An awful smile twitched across the escape artist’s lips. “I won’t be wearing a tuxedo for this act, boss. But I’ll see about adding some pleasantries for the gentry.” He turned to Liza with a deep bow. “Will you please fetch the portable curtain? We aren’t going to have another chance at our milk-can debut. We need to show them something with some razzle-dazzle.”
Mephistopheles looked faintly amused by Houdini’s proper use of manners and grammar, but didn’t rise to the bait. While Houdini and Liza set up the rest of the stage to his exact measurements and demands, I allowed my mind the freedom to drift over the evening’s events. I couldn’t stop imagining the horror the man had endured, leading up to his death. I hoped he hadn’t suffered much.
As I took a seat beside Mephistopheles, I did my best to not recall how uncomfortably similar the arm in the icebox was to Jack the Ripper’s laboratory and the organs he’d harvested. The ringmaster looked me over, a frown tugging his signature smirk away.
“Have you been in the woman’s room, the one who was burned?” he asked, suddenly serious.
Not quite what I thought he was about to say, but I nodded slowly. “Once. When we initially got word she was missing.”
He tugged a square of fabric from an inner pocket of his coat. “Anything familiar about it?”
My blood seemed to freeze as I took in the rich scarlet. I recalled the beautiful dress that had been discarded on Miss Crenshaw’s floor. I hadn’t inspected it closely, but I had been near certain it hadn’t been cut up. “Where did you get this?”
“It was left in my cabin two nights ago. No note, no reason why.” He took it back, folded it, and secured it into his coat once more. “I thought an attendant must have dropped it while cleaning my room, but now I’m not sure.” From a second pocket he flourished another bit of red fabric; this one had spots of rust. Blood. “Same silk. This was delivered last night.”
“It appears to be the same silk from Miss Crenshaw.”
“‘Appears to be’?” Mephistopheles huffed. “Why not say with confidence that it is fabric from her dress? I might play at sleight of hand, but you, Miss Wadsworth, are quite adept at sleight of word.”
“As a scientist it’s imprudent to say something with certainty when I cannot be sure from first glance,” I said coolly. “Therefore, it appears to be the same fabric. Unless I had her dress to inspect, I cannot say with absolute authority it is the same. Similar, definitely. Exact?” I lifted a shoulder. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Be annoyed as much as you will, but memory is an even-better illusion worker than yourself. What of your notions regarding ‘trick the eyes, convince the mind.’ Isn’t that the same concept at work?”
“Fine. Will you accompany me to Miss Crenshaw’s cabin?” he asked. “We might as well look for scientific evidence that this bit of cut fabric, which appears to be hers, is actually from her dress.”
“Breaking into her cabin isn’t the most sound idea, especially as it’s a crime scene.”
“Which makes it all the more appealing.” He stood and offered a hand. “Let’s get on with it. I’m sure the captain will come looking for you soon enough.”
“That was hardly a yes.”
“True. But it definitely wasn’t a no, either.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “I know you’re as hungry to solve this as I am, Miss Wadsworth. I’ve started receiving complaints from patrons that aren’t very promising for the Moonlight Carnival’s future. Now, will you help me break into her chambers or not? As you said, she’s dead. I doubt she’ll mind our investigating.”
I pointed half-heartedly at the stage. “What about the milk-can act?”
“You’ll simply have to wait until tomorrow night and experience it with the rest of the passengers.” He held his hand out again. “Ready for some mild criminal activity?”
I most certainly was not. With a sinking feeling dragging me down, I stood and followed the illusionist to the empty chamber of the murdered woman, already regretting my foolishness.
TWENTY-TWO
CAKE AND MASKS
PROMENADE
RMS ETRURIA
5 JANUARY 1889
We exited onto the promenade deck, discovering a different type of chaos from the one we’d walked through only half an hour before.
