“Private detectives,” Van Helsing said, effectively scuttling any hope they had of being inconspicuous. Mr. Keene’s features shifted from confused to closed off. Sam sighed. So much for going undercover. But then again, given that Lord Lusk already knew their names and assumed occupation, she supposed that was a given. “Jakob Van Helsing, at your service. This is Miss Moriarty and Miss Harker.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Keene said, adjusting his spectacles. “Lord Lusk did mention something of the sort.”
“Is he here?” Van Helsing inquired.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Mr. Keene said distantly, and Sam frowned. For a man who was supposedly mourning the death of his friend, Lord Lusk had an odd way of showing it. “Perhaps I could help you?”
“Perhaps,” Van Helsing echoed. “Mr. Enfield hired me because he had reason to believe his life was in danger. Regrettably, upon my arrival, I found that he was correct. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”
Mr. Keene blinked. “What possible grudge could someone hold against Mr. Enfield? He was a paragon of loyalty and noblesse oblige.”
A paragon who may have been sleeping with his best friend’s fiancée?—or his best friend. But Van Helsing, displaying uncharacteristic restraint, held his tongue on that part. “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that.”
“Perhaps if you told me exactly what he said,” Mr. Keene said guilelessly, “I could help unravel the mystery for you.”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Sam said swiftly, before Van Helsing could get any ideas and invent something they’d all have to remember.
“With all due respect,” Mr. Keene said, “if someone truly sought to harm Mr. Enfield, I’m certain he’d want me to help however I could.”
“You’re already helping plenty,” Sam assured him. “We just need to ask his friends and associates a few questions.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Keene acceded, and before they could stop him, he turned and addressed the room. “Dear gathered friends?—”
Sam’s eyes widened. “That’s quite all right,” she said hurriedly. “You don’t have to?—”
“I’m afraid I do,” Mr. Keene replied in a low voice, before addressing the crowd once more. “If I might steal a moment of your attention, please. These gentle souls are private investigators, looking into the unfortunate end to our dear Mr. Enfield’s illustrious story. I would be in your debt if you would give them your utmost cooperation.”
Sam winced. Mr. Keene’s words to the crowd hadn’t been an entreaty to share information; they’d been a warning. She could see the crowd reacting: their backs straightening and smiles tightening, their attention settling on the three of them.
“Thank you... so much for that,” Sam said tersely.
“I was glad to do it,” Mr. Keene said with a quiet, self-satisfied smile. “If you need anything else?—”
“You’ve done more than enough,” Van Helsing growled. He turned to Sam. “Now?—”
But Sam was already gone. The moment they won free of Mr. Keene, she broke away from Van Helsing, wending her way through the crowd to Hel, who was leaning against the wall with a somehow explosive insouciance.
“What was that?” Sam hissed. Checking over her shoulder to make sure Van Helsing wasn’t in earshot, she pulled Hel behind a pair of potted palms. “With Mr. Keene?”
“Do you know what it’s like in the places he’s talking about?” Hel said. “They don’t live that way because it’s magical and pure. They live that way because they have no other choice.”
“He’s trying to help!” Sam countered. Even as she spoke, she knew that it was a weak argument. She might as well have saidDetective Lynchwas trying to help, for he was, in his way, unlike some of the worst elements in British Parliament. It was only that his idea of help was objectionable. The equivalent to deciding that the problem with your face was that it was yours. “That’s better than most.”
“Oh, and he’s asked them what they want, has he?” Hel snapped. Hel, it seemed, was more for Kavanagh than Yeats. But if poets were the ones shaping the face of Ireland on the world stage, surely it was better that it was an idealized portrayal? Unless, she supposed, you were the one being idealized and not heard.
This was, Sam decided, entirely too complicated for her, as an American, to parse. No matter how many stories she had heard from her grandfather.
But whatever she might have said next was lost as Van Helsing’s head poked through the decorative palms, as if he were stalking through the jungle. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you two arguing about?”
“Politics,” Sam said, even as Hel drawled, “Poetry.”
“Right, then...” Van Helsing said, looking as if he regretted asking. At least they’d been arguing when he’d discovered them. “Look, whoever these people are, they’re obviously hiding something. We need to split up and see what we can uncover.”
“With pleasure,” Sam said. Perhaps she could get something done without the other two looming over her, being obvious.
“Gladly,” Hel countered. They exchanged a heated look. Van Helsing sighed.
Even on her own, the crowd parted around Sam like minnows from a pike, intense conversations melting away to mild pleasantries whenever she drew near, eyes following her wherever she moved.
