Maddie Hatter and the Deadly Diamond (8 page)
“Hers is quite large enough for several more people,” Nancy offered, “if you would like to come with us all the way to England.”
As the nieces alternated in cajoling and explaining, Maddie caught her breath and faced her terror squarely. She had passed the winter unremarked amidst that very class of English traveler, and many of the people here now would be fellow passengers. They would assuredly not look further than the ink-daubed fingers and sequined notebook of the lady journalist. The only risk was the moment of meeting the Steamlord’s new daughter-in-law, and she might be a complete unknown.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, cutting off the girls in mid-flow. “Take me to your aunt.”
They had, and, all arrangements being satisfactory, here she was, floating above the Nile in a blue velvet chair with gold cording, her gaze alternating between the view and a cunning Sphinx-shaped fountain that burbled in the corner. An iced-coffee service stood at her elbow. She stretched, delighted at the temporary return to that world from which she had exiled herself. The nieces shared a smaller bedchamber that opened off her parlour, under her eye and underfoot for the entire passage. Their maid, a dour person of uncertain age, was doubtless accommodated in one of the airless, viewless, cramped berths that might have been Maddie’s lot had the hawk with Obie’s message not been delayed by yesterday’s storm.
The only point of risk was the handover in Venice, but that should prove no real problem. Cousin Lucy had married into an Artificer family, a full generation newer and one rung lower than the Main-Bearings. Father would not be intimate with any family that carried a taint of Spanish in its bloodline, as the Aquatiempe did. In any case, the marriage of the third son had occurred after Maddie’s unorthodox exit from London Society, and Lucy herself was an Old Nobility baronet’s daughter three years younger. Their paths would never have crossed.
The trip up the Nile was innocuous. The girls were content to sit upon the shady balcony much of the day, eyeing the archaeological ruins that passed beneath the airship’s keel and gossiping about their fellow passengers. None of these were young men either handsome or eligible, and Maddie’s first fear, that she would be forced to chaperone the girls everywhere to ward off undesirable attention, had fallen away with the last sight of the Great Pyramid at Giza.
After luncheon, they explored the facilities. Clarice and Nancy were no strangers to airship liners, but Maddie, until she had run away, had traveled like any Steamlord child, in private luxury. To her, the fittings of the various regions were not especially luxurious, but after two years of living as a working woman, she relished the comfort of servants to bring a cool drink, the latest newspapers, and blank aetherogram forms on request.
After a whirlwind pass through the dining room, First-Class Lounge, Spa facilities (with a rather ominous masseuse offering her services in or out of the steam-closets) and an outdoor viewing platform complete with chaises from which one could comfortably view the passing scenery, Maddie settled in the ship’s library. She looked around at the heavy books on the inner wall, the flimsier airship editions of popular works on the other walls, and the large globe of the Known World, with its uncharted spaces over the poles left blank. This might be the very room in which the two professors had argued over Nubian cities and, possibly, treasures. That was unlikely, given the vast number of White Sky Line airships circling the world, but surely the room itself was similar in most aspects.
Thinking about the unsolved mystery of the baron’s death only reminded her of her failure to find the widow. Where in Venice could she begin her search for the imposter? She had only visited once before, as Madame Taxus-Hemlock’s lab assistant, and barely long enough to attend a rather riotous embassy party most memorable for Obie’s dramatic departure. He had leapt across a canal to the opposite balcony by moonlight, scaled the wall to the rooftop, and flown away on a small private runabout that had carelessly left a rope ladder dangling as it lifted off. Maddie did not fear being recognized at the embassy, if chance took her there. Back then, she had been wearing purple goggles that matched her hair, and a laboratory smock much stained with exotic hues and some odd scents as well. Miss Maddie Hatter, journalist, had never been to Venice before.
