The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4) Read online

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Our Heroines in High Fashion ~

  Lady Thistle’s was located on the third street level not far from Fleet-street.

  I glanced at Evaline, and of course she’d neglected to bring coins for the street-lift. But despite her argument to the contrary, she seemed so out of sorts that I refrained from mentioning it, and instead fed the appropriate funds into the slot for the lift.

  The scrollwork doors opened with a dull grating sound. We stepped into the glass-sided lift, pulling our skirts in to make certain they wouldn’t catch as the gate closed. Then, with a subtle jerk, the small cage began to rise, taking us past a walkway at the second level where a horde of trade street-carts were parked: a knife grinder, a cog-smith, a compact knit factory, a brolly repair shop, and a mobile leather repair shop. That particular smithery gave off a rich, au naturel scent as the hide was heated, tanned, and stretched into a smooth leather pallet as steam rolled from the mechanism’s small chimney.

  On the third level, where our lift stopped with hardly a jolt, we were greeted by an expansive array of carts from more street hawkers, but the vast majority of them were for edibles. I cast a sidelong look at Evaline as we stepped out of the glass and scrollwork cage and a rush of sweet, spicy, freshly baked scents greeted us.

  But she gave them nary a glance—and that alone indicated how disturbed she was over the events of her morning. I declined to mention it again, although I had by then deduced what was upsetting her.

  “Look, Evaline,” I said, slipping my gloved hand through the crook of her elbow in that companionable way I’d seen other young ladies do, “there’s a cart selling popping tea! I must try one, and you as well. My treat,” I added to forestall any argument. I also declined to release her arm when she would have resisted, instead firmly dragging her toward the cart.

  Since I knew she was far stronger than I, the fact that she acquiesced and allowed me to do so indicated her willingness to be convinced.

  I’d never had a popping tea before. The beverage was a relatively new concept, having been developed by an English businessman who’d married a woman from Japan and brought her back home to London to live. I’d read about the beverage in the Ladies’ Tattle-Tale (it had been given a mention in one of the gossip columns after Princess Alix was seen partaking of one).

  Still gripping Evaline’s arm firmly, I perused the flavor options as we waited in line. Jasmine, orange, honeyed chocolate, cardamom-vanilla, and basil-mint. I ordered jasmine, but my companion was more adventurous and decided to try the cardamom-vanilla. I must confess, after I smelled the delicious spice emanating from her beverage, I wished I’d thought to do the same.

  The beverages were handed to us in tall, slender paper cups that fluted at the top like a tulip. Each one was set inside a brass holder (to protect one’s fingers from the heat, and also to stabilize the flimsy paper insert) with a tiny handle near the base. I belatedly realized the delicate paper cups themselves were infused with the scent or flavor chosen: mine had the floral hint of jasmine, and Evaline’s smelled like vanilla.

  But it was the popping tea itself that delighted me. The beverage was warm and steaming, but inside was a myriad of small bubbles like large fizzes that shot from the bottom of the drink. Upon reaching the surface of the tea, each pea-sized ball popped enthusiastically, releasing the flavor and scent of jasmine or cardamom-vanilla into the air and lightly dampening one’s face as one came near. The flavoring settled over the top of the beverage in a sweet, foamy, milky layer.

  Thus, as one tipped it to drink, the smell and flavor was prominent inside the milky tea. It was a sweet, perfumed beverage that warmed its brass holder—and my gloved hands, by extension—and was perfect for a chilly winter’s day.

  I decided immediately that popping tea was my new favorite indulgence, and that I would endeavor to taste all of the flavors in the very near future. Evaline and I sipped our drinks whilst leaning over the edge of the walkway railing, looking down over the lowest street level, where we were treated to the sight of the tops of wagons, carriages, hackneys, and the hatted heads of passersby as they navigated through the mucky, dark, snow-muddied streets below.

  Since Evaline had remained silent and very brooding, I decided I should seize the opportunity to direct our nonexistent conversation.

  “I received a visit from Inspector Grayling this morning,” I said, feeling strangely uncomfortable about bringing up the topic.

