The Clockwork Scarab s&h-1

by Colleen Gleason

  “You took the life force from Mayellen and Allison the same way you did from Della Exington,” I said as the Ankh made her preparations at the table. “Why did you leave their bodies where they could be found?”

  “Surely you can deduce that, Miss Holmes.”

  “One can only assume it was to make it look as if they’d taken their own lives. If bodies were found murdered, then there would be a crime to investigate, and you could be discovered. If they were found to have taken their own lives, there would be no investigation. And even if the bodies were simply disposed of, there would still be an investigation into their disappearance. Mayellen Hodgeworth was the one who was attached to the scepter. You were witnessed leaving the museum with it—and the statue of Sekhmet—on the night she was killed. After she was killed. You did it there, didn’t you?”

  “Apparently my confidence in you wasn’t misplaced after all,” our hostess commented as she added some dried substance that smelled musty and old to the bowl. “There’d surely be a place for one like you in Sekhmet’s court, once she’s resurrected.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation, Miss Holmes. I was merely making idle conversation.”

  The Ankh picked up the crown, presumably the final of the four instruments. Except . . . according to the message I’d received from Dylan, he’d located the diadem. The real one, if his information from the future was correct. The one the Ankh held resembled the drawings I’d seen, but it wasn’t identical. My mind began to click through the possible ways to utilize this information. I continued my interrogation. “And you left the scarabs near the bodies for what reason? Surely not to lead us here, to you?”

  “No, not at all. The scarabs were meant to be a warning to the other members of my Society. Some of them were becoming unsettled and uncomfortable.”

  “Like Lilly Corteville.”

  “Lilly was a mistake. She was to be the first, and she escaped just as we were beginning the process. I couldn’t find her after that.”

  “Until today.” I looked toward her, trying to imagine what that face would look like without the heavy fringe of hair over the forehead, and the thick, obstructing facial hair. Her face was angled so that I still couldn’t get a clear view of her eyes as I made this pronouncement. But I knew anyway. I was certain.

  “I know who you are.”

  The Ankh stilled, then laughed low and deep. “Even if you did, which I’m more than assured is not the case, it won’t matter now. You won’t be able to tell anyone.”

  “Your plan isn’t going to work. You must have all four of the instruments for Sekhmet to rise. All four of the correct instruments, or Sekhmet won’t be resurrected after all, regardless of whose life force you use.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That isn’t Sekhmet’s diadem.”

  The Ankh had ceased her preparations and stood unmoving. I read the struggle in the stance of her body: she didn’t want to believe, she didn’t want to have erred . . . but nor did she want to take the chance of failing at such an important moment.

  I decided to assist her along the path of uncertainty. “The real one is at the British Museum.”

  She gave me a chill smile. “You’re mistaken, Miss Holmes. I’ve commissioned or searched every part of the building myself. This is the Holy Diadem of Sekhmet.”

  I forced myself to keep from looking at Evaline. What was taking her so long? If she didn’t act, I’d run out of things to say—and I’d find myself attached to the statue.

  Keeping my attention on my adversary, acutely aware of the proximity of my personal guard and his gun, I replied, “The fact that the crown you’re holding looks nothing like any of the drawings doesn’t lead you to question your certainty? A woman like you wouldn’t want to take the chance of being wrong. After all your plans. If you were wrong . . . they’d all come to naught. And you would have lost your chance.”

  Silence reigned for a long moment. What was Evaline waiting for?

  “And I happen to be the only one who knows where the real diadem is,” I said.

  Miss Stoker

  Out of the Frying Pan

  At Miss Holmes’s announcement, I did three things at once: surged to my feet, discharged the Steam-Stream gun, and yanked on a string I’d looped around the leg of the Ankh’s table.

  The guard who’d been halfheartedly watching me howled when I slammed into his chin with the top of my head. The table shifted and fell off the dais. Its contents tumbled everywhere. And the blast of steam from my gun seared into the guard next to Miss Holmes.

  I met her eyes. “Go!”

