The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  Miss Adler gave me a cool glance, and I knew at least in her mind, Evaline and I were being held responsible for this event. Double drat!

  “Miss Holmes, perhaps you can shed some illumination on the events?” Inspector Grayling sidled up to me. He looked down his long nose as if I were the one who’d attacked the princess, clearly taking his assignment seriously.

  Before I could formulate a polite response, Miss Adler ushered Lurelia from the terrace, plying her with platitudes and assurances that she would be just fine. They were followed by the Lord Regent, who appeared to be quite inebriated, if his unsteady footsteps and the stench of spirits wafting from him was any indication.

  This left Mr. Oligary, Grayling, Evaline, and myself on the terrace. I had never met the famous businessman, inventor, and philanthropist, and wasn’t pleased about making his acquaintance under these circumstances. Aside from that, I felt as if I should assist Miss Adler with Lurelia.

  But as it turned out, I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  “You’re the Holmes girl, then?” Mr. Oligary fixed me with a pair of piercing blue eyes. One of them was magnified slightly by a single-lens spectacle, held in place by a curious brass fitting that curved around his temple and ear. It was very cognog, and I decided if I was ever required to wear spectacles, I would want something of similar design.

  I knew Mr. Oligary’s age—at least as reported in the papers—was forty, and meeting him in person gave all indication this was true. His attire was the height of fashion, with exquisite tailoring and excellent fabric. His coarse brown hair was just beginning to thread with gray at the temples, and while his face wasn’t perfectly handsome, the man had an air about him that my mother would call charisma.

  As I took in the details of his person, I observed several nuances that had never been reported in the press: he smoked Joseph & Gargantan cigars, preferred Imported Empress Earl Grey tea to spirits, had recently changed the blade on his mechanized shaver, and owned a white dog who desperately needed its nails clipped.

  “Yes,” I said. “My name is Mina Holmes. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Oligary. I had the pleasure of attending the Grand Opening of the New Vauxhall Gardens several weeks ago, and look forward to visiting again, for I was unable to find the time to ride on your Observation Cogwheel.” I carefully avoided looking at Grayling, who’d fished me out of the river in a most mortifying episode that evening.

  “Indeed. And what a shame. The Observation Wheel is my favorite part of the pleasure park,” he said. “Please. Be my guest any time at the Gardens. These will allow you to ride as many attractions and as often as you like.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of triangular brass tokens, which he offered to me and my companions.

  We thanked him profusely—especially Grayling, which caused me to wonder just whom he might be planning to take to the Gardens. Then I introduced Miss Stoker.

  “Isn’t your brother Bram Stoker?” Mr. Oligary said. “The manager of the Lyceum Theater? I’ve been speaking with him about replacing the current steam engine that powers the lighting system. We have a new model that runs much more quietly. Although I prefer the soft, sibilant hiss of steam—it’s so relaxing and comforting, isn’t it?—but when one is at the theater, one does wish to hear what is being said onstage, I suppose.” He smiled benignly at us. “And steam power is much safer and more efficient than electricity. We are very fortunate here in England not to be exposed to the dangers of that terrible invention.” His voice, which until now had been casual and friendly, tightened a trifle.

  I dared not look at Grayling, for I was fairly certain his terrifying steamcycle did not, in fact, run on steam, but on something illegal. Such as electrical power.

  “The Moseley-Haft Act has made certain of that,” said Grayling in a well-modulated tone. “Keeping Mother England safe from the evils of electricity also enables you to keep your steam and cogwheel factories in business, and therefore a good number of our countrymen and women employed.”

  “Precisely.” Mr. Oligary smiled. “I shudder to think what would happen if we legalized that abominable, invisible white-hot power they use in the States.” He gestured absently to his leg using the walking stick. “You may not know this, but I actually considered supporting its widespread induction to England until the event which caused this very injury.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you heard about the incident, which resulted in the death of my business partner, Edgar Bartholomew.”

