“How could I forget the president of the Huxley Appreciation Society?” Huxley said graciously. “You and your members send the most wonderful fan mail. And the knitted tapestry for my birthday? A genial touch!”

“Should such a sweet little head really be filled with thoughts of the macabre?” Mr. Nightingale asked, shocked.

“I am not being so offensive as to try to solve the crimes,” Lavinia responded quickly, clearly growing nervous under Mr. Nightingale’s judgmental gaze.

“There are many women who support Sir Huxley’s pursuit of justice and we express our admiration most appropriately, through conversation and cross-stitch. ”

“She is right. I am one of them,” Beatrice said, unable to stop herself. She could not leave her new friend undefended.

“You are?” Sir Huxley asked, now turning to Beatrice, raising one eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Yes. Apart from the cross-stitch. My samplers are infamous, I’m afraid,” she informed him.

“I suspected you might be here, Sir Huxley, based on the clues,” Lavinia continued, as if she could hold this in no longer.

“Clues?” Beatrice asked, the word piquing her interest.

“His last column was titled ‘Restoring Order for Summer Entertainment,’?” Lavinia explained excitedly.

“The first letters in that headline spell ‘Rose.’ There were ninety-four words in that column. Nine plus four equals thirteen. ‘M’ is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, but Beatrice could only stare back in confusion.

Lavinia went on, with the tone of explaining something to someone very stupid.

“?‘M’ for ‘marriage.’ Therefore, it’s obvious : Huxley seeks marriage at the Rose! ”

“Goodness me,” Miss Bolton said. “I fear I have been reading the paper all wrong.”

Beatrice expected Huxley to share her own incredulous expression, but when she glanced back at him, he was beaming.

“You cracked my code!” he said, delighted. “I confess that Mr. Vane’s wordplay inspired me; I thought I might have a little fun with my latest article.”

“I have read every single one of your articles,” Lavinia gushed. She began to recount his latest case, in which he had rescued a young woman from a swindler disguised as a mime. As they spoke, Beatrice watched Cecil Nightingale, who had gone quiet.

She expected his face to remain twisted in disapproval at a “little lady” discussing such grim topics, but instead he became pensive, apparently deep in thought.

He put a hand in his pocket, and Beatrice heard a crinkle. Mr. Nightingale winced.

It was a subtle movement and could have meant nothing—but the tiny change in his expression caught her attention.

What was in his pocket that caused such stress?

“It is a bit hot in here,” she said, making her voice sound weak. “Perhaps I should sit down….” She pretended to sway.

“You poor, fragile thing,” Mr. Nightingale said, reaching out his arms to take hold of her. “This is exactly why ladies should not speak of such heinous matters. We must protect their innocent ears!”

“This is all my fault,” Sir Huxley said apologetically. “Women are constantly fainting in my presence.”

“Perhaps wearing less cologne could help,” Miss Bolton suggested.

“It’s understandable, Miss Steele,” Lavinia said kindly. “I feel lightheaded, too, being in proximity to such a sweet-smelling hero.”

“Yes, I must excuse myself,” Beatrice said feebly, clutching Mr. Nightingale tightly. “The excitement of the evening is simply too great for a delicate, provincial flower like myself.” She tried to keep her face straight as she uttered the ridiculous words.

“I will fetch smelling salts,” Mr. Nightingale told her.

“I always keep them on hand; my wife—may she rest in peace—was always fainting. She could hardly get two minutes into conversation with me without being forced to retreat to her chambers for hours, with only books to keep her entertained, poor thing—”

“You are so kind, but I will be fine. Please, pardon me,” Beatrice insisted. She disentangled herself from his grasp and pushed through the crowd before anyone could stop her, and before Miss Bolton could catch up with her.

She was just on her way out of the ballroom when she collided with Elle Equiano, on her way backin.

“Miss Steele? What’s wrong?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” Beatrice said. Elle looked distinctly frazzled. The young woman gestured to the waist of her pink gown, where a dark stain was spreading.