Like a swarm of ants, the crew and performers disassembled tents, folding striped canvas of black, white, and silver, packing it away for another moonlit revelry. Gone were the passengers indulging in all manner of wickedness beyond candy and treats. Scantily clad stilt walkers no longer danced like ghostly snakes in baskets, swaying to the rhythm of both the sea and seductive music. Clowns and fancy ladies smeared their waxy makeup until it looked like torn flesh over their own skin. However, no matter how tired and bedraggled the performers appeared, none of them had removed their masks.
“Why do they all keep their masks on after the show?”
Mephistopheles jerked his chin forward. “They earn twenty dollars a week plus cake with one stipulation: they are never to be seen unmasked. Ever.”
“All you offer to feed them is cake?” I raised a brow. “And they agree to such things?”
“Hardly.” He snorted. “It means food is included in their wage.”
I frowned at the carnival jargon and stipulation; there were an awful lot of rules for a band of people who wished to live without them. “You don’t hold Harry Houdini to the mask clause,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t that cause internal strife? I should think the rules ought to apply to everyone or none at all.”
With a nod to detour around the opposite side of the ship, the ringmaster guided me forward, along the empty starboard deck. Here we were alone with the creaking of rope and slumbering passengers. I tried not to shudder as the wind snapped at my collar, violent and threatening as any disturbed beast.
“Harry is different,” Mephistopheles finally said. “He’s going to be a legend one day, mark my words. A man like him already wears a mask—he’s creating himself from the ashes of what he once was. Why make him wear a disguise when he becomes a new person each night, shedding a bit more of the old Harry?”
“Who is the old Harry?”
I didn’t truly expect an answer, but Mephistopheles was full of surprises.
“He’s a Hungarian immigrant, but you know where he tells people he’s from? Appleton, Wisconsin. Harry’s got so many invisible masks, a physical one would never be as authentic.”
“Is Harry even his real name?” I asked, jesting.
“Nope. It’s Ehrich.”
“Ehrich?”
“Ehrich Weiss. If that’s even true. No one but his mother can really be sure.” He counted off the cabins and slowed. “Here we are.”
We halted outside a cabin two doors down from the stern of the ship. Remembering Uncle’s insistence that murderers often revisit their crime scenes, I spun in place, taking in the surrounding area. Across from us there was the railing and endless sea. On either side of the cabin, rowboats were mounted on the wall like prized animal specimens. There wasn’t much in the way of hiding places, so I wondered how her body had been removed.
“How do you know which cabin is Miss Crenshaw’s?” I asked, suddenly. He hadn’t been present when we’d investigated her room. “Have you been here before? How did you recognize that scrap belonged to her dress?” Another thought crashed into me and I narrowed my eyes. “Were you lovers?”
“Is that jealousy I detect? There’s plenty of me for everyone, Miss Wadsworth. Though if you’d like to be my one and only, we might need to address the Cresswell situation. Once I’ve committed myself, I do not enjoy sharing.”
I didn’t deign to respond to such idiocy. Though it did add another layer to the mystery of Miss Crenshaw’s last hours. If she’d been with the ringmaster, might someone have been watching his movements? It made me think of Cassie again—had she been jealous of his late-night escapades? Or did her husband follow him here, hoping to set him up for the crimes?
Mephistophele
s patted down the front of his waistcoat, frowning. He turned out his pockets, felt along the rim of his top hat, and then bent down to fumble around the soles of his boots. “Just… another… moment.”
“Honestly?” I asked, rolling my eyes skyward once I figured out what he was searching for. “How do you of all people not have a lockpick?”
“Do I look like Houdini to you?” He bristled. “He’s the King of Cuffs.”
“Obviously, else we’d be inside investigating by now instead of dawdling.”
I removed one of my hatpins and nudged the ringmaster out of the way with my hip. He whistled in appreciation when I stuck the pin into the lock, jiggling it around until I heard the faint sound of tumblers clicking. Houdini wasn’t the only one blessed with that skill. Perhaps if I did run off with the circus, I might practice and call myself the Queen of Cuffs. Saying a silent thank you to my father for the trick, I took one quick breath and pushed the door open.