  “It was no mere accident,” Grayling said, glancing at me.

  Mr. Oligary shook his head gravely. “Tragic. If only I had arrived in time, perhaps I could have prevented the tragedy.” He looked at Evaline and me, chagrin in his expression. “Pardon me, ladies. Ambrose and I have discussed this case numerous times, and I apologize for bringing up such a tedious topic in front of you. It’s one of the few unsolved crimes on my young friend’s docket, and I’m certain he shares the same frustration I do.”

  Grayling nodded. “Very well, then. Miss Holmes, shall I find your wrap? It’s well past two o’clock and the orchestra and food have long quit. Most of the guests have gone as well.”

  I avoided Miss Stoker’s sudden look of interest and inclined my head in acquiescence, ignoring the rise of heat in my cheeks. I knew Grayling also wanted to quiz me about the attack on Lurelia. I would be most forthcoming with him, of course . . . as long as he apprised me of the details regarding the not-so-accidental death of Mr. Oligary’s business partner. “Certainly, Inspector Grayling. I have one thing I must do, and then I shall meet you by the door through which we entered. Miss Stoker, may I have a word?”

  Evaline grinned broadly as we left Mr. Oligary and Grayling on the terrace. “You didn’t tell me the inspector was your escort this evening. He certainly looks well put-out in his tailcoat and gloves.”

  “Oh, Evaline, do hush about that.” My cheeks were flaming. “I want to visit the ladies’ retiring room one last time to see if there is any trace of that face powder. If the Ankh was here this evening, there is always the chance she made use of the chamber.”

  I think my companion rolled her eyes, but I was walking too quickly—just ahead of her—to know for certain. I stepped onto one of the elevators and yanked Evaline on board before the gate closed. “Did you dance with that Mr. VanderBleeth? Do you think there is any chance at all he was the one who accosted Lurelia?”

  To my great annoyance Evaline began to laugh. “There is no chance he accosted the princess. I’m certain of it. Did you not recognize him, oh Mistress of Observation? Surely the great Miss Alvermina Holmes wasn’t taken in by a mere disguise!”

  I turned to glare at my partner. What on earth was wrong with her? I had no idea what she was taking about, but I ground my teeth and chose not to reply.

  “Oh, don’t sniff at me,” Evaline finally said as the elevator gate opened. We were on the ground floor and the ladies’ retiring room was across a small alcove. “You always do that when you don’t know what to say. Mr. VanderBleeth is actually very well-known to both of us.” She lifted one eyebrow at me in a manner I find very irritating.

  Mr. VanderBleeth had been in the trolley car ahead of Grayling and me when we entered the ball, and I had thought he seemed familiar. All of a sudden I understood. “That disreputable Mr. Pix! How on earth . . . ?” Well, at least we didn’t have to worry about Mr. VanderBleeth luring Princess Lurelia into eloping with him.

  At least, I didn’t think so.

  Evaline was still laughing as we slipped into the ladies’ lounge. The space was empty, and still illuminated with a great number of soft gaslit sconces, which made it much easier for me to spy any traces of face powder. I had, of course, come prepared with a number of small paper envelopes with which to collect samples.

  I carefully scooped up several dustings from the counter-top in front of the long row of mirrors where ladies generally put themselves to right. I’d have to examine and test them at home, but I did catch the faintest scent o
f vanilla from one of them.

  “Oh, dear. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt lost another of her butterflies.”

  I turned sharply. Evaline was rising from the floor, something in her hand.

  “Let me see that,” I said. For some reason, my heart was pounding.

  With an odd expression, she offered me the small embroidered butterfly. It was no larger than my thumbnail, very delicate and trimmed with green and blue stitching. I remembered seeing them all along the neckline of Lady Isabella’s gown; they were quite a lovely accessory.

  I lifted the butterfly, looking at it carefully in the light. Did I see the faint glitter of gold there? The faint dusting of white powder? Indeed I did.

