The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  By now I’d seen enough of his face to confirm my earlier guess at his age. Twenty, twenty-two at the most. But here was a man who carried authority in a pub of thieves and pickpockets, who could whistle and summon them in an instant. And he could make his way into a Society ball, groomed and dressed like a neat servant who knew his way around the house and his tasks.

  He was aptly named after an ever-changing, always on the move, sprite.

  I took another sip of ale and didn’t wince at the bitterness this time. I listened as Pix spoke to the newcomers. Their slang-filled cant was English and mostly incomprehensible to me, but I understood he was sending them off to find out who had put the scarab in the pot. After taking a close look at the object, the two men nodded and left the table. I saw them make their way around the pub and assumed they were asking about the talisman.

  Pix watched them for a moment, then took a drink. As he lowered the mug, I asked, “Why were you at the Roses Ball, sneaking around in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s—”

  He covered my hand with his and squeezed, silencing me. “Not s’ loud, luv.”

  My interest perked up, for my voice hadn’t gone any louder than before. “What were you after?”

  “Now, why would I tell ye that? Ye already know wot I was after. Gewgaws an’ jewels an’ the silver, o’ course. Wha’ever I could stuff in me pockets.”

  He was confirming exactly what I suspected, but I didn’t believe him. “You’re lying.”

  He tilted his head and looked at me with an odd expression. “Right, there, luv. An’ a bloke’s gonna ’ave some secrets.”

  “I suspect you have a multitude of them,” I said. “Like where you hide all the loot you’ve stolen. And who knows what else.”

  “On’y me an’ the good Lord know, that’s f’sure.” One of the men approached, and Pix, reading something in his expression, rose to meet him. They spoke for a moment in undertones, then Pix turned back to me and bent over the table. “Yer in luck, darlin’. Ferddie o’er there was the one wot put the coin in the pot. ’E got it from Bad Louie, and—”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A bloke ye don’ wanna know. ’E’s been stealin’ girls offa the streets fer years. Even ye don’ wan’ ’im catchin’ a glimpse o’ the likes o’ ye, luv. Ye kin trust me on ’at.” His expression was fierce. “Ferddie says Louie’s got ’imself a right purty speck o’ a girl in fine, rich togs stayin’ with ’im. Stayin’ bein’ a kind way o’ puttin’ it, iffen ye get m’meanin’.” He looked at me closely, his voice still low. “Ye wouldna know anythin’ about a missin’ Society gel, would ye?”

  “If he got the beetle coin from the girl, then I would definitely know all about her.” I rose. Even if it wasn’t Lilly Corteville, a Society girl—or any girl—had no business being held prisoner by the likes of Bad Louie. “Take me to her, Pix.”

  He sobered, eyeing me. “What’s the chances you’d stay ’ere instead?”

  “None.”

  Whatever he muttered under his breath probably wasn’t a compliment. Resignation in his face, he gestured for me to stand. “Come on, then.”

  Pix’s two friends accompanied us as we left the pub and descended to ground level. We went only a couple of blocks before turning down a dark, close alley. A bridge that had once connected across the third street levels sagged, untraversable, above my head. Pix glanced at my ready pistol and curled his lip. I could almost read his sneer: he didn’t need a blooming pistol. “Stay ’ere. Wait. Watch. I’ll be jus’ a minute.”

  I complied, but only because one of the other men stayed as well. The night was filled with distant shouts and clanging noises, the rare rattling of carriages, barking dogs and yowling cats, the hiss of steam. Neither my companion nor I spoke.

  I watched the area where Pix and his companion had disappeared. There was a dark building in front of us, and they’d gone in there at ground level. Then I heard a shout in the distance. And gunshots.

  I sprang to attention, my gun in hand, and started to move. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Bad Louie. More gunshots and shouts echoed through the night. Light flashed in a small explosion as I started down the dark alley, hurrying in the direction Pix had gone.

  But before I got more than a dozen steps, two shadowy figures appeared. They were running, and one of them had something large and heavy over its shoulder. I didn’t need to see to know the runners were Pix and his friend.

  “Run!” More shouts and gunshots filled the air.

