The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  To my relief, the office was devoid of homicide investigators and any other two-legged beings. There was evidence of Luckworth’s recent departure—a trail of crumbs currently being devoured by a flop-eared beagle with a mechanical leg—and no sign of Grayling. No coat, no hat . . . good. That meant he wasn’t lurking about.

  Angus, Grayling’s beagle, gave me a baleful glance, but he was more interested in his midday snack than greeting me. I had no complaints about this, for the last few times the black, brown, and white canine had attempted to converse with me, I ended up with pawprints on my skirt and vigorous licking on the part of my wrist bared by my glove.

  “Hush,” I told him when he looked as if he might vocally interact with me. The crumbs were gone, and apparently there was nothing edible in the waste can beneath Luckworth’s desk. There was nothing in the waste can, as far as I could tell, but instead crumpled papers were piled around it. “There’s no need for you to bark, Angus. I’m just going to look at your master’s board over here.”

  The last time I was in this office, I’d noticed the pin-board on the wall above Grayling’s desk. It held photographs, drawings, maps, notes, and other items pertaining to the cases he was investigating. I intended to create a board of my own, dedicated to my investigation of the Ankh, and I wanted to examine his more closely.

  I’d been looking at it for only a moment when it occurred to me Grayling’s files would be in the very desk on which my palms were placed. Surely he would have a copy of the Bartholomew case in one of the drawers . . .

  With a glance at the door, then a stern order to Angus to keep quiet, I pulled open the drawers. The first one held writing implements and small notebooks. The second one contained personal grooming accoutrements—such as a comb, hair pomade, tooth polish, and a fascinating device I realized was a nail clipper. I found this surprising; not that Grayling wasn’t well-groomed—he certainly was—but that he would think to have such accessories on hand. There was even something I’d never seen before called “chewing gum.” I sniffed it. Ah. That explained why he often smelled of peppermint.

  The third drawer was locked with a dual-gear, brass-plated device that appeared to require two keys. I struggled with it for a moment, then moved on to the fourth and final drawer.

  It was here that I found success. My sound of delight caused Angus to lumber to his feet on short, stubby legs—one of which clicked dully. He appeared to be waiting for me to reward him for my success, for he looked up at me with big brown eyes and barked.

  “Hush!” I hissed, looking about for something with which to bribe him. Grayling’s desk was utterly devoid of anything except gadgetry, pencils, and neat papers. Not a single photograph or tidbit of food.

  Angus barked again, this time more forcefully, and I considered fleeing the office and going about my original plan. But I had seen the words “Oligary” and “Bartholomew” on a collection of loosely bound papers, and I didn’t wish to lose the opportunity to investigate further.

  Angus barked and whined, and he put his brown paws on my pretty spring green dress, batting at me as if to elicit a response. Then, with a jolt of delight, I remembered the Stuff’n Muffins. Mrs. Hudson had insisted I take several for later, and I had two of them tucked inside my bag.

  “Here you go, doggie,” I said, breaking off half of one muffin. I let him smell it, then tossed it over toward Luckworth’s desk—he’d never notice another crumb or stain—and turned back to my perusal of the documents. One thing I had to admit: Grayling’s reports were impeccably organized. Bound together with sturdy wire rings, his notes consisted of handwritten information, photographs, and envelopes with more tactile items slipped inside.

  I skimmed the details of the Bartholomew case as quickly as possible. Hmm. There was a suspect in the not-so-accidental death of Hiram Bartholomew, but the individual had yet to be apprehended for questioning. I regretted I couldn’t take the file with me as I’d intended to do. Surely Grayling would notice it missing.

  Angus barked again, and clattered back over. Goodness, the beast had eaten quickly. He panted up at me hopefully, and I tossed the other half of the muffin. I was just about to put the report back into the drawer when something caught my eye on a second collection of papers below it.

  The Individual Known as the Ankh.

  Well, now, wasn’t that interesting. Perhaps Grayling wasn’t as certain as he pretended that the Ankh was gone for good.

