The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  “Pepper’s cousin’s neighbor’s daughter prayed in the church this morning, and there was no message yet.”

  I nodded. “That cannot come as any surprise, considering the events of last night. And no one would be able to connect you or me to your maid’s cousin’s neighbor’s daughter, even if she were to be seen.”

  “Yes. I asked for Callie to check again later today. Perhaps there will be a message then,” said Miss Stoker. “But for now, would you have any objection to making a stop at Scotland Yard?”

  My heart gave a funny little jump. “Whyever for?” I asked, admittedly a trifle sharply.

  “Inspector Grayling was injured last night, and I simply wish to ensure he’s had the wound properly seen to. And to thank him for his assistance.”

  I owed Grayling my gratitude as well, and I had certainly intended to express it at my earliest convenience. In writing; not in person. I was not looking forward to the lecture he was bound to inflict upon me.

  “Very well,” I said, unable to manufacture a reason for declining that Evaline wouldn’t immediately ridicule and discard.

  If I had hoped Providence would smile down upon me and arrange for Inspector Grayling to be absent from the offices of the Metropolitan Police, I was bound to be severely disappointed. We found him in his office, along with Angus—who was vocally delighted to see me—and, interestingly enough, Inspector Lestrade.

  “You’re a hard-lined cognoggin, Brose. If you can’t figure out what it is, I don’t know who can. Aside from Holmes, that is, and the bloke can be such a bloody—” Lestrade started when he saw Evaline and me being accosted by an enthusiastic Angus, who was acting as if I had appeared solely to deliver more Stuff’n Muffins to him.

  “Down, doggie, good doggie,” I said, unable to keep a hint of crooning from my voice. I also found my hand—still gloved of course—straying down to pat the little beast on his white and chestnut-brown head. It was at a most convenient height, for he was jumping up on Evaline’s skirts in an effort to determine whether she had brought him a muffin-flavored bribe.

  I was more than a little irritated when she produced a bit of wrapped cheese from the depths of her reticule. She could have a piece of cheddar in her bag, but forget to pack money for the street-lifts?

  “Erm . . . good day, Miss Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade. His cheeks were slightly pink. “And . . . ?”

  “Miss Evaline Stoker,” I said.

  “Well . . . erm . . . give my best to your uncle,” he said, taking his leave so abruptly he nearly stepped on one of Angus’s ears. “Brose, will you take a look at that today and give me something so at least Holmes—er—right, then. I’d like to have something to tell him for once, since he . . .”

  “Yes, of course,” Grayling said as he put something on his desk. Then he turned to greet us, and I observed his left arm was injured. Not because it was bandaged—although it likely was, for there was extra bulk beneath his coat sleeve—but because of the way he was holding it, unmoving, against his torso and the fact that his shave on the left side of his face wasn’t as clean. “Miss Holmes. Miss Stoker. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  I was quite certain he wouldn’t have greeted me so cordially if Evaline hadn’t accompanied me. In fact, I was fairly certain his greeting would have been something rather loud in volume and vehement in tone.

  “How is your arm, Inspector?” asked Evaline. “I hope you’ve taken the time to have it looked at by a doctor.”

  “It’s naught but a scratch, but I thank you for your concern. And also for your—er—assistance last evening.” The tone of his voice was something I had heard only rarely, and never directed at me. “I don’t believe . . . well, it was not at all what I expected when I was called to the club.” Now he turned to fasten that arrogant gaze on me. “There were, in fact, several unexpected discoveries last night. Might I inquire, Miss Holmes, what on this blooming earth you were doing there?”

  I found it rather offensive that he would pose such a question to me, and not to Evaline. Was she not there with me? Was she not also party to the Princess Lurelia debacle? And dressed in men’s clothing as well?

  “I had business to attend to,” was all I could think of to reply.

