The Clockwork Scarab s&h-1

by Colleen Gleason

  Her brown corset was short and leather, and she wore it over the bodice in a new style that was just coming into fashion. But did she have another corset underneath? Four dangling watch chains and their matching clocks decorated one side of the corset and on the other were two slender pockets. And pinned to the front of her bodice was the most remarkable dragonfly pin, complete with rotating wings that made a soft, pleasant buzzing sound and little whirring gears that made up its body.

  Not only was she dressed at the height of Street Fashion, but the gangly, long-nosed girl had done something with her hair that made her look even taller . . . but in a willowy way. And even her blade-like nose seemed balanced by the pile of chestnut-colored hair that had been braided, woven with ribbons, and decorated with clockwork gears in a neat but intricate coiffure.

  Not that my own gown was anything to sniff at. At the height of accepted Victorian fashion, my frock consisted of a narrow skirt of frothier, lighter fabric than Miss Holmes’s, with many layers of ice-colored pink caught up by darker rosettes and gathered into a neat bustle at the lower part of my spine. But the most important aspect of the dress was its concealed split skirts. That was Pepper’s inspiration, and practical for someone of my vocation.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Stoker?” Miss Holmes asked, patting her head as if to make certain her hair wasn’t about to fall.

  We were sitting in the carriage, and Middy, the driver, was waiting for directions from me. “No,” I replied, noticing the set of keys dangling from the edge of Miss Holmes’s corset-vest. Surely they were for decoration rather than practical use, but nevertheless, even a traditionalist handmaker like me found them cunning. I blinked and stuck my head out the small window to give Middy the address and then settled back in my seat.

  “Are you quite certain?” My companion glanced down at herself, smoothing her full skirts. Even in the drassy light, I could see a stiff, black lace crinoline peeping from beneath the rustling material and the hint of elegant copper-toed shoes. “Do you think my—I wasn’t certain what to wear.” She lifted her nose and managed to look down at me despite the fact that we were both seated.

  Miss Mina Holmes was nervous. That was an eye-opening revelation and eased my . . . whatever it was that made me feel prickly and uncomfortable around her.

  “Not at all,” I told her candidly. “Your gown is stunning. I’m certain the gentlemen will be most taken with you.”

  “Well, that might be the case, but it’s neither here nor there. We have business afoot tonight.” Despite her brisk words, her fingers, which had been toying with a group of buttons on her glove-sleeve, relaxed in her lap.

  “Yes, of course. You could bring me up to date on what you and Miss Adler discovered today.” I kept my voice neutral but felt compelled to add, “My apologies for not joining you at the museum. I was out late patrolling for UnDead and overslept this morning.” I didn’t mention the fact that neither of the ladies had contacted me about a time or place to meet, so Miss Holmes must have taken it upon herself to visit Miss Adler first thing in the morning.

  “Oh,” she said, looking surprised. “It must be a rather difficult proposition, being out late and then being required to awaken shortly after dawn. I didn’t think the UnDead were quite a threat any longer.”

  I gritted my teeth. No, they weren’t, but she didn’t need to remind me of it . . . and the fact that I’d failed the single time I’d faced one. “The reason they aren’t a threat is because of people like me who ensure that they aren’t.”

  “Right.”

  I quickly changed the subject. “I had a beast of a time of it, leaving tonight without my guardians. Did you have difficulty obtaining permission to attend the ball?”

  “Permission?” Miss Holmes gave a short laugh. “My father rarely darkens the door of our house, and even if he does happen to find his bed for the night, he’d hardly notice whether I was present or not. Of course, it’s because he’s quite busy helping the government at the Home Office and spends long hours at his office or club.”

  “And your mother didn’t object?” I’d had to lie and tell Florence I was attending a small musicale at the Tylingtons’. If she got wind that I was attending the Cosgrove-Pitt ball, the event of the season, nothing would have kept her home . . . which was why I’d hidden my invitation when it came two weeks ago.

