Free Garrett Investigates by Elizabeth Bear Page B

certainly know why she was here. She must appear in command of the situation as she entered, and she must never let that appearance of control lapse.
    With the captain at her left hand, she swept into the main cabin, pausing with the reflexes of a lady as every eye turned to her. Silence spread in ripples, lapping over one another, making snatches of conversation audible that should have lain beneath the general murmur of words. “…a dead woman…” “…said she was poisoned…” “…missing my daughter’s—” “…botanical conference.”
    She recognized several of the ship’s crew, including Mr. Manley, the purser with such exceptional recall. She caught his eye and he came toward her. Having glanced at O’Brien for permission, he said, “D.C.I.?”
    Garrett rode the moment, feeling it like the swell of a wave beneath The Nation . When her well-honed sense of society told her attention was beginning to waver away from her, she lowered her voice and said to Manley, “Sir, is there anyone in the cabin who you cannot put a name to?”
    He turned once, slowly, and then shook his head.
    Garrett frowned. She turned to O’Brien as if he had said something amusing and permitted herself to laugh. He caught her gaze, frowning, but seemed to understand that she was dissembling. His hand on her elbow moved her forward, and Manley fell in beside.
    “We could search everyone in Albany,” she whispered. “When they disembark. Although anyone with sense would have divested themselves of anything that might have identifiably belonged to ‘Mrs. Abercrombie’ by now. A handbag would be a lot less obvious going over the railing than a trunk. And there would be political implications.”
    “I know you’re a special friend of the Duke’s,” O’Brien replied. “But he’s in business with Mr. Cook. And with any number of my passengers. Are you… that special of a friend?”
    “No one is that special of a friend,” she answered. “Except possibly the Duchess. And she owns the New Netherlands.”
    Around them, conversations were slowly resuming. Garrett walked the length of the main cabin with the captain, watching silver glitter as it worked against china plates.
    The “library” was a set of shelves beside the doors to the saloon, opposite the women’s drawing room. After spending a few more moments with O’Brien, Garrett turned away. She moved toward the shelf—not ostentatiously, but with purpose. Manley hovered between her and the captain as if held in place by the stretch of invisible tackle, obviously torn with regard to whose orbit to maintain.
    Garrett was lifting the ship’s English-language copy of The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon from the shelf—it was filed under C for Crayon rather than I for Irving, which made her wonder whether the person doing the filing had somehow missed that Crayon was a pseudonym, or if he had a sense of humor. She had asked O’Brien to keep an eye on the passengers as she removed the book. But as her finger settled into the notch of the spine she felt her own awareness vibrating as she stretched it to notice if anyone reacted to her choice of literature.
    If they did react, she failed to catch them. Because she looked at the leather of her glove and the leather of the binding, and realized what a ridiculous, foolish oversight she had made.
    Garrett hefted Irving in her hand and turned quickly to O’Brien. He seemed to be at parade rest, patiently awaiting her return, but she saw how his eyes flickered about the room, belying his impassive expression. She said to Manley, “Have you been in the saloon tonight?”
    He shook his head.
    “Mr. Sisters, who cancelled his berth so conveniently—or perhaps so tragically—for Miss von Dissen. Would you know him by sight?”
    “I would not,” Manley said. “His arrangements were made by a representative. It’s not uncommon; Mr. Lenox doesn’t book his own travel either.”
    Garrett rubbed her thumb across the leather