Escaping From Houdini, Page 2

  Mephistopheles tipped the hat and it tumbled down his arm as if it were an acrobat vaulting over a trapeze. Like any great showman, he held it out so we could see it was a regular top hat, if not a bit gaudy. Once he’d made an entire circuit around the stage, he tossed it in the air, then snatched it back with a snap of his wrist. I watched, unblinking, as he stuck his arm in up to his elbow and yanked out a dozen ink-blue roses.

  His hat had been utterly ordinary. I was almost certain of it.

  “I warn you once more—do not get too attached.” Mephistopheles’s voice boomed so loudly I felt an echo of it in my own chest. “While we boast death-defying acts, no one escapes its grip forever. Will tonight be the end for some? Will you lose your hearts? Or perhaps,” he grinned over his shoulder at the crowd, “you will lose your heads.”

  A spotlight illuminated a crudely painted harlequin doll—which hadn’t been there a moment before. Pivoting in a single, graceful movement, the ringmaster threw a dagger across the stage. It flew blade over handle, sinking into the doll’s neck with a thwack that hushed the audience. For a taut moment nothing happened. All was wretchedly still. We sat there, scarcely breathing, waiting. The doll’s body stubbornly remained pinned to the board it had been propped against. Another moment passed and Mephistopheles tsked.

  “Well. That won’t do.” He stomped his feet. “Everyone… do as I do!”

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

  Passengers obliged, slowly at first, then sent the dining saloon into a vibrating frenzy. China rattled, silverware scuttled across tables, goblets sloshed merlot onto the expensive linens, our tables now appearing more like crime scenes than elegant spreads. Deciding to let go of my well-bred reserve a bit, I stomped along. Thomas, a bemused expression on his face, followed my lead.

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

  The pounding drummed into each of my cells, prompting my blood to pump to the beat. It was animalistic and feral, and yet so… thrilling. I could not believe so many lords and ladies and highborn passengers of first class were swept up in the hedonism and debauchery.

  Mrs. Harvey brought her gloved fists down on the table, adding a new fervor to the sound thrumming in my ears. Miss Prescott did the same. A breath later the doll’s head thumped to the floor, rolling toward the ringmaster’s gleaming boots.

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. It seemed no one was quite ready to give up the devil’s rhythm once it had started. Mephistopheles was the conductor of this wicked symphony, his hand punching the air as the stomp stomp stomping reached a fever pitch.

  “Silence!” he shouted, voice booming above everything else. As if he were a puppet master snipping strings, the clomping of feet ceased. Some in the crowd stood, cheering, while a few men in silk top hats whistled loudly.

  Miss Prescott rose from her seat, face flushed and eyes bright, completely unaffected by the glare her parents leveled at her. “Bravo!” she called out, clapping. “I said bravo!”

  Mephistopheles gazed at the severed head with a thoughtful expression, as if he was reliving a memory that haunted him, something wretched enough he’d never escape it, no matter how far he’d run. I imagined, like his elaborate illusions, nothing was quite as it seemed where he was concerned. To my astonishment, he picked up the doll’s head and kicked it into the air, where it exploded in fireworks that sprinkled down like fallen stars, burning out before they reached the black-and-white-tiled floor. Silence fell upon us all.

  “So, I inquire once more, which will you lose before the week is through? Your heart? Your head? Perhaps,” he drawled, face cast in shadows as the chandeliers dimmed slowly before winking out, “you will lose your life, your very soul, to this magical traveling show.”

  I gasped and held my gloved hands up, but could only make out the barest hint of them. My heart pumped faster as I glanced around the pitch blackness, enraptured yet terrified of what monster might be lurking. Seemed I wasn’t the only one intrigued. Excited murmurs rippled through the darkness. The promise of death was as alluring, if not more so, than the prospect of falling in love. What morbid creatures we were, craving danger and mystery in place of happily-ever-afters.

