The Clockwork Scarab s&h-1

by Colleen Gleason

  “I did enjoy myself. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll say hello to Lilly.”

  As I approached the reclining girl and her companion, Grayling looked up. “Miss Holmes.”

  “Inspector Grayling,” I said, resisting the urge to comment on the fact that he didn’t stand to greet me. “I do hope you aren’t getting a cramp in your side, bending over as you are. Hello, Miss Corteville. I’m Miss Mina Holmes. I’m very relieved you’re home and safe.”

  As I looked at the supine girl, I could hardly keep from cringing. Her face—a very pretty one; breathtaking, in fact—was mottled with bruises and embellished with cuts. Her green eyes were veiled with pain and shock. Someone had obviously helped her wash up and brushed and braided her hair, but aside from that superficial attention, it was obvious she was still distraught over her experience.

  “Thank you,” she said in a low voice, and gestured to an empty chair that wasn’t as close to the chaise as the other occupied one.

  As I took a seat, I noticed Grayling had released her hand from his and eased back. I hesitated. I needed to speak with Miss Corteville about the Society of Sekhmet, but I didn’t want to do so in his presence, and I didn’t want the other ladies in the room to hear me.

  But to my surprise, Lilly Corteville spoke unprompted. “I was telling Inspector Grayling what happened.”

  “Pray continue,” I said. “I’d like to listen.”

  “Miss Corteville was explaining that she was in a hired hack on the way to . . . where was it, Miss Corteville?” Grayling asked. He reached into the pocket of his wool coat, which had been brushed and the buttons all tightened. He withdrew a small journal and self-inking pen.

  I made quick observations:

  Very close shave, no nicks, no leftover shaving soap—a newly sharpened razor blade.

  The ticket stub from the Underground and a blotch of dark grease on his boot and staining his small fingernail—reduced to using public transportation, likely because his steamcycle wasn’t working properly.

  “I was going to attend a lecture. A salon,” she said. My interest perked up, and I felt a sizzle of expectation, for the Ankh had referred to the Society of Sekhmet and the meeting of its salon.

  “What was the topic of the salon?” I asked. “And, pray remind me, what day are we speaking of?”

  “It was the twenty-fifth of April, and the salon was an evening gathering of friends. We enjoy discussing aspects of Egyptian culture. I hired a cab because I didn’t want my mother to know I was going out. To be honest, I sneaked out of the house while she was at the theater.” Lilly shifted on the chaise, her hands fluttering over the blanket as she glanced toward Lady Fauntley. “But I never arrived at the salon. The wheel on my cab broke—it must have hit some large stone or fell in a pothole and split. Either way, the wheel needed to be repaired, and I was required to alight from the cab.”

  Grayling’s fancy writing implement, which had a large bubble-like reservoir of ink at the top, scratched busily in his journal.

  “I decided to walk for a short distance and take some air. I was on the third level—I felt safe enough. I left the cab on Fleet-street, and there was a quaint little lace shop just closing up for the night. I wanted to stop in before I found another cab. But that’s where it all went wrong.”

  Looking down at her fingers, which twisted in the crocheted blanket, Lilly continued, “Someone was following me. There weren’t any cabs in sight, and I kept walking, trying to find one. I kept hearing the footsteps behind me, and it was starting to get dark. I was almost running, and I lost track of where I was. The next thing I knew, I went past St. Paul’s and I was walking down Trinity, when I waved at several cabs, but they didn’t stop. The moon was right there in front of me, just above the rooftops, but it barely gave any light. Then all at once, they were there. Three of them.”

  Her voice caught in a sob, and her fingers no longer played with the blanket, but instead trembled. “They . . . grabbed me and took me off and gave me to that man. B-Bad Louie. I don’t know where he took me, but it was awful. Dark and dirty and frightening. I . . . I don’t want to talk about what happened . . . there.” Her words trailed off, and I could tell she was reliving the horror of her captivity. I could only deduce what sorts of pain and activities had been visited upon her, and my practical insides softened with sympathy as she continued. “He kept me there. For weeks and weeks.”

