Turning, I saw that the door leading to the tunnel for Pix’s underground hideaway was sliding open. Blast! He’d see me in an instant, and I had no doubt he’d recognize me. My only hope was to blend in.
I ducked toward a crowded table in the corner and slid onto an empty seat that angled away from the secret door.
“Ay! Wot ye think ye’re doin’?” one of my tablemates exclaimed.
I had barely enough time to register the five faces goggling at me—one of them vaguely familiar—before I looked over at Pix’s door.
“If’n yer gonna sit ’ere, yer gonna entertain us blokes.” Someone’s hand slammed on the table hard enough to make it lurch.
“Patience, gentlemen.” I made a sharp gesture at them. “And I use that term loosely. I’ll be gone in a moment. I just needed to rest my feet.”
I was glad I’d moved quickly, for it was Pix who stepped through the opening door.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Ye ain’ gonna sit ’ere! ’At’s Pete’s seat! ’E don’ like it when no blokes sit in ’is seat!” The table jerked, punctuating each sentence.
“Hey! That ain’ no bloke! ’At’s the slavey wot broke Big Marv’s fingers!”
“I don’ care if’n it’s the Queen o’ England—har, har—no one’s gonna set in Pete’s seat wif’out his say!”
“I ain’ mollyin’ wi’ her, ye fool. I was th’ere. I saw it. She can sit ’ere if’n she wonts.”
I hardly heard the exchange, for my attention was completely focused on the pretty blond woman with Pix. In her clean and fashionable clothing, she stood out in the rough and dingy bar like the sun breaking through a cloudy day.
He had offered her his arm and he guided her through the pub—fortunately, without glancing in my direction. Pix appeared to be enjoying himself, smiling and chatting with her in that charming way of his . . . and she was responding in kind.
And then, with an unpleasant jolt, I recognized the woman.
Her name was Olympia Babbage, and she was the grand-daughter of some famous inventor. Mina had dragged me to the Oligary building to look at a display of the grandfather’s work a few weeks ago.
That also happened to be the day I’d staked my first vampire—a vampire who’d been trying to feed on Olympia. So I’d saved her life—although the air-brained woman hardly seemed to notice. She was more interested in writing down mathematical calculations than thanking me.
But more importantly, and more unsettling to me, at least, was the fact that this young woman seemed to have inherited her grandfather’s talent for inventions—a talent someone like Pix would appreciate.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Pix and Olympia together. When everything came to a head during the spirit-glass case, they both happened to be there—and it was obvious they were already acquainted.
There was a strange curdling in my belly. Suddenly, I felt a great jolt at the back of my neck, and something tightened around my throat. The next thing I knew, I was airborne.
“I tol’ ye ’at was Pete’s seat!”
The words rang in my ears as I crashed into the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.
I remembered to clap a hand over my cap, which had gone askew, and gingerly opened my eyes.
No one seemed to be looking at me, except the man who was presumably Pete—for he was sitting in my chair. He gave me a dark look, and I pretended to cower.
I could best him in a fight, of course, but not tonight.
When I looked around the pub, Pix and Miss Babbage were gone. I scrambled to my feet and dashed to the door, faking a limp as part of my disguise.
But when I got outside in the fog-shrouded night air, the couple was nowhere to be found.
Miss Holmes
Wherein Mr. Holmes Is Pressed into Service
After Miss Stoker brought me home from our meeting with Miss Adler, I spent the rest of the day, and well into the night, closeted in my laboratory.
It was either that or sulk in my bedchamber, and a Holmes doesn’t sulk.
Even when she gets terminated from a case.
Even when she shames herself in front of a member of the Royal Family.
Even when she realizes both of her parents prefer to be anywhere but in her vicinity.
But I wasn’t the only one with failures.
So when I woke up the next morning slumped over my desk in the laboratory, surrounded by samples of coffee grounds, it was with new resolve.