That evening, with the girls safely in their stateroom preparing for bed, Maddie took a turn on the stern viewing platform. It was deserted, for few passengers braved the sharp, clean tang of the desert by night. She had seen Obie going about his duties several times that day, and knew he would look for her when he could. Meanwhile, she could look out over the desert below, its rocky outcrops and sloping dunes tinted blue by a waxing moon that shimmered over crests and limned each sandy windrow in purple shadow. Concerns of the civilized world were as ants beneath the weight of mere survival down there; up here, too, her worries faded before the vast empty majesty of the land and sky, the whisper of the night-time breeze teasing the sand into new patterns for the next morning. A bird warbled, alone in the immensity.
It warbled again, very close. She turned her head as TC landed on her shoulder, his little brass claws folding lightly into the fabric of her gown.
“Hello, little bird,” she said, and touched its head by way of greeting. “Where’s your master?”
“Just coming,” said a voice from above, and a dark shape swung down from the crew catwalk suspended below the great liner’s envelope. Obie landed almost as lightly as his bird and joined her at the rail. “Lovely night.”
“It is that.” Maddie sighed. “Looking at this endless sand, my worries seem so small. I ran out on my job in Cairo and might lose my allowance or my freedom over that woman’s antics in Venice. I have no idea how to go about finding and exposing her, or if I should even try, when to call attention to her will reveal to Society that I am choosing to live away from my family. But at least I am not struggling to survive the desert.”
Obie patted her hand. “Madame Taxus-Hemlock will have that imposter sorted by the time we arrive in Venice.”
“You seem very certain of that. What if she can’t waste her family’s minions on my little problem?”
“Of course she will. You’re her protégé. Reminding her of her younger self and all that. Anyway, she’ll send a message to the ship when we’re in range. You’ll see. And then you can decide what to do. This ship is only hanging about in Venice overnight, but I’ll have shore leave and can help you get started.”
“Thanks, Obie. You’re a great pal in a tight spot.”
He said nothing by reply, and they leaned on the rail in companionable silence. After a while, he asked, “Were you still curious about those two professors?”
“Sort of. Why?”
“My mate, Hiram, was the steward on their corridor during that Atlantic crossing. He’ll tell you all about them if you like.”
“I’d like that. When and where?”
“Let’s aim for tomorrow evening, same time?”
“Same place, too?”
“Nope. This platform will be crowded tomorrow night. The ship has a shore day in Athens, departing at sunset, but hovers near those famous ruins if the moon is full enough for a view.”
“The Parthenon by moonlight? I will have to bring the girls out for that. After they’re in bed, where can we meet that won’t be conspicuous?”
“I’ll bring Hiram along to you,” said Obie. “Anyone who sees two crew members going into your stateroom will merely think you are irate about something. First Class gets the kid glove treatment, remember?”
The next day was a repeat of the first, save that they woke over the Mediterranean off the fabled Greek Isles. Morning passed quietly as they enjoyed the crisp sea breeze on their private balcony, watching while passengers and luggage were winched to the roof of the Athens terminal. Those passengers staying with the ship were offered an afternoon’s excursion to the National Archaeological Museum, but the girls declared they had seen quite enough archaeology in Egypt and were content to stay on board, playing deck sports with other young people. Maddie took herself off to the Library and the new day’s aethernet news. It wasn’t long before a familiar name caught her eye: Professor Windsor Jones, Junior.
The University Times
AMERICAN LECTURER
LAUGHED OUT OF OXFORD
Professor Windsor “Windy” Jones, a scholar visiting from a middle-American “university,” gave a detailed description of a fabled proto-Nubian mask, The Eye of Africa, at the Explorers Club dinner in Balliol College last week. He embellished the telling with convincing detail.
When asked to produce evidence of his conclusions, Jones claimed his research was all lost on his airship voyage to England last fall. The White Sky Line denies any claim was made by Mr. Jones for lost luggage. His research cast into grave doubt, Jones’ visiting-professor status at Oxford has been terminated. The rest of his British lecture tour dates are in doubt.