  “I cannot begin to imagine what business—”

  “Excellent, then. You shouldn’t waste your brain power attempting the impossible.” I leveled my gaze at him, and he returned the favor. His gray-green eyes sparkled with fury. I decided that disarming him might be the best option. “Regardless, I owe you a debt of gratitude, Inspector Grayling, for your discretion last evening. I’m certain you’re aware of how disastrous the outcome could have been—on many levels. I am truly in your debt.”

  The ire in his gaze eased. “You’re too kind, Miss Holmes. I did only what any gentleman would do.”

  “Except for Mr. Richard Dancy,” said Miss Stoker. She’d sidled over behind Grayling and sat at his desk chair, petting a wriggling Angus. The creature appeared ready to bolt into her lap. I thought of warning her about the volume of hair the beast would leave on her skirt, but lost the opportunity when she continued. “It was he who—um—murdered Lord Wexfeld.”

  “Am I to assume Mr. Dancy will never be called to task for it?”

  “No, he will never been seen again. Unfortunately.” She gave Grayling a hopeful glance. “Is there any way to notify his family that he . . . er . . . is . . . won’t be back? Ever? So they needn’t always wonder—and hope?”

  He nodded gravely. “I’m certain there’s a way to do so effectively. Thank you for suggesting it. I’ll see that it’s done immediately.” He returned his attention to me. “And I do thank you for providing me with the information I needed to find Miss Stoker and help her find her way out as well. I . . .” He looked as if he wanted to say something more, for his gaze went from me to Evaline and back again. I suspected he wanted to know more about how we’d known of the presence—or even existence—of the UnDead. But he did not. “I . . . suppose I now have several notes to add to a—er—particular file of mine.”

  He looked meaningfully at me.

  Oh. Drat! How had he known?

  It was Angus’s fault for startling me. I’d dropped the file and things must have gone out of order.

  I felt my cheeks flush, but I made no comment.

  “Right, then. Mina, we should allow Inspector Grayling to return to his work. Oh, I’m so sorry.” These last words were spoken after the soft clunk of something heavy landing on the floor. “I didn’t mean to knock that off your desk. I do hope I didn’t break it.”

  She lunged under the piece of furniture before Grayling was able to do so, and when she emerged, she was holding the object Lestrade had given him. It took her longer than it should have, due to Angus’s delight that someone had ventured down to his level.

  “Why, thank you Miss Stoker. And I don’t believe it’s broken at all.” He accepted it with the hand of his uninjured arm, and looked down at the small mechanical device. “Hmm. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  “What is it? Where did it come from?” asked my companion.

  “I’m not quite certain myself. Inspector Lestrade—whom you just met—asked me to look at it. Apparently, Holmes—er, Mr. Holmes—is assisting with a case over on Magpie-alley, and this was found on the site of the crime.” Grayling turned the small object over in his hands, clearly favoring one over the injured other. “It appears to be some sort of . . . well, I don’t know, but perhaps it provides some sort of power? But that’s . . . hmm.” He squinted at it more closely, making interesting sounds as he examined it.

  He looked as if he’d just realized we were still there. “Right, then. Miss Stoker, it was a pleasure to see you again. And Miss Holmes, do attempt to keep yourself from the vicinity of any other dead bodies for . . . oh, perhaps at least a month?”

  I sniffed and stooped to take my leave from Angus. His ears were so ridiculously long and soft. He flopped one of them on my shoe as he pa
wed on my foot in an effort to keep me from leaving. I would have to remember to bring more Stuff’n Muffins the next time I visited.

  “Good day, Inspector,” Evaline said. All of a sudden, she seemed to be in a great hurry.

  “Good day,” I managed to say as she fairly dragged me out of the office.

  “Mina! Do you know what that was?” she hissed as soon as we were out of earshot.

  “That small metal device? Based on your enthusiasm, I can only assume it is the very same mechanism your Mr. Pix is so secretive about.”

  Evaline’s face flattened comically. “Oh. Well, you’re correct.”

  “Of course I’m correct. I’m a Holmes.”

