These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(14)
THE TRAIN SQUEALED into Victoria Station with a deafening, bouncing finality, an excess of steam hissing out as the bells signaled our arrival. Coughing our way through the smog, we descended the train, found porters to retrieve our luggage, and shoved past the hordes to the exit.
Outside, the greasy London afternoon activity was even more overwhelming. A tall man bumped my shoulder as he rushed by, talking to himself like a madman without diverting his gaze from his gilded pocket watch. A young flower girl wove through the heavy traffic on the sidewalk, singing about the violets for sale in her basket. A fruit seller, looking like a shipwrecked sailor, growled at passing pedestrians. With three and a half million people in London, I could never just happen upon an acquaintance as I did in Bramhurst. That would help me avoid detection, to be sure, but what did it do for my chances of finding Rose?
Ignoring the crowds, Mr. Kent led the way down the sidewalk to fetch a cab. The driver loaded up our trunks, and Mr. Kent provided him the address of his parents’ home, while squeezing next to me into the cramped two-seater. It wasn’t the most appealing prospect for lodgings, as his stepmother had disliked me from the moment we met and his more amiable merchant father had set sail on one of his vessels, but it was a much simpler solution than my aunt and uncle’s. All it took was one message to Mr. Kent’s adoring little stepsister, Laura, telling her to pretend that my visit had been long planned, and everything was arranged without arousing suspicion.
Our cab set off down the crowded Victoria Street toward the heart of the city, trundling past drab buildings and gray street corners at an agonizingly slow speed rivaling that of a dying cow. To make the trip even more enjoyable, pungent city scents seeped through the hansom doors—strangely enough also reminding me of a dying cow. Nothing could be done but to put all bovine thoughts out of my mind, ignore the immodestly close proximity of my travel companion, and pray the house was not far.
Fortunately, Mr. Kent, as always, set about distracting me. “So, as the world’s greatest detective, I prefer to give my solution last and put all the other proposed ideas to shame. Did you have a plan before I got myself tangled up in this?”
“I did—I mean, I do. You know, you don’t have to continue this detective act for my sake. I appreciate your help all the same.”
Mr. Kent cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not an act. The only reason I’ve never called myself one before is I didn’t want to put the other detectives to shame by association.”
“Oh, I see. It all makes sense now,” I said, dropping the matter. “I’ll keep my inferior idea short, then. Mr. Cheval wants Rose’s nursing expertise to help his sick sister. If her illness was tricky enough to make him search for Rose, I’m sure many other London doctors and medical societies were consulted for the case. One of them may know where to find Rose.”
He made a noncommittal hmm.
“And failing that, I suppose we might inquire at some chemist and druggist shops. Rose will need to replace the medical supplies she left behind, and we’ve always had a little joke about how linseed oil seems to cure most of our patients. We can start there and compare the contents of her bag with recent purchases at these stores.”
Mr. Kent nodded and clicked his tongue, thinking hard before he finally spoke. “You show promise, but allow me to demonstrate what my very real and true detective expertise can achieve.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I had this wild idea that we might ask some doctors about recent tricky illnesses, or alternatively, we might check the sales records at chemist and druggist shops.”
“Two brilliant ideas. Wherever would I be without you?” I said, trying my best to restrain my smile. Laughing should have been a relief, but it felt wrong, unearned. The warmth shared between us was both confusing and consoling.
After we sailed down another smooth thoroughfare and bumped over a few cobblestone streets, Mr. Kent rapped the roof, and the cab jolted to a stop by a corner.
“I will take a short jaunt around the block. Wouldn’t want to give them the idea we traveled together.” He paid the driver with a few coins, gave me a parting wink, and hopped out.
A little ways down the road, the cab found an open curb outside the Kents’ small but pleasing redbrick townhouse. The horse halted and let out a huff, as if he could barely withstand the city smells himself. The driver handed me out and waited by the cab while I climbed the stairs to the entrance.
The front door opened to reveal the Kents’ steward, Tuffins, who greeted me with a pleasant, formal air. “Miss Wyndham, welcome. Shall I send for your luggage?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, Tuffins. How have you been? I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
“There is never a bad time for your visits,” he replied.
As welcoming as I remember. I suspected his fondness for me stemmed from the fact that I was one of the few people who never made a request for “muffins” and snickered at the horrendous rhyme.
A footman dragged my trunk from the cab while Tuffins led me into the main entrance hall. The Kents’ home was richly decorated with fine, full carpets, silk drapery, and the typical furnishings, but my attention was seized by the countless family portraits lining the wall as if they were the wallpaper. Images of magnanimous men looking into the distance and stately women folding their hands in their laps repeated endlessly, only with slight changes for fashion over the years. If I ever had any burning questions of whether the Kent family had reputable ancestors, this hallway would hit me over the head with answers. No wonder Mr. Kent had established bachelor’s quarters elsewhere in London as soon as he could.