  I stayed with my companions as we dashed through a dizzying maze of streets and alleys, up flights of rickety stairs and over narrow bridges, down and up again until I was completely lost. We turned down a narrow street with dark sky-touching buildings and then ducked into the entrance of a large, black structure. There was a loud clang behind me, and the sound of a metal bolt being thrown.

  Someone shoved me along in the dark, and I was propelled down some stairs. A man cursed, another person pushed and guided me, and finally I saw the faint glow of light. At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped into a completely different world than the dark, dingy, dirty Whitechapel streets above.

  This was someone’s living quarters, and very well furnished. Settees and rugs had been arranged in a large open space that looked just as comfortable as a parlor in any Society home. Gas lamps . . . no, electric lights cast cool, white illumination. Much sharper than the mellow golden glow that lit the rest of London. Something mechanical whirred softly in the corner.

  Well, here was the answer to one question: where Pix hid all his stolen loot.

  I turned to him. He was sliding the large, heavy item from his shoulder onto the settee. I realized his burden was a person he’d retrieved and carried all this way.

  The clear light played over her face, and beneath the dirt and bruises, I recognized Miss Lilly Corteville. She was conscious. Her eyes fluttered and focused, then fear and shock filled her expression.

  “Lilly,” I said, kneeling next to her, yanking off my cap so she could see my face. The pins ripped from my hair and scattered. “It’s me, Evaline Stoker. You’re safe now.”

  I could have sworn I heard someone whisper Evaline behind me, as if testing out the name, but the chamber was filled with so many other sounds that I couldn’t be certain.

  “Lilly,” I said again, looking at her cut, bruised face. The poor thing. What had she lived through? “You’re away from that horrible man. Whatever happened, you’re safe.” I found one of her hands and closed my fingers around it. Her digits were cold and stiff.

  Her lips moved, and I couldn’t tell what words they formed, but I understood. “Water, and something to eat,” I ordered over my shoulder. “Hurry. And . . . something warm. She’s like to freeze to death.”

  I’d hardly spoken the words when a soft blanket was thrust into my hands. I tucked it around the poor girl, but not before I noticed her torn, filthy clothing. It had once been fine and expensive, but now it told the tale of her experience: blood and dirt stained, lacking ruffles, lace, and other embellishments that could be stolen and sold.

  She’d been missing for weeks. She’d obviously been wearing the same clothing all that time. Had she removed the lace and ruffles to raise money, or had they been stolen right off her by Bad Louie or someone else? I burned to ask questions, of her and of Pix, but I knew the time wasn’t right. The girl was in shock, and she needed to rest.

  And as for Pix . . . He’d saved her from a terrible situation. And in spite of everything I knew or suspected about his criminal habits, I had to thank him for that.

  After dabbing her face clean with warm water and a bit of soft soap I hadn’t thought to ask for, I helped Lilly Corteville drink some thin broth. Her gaze skittered about, and she didn’t release my hand until her eyes closed. At last she slipped into a restless slumber.

  Extricating myself, I stood and found Pix watching me. The other two of our companions were sitting across the room, playing dice at a table. My host sat in a chair, lounging in hi
s deceptively relaxed manner. But I sensed tension and an air of something I couldn’t define emanating from him.

  “You’ll take good care o’ ’er, now, won’t ye, luv?”

  “Right after I find Bad Louie,” I replied. Now that I had seen Lilly and her condition, I understood just how bad that man had been.

  “No need f’that,” he replied. “Bad Louie won’ be stealin’ no more pretty girls.”

  “You killed him?” I had a moment of shock competing with disappointment. I’d wanted to have a hand in the man’s punishment.

  “Oh, ’e ain’t dead. ’E jus’ wishes ’e were.” There was no humor in his words.

  “Thank you for helping her . . . and me. But now I must get her home.”

  “Aye, I’ve made the arrangements. Now, will ye sit and take a sip o’ tea wi’ me?”

  I took the cup he offered and settled in a chair between Lilly and Pix. The tea was fragrant and sweetened, without milk. Just the way I liked it. How did he know?