  For the first time since I’d arrived at her house, interest flickered in her eyes. “Oh?” she asked in a strange tone, drawing out the single syllable into several that went up at the end. “And what did he want?”

  I buried my face in the comfortingly warm, if damp, scent of my tea and inhaled its floral essence. “I’m not certain. He didn’t precisely say.”

  Evaline turned to look at me. An actual smile was beginning to curl at the corners of her mouth, and I was delighted to have at least somehow breached her foul mood. “He didn’t say? He just arrived at your house with no excuse whatsoever?”

  Because of the way she was regarding me, I felt uncomfortable mentioning the state of my attire when Grayling arrived. Instead, I repeated our conversation (word for word, of course, and with all inflections included) without going into detail about the crow charm. I could get into that later.

  Evaline merely looked at me with a widening grin. I was relieved to see that even her eyes had begun to sparkle a little. “You don’t know why he came?” she asked at the end, a teasing note in her voice. “Really, Mina, how much of a stone-head are you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I replied stiffly.

  Her expression sobered. “He missed you. He was worried about you. He wanted to see you. And now that Dylan’s gone…”

  All at once, my face was hot—and it had nothing to do with the steaming cup I held in my hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. And what does Dylan have to do with anything?”

  Evaline merely shook her head, smiling mysteriously as she returned to her drink. Her long eyelashes—so dark and thick and curly—fluttered as she sipped and looked out over the city with all the appearance of a woman in control.

  “Why would Inspector Grayling want to see me?” I said, while studiously avoiding looking at my companion. Really, she was quite absurd. I regretted having brought up the topic. Why on earth would Inspector Grayling want to see me?

  “Unless he wanted my assistance with one of his cases,” I decided. “I’m certain that’s it…and perhaps he merely lost his nerve for asking me. Although Lestrade never seems to mind asking Uncle Sherlock for help. Though—to be fair—I believe Lestrade is in far more need of assistance than Grayling would be. He’s quite… Well, the man is infuriating, and he’s always commenting on the fact that I seem to attract dead bodies, which isn’t the case at all. How on earth could I attract dead bodies? It makes me sound like some sort of—of cemetery or hospital. Why, it’s absurd to even consider…” I trailed off when I realized Evaline was shaking with silent laughter.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” She giggled.

  “Well, I’m glad to be such a source of amusement for you, Miss Stoker,” I said frostily, deciding that was the last time I would ever ask her for advice.

  Once we’d returned the brass fittings to the beverage cart (and received a rebate of sixpence per cup for doing so), Evaline and I continued on our way to Lady Thistle’s. At least she had lost some of the worry limning her eyes and tightening her expression.

  The shop’s entrance was down the side alley of a side alley, tucked between a lace shop and a tiny bookstore that dealt with antiquated books. I generally resisted the urge to go into the latter, for fear I’d spend my entire monthly allowance on one precious book—for there were many rare, interesting tomes that were in locked cases throughout the shop. But I’d peeked in the window several times and seen the proprietress moving about. I thought, rather fancifully, I must admit, that she seemed like a sort of other
worldly librarian—with her long corn-silk hair fashioned in intricate braids, and the out-of-date medieval-style gown she wore.

  “I’ve walked past this street dozens of times and never noticed Lady Thistle’s before,” Evaline said before I had the chance to glance in the bookstore. She was looking at the clothing boutique’s narrow doorway. “It’s quite well hidden, and cunningly so. There isn’t even a sign.”

  Due to her delicate mood, I refrained from pointing out that her observation was obvious. “Yet, for the uninitiated, the hand-painted thistle on the glass of the door is an indication that we’re in the correct location.”

  The door, which was inset in a small alcove, was framed in pale sage green, and the thistle painted on it was the same green with a lavender blossom on it. It was, as my companion noted, the only identifying marking anywhere. I pushed open the door and followed Evaline inside.

  The space was long and narrow, and I heard my companion’s swift intake of breath as she looked around the shop. That had been my reaction the first time I visited, with my mother. How many years ago? Three. Perhaps four.