  She darted toward the double doors as I whirled to blast the gun at the Ankh. He ducked, reaching for a weapon in his pocket as I discharged the gun again. This time it caught Bastet, and the woman screamed as the steam burned through her tunic and into her arm.

  Boom! Something had fallen off the preparation table and combined with an element it shouldn’t have. Flames erupted, catching on the edge of a tablecloth, and jumped quickly to an upholstered chair. Soon the space would be engulfed.

  I ran toward the door in Miss Holmes’s wake, flinging a heavy table behind me. The guard whose jaw I broke wasn’t fast enough, and the table caught him in the torso. He stumbled back and fell into the man I’d Steam-Streamed. In the midst of the chaos, someone’s pistol discharged with a loud crack.

  The flames spread near the front of the chamber, and as I turned back to blast one more wide stream of steam around the room, I heard a loud mechanical grinding. But I didn’t wait to find out what it was; I shot steam at my pursuers and burst through the double doors into the opium room.

  To my relief, the chamber was empty except for Miss Holmes, who’d paused at the opposite side. Why was she waiting for me?

  “Go!” I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t allow myself to think. If I did, everything would catch up to me: the pain, the loss of blood, my cowardice.

  I should have stopped them. I should have saved her.

  My partner went through the double doors, and I was only seconds behind her. We bolted down the corridor, and just as we rounded the corner, a figure appeared.

  Miss Holmes hesitated, but I recognized him. “Keep going!” I pushed her between the shoulder blades as I met Pix’s eyes. “There’s a fire!”

  My partner was panting, not used to the sort of physical activity that came naturally to me. Pix seemed to understand, for he grabbed her arm and helped me tow her along. She didn’t argue, but she was probably so out of breath she simply couldn’t. When she stumbled again, he slung her over his shoulder just as he’d done with Lilly Corteville. And he continued to run, outpacing even me.

  We were coming out onto the street when I remembered Amunet. Tied up and hidden in the side hall where I’d left her.

  “Oh no,” I said, taking one deep breath of cool night air. “She’s trapped!”

  It was one thing to leave the Ankh and his guards in the chamber to find their way out. But Amunet was helpless and no one knew she was there.

  No one but me.

  I dashed back into the building. I had time. The building was made from brick. It wasn’t as if it was going to burn to the ground. But the smoke, and the flames . . . they would eat anything wooden or cloth.

  Or human.

  Using my small illuminator for light, I retraced our steps. Despite the growing pain from my wound and the renewed flow of blood, I managed to find my way back . . . back to the opium room, now filling with a different sort of smoke . . . back through the side door, where Pix had stolen that kiss from me right against that wall . . . into the side hallway, tinged with smoke. A dull, grating roar filled my ears.

  Beaming my light, I ran up the narrow corridor to where I had left Amunet. The smoke had begun to filter through, but it wasn’t as thick as I’d expected. Light flickered from . . . the open door.

  Amunet was gone.

  But I wasn’t alone.

  I lo
oked up to find a gun pointed at me.

  “Welcome back, Miss Stoker.”

  Miss Holmes

  An Unfortunate Miscalculation

  I could hardly catch my breath, but the cool night air helped. Whoever the individual was who’d been carrying me dumped me unceremoniously onto my feet.

  I looked around and didn’t immediately see Evaline, although I’d watched her run out onto the street behind us. However, just a short distance away was a cluster of very confused, frightened young women. The Society of Sekhmet had been evacuated. She was probably in the midst of the girls. Just then, the sound of sirens screeching filled the air. The police or firemen.

  The young man who’d carried me out, whose torso was bared by the vest that identified him as one of the opium servers, spun to look behind him. “Bloody ’ell! I’m gone.” Before I could thank him for his assistance, he took himself off.

  I stood there for a moment, still panting, and looked up. The fire in the upper floors would devastate, but the building wouldn’t come down. It was brick. Surely someone as clever as the Ankh would find an escape.

  Which meant that this wasn’t over.