  “For now,” he continued, his voice a smooth caress in the dark, “enjoy an evening of magic, mischief, and mayhem.” My palms dampened and I couldn’t help sitting forward, needing another word, another clue, another bit of the surreal. As if he’d heard my inner longings, Mephistopheles spoke again. “Esteemed passengers of the Etruria… please indulge your senses in the greatest show from sea to sea,” he crooned. “Welcome to Mephistopheles’s Magnificent Minstrel Show, or as it’s better known… the Moonlight Carnival!”

  Lights flashed on, the brightness stinging as I blinked dark spots away. A moment later, Mrs. Harvey shoved away from our table, face as pale as a specter. Thomas reached out to steady her, but she raised a shaking hand.

  I followed her gaze and bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper. Miss Prescott—the young woman clapping with delight moments before—lay facedown, unmoving, in a pool of blood with nearly a dozen knives stuck deep in her velvet-covered back.

  I stared, waiting for her to gasp out or twitch. To toss her head back and laugh, having fooled us with her performance. But that was an illusion of my own making.

  Miss Prescott was truly dead.

  TWO

  FROM DREAMS TO NIGHTMARES

  DINING SALOON

  RMS ETRURIA

  1 JANUARY 1889

  For a moment, nothing happened except for the growing ringing in my ears. Thomas might have been calling my name, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than forcing myself to breathe. I needed to be rational and analytical, but my emotions weren’t quite ready to comply. I studied the dead, but sitting beside a person who’d been murdered was incomprehensible.

  The room twisted as I stood and everything became scorchingly hot. I tried convincing myself it was a terrible dream, but Mrs. Prescott’s guttural scream erupted, drawing a hundred pairs of eyes our way, and I knew it was real.

  Passengers at other tables gasped, their expressions filled not with repulsion but… delight as they spied the young woman lying in her own blood with ten dinner knives following the length of her spine. I slowly blinked at the people who were starting to clap, stomach churning, until the truth hit me: they thought this was another act.

  To most in the saloon, Miss Prescott’s “murder” was simply part of the dinner show—and what a magnificent one it was, according to a man at the next table. Thomas was already out of his seat, his attention torn between his sobbing chaperone and me, all the while scanning the perimeter for threats. I wanted to assist him, to be productive and useful, but I could not stop the shrill ringing in my ears or the fog that had descended over my thoughts. Everything seemed to move slowly. Everything except for my heart. That thundered against my ribs in frantic bursts. It was a warning beat, urging me to action, begging me to flee.

  “Olivia!” Mrs. Prescott clutched her daughter’s body, tears dripping onto her velvet dress. “Get up. Get up!”

  Blood smeared across the tablecloth and Mrs. Prescott’s bodice, the color as dark as my churning emotions. Miss Prescott was dead. I could neither process it nor will my heart to harden and be of use. How could this be?

  Captain Norwood was suddenly out of his seat and yelling commands I could not decipher through the relentless ringing in my head. Movement around the table finally forced my gaze away from the knives and blood; diners were being escorted out, though the merriment in the room hadn’t quelled. Except for a few at nearby tables, no one looked especially alarmed. I stared down at the horror, uncertain how anyone might mistake it for an illusion. There was so much blood.

  “Wadsworth?” Thomas touched my elbow, his brow crinkled. I stared at him without truly seeing anything. A lively young woman lay dead next to me; the world no longer made sense. “Ghastly though it sounds, pretend it is an equation now.”

  Thomas bent until I met his gaze, his expression as strained as
I imagined my own. This wasn’t easy for him, either. And if he could turn that cool exterior on, then I could, too. Shaking myself from my own horror, I rushed to Mrs. Prescott’s side, and gently took her hands in mine. It was both to comfort her and preserve the crime scene. Through my storm of emotions I clutched at one fact: a murderer was on board this ship and we needed to isolate clues quickly. As gruesome as it was, we couldn’t disturb the body. At least not yet.

  “Come,” I said as tenderly as I could.

  “Olivia!” Mrs. Prescott wailed. “Sit up!”

  “Look at me, Ruth. Only at me,” Mr. Prescott interrupted his wife’s screams. There was an edge in his voice that carved through her growing hysteria. She straightened, though her lips trembled. “Go to our chambers and instruct Farley to give you a warm brandy. I’ll send Dr. Arden at once.”