  “My mother is gone.”

  The tone of Miss Holmes’s voice snapped my thoughts from dear, practical Florence. “Gone? Do you mean dead . . . or . . . ?” My voice trailed off.

  “She left my father and me a year ago,” she said in a voice that tried too hard to sound nonchalant. “Obviously, she cares even less than he does what I do and where I go.” She shifted, her skirts rustling, and sat up ramrod straight. “Which is precisely why Miss Adler chose me to be part of this society, knowing I wouldn’t be hampered by such authority figures as parents.”

  I couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to have any adults about, meddling in my daily life. The thought made me uncomfortable rather than envious.

  Miss Holmes changed the subject, her voice brusque. “Miss Adler and I determined it was of importance for us to attend the party tonight at the Cosgrove-Pitts’ because of what we learned today at the Hodgeworth home. It was Miss Mayellen who was last night’s victim, and her sister and mother were gracious enough to allow us to search her bedchamber.”

  “Did you find another beetle?”

  “Aside from a scarab that was left on the floor next to her body, Miss Adler and I found this.” She produced a creamy notecard from some hidden pocket. “Observe.”

  The engraved invitation to the party at Cosgrove Terrace this evening was familiar to me. I had the same one tucked in my small reticule. It was identical except for the faint mark in the bottom corner, hardly noticeable unless one were looking for something. “A beetle,” I said.

  “Look more closely,” she said impatiently. “Do you not notice anything else of importance?”

  “Perhaps if I had a bit of light,” I retorted, then snapped my jaw closed when she produced a little device that flared into some bright illumination. Blasted cognog. But even though I stared at the invitation, with its formal script and detail of the party, I could see nothing else out of the ordinary.

  Lord Belmont & Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt

  extend a cordial invitation to

  The King & Queen of the Roses Ball

  Wednesday, the 15th of May, 1889

  at eight o’clock in the evening

  Beneath the Stars

  Cosgrove Terrace

  St. James Park

  I read the words thrice, turned the card to the reverse, and found nothing remarkable but for the small beetle drawing. At last admitting defeat, I looked up at my companion.

  “That is precisely the problem with most people,” she muttered. “Uncle Sherlock is right. People look, but do not observe. They examine, but they do not see. Behold,” she said, pointing her light at the invitation. “Beneath the nine, do you not discern the tiny dot? And also beneath the word Stars?”

  I frowned and peered down. She was correct . . . now that it was pointed out to me, I saw the small dots. “But that means nothing,” I protested. “A drip of ink from a careless scribe.”

  “Miss Stoker, please observe. Those dots were made purposely. See how perfectly uniform and round they are? A drip would have an oblong shape. And aside from that, notice that the text is engraved upon the card, while those markings are not. Finally, although you likely cannot see it in our faulty light, the shade of ink used to draw the beetle is precisely the same shade of indigo ink as the two dots. From Mr. Inkwell’s specialty shop on Badgley, I’d wager.”

  “So what’s the purpose of these markings? Some sort of message?”

  “That would be the logical assumption,” she said crisply. “But what, I’m not yet certain. We’ll both have to be vigilant this evening to determine what it could mean. I suspect that the nine might refer to a t
ime, thus at nine o’clock, I shall be quite attentive to anything related to stars.”

  “What else?” I asked as she clicked her light closed and tucked it away. I could see her face only during the brief flashes of illumination from the streetlamps as we trundled along.

  “We found no envelope or seal. So we have no way of knowing who made the marks or when—whether it was before it left the Cosgrove-Pitt residence, or afterward; whether Miss Hodgeworth did it herself for some reason or whether it was given to her that way by someone else who received the invitation or someone involved in the sending of the invitation.”

  “And so the rest of the plan for tonight is to . . . what? Look for more beetles?” I asked, trying not to sound bored. I was going to be subjected to simpering young men and gossiping ladies simply so Miss Holmes could look for beetles? The most dangerous and exciting part of the night would be to avoid getting my feet trod upon or a lemonade spilled upon my gown.

