The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

But the chill at the back of my neck was just as intense as ever, and I knew I didn’t have much time. At this very moment, a horde of vampires could be mauling a table of poker players in the chamber above.

  “This way, Miss Stoker,” said Mr. Dancy as he hurried me along. In fact, he didn’t have to hurry me at all; I was moving as quickly as possible. The sooner I could divest myself of him safely, the better.

  The hallway we turned down didn’t look familiar, but that didn’t matter. I was more concerned we’d encounter an UnDead before we got outside to safety, and certainly Mr. Dancy knew his way around Bridge & Stokes better than I did.

  In fact, he must have, for all of a sudden, he opened a door and we were outside. A dark, starry sky arced over us, and the soft bubbles of yellow gas lamps studded the city below. There was no moon tonight, and a chilly breeze lifted the loosening hairs on the back of my head. I realized I’d lost my hat in our collision. Some of the pins had come free, and my hair was sagging in places.

  We were on a small terrace filled with potted trees, climbing vines, and benches. Under any other circumstance, it would have been romantic to be here with the handsome Mr. Dancy—but I didn’t have time to waste.

  “What are we doing here? Is there a lift down?” I asked, looking about in vain.

  “Yes, over there. But . . . Miss Stoker . . .” He turned me to face him. “If I may . . . just for a moment. We’re safe here.” He smiled down at me, never looking more handsome than he did at that moment.

  Though I chafed and danced a little in his grip, I couldn’t look away from his soft, warm eyes. “Yes, I know, but I must—”

  “I cannot express how delighted I am to have encountered you here tonight! I always believed you were unique and fascinating, but tonight my impression of you has become even more flattering. You are brave and bold and courageous. You must know I hold you in the highest of esteem, Miss Stoker . . . Evaline.”

  My heart was thudding and I felt soft and murky as he held me there under the stars. His face drew closer, and I knew he was going to kiss me.

  I needed to go, to get back and save people—but just for a moment . . .

  The walking stick fell from my hand as he bent closer. I lifted my face to meet his lips. And just as my eyes began to sink closed, I saw the red flare suddenly glowing in his.

  My eyes bolted wide as he plunged his fangs into my throat.

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Makes a Prudent Exit

  I had the presence of mind to fling the contents of my whiskey glass under the table while everyone was gawking and bolting to their feet to the cries of “Murder?”

  Due to the fact that my father still hovered behind me, I was one of the few who did not rise. In fact, I remained resolutely facing away from him and the cacophony behind me.

  Naturally, Sir Mycroft took control of the situation. “Scotland Yard has been notified, I presume,” he said as if he were commenting on the weather. Though his voice wasn’t particularly loud, it held the sort of command that made it heard without the need for volume. The general chaos in the chamber settled into something more like quiet shock.

  “Sir, if you will deliver me to the location of the tragedy,” my father continued, presumably speaking to the footman (my face was still averted). “And . . . it would not be remiss if you were to notify my brother in addition to the Met.”

  The noise gave a brief uptick in volume, but Sir Mycroft’s next words brought the chamber to a sudden hush. “No one is to leave the building. Everyone is to remain in their current location until the authorities have arrived and conducted their investigation. Everyone must be interviewed about anything they might have heard or seen.”

  My stomach dropped like a lead ball. This was it. Lurelia and I were in a complete and utter fix.

  The only thing that would make it worse would be if someone remembered we had come in with Sir Mycroft’s cousin.

  No, the only thing that would make it worse would be if Inspector Grayling was part of the investigative team.

  Now the lead ball in my belly broke up and began to churn like chunky butter. The liquid contents of my belly swished violently, threatening to surge back up. I swallowed hard, desperate not to allow that to happen.

  I hadn’t dared look at Lurelia since the unexpected appearance of Sir Mycroft and the Lord Regent, but as they made their way out of the chamber (apparently neither of them were required to remain in their current location—a fact which I, mostly, appreciated) I chanced a look over.

  The princess’s thick mustache and sideburns were still intact. She’d done nothing to draw attention to herself—not that that was a surprise, for that seemed to be her personality in general. I caught her eye and gave her a nod of encouragement. As soon as my father and the Lord Regent were gone, I rose and went to sit in the chair next to her.

  “Where’re you going?” exclaimed someone—and I realized he was speaking to me. “We have a game to finish here!” It was Mr. Stanley, the self-appointed manager of the betting game.

  “Might as well keep playing since no one of us is going anywhere. Pass the time faster,” added the man with the black mustache.

  “Er . . . no thank you, old chap. I’m not feeling quite the thing at the moment,” I said. “All this talk of murder makes my eye twitch.”

  They grumbled and tried to bully me into playing again, but I was firm in my refusal. Actually, it was desperation more than anything, for I had a feeling even the smell of whiskey would have me losing control of the swirling contents of my stomach.

  Once they left me alone—after pressing the poor footman into making up the seventh person in the game (I had no idea who was fronting him the pound note)—I was finally able to give Lurelia my full attention.

  “What are we going to do?” Her eyes were wide beneath the thick, too-long hair that kept getting caught in her bushy brows.

