The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  “Of course.”

  “But you know it is possible,” I reminded him. Why did he always have to bring this up?

  “If you ever actually kill a vampire, I might be believing it. But it’s no more than a legend anymore, Evvie. You’ve got the skills, but you’ve never actually staked an UnDead.”

  I stiffened and gave him a lethal glare. My face was hot. Bram was a blooming idiot. Drat him for blathering my secrets. Blast him for announcing my failure. “That may be the case, but I can, and I will. Someday.”

  At least he didn’t know the details of that night. How I’d frozen up and nearly become a victim myself.

  “Right. I do believe it, Evvie,” he said, holding up his hand as if to ward off my supernatural strength. “But there aren’t any vampires about to be killed anymore. And no one would believe a young woman could do it, even if there were. A young woman? Never. But what would they believe?”

  “Perhaps the precise opposite of a young woman?” Miss Holmes said.

  Bram must have missed the sarcasm dripping from her voice. His eyes suddenly popped wide open, and he stared at her. Then he pivoted toward the desk, then back to her again. Papers fluttered to the floor in the cyclone.

  “But aye!” he said in a triumphant voice. “The opposite of a young woman is an old man. A brilliant old man who uses his brains to outsmart the count instead of a young woman who uses her strength and speed.”

  Miss Holmes and I exchanged exasperated glances. I saw vexation, obviously on my behalf, in her expression.

  “I’m gratified to be of assistance,” she said coolly.

  “What did you say your name was?” he said, looking over his shoulder as he yanked the paper from its mooring in the typing machine.

  “Miss Mina Holmes,” she said.

  “Mina,” he repeated. He froze once more. His eyes glazed over as his mind slipped off somewhere again. “Mina.” He stepped over to his chair and sat down this time, scrabbling through papers. “It’s just the sort of name I need. She’s a very proper, very intelligent young woman. Strong of character, not flamboyant. The epitome of the Victorian woman . . .” He was mumbling to himself as he flipped through sheaves of paper. “She even knows all the train schedules.”

  “I know all the train schedules,” Miss Holmes informed him. “And the buses and underground as well.”

  Then he looked at us, obviously remembering we were there. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning to my work now.” His eyes were alight with excitement and passion.

  “Right, then,” I said. “We’d like to borrow some of the costumes and makeup, Bram. May we?”

  “Whatever you like,” he said, flapping a hand in our general direction. “Wait,” he commanded as we started toward the door. “Is that your given name, Mina? Or is it short for something?”

  My companion paused, her expression turning to one of distaste. “Alvermina.” She spoke as if it were a confession.

  “Hell,” Bram said. “You’ll be pardoning me, but that’s the most terrible name I’ve ever heard. I can’t name a character that. But I do like Mina,” he muttered, turning back to his typing machine. “Hmm. Mina. Philomena? Wilhelmina?”

  His words followed us as we left him to his work.

  Miss Holmes

  A Civil Conversation

  After an hour digging through the makeup and costume closets at the Lyceum Theater with Miss Stoker, I had a generous cache of disguises. Apparently there was some benefit to having her as a partner. If I’d had to resort to raiding my uncle’s stash, I don’t believe I would have been as successful, because despite what some people might think, Uncle Sherlock doesn’t have a large variety of female clothing or accessories.

  Miss Stoker and I took a smooth, silent lift up to the highest streetwalk and made our way back to the Strand. I took my leave in front of Northumberland House after lecturing her about why we couldn’t arrive at Witcherell’s together without inviting comment. And I reminded her to keep her gloves on at all times tonight, for hands could be very telling about one’s identity.

  With traffic clogging the throughways at all levels, it took three quarters of an hour to travel home. But that was typically London, even during the later hours of the evening and night. It was impossible to move quickly from one area to another. By the time I walked into my house, it was after four o’clock, which gave me three hours to work in my laboratory before I had to eat dinner and assemble my disguise.

  When I had been called to post bail for Dylan, I left my studies analyzing the different characteristics of ladies’ powder and creams. Because I hoped that giving my mind a rest from the Society of Sekhmet case might produce some deductions when I returned to it, I was determined to finish the analysis of the imported Danish face powder before leaving my lab today. To that end, I donned a protective apron and strapped on my goggles, then closed the door to my work area.

  However, the best-laid plans tend to be wantonly disrupted, and mine were no exception. I’d just set fire to the small dish of geranium-scented powder when there was a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” I called, taking no pains to hide my displeasure. The powder was burning more quickly than I’d anticipated, and the floral scent was distinct.

  The door opened enough to show Mrs. Raskill’s sleek pepper-and-salt hair and small, inquisitive nose. “You’ve a visitor.”

  I gave an unladylike huff. Since I wasn’t socially active, my visitor was likely her nephew Ben. “I’m quite busy,” I said, poking at the now-smoldering ruins of powder.

  The geranium scent was still strong in the air, and the powder had turned an interesting shade of honey. I lifted one side of my goggles onto an eyebrow so I could peer through a magnifying glass to determine whether there were any other physical changes to the residue. I had only a handheld glass, not one of the fancy Ocular-Magnifyers I’d seen Grayling use at the museum. This limitation necessitated awkward contortions on my part as I bent, peered, poked, and held the magnifying glass all at one time—while jotting notes.