  My hand shook a trifle as I brought the decoration to my nose.

  I sniffed.

  Vanilla.

  Miss Holmes

  Cause for Termination

  Inspector Grayling sat stiffly across from me in the carriage. “For the last time, I am not going to discuss the Bartholomew case, Miss Holmes.”

  I lifted my chin. “No one is fond of discussing one’s failures, Inspector Grayling, but perhaps I could be—”

  “No.”

  “There is no need to raise your voice.”

  “Apparently there is, for you seem to have become hard of hearing. And I don’t have failures. In fact, I have the greatest number of closed cases on the homicide team. There are only two unsolved—” He clamped his lips shut and glowered at me. “Since you’ve spent so much time badgering me about the Bartholomew case, our ride is almost over. We’ll be at your house shortly, so perhaps you would do as Mr. Oligary suggested and apprise me of what Princess Lurelia told you, and your observations about tonight’s incident.”

  I gave him a withering look but complied with his request. I did not mention my suspicions that the princess’s assailant was the Ankh. He could come to his own conclusions.

  “As for my observations, Inspector Grayling, I confess there were few relevant clues. The assailant left no trace of his presence, either on the terrace or on Her Highness’s person. My suggestion for conducting this investigation is to determine which guests or servants at the ball match the physical description of the villain, and then attempt to determine who had the opportunity to slip away and—”

  “Thank you, Miss Holmes.”

  I sniffed and peered out the window. We had turned past Cavendish-square. In two more streets, I would see the bell-shaped gas lamp that hung from the porch at my house.

  “Perhaps you could at least enlighten me about the homicide you are investigating related to the robbery of the Queen Elizabeth letter,” I suggested stiffly. “After all, you were the one who raised the topic.”

  “Indeed I did.” He sounded as if he regretted it. Nevertheless, he did go on to answer my question. “The connection to the robbery is fairly evident, even to a non-Holmesian investigator such as myself, although I must clarify that it is a possible homicide. The body of one of the museum guards was found near the lighting controls for the North Wing of the museum—where the Arched Room is located—”

  “I’m aware that the Arched Room is in the Northwest Quadrant of the museum, Inspector Grayling.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Holmes. Of course you are.”

  “Presumably the location of the body is relevant to the fact that the lights were extinguished so the thief could carry out his plan?”

  “Indeed. There are indications the museum guard was actually the one to cause the blackout. His hands showed traces of burns, and there was black around the control box as well as on his person. There was one more curious thing, Miss Holmes, and I’ll leave it to you to consider,” he said as we turned onto my street. “There were two tiny marks on the back of the guard’s shoulder. Perhaps six inches apart, hardly larger than pinpricks.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmured, mulling over this tidbit. “I do appreciate the information, Inspector.”

  As the royal carriage glided to a smooth halt, Grayling cleared his throat. “Er . . . Miss Holmes . . . that is, I wish to say . . . it was an honor to be your escort this evening—”

  “Why, thank you, Inspector Grayling.” I replied in surprise.

  “—in spite of your tendency to take the lead during every dance.”

  I gave him a dark look, but my lips had begun to quiver. “That is a gross exaggeration. I did not attempt to lead during the quadrille.”

  His mouth twitched as he helped me out of the carriage. “That’s because, as you very well know, Miss Holmes, the quadrille is a country square dance. Even you wouldn’t be able to manage a group of eight couples.”

  I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer and began to giggle in a horribly girlish fashion as I looked up at him. For some reason, his ridiculous height no longer bothered me. “If only they would all listen to my suggestions to follow the tiles on the floor, the dance squares would remain uniform and no one would cut the corners short and tread on the ladies’ hems!”

  His eyes crinkled charmingly when he laughed, which he did now. “Miss Holmes, you are quite—” He froze and his arm lashed out, halting me from taking any steps up my walkway. “Get back in the carriage.”