  “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

  That wasn’t strictly true . . . but one was forming in my mind.

  I didn’t like where my thoughts were leading, but at the moment it seemed the only possible way Lurelia and I might extricate ourselves without being discovered.

  For the more I thought about it, the more I realized several things.

  Under no circumstances could Sir Mycroft or the Lord Regent see us. That had to be the first priority.

  (To be clear, it was the first priority after avoiding the UnDead and staying alive. But I had to trust Evaline had that element under control.)

  Second, under no circumstances could I be seen by Uncle Sherlock. A master of disguise himself, he would immediately recognize me.

  Third, if we were interviewed by Scotland Yard, we would need to provide our names and addresses, which we obviously could not do.

  And finally, we would be asked to provide any information we could about the murder. Obviously, what I suspected about the crime—which was that it was the result of the vampire or vampires Evaline had sensed—was not going to be helpful to the police.

  With the possible exception of one individual.

  As much as it pained me to admit it, and as much as I dreaded the fact that it was the only solution, I corrected my thoughts to desperately hope that Inspector Grayling was going to be on the investigative force. Because if he were not, I suspected the threat of a vampire would be the least of my worries.

  With this in mind, all I could do was wait until the investigators arrived, and hope whatever vampires might be present had either been exterminated by Evaline, or had fled the club. Never one to leave anything to chance, I spent my time examining the chamber in search of anything that might be used as a weapon against the UnDead, should we be confronted by them.

  While there was no garlic to be found (I even lifted the lids on the used meal trays), there was a decorative cross hanging on the wall among several other items from the collection of the sixteenth Archbishop of Canterbury. I surreptitiously slid it from its mooring and tucked it into my pocket. Since it was
made from iron, it weighed down my coat, but there was no help for it.

  I was just searching for something that could be used as a wooden stake when I heard voices in the corridor. I spied an automated umbrella stand tucked in the corner and pushed the button, hoping to find at least one with a wooden handle. The machine was surprisingly old and slow for such a luxurious club, and I chafed at the delay as it rumbled ever so slowly around in its circuit. It offered me two different brollies I had to reject because they were too thick for me to break. The third one, fortunately, was more like a parasol and I snatched it out before the stand came to a halt.

  I’d just managed—with greater difficulty than I care to admit—to break it in two over one of my knees when the chamber door opened. I jammed the shorter piece into the inside pocket of my coat, which was now beginning to sag unfashionably due to all of the accoutrements I’d stuffed inside. One of the benefits of being a female—one of the few—is the ability to carry a reticule within which one can hide numerous useful objects.

  I hovered in the corner as several members of Scotland Yard, along with one of the butlers, and a gentleman who I deduced was the club manager, came into the chamber. Presumably none of them were UnDead, but none of them were Inspector Grayling either.

  Drat!

  The one time I wanted to encounter the infuriating man, and he didn’t have the decency to make an appearance. I fumed and worried and tried to hide in the corner, in hopes no one would notice me and I could somehow slip away with Lurelia.

  And then he strode in.

  I felt almost faint with relief. I’d never been so happy to encounter the arrogantly tall, broad-shouldered, ginger-haired man. He was speaking in low, insistent tones to the club manager, who was gesticulating urgently as he responded.

  Then without warning, Grayling nodded, then turned and left the chamber. I strained to hear his last words as he walked through the door, “. . . speak with Sir Mycroft.”

  Drat.

  But the time of waiting and planning was past. I needed to take action, for the other inspectors were beginning to cull the gentlemen away for individual interviews.

  I went to Lurelia and said, “Act sick. Now.”

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t for her to stand up and begin to cough violently, so hard she nearly doubled over.

  I put my arm around her waist, and she staggered awkwardly against me. People were looking at us. “My friend needs to find a . . .” What did men call it? “He’s going to be ill! Um . . . too much whiskey. Where is the nearest—er—”

  One of the footmen sprang to action. Perhaps he was afraid Lurelia was going to stain the lush rugs on the floor, or be ill in some gentleman’s lap. The result was precisely what I had hoped: he led us out of the chamber and down a hall. Lurelia was now making convincingly disgusting gagging sounds, and I began to worry she really was about to lose the contents of her stomach.

  Apparently, the footman was too, for he simply pointed to a door, then fled back down the hall.

  We didn’t even bother to go inside the—whatever it was called. Although Uncle Sherlock claims every new experience is an invaluable part of detecting, I decided I could live without entering a men’s retiring lounge.

  “Now what shall we do?” asked the princess.

  Leave.

  We could just walk down the hall, navigate to the main entrance, and make our escape. But of course there must be men stationed at the exits to ensure no one left. If I were in charge of a murder investigation—not knowing the perpetrator was an UnDead—I would stake guards at every doorway in order to keep all suspects intact. (Knowing the perpetrator was, in all likelihood an UnDead, if I were in charge of the investigation, I would be evacuating everyone from the building.)

  Regardless, the decision was made for me, for suddenly a policeman appeared in the corridor. Unfortunately, I recognized him from my visits to the Met. I certainly hoped Officer Thornbush didn’t look too closely at me.