An American, Professor Jones did not depart with the dignity of a British don. After confronting an esteemed Cambridge professor in the dining hall with accusations of theft, Jones was escorted from the Sacred Halls of Academe. At the university gate he yelled, “I’m right and I’ll rub all your noses in it.”
The egregious insult has cast further doubt on the recent contentious policy of treating America’s fledgling academic institutes as on par with the venerable universities of England. Look for sparks to fly at next month’s meeting of the Oxford-Cambridge Guild.
Maddie raised her eyes from the brass monkey’s vest to the wide sky outside. Professor Jones was an expert on the Eye of Africa mask, and claimed his research had been stolen on his trans-oceanic passage. Could Professor Plumb have absconded with Jones’ research, and provided it to Baron Bodmin? Did either of the academic gentlemen have cause to engineer the death of the baron? Once the matter of the imposter was settled, Maddie would make her way closer to England and poke her nose more deeply into both professors’ movements. There was more to this Bodmin death to be explored, and the byline might be within her grasp after all.
That night, after an hour spent gazing upon the ancient wonder that was the ruined Parthenon, its crumbled columns and tumbled stones ghostly white in the clear moonlight, she shepherded the girls into their beds.
“Tomorrow we will come to Venice, after which you will be very busy getting ready for your Court presentations. Tonight, you must rest. I will speak to the crew this evening, to ensure you and your luggage are transferred directly to your cousin’s air-yacht with all possible dispatch.” That last would cover the situation if either girl woke later and heard male voices in the parlour.
As the hour grew late, she began to fear some wakeful matron would spot two male crew members slipping at midnight into the stateroom of a young, attractive female passenger. That would ruin the reputation of this identity completely, and she would have to start afresh in some other arena. She was about to give up and prepare for bed herself when a bird warbled from the balcony. TD, bored with his day’s confinement to the wardrobe, answered it. There, at the balcony doorway, stood Obie, his hand raised to tap.
“What on earth are you doing out there?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer. Obie, as a midshipman on that experimental Navy craft where they’d first met, had often taken unconventional routes around the outside of the airship. He had no fear of the altitude, and rather too great a belief in his own ability to move about the envelope’s netting in perfect safety. Behind him stood another young man in crew whites, looking rather like a long-legged crane and quite sanguine about his external scramble along the great ship’s envelope. Clearly this fellow was a kindred spirit to the adventurous Obie.
Obie introduced his shipmate. “Miss Maddie Hatter, meet Hiram Phillips, great-grandson of the captain of the first settlement ship to reach Australia. He can tell you all about those professors.” Hiram Phillips bowed slightly, a courtesy due to any First Class passenger, even Maddie Hatter, lady reporter, whose status on solid ground was barely higher than that of an airship steward. She tipped her head to him, whipped out her pink sequined notebook, and invited both men to sit.
“Mr. Phillips, please tell me: what do you remember of professors Windsor Jones and Polonius Plumb on their crossing last fall? Did they spend a lot of time together? Did they argue much? Do you remember anything they discussed? Did Professor Jones misplace any research materials?”
Hiram stared at her. “Now how did you know about that, Miss? The crew made no report.”
“So his research did go missing?”
“Yeah, s’right. Last night o’ the crossing it was, sky calm as a millpond. The professors were elbow-bending a-plenty. Professor Jones has to be drunk to fly at all, but this was a big ’un. Started in the bar and went on to Jones’ stateroom in Second Class. They were in there for hours, yarning and looking at papers and charts, ringing for more brandy. Last time I went by, maybe four in the morning, door was open and Mr. Jones was snoring with his head on a bare desk. I shoved him onto his berth, stripped off his boots, and shut his door on the way out.
“Next morning, they thought he was gone ashore with the rest but cleaners found him still abed. He woke up ranting about his trunk of papers being gone. Day crew had no idea what he meant, just hurried him ashore with promises it had been offloaded with the rest of the luggage. We went straight on to Paris and never heard another word from him.”