  Before I could speak, he reached beneath his formal coat. Something metallic gleamed in his hand and he gestured for me to heed his command. Of course, I was to have none of that.

  “What is it?” I brushed against him from behind.

  “Miss Holmes, I told you to—You! There! Show yourself! I’m with Scotland Yard!” He stalked up the walkway, pointing a magnificent-looking hand-weapon toward the shadows. “I said show yourself!”

  But by now I’d seen him. “Dylan! What on earth are you doing here?” Heedless of Grayling’s weapon, I charged past him toward my friend, who had emerged from the side of the house.

  “Mina! Where have you been?”

  “I had an engagement this evening. What are you doing here?”

  “It appears to me this gentleman was attempting to break into your residence,” said Grayling. “Perhaps he didn’t learn his lesson previously.”

  The inspector was referring to the first time I’d met Dylan, for the newcomer had broken into the British Museum and been jailed shortly afterward. Since then, Grayling seemed certain Dylan was some sort of criminal.

  “You had an engagement?” Dylan’s voice was none-too-polite.

  “Why, yes. Miss Adler requested my attendance at—oh, never mind. What are you doing here?” I hadn’t seen him for more than a few minutes since the incident with the vampire pickpocket gang, for Dylan had been spending all of his time working at the hospital with Dr. Lister and Dr. Gray.

  “There are some things—I—well.” He stopped and glanced at Grayling. “Can we can go inside, Mina? I don’t really want to talk about it out here.”

  I had the feeling he meant he didn’t want to talk about it in front of the inspector. “Very well. I shall . . . I will . . . just one moment, Dylan.” I dug in my handbag and produced the house key, which I handed to him. Unlike at Miss Stoker’s home, there was no butler or footman to greet us at the door.

  As Dylan started toward the entrance, I turned back to take my leave of Grayling. He had a most peculiar expression on his face—as if he violently wished to say something, but dared not open his mouth. He was still holding that hand-weapon, with its fascinating array of bronze cogs and gears. It had a slender barrel like a firearm, and a small orange light glowed on one end. I had half a mind to ask him if I could examine it, but decided to wait until I had better illumination.

  “Thank you again, Inspector—”

  “Are you quite certain you mean to allow that character into your home? In the dead of night? What on earth are you thinking, Miss Holmes?” Apparently he had given up on restraint.

  “I’ve nothing to worry about with Dylan—”

  “And so it’s Dylan, is it? And not Mr. Eckhert? Miss Holmes, do you recall that gentleman has been jailed for breaking and entering? And that no one seems to know
who he is and from where he’s come? Do you not have a care for your reputation?”

  The fact that Grayling knew Dylan’s full name, and quite a bit more about him than I realized, came as a surprise to me. Still, I didn’t care for the tone of his voice. “I don’t give a whit about my reputation. And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Inspector Grayling.”

  “Except when you are falling out of a bloody window. Or drowning in a creek because your corset is too tight.” He drew in a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was marginally quieter. “Very well, Miss Holmes. Good evening. And never say I didn’t warn you about consorting with criminals.” He gave a smart, sharp bow, then turned and strode back to the carriage.

  I watched him go, then turned back to the house. Dylan stood on the porch, waiting for me.

  “What are you doing here? Tell me at once, Dylan, for I am exhausted. It’s been a very eventful day.”

  “I need you to come to the hospital. There’s something I need you to see. It’s important.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Please, Mina?”

  “What is it?” I asked wearily. The only thing I wanted to do was get out of my corset and pinprick-heel shoes and climb into bed.

  “I think . . . I’m pretty sure we have some patients who’ve been bitten. By vampires.”

  I don’t remember what time I finally fell into bed, but dawn was imminent and I could hardly form a coherent thought.

  As I slipped into slumber, my mind was filled with grotesque images of twin bite-marks and the deep, bloody weals on three of Dylan’s patients at Charing Cross Hospital.