  “Of course. We must look for more beetles or Sekhmet scarabs and attempt to direct conversations whenever possible to the topic of Sekhmet. Even superficially,” she added as the carriage pulled up to the drive at Cosgrove Terrace. “If anyone should show interest in Sekhmet, that could be a lead. As well, I should like to gain access to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study to see if we can find the list of invitees.”

  “Do you mean break into her study?”

  Miss Holmes once again managed to look down at me from her seated position. “I prefer to think of it as accidentally stumbling upon the chamber. Regardless of how it occurs, once we ascertain whether Miss Hodgeworth is on the original invitation list, we will then have narrowed down the identity of the person who made the marks.”

  “How?”

  Miss Holmes sighed. “If Miss Hodgeworth isn’t on the original list, then we can assume someone else marked up an invitation—presumably his or her own—and sent it to her. Narrowing down who the invitation was originally meant for, or who marked it up, will assist us in identifying the messenger, and hopefully provide us a connection between Miss Hodgeworth and Miss Martindale.”

  I blinked at her convoluted explanation. Yet it made sense. “But her mother or sister would have known whether Mayellen received an invitation to one of the most talked-about parties of the year.” The carriage lurched forward, then stopped. I peeked out the window to see a long line of people disembarking from other vehicles. “The Roses Ball is the event of the season, and only the crème de la crème would be invited.”

  “Of course,” my companion replied with a hint of aggravation. “That was my first question to the Hodgeworths. Neither Mrs. Hodgeworth nor her other daughter were aware of an invitation from Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.”

  I nodded and handed back the notecard, which she might need to gain entrance. I had my own, of course. “Very well, then.” Sneaking into Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study would at least bring some intrigue into what was sure to be a boring evening.

  “I think it might be prudent,” said Miss Holmes, “for your invitation to be marked up as well. One must be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “One must,” I said, keeping my sarcasm to a minimum, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t happen to have in my possession any specialty indigo ink from Mr. Inkwell’s—” I stopped when I saw the look on her face. “Right. Of course.”

  She produced a writing instrument that was, presumably, already loaded with the special indigo ink. I handed over my invitation without another word, and to my relief, she didn’t make any further comment or show any sign of smugness.

  The carriage jolted forward again, then stopped. Miss Holmes used the little fan-like wings of her dragonfly pin to dry the ink and then handed me my invitation. We lapsed into silence until our door was opened and a white-gloved coachman helped each of us down. The sun had set and any natural illumination was only a glimpse of moon from behind wispy gray clouds and a faulty swath of stars arcing over the dark sky.

  The mansion, which was one of the few in the city that boasted large, gated grounds, loomed above us. A flight of steps led up to a well-lit entrance on a side of the building rather than the door facing the drive. A smooth mechanical ramp ascended so ladies in their cumbersome skirts and high-heeled shoes wouldn’t wear themselves out from the climb. Some fashionable skirts were so narrow, with their high bustle over the rear, that the wearer could only take small, mincing steps. At least Mina had had the wherewithal to don a gown with petticoats that allowed for some movement, despite their weight and layers.

  Medievaler that I am, I disdained the ramp in favor of the stairs and found myself waiting for Miss Holmes as she rode up the mechanized trolley.

  A series of panels and doors had been removed from the building, leaving an entire wall of the foyer open to the night air, with no boundary between terrace and interior. The dull roar of people talking and laughing mingled with the music from a small orchestra, spilling into the outdoors. Even from where I stood, I could see glittering gold streamers and bunting, and hundreds of bloodred roses in vases, clustered on trellises and attached to potted trees. Someone had cut many large leafless branches, painted them dark red, and arranged them like trees. A number of self-propelled, copper-winged lanterns flitted about like hand-size fireflies.

  “It’s beautiful,” Miss Holmes murmured. “Like a gilded English rose garden.”