  I sat back in my seat, considering. Her story generated a variety of questions and emotions, many of which I wasn’t prepared to share at the moment. The least of which regarded why she was lying.

  Grayling’s pen was poised above a page of his journal, and when she finished speaking, he paused, then rested it on his knee. “You’ve had a harrowing experience, Miss Corteville,” he said in the kindest voice I’d heard from him. “Perhaps you might like to rest for a while. We can speak with you again when you’re feeling better.” The “we” in this last sentence clearly included me, and I stiffened at his presumption.

  I was about to correct him about my intentions (if I wanted to continue questioning the young woman, I would certainly do so), when the door to the parlor opened.

  Inspector Luckworth appeared and gestured to his partner. Grayling nodded, then looked at me. “Inspector Luckworth has retrieved the clothing Miss Corteville was wearing when she was abducted. Perhaps you wish to examine it, Miss Holmes?”

  “Yes, I do.” An examination could confirm my suspicions that she was lying about much of her experience. I was also aware of the real benefit to Grayling: I would not be left alone with Miss Corteville to continue the questioning without him. I was under no illusion that he was including me in the investigation for any other reason.

  “If you would excuse us, Miss Corteville,” he said, standing. He tucked away his journal and closed the cap on his pen before sliding it into his pocket.

  Once out in the corridor, the door closed behind us, and Grayling, Luckworth, and I were alone.

  “The housemaid is pulling the gel’s dress and under-things from the garbage—they didn’t realize we’d want to see them. Gonna be a ruddy—’scuse me—mess when they fin’ it. Did you learn anything from the gel?” the elder inspector said to his partner.

  “Miss Corteville gave me her story,” Grayling replied as they walked down to the end of the hall and found a private alcove in which to speak. I followed, uninvited.

  Grayling glanced up as I joined them, then pulled out his journal to review his notes. “She stopped to do some shopping after the wheel of her cab broke and needed repair, and then she got lost. Miss Corteville thought someone was following her, tried to elude them, and in the process became further lost in an unpleasant area of London, near St. Paul’s. Then three men abducted her, keeping her captive in the slums of Whitechapel for nearly four weeks. It’s quite a sad story,” he said, flipping the book closed.

  “She was lying,” I could hardly wait to inform them. “There were several—”

  “Of course she was lying.” Grayling gave me a disgruntled look. “It’s obvious to anyone that Miss Corteville has had a horrific experience, and one wonders if she will ever fully recover. But her story is riddled with untruths. She claims she saw several cabs on Vergrand-street that she tried to hail, but as it happened, on that day, that particular street was closed due to a flooded sewer canal. There was no traffic on that street at any level.”

  I sniffed. “I knew she was lying the moment she mentioned a lace shop on Mayfair. There’s no such shop on Mayfair, or even in the blocks surrounding it. Aside from that, she claimed the moon was over the rooftops and gave off hardly any light, but on April 25, it was—”

  “A full moon in an unusually clear sky,” Grayling said.

  “Not only that, but the moon rose high in the west that night, so it would have been behind her and very far above the rooftops, if she were walking away from St. Paul’s on Vergrand—as she claimed.”

  We stared at each other, I with my lips
flat and determined and Grayling looking down at me with that supercilious air. I found it aggravating that he was so much taller than me and could look down like that.

  Luckworth, who’d been watching us volley back and forth, spoke at last. “Why is the gel lying?”

  “I have my theories,” I said before Grayling could speak.

  “Please feel free to keep them to yourself,” the Scot suggested.

  “And I’ll be investigating this case with them in mind. Good day, inspectors.”

  “Miss Holmes,” Grayling said before I could slip back into the parlor, “I’d like to remind you that this is a very dangerous situation. Two girls have been found dead, and a third one . . . she’s had a very harrowing experience. You’re a civilian and not at all equipped to handle—”

  “Thank you for your concern, Inspector Grayling. I’ll take it under advisement. I’d like to examine her clothing when you’ve finished with it.” Luckworth opened his mouth, and I added, “Please recall that I am here and investigating this case at the request of Her—er, in conjunction with Miss Adler. As she works under the auspices of the Crown, you have no authority to impede my work. Good day, inspectors.”