  “What are you two doing out of the chambers? Everyone is to remain in the rooms until all of the statements have been taken.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said in my deep voice. “We have pertinent information for Inspector Grayling. I was told he went to speak with Sir Mycroft at the scene of the crime, and that we should find him to give him our statements directly.”

  “Who told you—oh, never mind. The Inspector can deal with you. Come with me. I’m going there now.”

  As we walked with Officer Thornbush, I kept my face averted and conversation to a minimum except to ask, “How was the victim murdered?”

  “Thought you knew something about the murder,” Thornbush said suspiciously.

  “I have information for Inspector Grayling. I didn’t say it was about the murder precisely.”

  I heard my father’s voice, and—oh drat!—Uncle Sherlock’s too as we approached a chamber whose door stood open. I gestured for Lurelia to wait and, drawing in a deep breath, I followed Thornbush into the chamber.

  I scanned the space, my attention skipping quickly over my father, my uncle, and the Lord Regent—along with the two other gentlemen present—and toward the lumpy cloth on the floor. Presumably the body. Blood was already seeping through what had once been a curtain. I was rather relieved the mess had been concealed; my stomach was still queasy.

  “Inspector, this bloke here’s got something to tell you. Says it isn’t precisely about Wexfeld here, but he claims it’s about something important.”

  Now was my chance. I walked briskly toward Grayling, who, thankfully, had turned from the conversation at the sound of his name. As I strode past a small table to meet him, I flung out my hand and brushed an empty cigar-ash bowl off the table, directly into Grayling’s path.

  The metal bowl crashed onto the floor, bounced twice, then rolled to a halt right at his feet.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered and crouched automatically to retrieve it.

  I lunged to the floor at the same time and we both reached for the bowl. I’d removed my glove, so it was my bare hand he saw when our fingers closed over the dish.

  As I’d hoped, he looked up at me in surprise, clearly noticing my hand was not that of a man. I met his gaze head-on, widening my eyes with entreaty.

  Shock blossomed over his face, turning it a pleasantly ruddy shade under the freckles scattered over his high cheekbones. His eyes fairly bugged out for a moment and I thought he might be in danger of exploding right there. Then his expression turned to exasperation and, finally, unmistakable anger.

  We rose in tandem, my heart thudding as I waited to learn whether he would divulge my identity or do as I’d mutely begged.

  “I’ll take your statement out here, er, sir,” he said, even as his eyes bored furiously into mine. “Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Holmes. Sir Mycroft. My lord.”

  Nearly giddy with relief at his acquiescence, I preceded him out of the chamber and into the hall. He rounded on me the moment we were out of sight of the others.

  He made little effort to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. “What in the bloody—”

  “Inspector Grayling,” I hissed, interrupting what was certain to be a diatribe by sending a pointed gesture toward Lurelia. “Please. If you would just attend to one thing for me, then you may lecture me and rail at me all you wish.”

  He ground his teeth, his face turning a dark red, but he snapped his mouth closed and turned to face my companion. It took him only a moment to discern the problem—a fact I had counted on—and when he spun back to me, his eyes were bugging out even more prominently and his face had colored almost purple.

  “Are you mad?” He sounded as if he was being strangled.

  As I had no logical response, I merely lifted my chin and glared back at him.

  “Thornbush!” Grayling shouted in a much louder tone than was strictly necessary, considering the man was only halfway across a small room.

  The other officer snapped to attention and approached.

  �
��These two gentlemen have provided me with their statements, and they are free to go. Please escort them out of the building and put them in a cab, pay for the fare, and give the directions to the driver that he is to take them to their—homes—and no where else.” He jammed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a collection of bills and coins, which he slapped into the hand of a bewildered Thornbush.

  “Um . . . right, then, Inspector.”

  Lurelia made no hesitation, and began to walk with Thornbush down the corridor, but I wasn’t quite ready to leave.

  “Miss Holmes,” Grayling said from between clenched teeth, after looking about to ensure that no one was within earshot, “if you don’t leave this very minute, I will tear that bloody ridiculous hat and wig from your head and march you into—”

  “Miss Stoker is here,” I said in a low voice. “Somewhere.”

  To this day, I cannot describe the expression that covered his face. I almost felt sympathy for the man; the whole situation was like a rather horrific Shakespearean comedy, at least from his perspective.

  “I will find her,” he managed, although how he did so without moving any part of his jaw, I cannot say.

  I realized Thornbush had paused and was now waiting for me, and I had only one more moment to give Grayling the information I’d promised. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the jagged wooden umbrella handle and, giving him a meaningful look, handed it to him. “You may find yourself in need of this.”

  I had no idea whether he would understand, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances. Thornbush was waiting, Lurelia was in danger of discovery, and my father and uncle’s voices were drawing near.

  So I did what any intelligent person would do: I took the opportunity to flee.

  Miss Stoker

  An Unexpected Farewell

  It was more shock than pain that had me reeling from the thrust of Mr. Dancy’s fangs.

  Yet this wasn’t the first time I’d been taken by surprise by an UnDead, and I also had my own advantage. He had no concept who I really was.