  The sky-anchors swayed high above, large dark balloons bumping against each other in the breeze. As I watched, one of them detached itself from the others. It happened occasionally that one of the moorings loosened, and streetwatchers would announce it with cries of “Cut loose! It’s cut loose!” and there would be wagers on how long it would be buffeted about in the sky and where it would land.

  Then comprehension dawned. The stage, the entire stage in the opium den, had been a sort of airship. The steps, in all four directions, had actually been folded sides, collapsed onto the floor. Now they’d been raised and the entire stage lifted . . . and was being piloted up and out of the open roof. I watched with a combination of admiration and annoyance that I hadn’t observed this earlier.

  “Miss Holmes!”

  A familiar peremptory voice had me spinning around.

  “This is becoming quite a habit, is it not? Encountering you in the thick of criminal activity.” Inspector Grayling stood there, radiating exasperation. “You promised not to come here tonight.”

  “I didn’t promise any such thing,” I told him. “I merely said—wait!” I cried, struck by a realization. “I must get to Cosgrove Terrace.” This was my chance to catch Lady Cosgrove-Pitt in the act—or, more accurately, not to. She wouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be. “Quickly!”

  “What is it?” he asked, his pique easing in the face of my desperate entreaty.

  “It’s—it’s a matter of life and death,” I said. I couldn’t explain it to him; he wouldn’t believe me. He wouldn’t want to believe the awful truth about his relative.

  I’d have to show him.

  It was to Grayling’s credit—and I suppose mine—that he didn’t hesitate. “This way,” he said, taking my arm when I whirled to hail an air-bus. “It’s faster.”

  With a little more force than necessary, he directed me to the large, gleaming steamcycle. It appeared even more dangerous at close proximity. I swallowed hard.

  “Put these on,” he said, shoving an aviator hat and a pair of goggles at me.

  Then he climbed onto the machine, straddling it as one would a horse. His long coat split over the seat, falling in two black swatches. For the first time, I noticed how long and powerful Grayling’s limbs were and I realized, with a sudden shock of heat and nerves, that I was going to have to sit behind him. And hold on.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “I . . .”

  “Miss Holmes,” he said with challenge in his eyes, “a matter of life and death cannot wait for you to build up your courage.”

  Drat. He was right. I had to get to Cosgrove Terrace to prove that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt was the Ankh. I pulled the aviator cap down over my head and arranged the goggles as he did something to the machine.

  Its engine came to life with a spectacular roar, then settled into a rhythmic, metallic purr. Steeling myself, I climbed onto the seat behind him, thankful I had had the foresight to wear the new split skirts I’d had made, like Miss Stoker’s. I couldn’t imagine what a spectacle I would have made of myself otherwise.

  “Hold on,” he said, and the engine gave another loud roar. I could feel it charge and vibrate beneath me, and I realized he was waiting for me to hold on to him.

  Thankful my face was hidden by the goggles and that I was behind him, I placed my hands gingerly at his waist, curling my fingers into his wool coat.

  The cycle roared again, then surged forward. I jolted backward and, stifling a shriek, gripped his coat more tightly as I leaned toward him. The warmth of his body melded into me as a sharp wind blasted over my arms and skirted legs.

  We rounded a corner at full speed. I slipped to one side on the seat and nearly tumbled off. Terrified, I gave up on propriety and gave in to practicality, changing my position to wrap my arms around his torso, grabbing my wrist with my other hand. This position required me to rest my cheek against Grayling’s back, filling my nose with the pleasing aroma of wood-smoked wool.

  I felt the muscles of his torso shift and slide as he manipulated the cycle, and only after what seemed like forever did I realize I had my eyes closed.

  Cautiously, I opened them and peered down from behind the green-tinted goggles. The first thing I saw was my leg curved forward, directly behind his as my split skirt blustered wildly about. Thank Fortune I was wearing pantaloons beneath it. Beyond that, I saw part of the brass detail curving around the cycle. We were moving so fast that everything else, including the ground some distance below, was a blur.