  I picked up the stack, intending to read through it as well (surely he hadn’t pinpointed his own distant cousin Lady Cosgrove-Pitt as the culprit) . . . but then I saw the report below it.

  Possible Evidence of Vampires in London.

  I snatched that packet up just as Angus barked again. The short yip was so loud and unexpected, right at my elbow, that I jumped and lost my hold on the papers. The packet tumbled onto the desk.

  “Really, sir! You must cease to be so annoying. Now, this is nearly your last one, so please take your time and savor it.” I gave Angus a sharp look, and to my surprise, his rump dropped to the ground and he closed his mouth, waiting silently and expectantly.

  Quite interesting.

  And ridiculously adorable.

  I tossed him half of the last muffin and returned to the files. I was stunned, to say the least, to realize Grayling was not oblivious to the fact that UnDead existed.

  However, I didn’t even begin to read that report, for I automatically glanced down into the drawer once more. The bottom file was the most aged, the most thumbed-through and annotated one of them all. It was not written in Grayling’s hand.

  When I read the name on it, I slowly reached down to pull it out. My heart thudded, and my insides felt as if a collection of butterflies had been released.

  Melissa Grayling.

  I had to read only a half-page to comprehend: Melissa Grayling was Ambrose Grayling’s mother. She had been stabbed by an unknown person when he was nine.

  And he had been the one to find her body.

  I must have gasped or otherwise made a noise that recalled Angus, for there he was again, bothering at my skirt. But before I could foist the last bit of muffiny-bribe upon him, he suddenly stilled and looked toward the door. If his ears hadn’t been so long and heavy, I am certain they would have pricked up with interest.

  My palms went wet and my insides turned to ice. Angus, on the other hand, was ecstatic, and began to yap excitedly. He ran in circles around the office, tripping over his soft brown ears every third or fourth step.

  I shoved the files back into the drawer in their proper order, knowing this canine excitement portended only one thing. My pulse was racing and I dove to the floor just a moment before Grayling appeared in the doorway. He wore a hat and coat, and looked as if he were in a rush.

  “Miss Holmes?” I didn’t believe I’d ever heard him sound so utterly bewildered.

  I did my best to look innocent and as if it were completely natural for me to sit on the floor (how was I ever going to get up again with this corset binding me?) playing with Angus.

  “Why, Inspector Grayling. I hope you don’t mind—I just came to visit Angus.” I wheezed a little, for the unexpected dive to the floor made my corset compress my torso at an awkward angle. Then I smiled down at the little beast and offered him the last bit of muffin. “I accompanied my uncle here, and while he was busy discussing a case, I decided to see if Angus was in residence.”

  The white-faced, brown-spotted beagle looked up at me with a jaundiced expression, clearly shocked at my bald-faced lie. Nevertheless, he took the muffin and seemed to have no problem wolfing it down.

  “Ah. Mrs. Hudson’s Stuff’n Muffins are a great favorite of Angus. How did you know?” Grayling asked. He looked only mildly less confused.

  “It was a happy serendipity.” I was more than a little bewildered myself to learn that he knew Mrs. Hudson. Additionally, the excessiveness of his height was even more pronounced now that I was at ground-level and he loomed over me.

 
“Right then. Er . . . since you are sitting here utterly unagitated and at ease, I can only assume you haven’t heard the news.”

  “News?” I wanted more than anything to bolt to my feet, but that was impossible given my position on the floor and the vise-like corset around my waist. I would definitely either look ridiculous trying, or land on my rump in the process. Or both.

  Grayling offered me a hand, which I had no choice but to accept. He pulled me smoothly to my feet before responding. “Princess Lurelia is missing.”

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Investigates

  “Missing?” I echoed.

  “More precisely . . . it is believed she’s been abducted.” Grayling glanced at his desk, then back at me. Was there a light of suspicion in his gray-green eyes?

  I did my best to look innocent, and to direct his attention to more pressing matters. “Are you investigating, then, Inspector?”