I might no longer be wanted or needed by the Crown, but there were other puzzles and unsolved crimes to which I could turn my attention—such as the case of Mr. Oligary’s partner’s death. And in the meantime, no one could keep me from building a case against Lady Cosgrove-Pitt as the Ankh.
I dashed off a note to Uncle Sherlock asking for his assistance, as well as a copy to Dr. Watson, in the event my relative was otherwise occupied.
Though I hadn’t slept well or long enough for the last two nights, I managed to put myself to rights, dark circles under my eyes notwithstanding. Though my attire was not as uniquely fashionable as the ensemble I wore to the Midnight Palace, it was nevertheless neat and smart, and befitted a young female detective. My spring green day dress attempted to lift my spirits with its bright hue, and though it was trimmed with a subdued navy bric-a-brac and grosgrain ribbons that gathered at the bustle, I donned robin’s egg gloves and pinned a matching saucer-hat over the thick coils of my hair. I surveyed myself in the mirror and thought the dancing yellow, blue, and green feathers quite enchanting.
My large reticule in hand, I accepted a piece of toast from Mrs. Raskill and swept from the house. I had three destinations on my agenda: Charing Cross Hospital, 221-B Baker-street, and, finally, the Met—better known as Scotland Yard.
As expected, I found Dylan doing what he called “making rounds.” Apparently that was a futuristic term that meant he was checking in on all the patients he had been treating.
His weary face lit with pleasure the moment he saw me, and a good portion of my own megrims faded. Dylan never failed to make me feel worthy and interesting—and even, occasionally and surprisingly, attractive.
“Mina!” He strode down the hospital ward, the white coat he insisted on wearing flapping with alacrity. Since a white jacket was utterly unfashionable in London—or anywhere else as far as I knew—he’d had to have it made specially for him.
Affixed to the lapel of his coat winked Prince Albert’s pin, which had been given to Dylan by the Queen herself. She was so appreciative of his service to her that she’d bestowed upon him one of her precious husband’s diamond and onyx cufflinks. Just beneath it he wore a small sign that read “Dr. Eckhert.”
“Good morning, Dylan. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” I examined his countenance. He was one of the most handsome young men I’d ever met, and now that he’d gotten his thick blond hair cut so that it no longer fell into his eyes, he looked even more appealing.
However, he appeared peaked, and he was due for a shave. I narrowed my eyes and looked more closely to assure myself he wasn’t as worn down as he’d been during the spirit-glass debacle.
Shoes stained with dried clumps of mud—he hadn’t left the hospital, nor changed his shoes since Friday, when it had last rained; it had poured early this morning, but fresh mud would still be damp.
Shirt collar pressed straight and upright, and smelling faintly of cedar—a fresh shirt, taken from its closet within the last several hours.
Deep diamond-shaped creases on the side of his face—he’d recently awakened from a nap in the upholstered chair in his office.
Crumbs nestled in a fold in his collar, accompanied by a pale brown stain, and a faint vinegary scent wafted from his person—he’d recently eaten a sandwich—likely ham—with mustard and pickles.
Dylan moved toward me in such a way that I thought he was about to embrace me, but seemed to collect himself at the last minute. “I’m so glad to see you! I know I haven’t been around much late
ly, but there’s so much work to be done here.”
He was correct. I’d hardly seen him in the last three weeks, and even when he brought me here two nights ago to look at the vampire victims, I was too tired to stay for long.
In fact, I’d hardly spent any time with Dylan since the night he’d kissed me in a carriage. The very thought made my cheeks bloom hot and my attention slip to his mouth.
And then I couldn’t help but wonder if that was why I hadn’t seen very much of him . . . because the kiss had been unskilled? After all, it had been the first (and only) time I’ve ever been kissed. Perhaps I’d done something wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t liked it . . . as much as I had.
Had that been yet another failure on my part? A sudden lump formed in my throat and I sharply redirected my thoughts. “Have there been any more vampire victims?”