  “Well, since you’re a Holmes, you can take advantage of that fact and find out from your uncle exactly what the case is and where that device was found. Then I’m going to learn once and for all what Pix is up to.”

  Miss Stoker

  In Which Our Heroine Is Enlightened About a Number of Things

  I had Middy drop Mina off at her Uncle Sherlock’s home on Baker-street to discover what she could about the Magpie-alley case. Then she planned to settle into her father’s library to begin researching in which bower Queen Elizabeth had likely hidden the chess queen.

  When I walked into the foyer of Grantworth House, I glanced at the stack of mail sitting on the front table. My sister-in-law, Florence, had recently instituted a new rule that all invitations were to be kept aside for her to peruse with me. This was due to the fact that, given the choice, I would decline them all. And also because only a few months ago, I’d gone to the Event of the Season without her knowledge—an event Florence claimed she would have killed to attend.

  Though any invitations that might have arrived had already been taken away, there was a folded note on the table that bore my name. It was sealed with a simple blob of black wax. And it looked familiar. My heart thudded down to my belly.

  Disbelieving, I broke the seal. Sure enough: it was the very same note I’d put in the Domesday Book last night—the order for one of Pix’s devices. I stared down at it with chagrin and saw that someone—likely Pix himself, for the writing was a dark scrawl—had added a note at the bottom:

  10 o’clock. St. Sequestrian’s.

  Ugh! How had he known it was me?

  That blasted Pix. Had he been at Bridge & Stokes last night? How could I have missed him? And if he had been there, why had he not come to anyone’s aid during the vampire attack?

  I crumpled up the note and shoved it in my reticule, then thought better of it. I fished it out and called for Brentwood, our butler.

  “Can you please tell me how this was delivered, and by whom, and when?” I showed him the note with its black wax still partially intact.

  “Of course,” he said. “It was delivered only a short time after you left this morning, my lady, by a young gentleman on one of those air-bicycles. Dangerous things, if you ask me, my lady, with the wings protruding as they do.”

  “A young gentleman? How young? What did he look like?”

  If Brentwood thought my questions odd, he showed no sign of it. But his description of the young man—slight, no more than twelve, blond hair, and—the clincher—a twisted foot, made it clear Pix himself hadn’t delivered the note.

  Hmph.

  Yes, I would meet him at St. Sequestrian’s. And I might use the information Mina was sure to provide me by then as a bartering tool to get one of those devices. Blast it. If Inspector Grayling hadn’t been in his office when we were there, I would have taken the device that was on his desk.

  Florence didn’t appear to be home, which meant I would have the opportunity to practice my fighting skills. I generally used the Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor, which my sister-in-law believed was so I could perfect my waltzing ability. She was in favor of anything related to me getting on successfully in Society. However, the machine had been altered so I could instead use it to practice my vampire-slaying technique.

  Last night’s battle with Dancy had been more difficult than it should have been, and I was determined not to be caught so unprepared again. That meant getting back to a regular practice schedule like Siri had demanded, and always carrying a stake with me. Pepper was going to have to find new and creative ways of hiding them on my person.

  I was drenched with perspiration by the time Pepper knocked at the door to let me know I’d received a message from Mina, and that Florence had returned home. Blast! My sister-in-law didn’t need to see me in the loose tunic and trousers I wore to practice. Thus, I’d have to sneak up the servants’ stairs to my bedchamber so I could freshen up.

  I read the note from Mina—which was long and overly detailed. I was able to summarize the two-page message into four sentences: There had been an unusual number of bodies found near Fleet-street that couldn’t be attributed to normal factors such as disease or poverty. In the vicinity was an old Carmelite monastery, built during the thirteenth century for the Whitefriar monks. Most of the area had long been covered up by walls and hills and buildings but was accessible through the sewers near Magpie-alley and Bouverie-street. The mechanical device of Pix’s had been found near one of the bodies and may or may not have anything to do with the series of deaths.

  Not a lot of information, but enough that I knew I would be paying a visit to Fleet-street to see what else I could learn.