  I imagined I could hear the sound of Grayling’s teeth grinding as I stalked back down the corridor, and it made me want to smile. Now I had to create an opportunity to speak with Lilly Corteville alone. If only I could find a way to get her out of the parlor, or to get her mother and her mother’s friends out of the room. I suspected Lilly didn’t want to talk about the Society of Sekhmet, which was why she’d made up the fanciful story about how she came to be in Whitechapel.

  But why would she be so determined to keep it a secret? Did she fear retaliation from the Society members themselves—including the Ankh—if she divulged their existence? Or did she want to keep the group a secret for another reason? That made sense in the event my suspicions were correct that the Ankh was trying to harness the Power of Sekhmet.

  As luck would have it, when I came back into the parlor, I found Lady Cosgrove-Pitt and Lady Veness preparing to leave. Lady Fauntley was seeing them out (presumably to have her own moment of privacy with them), which left me the chance to speak with Lilly alone. I wasted no time reclaiming my seat next to her chaise, and she opened her eyes when I sat down.

  “Lilly,” I said, “I’m here to help you, but I need the truth. You can trust me. I know about the Society of Sekhmet, and I need to know what really happened to you. We can speak before anyone else returns.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, I thought she was going to ignore my plea. But then she focused a clear gaze on me. “It tried to kill me.”

  “What tried to kill you? When?”

  “The Ankh. It tried to kill me. It’s trying to resurrect Sekhmet. It’s going to come after me, I know it. It’s going to try and kill me again.”

  “Lilly, I’m here because the princess has asked me to help you. You can trust me, so please tell me everything about the Society of Sekhmet and the Ankh. Quickly, before the others return.”

  “The Society of Sekhmet started out being just what I said—a salon where we discussed Egyptology. We used cognogged beetle medallions to identify those of us who belonged to the group because the membership is secret. It was an excuse to get out of the house, to go somewhere without our mothers, without having to be perfect and on show for a possible husband. Then it became more. Exciting adventures and nighttime excursions . . . things we could never do if our parents knew about them.”

  I found myself nodding. It was just as the Ankh had said in the speech last week, and I understood how attractive it would be for young women who had no freedom.

  “As time went on, the Ankh began drawing attention to how restricted we were, and talking about how if women ran Parliament, things would be different.”

  “Like a suffragette movement?”

  “No. The Ankh didn’t talk about women voting or women’s rights. It spoke about taking control of Parliament and returning to the days of Cleopatra or Queen Elizabeth, when the governing forces were controlled by a strong female monarch. It spoke of how there were ways to get the husbands we wanted, not the ones our parents wanted us to have. How to attract the man we wanted, how to make him notice us. That was . . . that was what I wanted. I didn’t care about the power. I . . . just want . . . him.” Her voice ended on a little choked sob.

  She closed her eyes and for a moment I could empathize with her, even though I could never imagine myself in her position. A beautiful young woman like Lilly Corteville, the wealthy daughter of a viscount, could have her pick of young men. And she was engaged to Sir Rodney Greebles. Why would she need the help of the Ankh? Did she want to marry someone other than Sir Rodney?

  “And now he’s not going to want me anymore,” Lilly whispered, a pale hand curving around her white throat.

  “Who?” What young man had she wanted so badly that she’d get herself involved in such a cult? Whoever it was, she fancied herself in love with him. What fools women can be over love! That was precisely the reason a Holmes would never descend to such base and irrational emotions.

  The girl shook her head at my question, and I could see a tear glistening at the corner of her eye. “Jemmy. My darling Jemmy. He works for the Society, but he loves me. He wants to be with me, but the Ankh won’t let him leave. We were planning an escape, to elope.”

  The women were still talking in the front hall; I could hear their voices. But it would only be another moment. “Lilly, can you tell me more about the Ankh?”

