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Chapter Eighteen

A Puzzle

For several days, Beatrice did not leave her chambers at the Carnation Quarter town house.

There was no need, seeing as the Season had been suspended, and Beatrice was glad for this, because the last thing she wanted to do was put on a ball gown and dance a quadrille.

She was despondent. She had finally uncovered Percival Nash’s innocence, only to unintentionally aid in his arrest. The papers proclaimed his guilt, and even his alibi had proven useless; no one believed an actor and a hairdresser over beloved gentleman detective Sir Lawrence Huxley.

As for Inspector Drake, he had not contacted her since that moment outside Mr. O’Dowde’s shop. His silence told her everything she needed to know: Their partnership was truly over.

She was furious that Drake had cut her out because of his inability to communicate. The whole mess might have been avoided by a simple conversation. His attempt at restraint was admirably English—though his kissing had been indecently French.

If she were being truly honest with herself, Beatrice had suspected how he felt. But like Drake, she had tried to push romantic notions aside. They had both sacrificed personal considerations for the sake of the case—and it had ruined everything.

In the end, the voice of doubt inside her head was right: She did not have what it took to make it as an inspector in London. After all, Drake was gone. The case was out of their hands. The city had chewed her up and spit her out.

So Beatrice made a decision. She took out her trunk and began to fill it with books, papers, and her beautiful yet useless new wardrobe.

She would go home. Back to Swampshire—where she belonged.

Her window was open to tempt in a breeze, but the streets outside were still—and unusually quiet. All of the musicians, actors, and mimes had been banned from performing (Sweetbriar mimes were the worst offenders when it came to street noise, due to their obsession with tap shoes).

Beatrice could not believe it, but she actually missed the sound of sonnets. (Though she did not miss the kick-ball-changes.) There was something about the freedom of expression that was annoying, yes—but it had filled her with a certain inspiration.

She had just finished folding her final bit of frippery when her door creaked open and Miss Bolton entered.

“I brought refreshments,” she said. She shuffled in and set a tray with a teacup and several lemon slices on top of Beatrice’s trunk.

Beatrice could not meet her chaperone’s eye.

She was awash with a fresh wave of guilt; Miss Bolton was being so kind after Beatrice had disappeared and left her sick with worry.

“Miss Bolton, I am leaving,” she said finally, “but you must stay. London needs you. You fit in here, with your understanding of fashion, and your plays, and—” Her voice broke.

“Beatrice. Whatever is the matter?” Miss Bolton said, rushing over to her. She put her hands on Beatrice’s shoulders, forcing Beatrice to look into her chaperone’s kind, puglike face.

“I never felt that I fit in when I lived in Swampshire. I thought that if I ever made it to London, everything would make sense here. I would make sense. But it’s worse,” Beatrice said in a rush.

“Rules here are unspoken, relationships hidden, artists forced underground…literally…and I thought I could find the truth, but I don’t know anything.

Caroline Wynn was right.” She choked a bit on those words but then continued: “I should go back to Swampshire. It would be better for everyone if I were not here.”

Miss Bolton pressed her lips together and then turned on her heel and left the room.

Did she agree? Beatrice thought. Was this her polite way of saying so? She was about to flop down onto the bed in utter hopelessness when Miss Bolton reappeared.

She held something that sparkled in her palm. It was a beautiful brooch, made of mother-of-pearl carved into the shape of a frog.

“I was waiting for the right time to give this to you.” She stretched out her hand, offering the brooch to Beatrice.

“Oh, Miss Bolton, it is far too fine. I couldn’t accept such a gift. I won’t have any need for nice things soon, anyhow,” Beatrice said at once, but Miss Bolton ignored her and popped free the pin at the brooch’s clasp.

“I remember the first time I traveled to London as a young woman. I had similar feelings—if only I could get to the city, all my problems would be solved,” Miss Bolton said as she fixed the frog to Beatrice’s frock. “And then you find out that wherever you go…you bring yourself with you.”

“So…all is lost?” Beatrice asked miserably. If this was meant to be an encouraging talk, it was having the opposite effect.

“No!” Miss Bolton shook her head vehemently.

“What I mean is that you are the key. Not Swampshire, or London, or anywhere else, for that matter. Your ability to thrive is not about where you live, it’s about who you are.