  He sighed. “I suppose you’ll want to go with me.”

  “Naturally.” I started toward the door, then hesitated.

  Grayling seemed to know what I was thinking. “I will arrange for a conveyance other than the steamcycle if you prefer, Miss Holmes. Although that vehicle will get us to the scene more quickly than any other mode of transportation.”

  I struggled with indecision for a moment, then capitulated. It was imperative I arrived at the location before the hordes of bumbling inspectors, well-meaning servants, and other curious-minded folk trampled through any clues that might be there. “Very well. The steamcycle it is. If you would be so kind as to not drive it so very speedily.”

  He smiled—a full-on, delighted grin—and I nearly jolted at the spectacular change in his countenance. “Whatever you wish, Miss Holmes.”

  Somehow . . . I didn’t believe him.

  I was correct in my assumption that Grayling was not to be trusted—at least in regards to the speed of his steamcycle.

  The last time I’d been required to utilize the vehicle, I rode on the back, clutching my driver around the waist from behind.

  This time, however, in deference to the fact that I wasn’t wearing split skirts and had many more layers of crinoline and petticoat, Grayling insisted I sit in front of him.

  In an utterly mortifying discussion, he indicated I should hook my left knee around a small knob on the front of the seat so I could sit side-saddle, as I did the rare times I rode a horse, with both my lower appendages on the right side of the beastly machine. I spared only a moment of thought regarding why he had such a contrivance on the steamcycle—how often did he take females for a ride?—before he handed me a leather aviator cap with ear flaps, and a pair of goggles. Then he climbed on behind me.

  Moments later, Grayling’s arms blocked me in on either side as he reached for the steering bars, and, most disconcerting of all, his right leg slid firmly beneath mine.

  I was incredibly thankful I had donned the over-large cap (and gad knew what my saucy feathered hat would look like when I took it off) and that I was facing away from him, for I can only imagine how red my face must have been due to this immodest proximity.

  I was about to tell him I’d changed my mind when the cycle roared to life. I caught my breath, half-turning to speak to him over the rumble of the engine, and suddenly the vehicle leapt forward.

  I stifled a shriek and gripped the small handles he’d pointed out earlier. The vehicle roared out of the small garage in which he’d parked, took a sharp turn, and then began to weave between carriages, cabs, and vendor carts.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on not noticing the strength in the arms that embraced me, and solid torso nearly touching my spine. But every time we went around a corner, I was forced to lean into one or the other of Grayling’s protective arms.

  Yet, for all the speed and swerving and jolting, I confess I felt relatively safe, and was even beginning to enjoy the race, peeking through slitted eyes . . . until he took an unexpected turn and the next thing I knew, we were barreling below-ground along the track of the underground trains.

  It was dark, and close, and the only light was from a small headlamp at the front of the cycle, and something glowing beneath it. I don’t like dark, close, or underground places, and my fingers turned cold and stiff as I gripped the vehicle’s handles as tightly as I could.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, praying a train wouldn’t come along behind us . . . or in front of us.

  I was definitely going to give Inspector Grayling a decisive talking-to when we arrived at our destination.

  But when we finally did roar up the drive of the Domanik Hotel, and I saw the carriage with Her Royal Highness Princess Alix’s seal on it, I forgot about my exasperation with Grayling. As I slid off the cycle—my posterior still vibrating from the roaring vehicle, my arms still warm from the proximity of his—I felt a combination of determination and apprehension.

  What if Princess Alix ordered me to leave? What if she did so in front of everyone?

  “Is everything quite all right, Miss Holmes?” Grayling said as I handed him the aviator hat and goggles. His expression was one of barely concealed amusement, but when I made no comment, his attention strayed to a location above my head. I could only suppose what condition my jaunty feathers were now in.

  “Yes, indeed,” I told him briskly. “Whatever could be amiss? After all, I’ve just barreled through the underground of London at breakneck speed on a vehicle that is surely in violation of Moseley-Haft.”