  I couldn’t disagree, but how often did they have to replace the gears in those silly flying lights anyway? “They’ll want to announce us,” I said. She grimaced, but stepped up with me to hand our calling cards to the butler.

  “She pronounces her name Evah-line, not Evah-leen,” Miss Holmes informed the butler as she pointed to my card. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care.

  “Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes,” the butler intoned.

  The place was an absolute crush, with people hardly able to move about the room. Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt stood just inside the entrance to greet each guest, and we dutifully approached.

  Lord Cosgrove-Pitt, who was older and grayer than his pretty dark-haired wife, was stately and a bit portly. He took my hand and bowed, but it was my companion who attracted his attention. “Sir Mycroft’s daughter?” he boomed over the noise. “Mr. Holmes’s niece? How can it be that we’ve never met? Bella, surely you’ve invited Miss Holmes to our parties, haven’t you? Important young lady, you know.”

  “Why, Miss Holmes,” said his wife, taking my companion’s hand in her gloved ones. “I am so pleased to meet you, and I apologize for never having done so in the past. Mr. Holmes’s niece, you say?”

  My companion’s nose had gone dull red, but she curtseyed and thanked Lord Cosgrove-Pitt for his kindness, then responded to his wife. “Yes, indeed, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. Sherlock Holmes is my uncle.”

  “He is quite a clever man.” She looked up at her husband. “He assisted me with a little problem some years ago—you do remember, don’t you, dear?”

  “Something to do with the upstairs maid filching the silver?” He rubbed his chin.

  Lady Isabella patted his arm. “It was the downstairs maid, and Mr. Holmes proved she was innocent, as it turned out, of breaking one of the glass cases in the gallery.” She turned back to us. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.”

  As we thanked her, turning to make our way into the throngs of people, I felt a sudden awareness sing down my spine. Someone was watching me.

  I glanced around the party. Since we were still standing on the terrace, which connected the outside with the ballroom, we were several steps above the main floor. Through the dancing and visiting below, I could see quite well.

  A huge cluster of potted topiaries festooned with rich red roses mingled with some of the painted trees. My attention focused there on a trio of manservants, standing at the ready with trays and white towels over their arms. Even as they watched the partygoers, they talked and laughed together. They wore gold jackets
with a rose on each lapel.

  As I stared at them, one in particular caught my eye. There was something familiar about him.

  That tingle up my spine grew cold.

  He reminded me an awful lot of Pix.

  Miss Holmes

  Of Firefly Lanterns, Copper Heels, and Convenient Waltzes

  I felt Miss Stoker go rigid next to me. I turned to follow her gaze, but even my sharp observation skills revealed nothing that seemed out of place.

  “Impossible,” she muttered, staring down into the crowded room. “Not a bloody chance.”

  I’d been around my uncle and his friend Dr. Watson enough not to mind curse words, but I was taken aback that Miss Stoker employed them as handily as the men did. Just as I was about to ask her for an explanation, an unfamiliar roar from outside caught my ears. I turned to see a sleek steamcycle shoot up the steps and onto the far edge of the terrace. Bent over the handlebars, the rider wore goggles, a tight aviator cap with earflaps, and a long coat that whipped out behind him. He manipulated the cycle neatly into a spot far beyond the partygoers.

  The vehicle, which looked utterly dangerous—and possibly illegal—gleamed like the sun with its copper and bronze machinery and sported a bit of brass detail around the bottom. A bell-shaped metal skirt hid whatever mechanism kept the cycle gliding along more than a foot above the ground, and there was a trio of copper pipes at the rear from which the steam could escape. The rider turned off the engine and the vehicle gave a soft hiss, then sank to the stone terrace as if lowering itself on invisible legs.

  Like dismounting from a horse, the steamcycle’s rider climbed off and raised his goggles, giving an abrupt wave to the grooms who’d noticed his arrival. If their gawking was any indication, those young men would be easily convinced to give up their livelihood of managing horses in favor of this tempting new mode of transportation.