“Look who’s a wonder-worker now,” I called over my shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll assist Mr. Houdini with his next daring escape.”
“How—”
I swept into the cabin and stopped short. Though the cabin was unlit, moonlight spilled from the open doorway across the threshold, and I was able to make out a silhouette sitting upright in the bed. Either someone had stacked their pillows into a human shape, or we’d broken into an occupied room by mistake.
Mephistopheles bumped into me and cursed. “We ought to close the door—”
“Good idea. It’s a bit drafty otherwise,” the silhouette said, then unfolded itself to a standing position. “Perhaps you ought to lock it, too. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression of what you’re both doing here. Unchaperoned. After midnight. Doesn’t look very good.”
It had taken a few seconds to register that the voice was not at all who I’d expected it might be. “Thomas.” My heart nearly leapt from my chest in its haste to escape this dreadful situation. “What in the name of the queen are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
In answer, a light flared to life on a bedside table. Thomas held his lantern up and motioned to the room. It was perfectly intact—not a thing out of place. Corners of the bedsheets were pulled taut, the vanity carefully arranged with jewels and makeup. All seemed perfectly ordinary, with the exception of the three of us. Someone had obviously cleaned up the room since the last time we’d been here.
I opened my mouth, but words failed. His behavior was always somewhat peculiar; however, this was strange even by his standards.
“Sometimes I find it helps to place myself in the victim’s last known location. If I sit quietly, I can re-create a scene.” Thomas cocked his head. “What, exactly, brings you both here? Did you discover something about Miss Crenshaw or…”
His tone was composed and cordial enough, but the flash of whatever that was in his expression immediately set my teeth on edge.
“We were out for a romantic stroll and decided to cap off the evening with a visit to a dead woman’s room. Stolen kisses around rotting carcasses are all the rage. I’m surprised you haven’t given it a go yourself.” Before he schooled his features, I saw the hurt in his expression. “Honestly. What sort of question is that, Cresswell?”
Thomas drew back so suddenly I forgot my ire. He crinkled his nose. “What in God’s name is that foul scent?” he asked. “It’s awful.” He swatted the air in front of his nose. “Putrid, even.”
“What?” I leaned forward, annoyance forgotten. Last time we’d smelled something terrible it was back at the academy, and the discovery of a decomposing body had been close behind. I shoved that memory away, not wanting to think about the bats in that wretched chamber. I sniffed around, expecting the worst. “I don’t smell anything unusual.”
“Oh. Never mind.” Thomas leaned back. “It’s simply your attitude, Miss Wadsworth. It stinks.”
Mephistopheles actually bent over, wheezing with laughter, and I flashed him a glare that promised sudden death should he utter one more sound. He straightened and slowly backed away, hands up in surrender, though his chest shook with suppressed laughter.
“Well, now. This has taken quite a dramatic turn.” Mephistopheles pulled out his pocket watch as if he was only now remembering an appointment with Satan. “Miss Wadsworth?” I glanced at the ringmaster as he strode toward the door and wrenched it open. “Truth is poison. Beware how much you ingest at once.”
“Would you cease with the fortune-telling advice, already?”
“Be even more careful with how much you dispense.” He looked pointedly at Thomas, ignoring my jibe. “Good evening to you both.”
TWENTY-THREE
DEDUCTIONS AND DECEIT
MISS CRENSHAW’S CABIN
RMS ETRURIA
5 JANUARY 1889
I cringed. The ringmaster certainly hadn’t done me any favors by uttering that as a parting gift. Once the door clicked shut, Thomas sat back on the bed, the tension seeming to go out of him at once.
“It was a simple question, Wadsworth. Not an accusation. I’ve said it before—I will always respect your wishes on whomever you choose to spend your time or your life with.”
I sighed. “I understand why you’re upset, I do. And I believe you’re entitled to being angry—”
“I’m not angry.”