  And how, I wondered not for the first time, had he known my name? My vocation?

  “Better’n th’ale?” he asked, watching as I sipped.

  “I think I could get used to the ale.”

  His lips curved. “Aye, I’d expect nawt less from ye. An’ now I’ve a question for ye, luv,” he said as, all of a sudden, I realized how exhausted I was. My eyelids grew heavy, and weariness rushed through my limbs. It had been busy night.

  “What’s that?” I replied, taking another drink of the soothing brew.

  “Why did ye let me win?”

  I smiled at the hint of aggravation in his voice.

  “Because I could.”

  I set the teacup down, and despite the fogginess that had begun to swim over me, I added, “And so now you owe me one.”

  He chuckled in that low, rumbly way of his. “And so it is. Now, close yer eyes. I’ll see ye and yer friend ’ome safely.”

  Blast him! “You drugged my tea!” I struggled to sit upright. But my muscles were loose and my brain was foggy.

  “Now, luv, a bit o’ laudanum ne’er ’urt anyone—so long’s it’s jus’ a bit. An’ I can’t ’ave ye leavin’ ’ere, and rememberin’ where my crib is, can I? I’m not one for unexpected guests.”

  His dark gaze, focused on me from beneath the ever-present cap, was the last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me.

  Miss Holmes

  An Unsettling Interrogation

  The next morning, I received a cryptic message from Miss Stoker. Written on paper from Fergus & Fenrick’s, it said

  Lilly Corteville home and in ill health. Discovered in Whitechapel. Come as soon as able.

  Aside from the fact that she didn’t seem capable of using proper subject/predicate grammar, Miss Stoker’s girlish penmanship was bothersome with its distracting flourishes. As it was hardly dawn when I received the note, I felt a detour home to freshen up was a good use of time and would keep me from arriving on the Cortevilles’ doorstep at an unreasonable hour.

  I had attempted to convince Dylan to accompany me, but he elected to remain in the small dark chamber with his so-called telephone.

  “I’m going to have to figure out a way to recharge it soon,” he said, looking at me with haunted blue eyes in the glow of the device. “I only turn it on when I’m in this room. But it’s still getting low.”

  “Very well,” I said, unsure of his precise meaning, but unable to take the time to further investigate.

  I was worried about the young man. On the one hand, I understood his need to return home, to remain in the spot where he’d been shunted through time, in hopes that a miracle would happen and he’d get shunted back. But on the other hand, I suspected that keeping himself cloistered was only causing him more anguish. Before I left him in his dank dungeon-like chamber, I shared this opinion in rather passionate tones. He didn’t seem to care; instead, he continued to stare down at his illuminated device.

  I had no choice but to leave him there. Having been locked away in the British Museum on a self-imposed exile for five days, I found the change of scenery refreshing. The sun had chosen to show herself today, and I felt the welcome warmth of her rays seeping through my clothing. For a wild moment, I thought of removing my gloves or tipping back the brim of my hat, just to feel the sun on my skin. I’d already allowed my parasol to rest on a shoulder instead of fulfilling its purpose of providing shade.

  Now, as I waited on the porch of the Corteville residence—an imposing, grand mansion in the elite area of St. James, not more than two blocks from Cosgrove Terrace and Miss Stoker’s own Grantworth House—I became even more determined to help Dylan. Not just to return to his time, but to help him accept his current situation until we could get him home.

  The door lurched open and instead of the butler I was expecting, I found myself face-to-face with Inspector Luckworth.

  Drat.

  “Miss Holmes,” he said in an unwelcoming voice. “Why should I not be surprised to see you here.” It was clearly not a question.

  Patting my bonnet to ensure it was still in place, I stepped over the threshold and offered my parasol to the mechanized umbrella stand by resting it on a set of open mechanical claws. A soft groan emitted from the device, as if it were waking. The brass fingers closed over my accessory, then the Brolly-Keeper turned and slipped my parasol into a neat cubbyhole in the wall. Several other small cubicles contained parasols, umbrellas, and walking sticks.