“It’s nothing I didn’t expect…that Gregory man ‘accidentally’ spilled his punch,” she sighed. “A show of his disapproval for the garment, I’m sure. I tried to blot it in the powder room, but I fear I’ve only made it worse.”

Beatrice untied her tasseled sash and placed it around Elle. “There,” she said, “now you can hardly see it.”

“You are a gem,” Elle exclaimed. “In exchange, I shall cover for you while you do whatever you were about to sneak off to do.”

“I’m not…” Beatrice began, but at Elle’s knowing look, she broke off. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, and then slipped out of the ballroom, grateful for a newfound ally. Who needed Drake, she thought with a pang of defiance.

Once alone in the entrance hall, Beatrice stepped behind a marble statue and unclenched her fist. Curled up inside was a piece of paper that she had plucked from Mr. Nightingale’s pocket.

At least Inspector Drake’s lessons in street smarts had come in handy.

In flowery handwriting, a message was written across the page:

Confess, or die. You decide.

The edges of the ink were rippled, as if the paper had gotten wet and then dried. Below the words, there was a detailed sketch of a moth, with a line through its thorax, as if it were pinned to the page.

Excitement flooded her body.

“How could you bring him here?”

A voice startled Beatrice, and she ducked lower behind the marble statue.

As Cecil Nightingale had noted, she was a “little lady,” height-wise—which came in handy, when one’s short stature meant that one could easily hide behind a sculpture so as to eavesdrop.

From behind a marble bust of the goddess Angerona, Beatrice watched as Horace and Diana Vane came into view. It was Mr. Vane who had spoken, and his wife whirled around to face him.

“You said that if you could write my opening words, I could plan tonight’s entertainment,” she replied, twirling a cigar in her fingers.

“Yes, but I did not think you would invite a murder suspect beyond our gates!” Mr. Vane said, his voice strained. “Sir Huxley was furious. I appeased him as best I could, but he will take it as a slight. You know that.”

“Percival is innocent, Horace. You know that,” Mrs. Vane insisted.

“Of course I do,” Mr. Vane said, his voice softening. He took Mrs. Vane’s hand in his. “But Sir Huxley suspects him, and it’s a bad look to undercut such a renowned inspector by inviting Percival to perform this evening. Surely you understand.”

“It is precisely why I invited him here tonight. We set an important example, Horace. If we maintain support for the artists, the others will follow our lead,” Mrs. Vane shot back.

“I always appreciate how you speak up for them at the NAGS meetings. If it weren’t for us, their very existence would be in danger.

Cecil would get rid of Figaro tomorrow if he could.

Gregory would dress everyone in gray. Walter—may he rest in peace—practically wanted to outlaw music. ”

“I know,” Mr. Vane sighed.

“You must continue to sway them all to our point of view,” Mrs. Vane said firmly. “Look at how everyone waited for your reaction, before applauding for Percival earlier this evening. Your leadership makes a difference. A pun today could save a sonnet tomorrow.”

“The pun is mightier than the sonnet,” Mr. Vane said, his eyes darkening. “It is more difficult to condense wit into a mere word than to draw it out into sixteen tedious lines—”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Vane said placatingly. “Just promise me you will support Percival.”

The darkness cleared, and Mr. Vane pressed his lips to his wife’s palm. “As always, I am with you.”

As he kissed her hand, he smoothly removed the cigar from her grip. Beatrice watched as Mr. Vane slipped it into his own pocket.

Diana did not seem to notice. She smiled up at her husband, satisfied, and then let him pull her back toward the ballroom.

Beatrice waited until they disappeared and then emerged from behind the marble statue, reeling from what she had heard.

The atrium was open to the second story of the Rose, and just as Mr. and Mrs. Vane disappeared, someone else appeared high above. A tall, dark-haired, eye-patch-wearing figure, slipping into one of the second-floor rooms.

Beatrice tucked the note into her bodice and then took off to trail the figure.

She had much to tell Inspector Drake—but first, he had some explaining todo.