” She pressed a finger to the center of the brooch.

“You can hop from pond to pond, but that inexplicable luminescence is always within.”

“That is easy for you to say,” Beatrice said quietly. “You know how to trust yourself more than anyone I know.”

“It takes practice,” Miss Bolton told her. “You will get there.”

“What if I am in over my head?” Beatrice asked, pressing a hand to the brooch as if it could transmit Miss Bolton’s confidence into her through sheer proximity alone.

“You have been before. Think of all the times you fell into squelch holes!”

“I don’t deserve any of this!” Beatrice finally cried.

“I have been lying to you this entire summer, Miss Bolton,” she confessed, the words coming out in a rush.

“I have been sneaking out to investigate a murder, but it all went horribly wrong. Drake fired me—or quit, I’m not sure—and Sir Huxley betrayed me when he arrested Percival.

Your entire perception of me is based on my horrible deception.

I am not a well-behaved debutante. I am a failed inspector. ”

She held her breath, expecting Miss Bolton to gasp and clutch her chest in horror. Perhaps the woman would write to Mrs. Steele immediately and finish packing Beatrice’s bags herself. No doubt she would agree that Beatrice must return to Swampshire.

But instead, Miss Bolton just pursed her lips and then patted Beatrice’s hand.

“I thought that might be the case,” she said. “You have never come off as well-behaved, dear.”

“So…you’re not furious?”

“I will only be furious if you give up before catching the killer!” Miss Bolton said sternly.

“But three men are dead, I have no leads and no partner,” Beatrice told her, still miserable—but feeling the slightest spark of inspiration reignite, starting from where the beautiful frog brooch was pinned near her heart.

“Then it shall be just like old times,” Miss Bolton told her, a mischievous look in her eye.

“One should never underestimate an independent woman. That much I know.” She picked up a stack of newspapers, which she had brought in with the tea tray, and handed them to Beatrice.

“Perhaps to move forward, you must go back to the beginning. Remember who you are at your core.”

She picked up the teacups, then, and gave Beatrice one. They clinked glasses, and Beatrice took a sip. She coughed, the liquid burning her throat.

“Is this—”

“Whiskey,” Miss Bolton confirmed. “I thought we would need something a tad stronger than tea.” She gestured to the papers.

“When you are done perusing the crime columns, take a look at the social column. There is wonderful news: The end-of-summer masquerade shall continue! So drink up, read up, and then unpack your gowns. You must decide what to wear.” With that, Miss Bolton flitted out of the room, saying something about needing to “brainstorm a costume that will truly ‘wow’ everyone…The hat, of course, shall be paramount…,” and leaving Beatrice alone with the crime column.

Miss Bolton was right—it was just like old times. And perhaps that was what Beatrice needed. To get back to a time when she trusted herself.

She flipped through the first paper—today’s edition of The London Babbler .

There was no crime column, Beatrice noted; apparently the Babbler ’s reporter considered the case closed after the arrest of Percival Nash.

She perused the rest of the stack, flipping through the pages of each Babbler until she found a column of interest.

“Curious Crimes” by Evana Chore.

Who was Evana Chore? Beatrice wondered. Sir Huxley wrote his own column, “Restoring Order,” but this mystery woman had a completely separate crime column. It was admirable, really, and Beatrice was surprised she had not heard more of Ms. Chore.

But then Beatrice recalled something Elle Equiano had said once.

I only write of ribbons because my editor thinks it unbecoming for a lady to write about crime.

Why would her editor say this if a lady were already writing the crime section of The London Babbler ?

Unless, Beatrice thought, staring at the byline, Evana Chore was no lady.

She took a quill and ink pot from out of her trunk, spread the paper out on her desk, and wrote out the letters, her hand shaking slightly.

EVANA CHORE

Now it was Lavinia’s words that echoed in her mind.

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….

And then, Sir Huxley’s reply—

Mr. Vane’s wordplay inspired me; I thought I might have a little fun with my latest article.

Beatrice scribbled on the page. First she tried adding up numbers, attempting to copy Lavinia’s methods…but finally she realized that the answer was simple. In fact, it was already there, in dark ink:

EVANA CHORE

HORACE VANE