“That’s correct,” Evaline said. She appeared to have tasted something sour, if the puckered expression on her face was any indication.
“Is there anything else? I presume you came by this information during your visit to Spitalfields last night.”
“I don’t have any other details.” Her tone was stiff, indicating some sort of displeasure.
“Has anyone actually seen a vampire, other than two drunkards trying to steal a wallet?”
“No.”
I sniffed. “Very well. Then I shall wait to sharpen my wooden stakes and encircle my neck with a silver cross until someone does.”
I turned my attention to the stack of newspapers on the desk next to me. One of them was mounted vertically on a Proffitt’s Dandy Paper-Peruser. I had the intervals set to two minutes (I am a speedy reader) and as I watched, the delicate magnetic clamp slid along to turn the page, then snapped neatly back in place with a gentle click.
Like my uncle, I read a variety of publications daily. But even the newspapers had nothing of interest in them as of late. A carriage accident in Haymarket, a missing boy from Bloomsbury, a fire on Bond-street, a new sundries shop in St. James’s, announcements of betrothals and descriptions of balls and masquerades—including the imminent reopening of an entertainment garden called New Vauxhall.
Parliamentary laws were passed, repealed, argued, or voted upon. There was even an editorial about how to protect one’s belongings from a new and particularly adept gang of pickpockets running wild through London. The only thing remotely interesting was the brief notation about Mr. Babbage’s Analytical Engine. I made a note of the visiting hours for the display of its prototype in the Oligary Building.
“Shall we leave now?” Evaline picked up her hat to pin it in place. “It’ll take thirty minutes to get to Mayfair from here, and I thought we might make a stop on Bond-street.”
“On Bond-street? Whatever for?” I removed the Times from the Paper-Peruser then flipped off the lever. The mechanism sighed and collapsed in on itself with a little hiss, becoming the size of a folded fan. I turned the dial on the desk drawer and it slid open with a gentle whoosh.
Evaline shrugged, but her smile was crafty. “I do love that bakery on the corner of . . . where is it? Ah yes, Tyrell-street. Their apple-cheddar tarts are divine.”
Tyrell near Bond-street . . . that wasn’t far from the fatal fire Scotland Yard was investigating. The thought of a chance encounter with Inspector Ambrose Grayling made my cheeks heat and my insides jittery. Considering the fact that I had nearly accused the esteemed Lady Cosgrove-Pitt (a distant relative of Grayling’s) of being the mysterious Ankh, and that the last time I’d seen him, he’d had to haul me back from falling out of a second-story window . . . I decided it was best if I avoided him for the foreseeable future.
Possibly forever.
“I’ve already had breakfast, and from the dried jam on your chin and the faint scent of spilled coffee emitting from your handkerchief, I can see you have done as well. We should be arriving at Miss Ashton’s in time for elevenses. Perhaps you can visit the bakery at another time?”
“Oh, very well then, Mina. But I was certain you’d want to find some excuse to visit Bond-street today. Perhaps you could direct Inspector Grayling about in his latest investigation. Isn’t he working on the fatal fire case?”
I gave an aggravated sniff and shoved the Proffitt’s into the waiting drawer.
We left the Museum, riding in Evaline’s horsedrawn carriage. It was driven by a taciturn individual named Middy, who was fond of dogs, if the amount of hair clinging to his trousers was any indication. Being members of the peerage, my companion and her brother Bram had the resources to employ a full staff, unlike Father and I.
However, I didn’t begrudge Miss Stoker the large Grantworth residence filled with upper maids and lower maids, cooks, housekeepers, groomsmen, and butlers. That number of people milling about my home, snooping through—or worse, organizing—my laboratory and generally being underfoot would make me itchy and twitchy.
I suspected there were times Evaline felt the same way, which was probably why she preferred to climb out her bedroom window when embarking on her so-called vampire-hunting excursions, instead of using the more conventional front door.
As noted, it was a thirty-minute drive to the pleasant, wealthy neighborhood of Mayfair. I had checked in Kimball’s British Peerage, volume 25, fourth edition, and learned Miss Ashton resided in a modest but expensive home with her spinster aunt, Geraldine Kluger.
Evaline and I gained admittance to Miss Ashton’s home when my companion offered the butler her calling card—a charmingly handmakerish one made of sturdy stock, with nary a gear or spring or even a bolt for adornment. It didn’t even have a clasp to fasten it closed. After being shown to the parlor, we removed our gloves and settled on the settee. Moments later, the door opened and a young woman bustled in.
“Miss Stoker? Miss Holmes?” Miss Ashton greeted us with a combination of warmth and hesitation. “How kind of you to come so quickly. Her Royal Highness sent word I should expect you, but I didn’t dream you’d be able to visit so soon.”
Our hostess was seventeen—the same age as Evaline and I. Miss Ashton had honey-blond hair and a pretty, oval face. Her eyes were pale blue and one of her top teeth was charmingly crooked. A tiny dimple appeared in her chin when she spoke and I wondered if more would appear when she smiled. She seemed a pleasant young woman with good manners, despite her absurd attraction to spirit-sitting. Since she came from a titled family and, according to Kimball’s, had some significant wealth, she’d be a reasonably good catch for a young bachelor.
At least she didn’t have to contend with a too-prominent nose or long, gangly limbs.
During our introductions, I noted a variety of details that would be lost on the average person.
Nails bitten to the quick, hangnails and small sores at the cuticles—nervous and unhappy.
Dark circles under the eyes, sallow skin, bloodshot corneas—sleepless nights.
Delicate needle-pricks and stretched threads on the lower half of her overskirt—possesses a cat which craves attention or is agitated.
Slippers worn and edged with dirt, each toe outlined—recent lack of care for her appearance, walks out of doors in her indoor footwear that is growing worn and too small.
“It’s our pleasure to be here.” Evaline shook her hand warmly. Then, still holding Miss Ashton’s fingers, she said, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother.”