  “Good morning, Inspector Luckworth. Kippers and sausage for breakfast I see,” I said, noticing the remnants on his collar. “Perhaps you should look into an adjustment on your mech-leg; it’ll keep your hip from being so sore. And you should see to replacing the lamp to the left of your mirror as soon as possible.”

  He gawked at me as I sailed past him down the hallway, following the sound of low voices. They were coming from the parlor, outside which stood the butler I’d expected earlier.

  “Miss Holmes,” I told him, offering my calling card. “I’m expected.”

  He nodded and opened the door.

  I paused before entering, adjusting my gloves and hat and patting at my hair again. Why was I suddenly nervous? I was dressed and groomed appropriately.

  My skirt was a sunny yellow flowered polonaise, pulled back up into a bustle that exposed a cheerful gold, blue, and green ruffled underskirt. The tight-fitting basque bodice I wore over it was pale blue, trimmed with yellow, green, and white ribbons, making the ensemble bright and summer-like and complementing my golden-brown hair and hazel eyes. I would never look as elegant or stylish as Miss Adler or Evaline Stoker (neither of them had to contend with a nose like mine), but at least I was attired in clothing that befitted a visit to a home such as the Cortevilles’. Viscount and Lady Fauntley were of the upper crust of Society, and the latter, as Miss Adler had told us, was an intimate friend of Princess Alexandra.

  When I stepped into the chamber, I took in the room and its occupants at a glance.

  Miss Stoker sat on a chair nearby. She was dressed in ratty men’s clothing, and her black hair hung improperly loose in long curling waves over her shoulders. I noticed the bulge of a pistol as well as a variety of other implements on her person, along with dried mud and offal on the edges of her boots. She appeared annoyed and restless, and when she saw me, she sprang to her feet.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived,” she said, hurrying to my side. “Took you long enough. I’ll be off now.” Before I could respond, she made her excuses and slipped out of the chamber, clearly glad to be leaving.

  I turned back to the room.

  Lady Fauntley was seated on a settee, speaking with two women. One of them was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt, and the other Lady Veness, the wife of another leading member of Parliament who’d more than once called on my father for assistance. They appeared to be soothing the distraught mother—although why they should be soothing her when her daughter was alive and safely home, I wasn’t entirely certain.

  Lilly Corteville was indeed hom
e and safe—and by the look of it, she was also being soothed herself by none other than Inspector Ambrose Grayling.

  It was a touching tableau: Lilly half-reclined on a small chaise, looking pale and weak, and Grayling had drawn up a chair so close it touched the upholstery of the chaise. He leaned toward her, holding one of her hands in his, speaking earnestly.

  Tsk, I thought to myself in disdain. Neither of them wore gloves, and if he were any closer to her, I do believe he would be sitting on her lap.

  I sniffed. If the lowly, working-class Inspector Grayling imagined he had a chance with the likes of Miss Lilly Corteville, daughter of a viscount, he would have a rude awakening.

  Although . . . My attention slid to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. He was related by marriage to one of the most powerful men in England. Perhaps his chances weren’t utterly hopeless. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt looked up at that moment and gave me a nod of recognition.

  “Lady Fauntley,” I said to Lilly’s mother, with a curtsey. “I’m Miss Mina Holmes. . . .” Just how was I to explain my presence here? After all, my involvement and that of Miss Stoker was meant to be clandestine and covert; I couldn’t announce to the room the purpose of my visit.

  “Miss Holmes, I’m pleased to meet you,” Lady Fauntley said, taking my hand in both of hers. “Thank you for coming. Your presence means a great deal to me and my family at this time. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  I blinked at this easy acceptance of my intrusion, but I realized Miss Stoker must have already made some sort of explanation for it. Perhaps even Miss Adler or Princess Alexandra herself had apprised Lord and Lady Fauntley of our involvement, though we’d been warned to keep it a secret.

  “Thank you, my lady,” I said. “I’m relieved your daughter has arrived home at last.” I turned to Lady Veness and was introduced, and finally I faced Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. “I must apologize for retiring from the Roses Ball without taking your leave last week. I intended to say good-bye, but you were engaged at the time, and I didn’t wish to interrupt.”