  I’d never traveled anywhere at this speed. Cool air roared over me as we slipped in and out of alleys and over canals, beneath air-lifts and among carriages with the dexterity of a cat. I even lifted my face away from Grayling’s warm spine and eased my death grip around his waist. It was exhilarating.

  And then, suddenly, there was a brick wall. Right there.

  I closed my eyes and ducked instinctively as Grayling’s arm jerked. The cycle turned, tipping to the side so acutely I had to cling even more tightly to him.

  I kept my eyes closed, deciding it was better I didn’t see where we were going as we zigzagged through the streets, the roar of the machine filling my ears, its rumble buzzing through my limbs.

  At last, it slowed and the roar eased. I opened my eyes to see Cosgrove Terrace, and my heart began to race for different reasons. Grayling drove the cycle up to the front entrance and parked just below the rise of three main steps. This was a different entrance than the one we’d used during the Roses Ball, but just as grand.

  I climbed off the vehicle. My knees shook, and my body vibrated as if I was still riding the machine. And yet . . . I glanced at the steamcycle. During the moments I’d had my eyes open, the speed and maneuverability had been exciting.

  Avoiding Grayling’s glance, I pulled off the aviator cap and goggles. I wasn’t going to worry about the condition of my hair. After a long night of wearing a bonnet with a wig and then the ensuing altercation with the Ankh, I couldn’t imagine that an aviator cap would have worsened the situation.

  After all, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had already seen me.

  Grayling walked to the door with me and rang the bell. “Is Lord Cosgrove-Pitt in danger? Or Lady Isabella? Have you received some information from your father?”

  Shaking my head, I waited with complacence. Thanks to Grayling’s speedy vehicle, it would be impossible for Lady Isabella to have arrived at Cosgrove Terrace before we did, even if she had an inkling that I might come here. She wasn’t going to be inside, and her absence was going to be the first piece of evidence against her.

  The door swung open before I had the opportunity to respond to Grayling’s question, which was a good thing, because what precisely was I going to tell him? That his distant relative had been murdering young women in order to resurrect an Egyptian goddess from the ether?

  “Good eve
ning, Dusenbery, I need to speak with Lord Belmont or Lady Isabella.”

  “It’s urgent that we speak to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt immediately,” I said.

  “Of course, Inspector Grayling. And Miss . . . er . . . ?” The butler stepped back, giving us entrance.

  I didn’t offer my name. I saw no reason to give Lady Isabella or anyone else warning that I was there. When Dusenbery seemed to hesitate—perhaps waiting for me to do so—I pressed, “It’s quite urgent. Is Lady Isabella in?” Since it was well into the early hours of the morning, it would be odd for her not to be in, even if she’d attended a party or the theater.

  “Lord Belmont is at his club,” Dusenbery said, looking at Grayling instead of me. I’m certain the only reason he was so forthcoming with that information was because my companion was both a relative and from the authorities. “I shall see if Lady Isabella will see you.”

  “We’ll wait in the parlor,” Grayling told Dusenbery.

  “I’d prefer to wait here,” I said. It would be easier to see or hear anything else happening in the house if we remained in the foyer.

  “Very well,” said Dusenbery as he turned, presumably to hunt down Lady Isabella.

  I chafed at the delay, yet at the same time, I felt a strange calm settle over me. Lady Isabella wouldn’t see us, of course, because she wasn’t here.

  And even if she happened to arrive in the next few moments—which in itself was unlikely; after all, she’d been air-lifted from a roof on the other side of the city—she’d be unable to change her clothing and otherwise hide the traces of her secret identity.

  I was going to have to induce Grayling to search the house if Lady Isabella “refused” to see us—that is, when the butler found that she wasn’t in residence after all.

  “Miss Holmes,” said my companion, looking down at me from his excessive height, “will you please provide me some explanation for this?” His hair was ruffled from the ride, and I couldn’t help but remember how my legs had pressed into the underside of his. And how well he’d managed that monstrous machine.