  I quickly submerged a pang of grief—it was now over a year since the last letter from her, and she’d been gone for nearly two years. What was even more confusing and troubling was the fact that my mother, Desirée Holmes, had also been known as Siri—and she’d been Evaline’s mentor in regards to her vampire hunting.

  “This place is amazing,” Evaline said in an uncharacteristic whisper.

  I couldn’t disagree. The place was like no other clothing shop I’d been in before or since.

  While the front of the establishment was dim and appeared abandoned—a tactic that was meant, I believed, to discourage people from entering after peeping through the dingy glass window—as one moved toward the rear of the deep, narrow space, alcoves displaying a variety of clothing and accessories became visible along each side.

  Each alcove was lit with two bright gas lamps and contained one mechanized dummy modeling a clothing ensemble. The figures moved in smooth choreography: one spun slowly, another counted out the steps to a stationary quadrille, and still another curtsied and rose, over and over again.

  There were also mechanized hat racks, shoe racks, and a slowly spinning cone-shaped spiral that displayed gloves, decorative hair combs, and other accessories.

  That in itself was hardly enough to cause Evaline’s exclamation, for the clothing displayed herein was nothing like the sort of attire one bought from most dressmakers. Everything in Lady Thistle’s was of the style known as Street Fashion—which was, as Dylan had once called it, “cutting edge.” I had come to understand that phrase described something new and different, and perhaps even futuristic.

  To be more specific, Street Fashion was a mode of dress that was slightly scandalous—with specially designed corsets worn on the outside of the clothing, and split or slit skirts that were rarely long enough to cover one’s shoes. Some of them were even short enough that a hint of the lower extremities might be revealed. (Not that I had ever worn something that beyond the pale. But I’d admired them and their obvious convenience.)

  Evaline, who’d often expressed her admiration for clothing I’d acquired from Lady Thistle’s, was agog at the options—many of them far more extreme than anything she’d seen on me.

  “Miss Holmes, is it you?” came a creaky, quavery voice from the back of the shop.

  “Good day, Lady Thistle,” I said, bustling past a mannequin who was curtsying while in a frock that barely reached past her knees. The skirt was trimmed with a hem-flounce made from glinting pieces of glass and silver. “It is indeed I, and I’ve brought my friend Miss Evaline Stoker with me.”

  I was never quite convinced that Lady Thistle was, in fact, strictly worthy of the title—for what would an elderly member of the peerage be doing, operating a tiny, impossible-to-find clothing boutique? Especially since she didn’t look like the sort of person to wear an external corset or split skirts that allowed glimpses of ankles, calves, or even knees.

  “Good, good,” she said in a whispery voice.

  It suited, I’d thought from the moment I met her while with my mother some years ago. (Three, it had been. Only three years, though it seemed like an age.)

  Yes, Lady Thistle’s voice and her figure were as insubstantial as the down of the plant for which she was named. Birdlike in her movements, tiny and hardly more than a bundle of needle-thin bones and with skin as smooth and translucent as moonlight, the shop’s proprietor was dressed in a severe black and gray ensemble. There was nary a glint nor a gleam nor even a sparkle anywhere on her clothing—in stark contrast to the items she sold, where everything had some sort of showy, metal- or jewel-like trim. Her snow-white hair was scraped back into a tight bun, and her small, dark eyes darted about, seeming to miss nothing. Though her eyes were sharp, her ears were not, and she wore a device that resembled an Ocular-Magnifyer, but it covered her entire left ear in order to help her hearing.

  “Show her around, then, Miss Holmes. Magpie’s gone out to fetch an order from Veller’s, and so I’m here alone.”

  As it turned out, Miss Stoker was in no need of my assistance. She already appeared to have found several articles of clothing that interested her, and when I attempted to show her how to find different sizes and colors in the drawers below the mannequins, she shooed me away.

  Very well, then. I’d leave her to her own devices, for I had my own shopping to do. The last time I’d been here, I’d seen an ankle-length split skirt that had a pair of hidden trousers incorporated into its attached petticoat. I thought a one-piece item like that would be extremely useful while going about my business in investigating.