Dylan’s gaze lost some of its pleasure at seeing me and turned grave. “Two more. Just came in last night—well, early this morning.” He gritted his teeth; I saw his jaw move. “I can stem the loss of blood, Mina, and even replace it, but it’s the infected wounds that are killing them.”
I rested my hand on his arm—something I would never have done to any other gentleman, certainly not Inspector Grayling. “I know you’re doing everything you can do.”
A familiar expression of frustration washed over his face. “But I should be able to do more. In my time, in 2016, it would be a piece of cake to save them! We just need antibiotics—and then I could save a whole lot of people from a whole lot of things. Not just vampire bites.”
There was little I could say. I’d heard this speech—and variations on it—before, and I thought I understood his helplessness. But at the same time, I knew the prospective dangers of time travel, and suspected changing history wouldn’t bode well for the future. I wasn’t altogether certain it would be a good thing if Dylan had access to more futuristic medical treatments—even if it meant saving more lives.
If we ever found a way to send him back to his time, what if things were different for him? What if he altered things so that he was never born?
“Could you take leave for a bit? I’m going to visit Uncle Sherlock. Perhaps you’d like to come with me.” The first time he’d met my famous relative, Dylan had been dumbstruck. I knew he’d enjoy speaking with him again, and it would get him away from the hospital and his frustrations for a while.
His brilliant blue eyes—fringed with abnormally thick, sandy-brown lashes—lit for a moment. Then the interest faded, and he shook his head. “I can’t, Mina. I can’t leave here. There’s just too much to do.”
I squelched a rush of disappointment. “Very well, then,” I said briskly. “I hope you shall endeavor to get more sleep than you apparently have been getting, and perhaps empty the pockets of your coat occasionally. And you might eat something other than a moldy crust of bread.” He looked at me and I lifted an eyebrow. “There is one sticking out of your pocket.”
He jammed a hand into his pocket, then sheepishly removed said crust of bread. “There’s no mold on this,” he said, grinning. “You were wrong, for once!” It was ridiculous how much I appreciated the way his eyes sparkled when he was happy.
“Quite. At least for today. But if you’d left it any longer in your pocket, it’s sure to grow mold. One wouldn’t want those tiny green spores growing all over the inside of your coat!”
“No, that’s for su—” His eyes widened. His mouth opened. He goggled at me for a moment. “Mina! That’s it! Oh, Mina, you are brilliant. You are so brilliant, I could—I could kiss you!”
My cheeks flooded with warmth. “Er . . . right, then.”
“Really! You just gave me the absolute best idea ever! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it!”
“Erm . . . quite. I’m very pleased to be of assistance. What idea precisely did I . . . er . . . ?”
“This! This is it!” He was shaking the crust of bread at me. “Moldy bread! That’s how he started it! Dr. Flemming! I wonder how long it will take to grow? And then how will I administer it?”
He descended into a soliloquy of muttering and mumbling to himself as if I were no longer present—rather like that female inventor Olympia Babbage tended to do when she got caught up in the plans for one of her inventions. I confess, I found it only mildly less annoying when Dylan fell into the habit than Miss Babbage.
I realized he no longer remembered I was present, and reluctantly, I decided to take my leave. I had other things to attend to, and despite my disappointment that he wouldn’t join me, at least I was feeling slightly less morbid than I had earlier.
“I could kiss you!”
Despite his words, I wondered if he would ever do so again.
“I am very grateful for your assistance, Uncle Sherlock.”
We had left 221-B Baker-street, where he kept his apartments, and were traveling in his carriage to Scotland Yard. Not incurring the expense of another cab was an additional benefit to having visited him in person rather than merely sending a message.
Aside from that, Mrs. Hudson, Uncle Sherlock’s landlady and sometime housekeeper, made a delicious, filling snack she called Stuff’n Muffins. They were, she informed me, like a stuffed turkey but in the form of small, bite-sized muffins made of seasoned bread chunks—stuffing with chopped cranberries, and pieces of turkey. She always pressed several of them upon me when I visited.