  I made to go with her when a warm hand came down on my shoulder. Thomas squeezed it in comfort, his golden-brown eyes serious as he inspected me. “I’ll escort Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Harvey to their chambers, then fetch your uncle.”

  He didn’t ask if I’d be all right staying with the body; he trusted I would be. I stared at him a moment more, his confidence proving a balm to my raw nerves, soothing my fears. I nodded once, took another deep breath, then faced the table. Captain Norwood stared at a playing card stuck to Miss Prescott’s back I hadn’t noticed. It was directly in the center of her spine. My blood chilled. Whoever had thrown the knife had impaled the card through the blade first. A potential warning and a clue.

  “I’ll need this area to be left precisely as it is, Captain,” I said, falling back on months of forensic training while Thomas guided the two women out. Uncle would be proud; I’d collected my emotions like anatomical specimens and stored them away to dissect later. “You’ll also need to question everyone in this room.”

  “The lights were out, Miss Wadsworth.” Norwood swallowed hard, his focus sliding back to the knives in Miss Prescott’s spine and the torn card. “I doubt they witnessed anything useful.”

  I longed to smack him upside the head with that obvious remark. The lights had only been out briefly—someone might have noticed suspicious behavior prior to that.

  “Humor me then, sir,” I said, using my best authoritative tone. The captain clamped his jaw. It was one thing to hear commands from a man, but from a seventeen-year-old girl it was quite another. For the sake of the murdered woman before us, I let my annoyance go. “My uncle is an expert with reading a crime scene,” I added, sensing the captain’s wavering decision. “It’s what he’d advise.”

  He ran a hand down his face. A death on the first night of the Moonlight Carnival didn’t bode well for his future plans. “Very well. I’ll send crew to everyone’s rooms tonight.”

  At a signal from the captain, attendants swept into the saloon like a well-dressed army, ushering members of first class out as calmly as they could. A few guests threw nervous glances our way, but most were excitedly chattering on about how lifelike the performance was. How real the blood appeared. And how on earth had the ringmaster managed to make the knives in the back look so authentic? Captain Norwood said nothing to confirm or deny these theories. He stood, face grim, and bid the passengers good evening.

  As the room emptied, an uncomfortable feeling tingled down my own spine. I turned, surprised to find Mephistopheles staring from the stage, expression impossible to read behind his mask. Unlike the others, however, his attention wasn’t on the murdered girl. He was watching me. His gaze was heavy, almost tangible, and I wondered what he’d seen or might know. I took a step in his direction, intent on asking him these questions and more, but he faded into the shadows and disappeared for good.

  The chamber we’d been offered for Miss Prescott’s postmortem reminded me of a dank cave.

  We were deep within the bowels of the Etruria, and being so near the boiler system, the temperature was unpleasantly warm and the lights flickered a bit too often, as if the ship itself was nervous about what dark deeds were to come. I was grateful for the refrigeration on board—we wouldn’t keep the body in this chamber for long, lest it swell with rot overnight and attract vermin.

  Gooseflesh tickled my skin despite the heat. No matter how hard I fought to think otherwise, I could not escape from memories of another sinister laboratory. One where the whirl-churn sounds still managed to tiptoe through my nightmares some evenings. The bad dreams were less frequent than in weeks past, but they haunted me from time to time, painful reminders of all that I’d lost during the Autumn of Terror.

  Ignoring the hiss of steam emanating from an exposed pipe, I focused on Uncle Jonathan as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and proceeded to scrub with carbolic soap. When he finished, I walked around the examination table, sprinkling sawdust to soak up any blood or fluids that might leak onto the floor. Rituals were necessary parts of our work. They helped keep our hearts and minds clear, according to Uncle.

  “Before I remove the knives, I want physical details written down.” Uncle’s tone was as cool as the metal scalpels I’d laid out on the makeshift tray. “Height, weight, and so on. Audrey Rose, I’ll need my—”

  I handed his apron over, then tied my own about my waist. I hadn’t changed out of my evening attire, and the juxtaposition of my fine silk gown against the plain apron reminded me of how unpredictable life could be. I doubted when Miss Prescott woke this morning she feared she’d be lying facedown on our examination table, stabbed with knives starting from the base of her skull and ending just near her tailbone.