  She swallowed, and I could hear the sounds of her dry throat working. I helped her sit up and sip from a cup of tea, all the while chafing at the delay.

  She collected herself. “As the society expanded to more members, some of us were invited to prove our loyalty to the Ankh.”

  “And the Ankh is trying to resurrect Sekhmet,” I said to direct her speech to the information I wanted. “How? Does it have something to do with the Instruments of Sekhmet?”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “I was an uninvited guest at a Society of Sekhmet meeting last week, so I’ve learned a little about them. I must urge you to continue, Lilly. I can hear the front door opening. Your mother will return momentarily.”

  “Those of us who proved our loyalty were brought into the Inner Circle. There were four of us.” At last her voice was urgent. “Each of us was assigned to one of the instruments. Mine was the cuff.”

  “Mayellen Hodgeworth and Allison Martindale were two of the Inner Circle members,” I deduced. “Plus you. Who was the fourth?”

  Lilly nodded and thus confirmed my conclusions. “Yes. The fourth one of us, she died in a carriage accident with her parents before she was sent to retrieve her instrument. Her name was Gertrude Beyinger. As far as I know, she hasn’t been replaced.”

  “How were you meant to acquire the instrument to which you were assigned? From what I have been able to discern, those items were the product of legend, and if they did exist, they would likely be buried or otherwise hidden in the sands of Egypt.”

  “The Ankh has been studying the legend in ancient scripts and scrolls for years, and located each of the instruments but for one. Two were in private collections, and one was in the museum. We were to prove our loyalty by retrieving the item, and in turn, we would be granted great privileges and power when Sekhmet was resurrected.”

  How could anyone be so gullible? Resurrecting an Egyptian goddess by locating her supposed personal effects here in London? I heard the front door closing. “Did you retrieve the cuff?”

  “I stole it while the owners were on the Continent.”

  “From whom?”

  Lilly shook her head. “I won’t tell you that. I don’t wish to be charged with any crime, and that’s the only thing I’ve done wrong. Would that I’d never been so foolish as to become involved with all of this! Oh, Jemmy!” She was near tears by now, and I tried to head them off by offering her another drink of tea.


  She sipped, seeming to take forever, and when she lowered the cup from her mouth, she continued. “I found the cuff and brought it to the Ankh the next day. It had to prepare the cuff before I could be inducted into the inner sanctum, and the Society was to meet again, on April twenty-fifth, for the ceremony. We were to meet where we always did, every week, and—”

  “Did you go?” I realized my fingers were digging into the arms of my chair. “What happened?”

  “I got to the place, and Jemmy met me at the door. He told me to run, to escape—that the Ankh was going to k-kill me. We tried to run away, but th-they were there . . .” She was sobbing by this time, clearly reliving the horror. “I d-don’t know wh-what happened to Jemmy, but I ran and ran . . . and the n-next thing I knew, I was lost . . . and then the m-men found me. And t-took me to B-Bad L-Louie—”

  “Where does the society meet?” Footsteps were just outside the door. “And when? Tell me, quickly!”

  “At Witcherell’s, at nine—”

  She stopped as the parlor door opened.

  Lady Fauntley came in and walked over to the two of us. “Miss Holmes, I’d like to thank you for coming. But my daughter needs to rest now. I’m sure you understand.”

  I knew I had no choice but to leave. “Yes, right, of course,” I said. I’d learned much, but I suspected there was much more she hadn’t yet told me.

  Try as I might to catch her eyes, I was unable to do so. Lilly Corteville had turned away and clearly was unwilling or unable to speak to me any further.

  The poor girl. I would have to come back at another time, but first I was going to be visiting Witcherell’s to find out what I could of the Ankh’s plans. For it was clear the society met every week on the same day. April twenty-fifth was a Tuesday.

  And so was today.

  Miss Holmes

  A Most Curious Device

  Once more at the British Museum, where I’d spent more waking time than at home since the first night I met Miss Adler, I hastened to her office.