His response came a little too quickly for it to be the truth. I let it go. It was something we could address once we made it to America. “Another person is dead, Thomas. Our work must come first.”
“Technically, we don’t know that he’s dead. Perhaps his arm was properly amputated.” He tapped his fingers along his thighs, drawing my attention. “Until we examine the limb in detail, we cannot be sure he’s not alive somewhere.”
“Do you truly believe that?” I asked. “If his arm hadn’t been amputated properly, he’d have bled out.”
“It’s unlikely he’s living, given the three other murders, but it remains possible.” He ticked off reasons like numbers to add up or subtract. “We’re aboard a ship with a traveling carnival. The engineering equipment they have is dangerous—he might have been trying to operate something and mangled his arm. Perhaps whoever had been showing him a demonstration panicked. The ship itself has any number of places where a person might be injured. Do I believe any of those to be the actual events that occurred?” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I do not. Which is why I’m trying to piece the puzzle together. I believe this is the scene of the first actual murder. Logically, first crimes ought to hold the potential for the most mistakes made. It’s where a murderer puts his dark fantasies into practice, though it rarely goes as planned. I’m hoping to find a clue to how this all began.”
“In the dark?”
“I’d just sneaked in myself. I heard someone coming and shut off the lights.” He narrowed his eyes. “You thought I was sitting here in the dark, staring at a wall? Is that why you appeared so surprised?” He gave me a dry look. “That’s a bit eccentric, even for me.”
“Thomas, I… we weren’t—”
“Please”—he patted the bed next to him, no trace of impropriety on his face—“let’s sit here a moment. There’s something I’ve been meaning to—” He shifted uncomfortably. “Would you still like me to walk you through my method?”
I had an inkling he’d changed his mind halfway through his sentence, but didn’t press the issue. What he was offering now was an olive branch—an extension of peace for both of us to move past the things that didn’t matter to the case.
I walked to the bed and sat beside him. “I’d enjoy that very much. Tell me, how does Mr. Thomas James Dorin Cresswell apply his deductions to a scene such as this?”
“The incredibly handsome and talented Thomas James Dorin Cresswell, you mean.” A faint smile ghosted across his face. “Start with obvious scenarios. Basic truths. What do we already know about the scene?”
“Well,” I started, trying to recall the room as it had been. “There were two champagne
flutes. A half-eaten cake and a discarded dress. The poisonous berries weren’t found, so they must have been eaten before the cake.”
Thomas nodded. “And yet, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s what actually killed her, or if they had only rendered her incapable of fighting someone off. Which might mean…”
“Which might mean there was more than one person involved.”
My pulse sped up with this theory. It was another strong indication that, perhaps, a husband-and-wife team had been working together to commit these acts. But then…“Mephistopheles claimed to have spent time with her before the ship left. Someone sent him pieces of her cut dress.”
Thomas considered this. If I expected to read any emotions on his face after learning of the ringmaster’s prowling, I was sorely disappointed. He was as cold and analytical as ever. “He might be lying. There’s a strong possibility that he cut pieces of the dress himself, hoping to use it as sleight of hand.”
“But what would be the point?” I asked, unconvinced. “Wouldn’t it only throw suspicion on him? He just as easily could have pretended to not know her or have been in her room. Who would have known?”
“Secrets never stay buried for long. Someone could have seen him and he might be covering for that potential.”
I sighed, hoping his personal dislike of the ringmaster didn’t interfere with his normal deductions. We sat in silence, each mulling over our thoughts.
Finally, I broke the quiet. “All right. Let’s start somewhere else. Say Mephistopheles did simply come over, have some champagne, and they…” I blushed, not wanting to go into detail of what might have transpired after that drink. “Then he left. Maybe someone had the cake and berries sent to her, pretending it was a token of love from him. There was only one plate and one fork. Then, after enough time had gone by and she’d gotten ill, the murderer made his move.”