  After a bath and clean clothing, I made my way down to have dinner. I had to figure out a way to avoid attending any social engagements with Florence this evening.

  I loved my brother’s wife. I truly did. She was more of a mother to me than my own—who was quite elderly now, and still living in Ireland. But Florence was also like an older sister. And, she had one thing on her mind for me, and that was marriage.

  “I heard the most dreadful news today!” was how she greeted me at the dinner table.

  It was just the two of us, for Bram rarely dined at home in the evening due to his obligations at the theater, and my nephew, Noel, was still visiting Florence’s cousins in the country.

  “What was that?” I said, eyeing the roasted beef tips and gravy and fresh applesauce with interest. I’d worked up more than the usual “feminine” appetite and couldn’t wait to dive in. But my sister-in-law would be scandalized if I scooped up a huge portion to begin with; I had learned to pace myself so she didn’t notice how much I ate.

  “Apparently there was some sort of accident at a gentlemen’s club last night, and Lord Wexfeld was killed . . . and so was your nice Mr. Richard Dancy.” Her eyes, usually sparkling with life, were filled with grief. “They say his body was . . . well, unrecognizable.”

  My insides lurched a little. “That is terrible news,” I said sincerely. And I didn’t even correct her assertion that he was “my” Mr. Dancy. What was the point? “I can’t believe Mr. Dancy is dead. That’s just . . . awful.”

  “I’m so sorry, Evaline.”

  I nodded, and to my surprise, tears burned my eyes. She had no idea.

  “Tonight we must call on the Dancys and pay our respects. His sister and mother will be devastated.” Florence gave me a look that brooked no disagreement.

  But for once, I had no desire to sidestep an outing. In fact, I knew it was my duty to attend. Just as it had been my duty to kill Mr. Dancy.

  All of a sudden, the beef tips didn’t look quite as appealing.

  Florence and I arrived at the Dancy household in Mayfair just before nine o’clock—late for a social call, but when a family was in mourning, those sorts of rules tended to be ignored. I would make up some excuse to leave so I could meet Pix at ten.

  “What do I say to them?” I asked Florence as our carriage rolled to a halt. “I don’t have any idea what to say to make them feel better.” I realized I was nervous. What if I said the wrong thing and made things worse? I didn’t know what to do around people who’d lost a loved one. Would everyone be crying? Sobbing constantly? I couldn’t imagine a more awkward situation.

  She patted m
y hand and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “I understand your worries, Evvie. But the main thing is to show you care simply by visiting. You don’t even have to say much. People who are grieving often just need someone to be there. Just to listen and be present for them. There isn’t anything you can do to change the situation. All you can do is let them talk.”

  I nodded, still uncomfortable. I would do my best.

  The Dancys’ home was, as expected, shrouded in black: curtains at the windows, crape over the door. The butler wore a black armband, as did the rest of the servants. Inside we found a number of visitors. Most of them were sitting in the parlor with the grieving family, who was also dressed in black.

  Florence had brought a large meat pie and two loaves of fresh bread, for even though the Dancys had servants to cook and clean, they too would be mourning for the loss of their young master. Aside from that, food and drink must be offered to all the visitors and be on hand for the funeral.

  I expressed my condolences to Priscilla, the sister, as well as her parents. All of them had red-rimmed eyes and wore expressions of shock. I couldn’t help but feel responsible, even though I hadn’t made Richard Dancy become UnDead.

  But the fact remained, if I’d been patrolling the streets of London regularly instead of ignoring my duty, I might have killed off the vampires. Then Mr. Dancy would never have met them. And he would still be here—making sweet jests about my eau de limone scent and whirling young ladies around the dance floor.

  This realization put me in a foul mood, and I went into the dining room where the refreshments had been laid out for visitors.

  I opted for a piece of cheese and some slices of apple, simply to appear occupied. Back in the parlor, Florence remained sitting next to Mrs. Dancy and they were speaking intently, but I had no desire to talk to anyone.