“As it happens,” said my uncle, “I intended to make an appearance at the Met today anyway. Inspector Lestrade has been bumbling through another investigation, and I decided it would be best to offer my assistance before he travels too far down an incorrect deductive path—and note that I use the term ‘deductive’ liberally. I don’t believe Lestrade could deduce in which direction a horse crossed the street even if he came upon a pile of its dung!”
“What sort of investigation?” I was genuinely interested, for listening to my uncle describe not only a case, but also the errors and detours made by other less-skilled investigators, had been my earliest form of education. I had long since graduated from listening to Uncle Sherlock lecture on such topics as explosive detritus and its makeup, the science of bloodspatters, and, most recently, how to determine the height and weight of an individual by measuring the depth and surface displacement of his footprint.
“I haven’t been apprised of the details yet. My attention was absorbed in another puzzle involving a mathematician named Dr. Moriarty. He is a worthy challenger, and I look forward to exercising my powers of observation and deductive reasoning in competition with his robust intellect. I am given to understand, however, that Lestrade’s latest debacle of a case involves the location of an abandoned underground Carmelite abbey off Fleet-street. There seems to have been an unusual number of deaths in the vicinity—mostly the toshermen who scavenge in the sewers, and some of the less fortunate who live in the area as well. It’s an unpleasant fact of life that those who subsist at the lowest levels of society will, in fact, meet their demise more quickly and at a younger age than those of us who do not . . . but still, it is a tragedy. Death—regardless of whom it touches—is always a tragedy, Alvermina. Never forget that.”
“Of course not, Uncle Sherlock.”
“Apparently the number of deaths is sufficiently noticeable even in that poverty-stricken area to have caught the attention of the Met. And so Lestrade is attempting to put an end to it. And here we are.” He gestured with his walking stick as the carriage rolled to a halt.
As we alighted—my uncle forgetting, as usual, that it was a generally accepted societal nicety to assist a skirt-attired person down from a vehicle—he nevertheless turned to me and said, “You are quite clear where to go? I shall do my part, of course, but you shall have to move quickly in order to accomplish your task.”
“Yes, Uncle. And thank you once more,” I replied as I carefully navigated onto the ground.
“I am always willing to be of assistance when it comes to the pursuit of justice. It is imperative we Holmeses do our par
t by contributing our skills and abilities to the authorities—even when they do not realize they require them.”
And with that, we walked into the offices of the Metropolitan Police, better known as Scotland Yard.
As usually happened, the moment Sherlock Holmes made an appearance at the station, everyone in the vicinity became interested. Policemen, detective inspectors, clerks, and every manner of employee gathered in the corridor to speak to him—or, more accurately, to hear him speak.
This was the opportunity I needed, and the one I’d created by asking him to accompany me today. I trusted my uncle would have no difficulty finding topics on which to discourse while I sneaked off to search the files of unsolved cases.
If Inspector Grayling wouldn’t tell me about the Bartholomew case, I would find out on my own. The unsolved case—especially since it was one of Grayling’s, and tied to the most famous businessman in England—was a temptation I could not resist, particularly in light of my most recent failure.
I hurried down the corridor, following the instructions Uncle Sherlock had given me about where to find the files. I’d had to listen to him complain about the disorganization of the administrative process at the Met—secretaries had to laboriously hand-copy each paper report, and they were arranged haphazardly in boxes by date rather than alphabetically by name—but it had been worth it to learn where to go.
As it happened, the route took me past the office Inspector Grayling shared with his partner, Inspector Luckworth. The two were as unalike as Holmes and Watson, and, truth be told, Holmes and Stoker. Grayling was a devout cognoggin, possessing gadgets and devices that stirred my envy and fascination, while Luckworth was more dedicated to plodding about on his large feet and blustering at—er, I mean interviewing—people.
I couldn’t help but peek in as I approached. I told myself it was because I didn’t want Grayling to take me by surprise, or to see me rushing down the corridor. But I was also desirous to take another look at what the ginger-haired detective called his “case board.”
The Chess Queen Enigma Page 10