  Thomas picked up a notebook and nodded toward me, expression determined. He and I were well versed in our macabre roles, having practiced many times in more than one country. It seemed no matter where we went, death followed, and like greedy misers, we stored data away, profiting, in a sense, from loss. I’d provide the scientific findings and he’d record them—a team in all ways.

  I dug around inside Uncle’s leather medical satchel until I found the measuring tape. I held it from crown to toe as I’d been taught, my mind clearing with the familiar task. Now wasn’t the time to reflect on all the things Miss Prescott longed to do in life. Now it was time to read her corpse for clues. I didn’t believe in revenge, but it was hard not to seek justice for her.

  “Deceased is a female named Miss Olivia Prescott, approximately one hundred and sixty-five centimeters, and eighteen years of age,” I said, pausing for Thomas to scratch the information down. He looked up, my signal to continue. “I’d put her weight around seven and a half stone.”

  “Good.” Uncle lined up the scalpels, bone saws, and scissors I’d need for the internal examination next. “Cause of death.”

  I tore my gaze from the cadaver. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s nearly a dozen knives protruding from her back. Isn’t her cause of death rather obvious? I’m sure one or more of them either pierced her heart or lungs, or severed her spinal column.”

  He turned his sharp, green-eyed focus on mine and I fought the urge to shrink away. Clearly, I’d forgotten an important lesson. “As forensic examiners, we cannot shut off other avenues to search. What have I taught you about trusting only that which you see?”

  As far as admonishments went, it wasn’t the worst, but my face still flamed under his scrutiny. “You’re correct… it’s… I suppose it’s possible the knives have been poisoned. Or that Miss Prescott was killed through other means and the knives were a distraction. She did expire rather quickly and quietly.”

  “Very good.” Uncle nodded. “It’s imperative we keep our emotions and theories in check while performing a postmortem. Otherwise we run the risk of influencing our findings. Or becoming so distraught we work ourselves into a fit, like your aunt Amelia.”

  Uncle closed his eyes and I had the distinct impression he hadn’t wished to speak of her.

  “Aunt Amelia?” I drew my brows together. “What’s happened to upset her? Is Father all right?”

  An uncomfortably long pause followed my question and Uncle
seemed at a loss for words. I gripped the measuring tape in my hands, knowing anything that took this long for him to compose a response to couldn’t be good. He finally shot Thomas a pinched-lipped look—as if he wasn’t certain he wanted his other protégé to hear what he had to say, then sighed.

  “It seems Liza has gone missing.”

  “Missing? That can’t be right.” The shrill ringing in my head from earlier was back. I took an unsteady step away from the corpse, lest I faint onto it. “I received a letter from her only last week.” I shut my mouth, trying to recount when my cousin’s letter had been dated. I couldn’t recall. But there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary. She’d been happy, secretly meeting with a young man. There was no harm in innocent flirtations. “Surely Aunt Amelia is overreacting. Liza is probably off with…”

  I hadn’t seen Thomas stand up, but he caught my eye across the small room. If Liza had run off with the young man she’d last written about, it would be a devastating blow to our family and reputation. No wonder Uncle had hesitated in front of Thomas.

  Uncle rubbed his temples. “I’m afraid the news comes from your father. Amelia is beside herself with grief and hasn’t left her chambers in more than a week. Liza went out one afternoon and never returned home. Your father worries she may be dead.”

  “Dead? She can’t—” My stomach seemed to fall through my knees. Either it was the ocean travel or the news, but I was about to be sick. Without offering another word, I rushed from the room, not wanting to witness the disappointment in my uncle’s eyes as my emotions erupted from the box I’d set them in and consumed me.

  I huddled into my cloak, watching from the chilly promenade deck as the sun dipped toward the horizon, turning the dark, churning waves the color of clotted blood. The steady sound of water striking the hull was like a siren’s call, luring victims in, promising all would be well if one simply took a leap of faith and entered her underwater dominion.