  “Are you suggesting that I, a member of the Metropolitan Police, am in possession of an illegal vehicle?” He looked down his long, narrow nose at me. I couldn’t tell whether he was amused or insulted.

  I sniffed and started into the hotel without an escort. Trepidation regarding the uncertainty of my reception by Princess Alix returned as I made my way inside, but I hurried along in an attempt to leave it behind.

  Although I didn’t know precisely where the Betrovians had been staying in the hotel, it was a simple matter of logic and observation for me to navigate to the largest and most comfortable apartments—the rooms where, presumably, Lurelia had last been seen.

  Grayling was on my heels as I entered the chamber, and uncertainty knotted my belly. If Princess Alix, or Miss Adler, or anyone else demanded to know what I was doing there . . . or, worse, ordered me away, I suspected I might never be able to show my face in Society again.

  Princess Alix was present, and so was Miss Adler. The Lord Regent was there, along with a prune-faced man who was presumably the hotel manager, a terrified-looking maid, and a variety of other individuals . . . including my father.

  I felt a rush of heat followed by nausea. It would be bad enough if I were turned away in front of everyone, but if my father were to witness such a humiliating event . . .

  Everyone looked toward the doorway as Grayling and I entered. For one absurd moment, I considered the option of escape.

  Instead, I did what any proper English miss would do, regardless of the awkwardness of her situation. I stiffened my upper lip and I curtsied.

  “Miss Holmes,” said Princess Alix. “I cannot imagine how you arrived so quickly. Thank you for making all haste. Is Miss Stoker soon behind you, then?” Her eyes were warm and filled with gratitude.

  I successfully hid my surprise. “Yes. Of—of course, Your Highness.” I cast a cautious glance at Miss Adler, whose expression was inscrutable. She gave me an imperceptible nod. “Erm . . . I’m not certain of Miss Stoker’s whereabouts. I’m sure she will respond as soon as she learns her presence is required, Your Highness.”

  Then I looked at my father. It took me a moment to remember when I’d last seen him—other than at the Welcome Event at the museum, and from a distance. My quick calculations told me it had been more than a month.

  “Sir,” I said, by way of greeting.

  “Do come in, Alvermina,” he ordered. “There’s work to be done, and apparently you’re to be the one to do it.”

  Still confused, but doing my best to m
ask the bewilderment, I did as I was bid. Fortunately, Miss Adler took charge and began to apprise me of the situation.

  “Princess Lurelia has gone missing. All indications are that she’s been abducted. She was last seen in the chamber adjoining this one”—Miss Adler gestured to a door—“last evening at ten o’clock by her maid. This morning when the maid went to awaken her, she was gone. Her bed had been disturbed as if slept in, and we found this piece of paper in the waste can. There was no sign of a struggle.”

  “This is a highly sensitive incident,” said Sir Mycroft, fixing his piercing blue eyes on me. “The Lord Regent has agreed to keep this information from the public for the time being, but if word should leak out that Princess Lurelia has disappeared, we could have a significant international conundrum.”

  “Of course.” My head wanted to spin with all the information—and lack thereof—and implications of the situation, but I stopped it firmly. Now was the chance to prove myself again to the princess and Miss Adler . . . and my father. I must be more observant and careful than I’d ever been.

  “Here is the note.” The hotel manager, whose face was generously wrinkled, handed me a piece of paper that was in the same condition as his countenance.

  I had no way of immediately knowing whether the hand was that of Princess Lurelia, but all indications were that it was. The letters were precisely formed, definitely in the penmanship of a female who was right-handed (which I’d already observed, of course, that she was), and the script held extra flourishes that befit a royal personage. I could tell the words had been scribed slowly and with care. In addition, curiously enough, none were scratched out or corrected, and there was a surprising lack of ink-spots.

  Dear Mina and Evaline:

  I told you there was nothing, but there is something.

  You will know how to find it and if you don’t help me, the worst will happen.

  If anything should happen to me before we next speak, you will know what to do.

  —L.