  My pleasure at the thought of trying them on ebbed when I was reminded that I had nothing to investigate at the moment, and would likely not have anything in the near future unless I could find Mr. Pix. Nevertheless, I was resolute and determined to at least try on the skirt.

  But Miss Stoker had taken over the dressing closet, and there wasn’t room enough in there for both of us—especially with my long limbs and tendency to misplace my elbows.

  “Is there another place in which I might try this on?” I asked Lady Thistle, who was perched on a backless stool upholstered in cobalt-blue velvet. It looked terribly uncomfortable, but she sat erect and still and didn’t appear to mind.

  “Back there, Miss Holmes. Behind the red velvet curtain. Mind you, don’t step on the cat’s tail.”

  I’d never been back this far into the shop, and it was so crammed with stacks of hatboxes, small chests of lace and ribbons, a long hanging rack, and a plate-sized table and chairs that I could barely make my way through. Probably only a woman the size of Lady Thistle could easily navigate the maze; I wondered how Magpie, who was approximately twice the size of myself, could manage. In fact, I brushed past too close to one side and sent a pyramid of boxes tumbling. Fascinators spilled out—feathers, beads, lace, and gemstones all over the scarred wooden floor.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Thistle,” I called, hastily gathering up the mess and settling each of the gorgeous fascinators into the boxes from which they’d fallen. I hoped I had them correct.

  I was just stooping to pick up the last fascinator (easier said than accomplished when wearing a corset and toting a bustle at the back of one’s waist, not to mention layers of frothy petticoats)—which had partially slid beneath a closet door—when I saw something that caused me to freeze. And to emit an audible gasp.

  My breath stopped (partly because I was half bent and the cage of my corset was cutting off my lungs) as I used my finger to trace a small, pale red carving on the bottom of the door.

  It was a symbol that looked like the infinity sign.

  Or of two Cs facing each other.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Of Hidden Doors and Unboxed Corsets ~

  I nearly fell back upon my heels as I contorted myself to make certain I was seeing the carving properly. I even disengaged the tiny magnifyer I’d begu
n to habitually wear on a chain clipped to my bodice like a timepiece.

  And upon closer examination, I confirmed my initial impression: the symbol carved near the base of the closet door was the same as the one on the reverse of the carnelian crow pendant.

  There was, of course, no question that I would open the closet door.

  But I, unlike Miss Stoker, don’t generally rush into action without considering repercussions as well as strategies. I took a moment to check the other closet doors in the back of Lady Thistle’s, and confirmed that I was quite alone: the proprietress had slid off her velvet perch and was discussing the cut of a sleeve with Evaline, and Magpie—the burly assistant who would certainly announce her presence if she tried to navigate the backroom maze—was still gone.

  I turned the closet doorknob and carefully pulled it so the door opened, taking care in the event it squeaked or some sort of alarm went off. To my relief, it moved silently and easily, and I peered inside.

  Shelves lined the walls on either side of the space, and there was a large display rack on the back wall. Both shelves and rack were filled with boxes that, though neatly aligned, looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed in years.

  Hmm. I couldn’t help but think there had to be something more to a door marked with a mysterious symbol.

  Or maybe it wasn’t such a mysterious symbol after all. It could be an infinity sign, and I was manufacturing something out of nothing simply because I was bored.

  But after a glance toward the front of the store to assure myself I was still unobserved, I went inside the closet and began to poke around. I was required to leave the door ajar in order to have some illumination for my activities, and although I wasn’t certain what I was looking for, I began to randomly remove boxes on the shelves to look inside.

  Nothing but outdated or damaged hats, corsets, gloves, and shoes. Not one thing out of the ordinary.

  Sighing, I turned to leave, and in my disappointment and haste, my elbow caught the edge of the rack at the back of the closet. I cringed, expecting everything to come tumbling down upon me…but nothing moved. Not even the rack. Not even the box I’d bumped quite roughly.