  “He insists on seeing you,” Mrs. Raskill said. “I don’t think he’s going to leave until he does.”

  “She’s quite right, Miss Holmes.”

  I nearly dropped the magnifying glass at the sound of a familiar voice. Had I somehow conjured him up? “Inspector Grayling, what the devil—I mean, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Grayling was standing in the doorway, which was now fully open. At the sight of him, his dark cinnamon-colored hair almost brushing the top of the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space in a dark blue wool coat with six brass buttons, my insides did a sharp little flip.

  “I must speak with you, Miss Holmes,” he said, walking uninvited into my laboratory. “What are you doing?”

  He’d noticed my awkward position, not to mention the clutter all over my table. And . . . oh drat, the way I had lifted my goggles off kilter, covering only one eye and the other lens raised up to my forehead. I could only imagine how ridiculous I appeared.

  “I’m studying the residue left by various articles of the feminine toilette,” I told him primly, removing the goggles. I wasn’t going to think about the dark red circles that would be around one eye and imprinted on my forehead. “One never knows when one might encounter such a clue at the site of a crime.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m very busy, Inspector Grayling,” I said, raising my magnifying glass again and returning to the task at hand. That, I decided, was a better option than standing there like a silent fool, gawking at him. With random red circles on my face.

  “Obviously.”

  He’d stepped into the laboratory, and Mrs. Raskill made her escape. The latter realization surprised me, for I would have expected curiosity to get the better of the housekeeper.

  “I’ve an Ocular-Magnifyer that straps to the head,” he informed me. “And it fits over the eye. I ken it would make your task much easier.”

  I gave up and set down the glass to
give him my full attention. “What is so important that you found it necessary to travel to my home and interrupt your busy day?”

  At that, his expression became serious. “I thought it best to bring you the news directly. Lilly Corteville is dead.”

  I gave a sharp jerk and knocked the magnifying glass to the floor. Even as it shattered at my feet, I was saying, “Dead? No! No! How? When?”

  To Grayling’s credit, he made no comment about my clumsiness. Instead, he suggested, “Perhaps you’d like to step out for a moment where we can talk.”

  I was aware of a terrible, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Lilly’s dead?” It didn’t seem real. I’d just been there, talking to her in her parlor, only hours ago.

  Grayling nodded, his face still grave. “I thought it appropriate that you heard the information from an official representative of the Met instead of through other channels.”

  By now I’d made my way around the mess of glass, and I followed my visitor out of the laboratory. Conscious of Mrs. Raskill’s sharp ears, I said, “There is a small park at the end of the block. Perhaps we could sit and talk there?”

  As soon as I made the suggestion, I realized how forward it sounded. My dratted cheeks heated yet again, and I focused on the ground so that I didn’t have to meet his eyes and see the surprise or distaste reflected therein. To my relief, he kept any arrogant comment he might have made to himself.

  Instead he said, “A seat in the park would be most welcome. I’ve been inside all day with this business.”

  And that was how we came to be walking down the street together. He offered me his arm, which was proper and meant nothing but that he did have some habits of a gentleman. I took it, because there was always the chance that one might have to dodge a pile of something unpleasant while walking along the edge of the street, and being in heavy full skirts with hourglass-heeled shoes could make that difficult.

  I didn’t want a repeat of my tripping incident at the ball.

  He seemed willing to be candid with me, and as we approached the park, he said, “Word came to Scotland Yard at one o’clock today. Miss Corteville was found in her bedchamber at approximately noon, no longer breathing. She couldn’t be roused, and there was a bluish cast around her mouth and nose.”

  “Poison or asphyxiation,” I said immediately, then cast a covert glance at him.

  “It appears to be poison,” he said in a mild tone as we approached the park. “Evidence suggests that’s the case, but we haven’t finished the investigation.”

  The park was hardly more than a mechanized bench beneath a large tree with a neat garden of flowers planted around it. I’d occasionally seen a child or two playing ball on the small plot of grass, but they’d been toddlers, with a short range and didn’t seem to need much space.

  “What sort of evidence?” I asked, forcing myself to sound casual as I released his arm. I was still shocked at the unhappy news and cognizant that Grayling had decided I should be informed of it. Was he beginning to accept my involvement in the investigation?

  Grayling gestured to the bench, which was currently motionless. But just as I moved to take a seat, he sprang into action, holding up a hand to stop me. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted off the surface, then stepped back as I settled myself and my bustle onto the bench. This was no easy feat on a seat with a back (there’s nowhere for the bustle to go, so one is generally required to lean forward). However, I tend to wear smaller, more practical bustles, and as today was no exception, I was able to sit with relative comfort.

  “Next to her bed was a small vial, uncapped, and empty. I smelled the essence of bitter almond,” he continued as if there’d been no interruption in our conversation.

  “Cyanide.”

  Grayling nodded, then after a brief hesitation, took a seat next to me. There was a good space between us, I at one end, he at the other. But, still, it seemed odd to be sitting on a park bench, speaking casually with Inspector Grayling instead of competing with him.

  “Yes, I suspect it was arsenic. There was enough residue left in the vial to test it, so we shall know in short order. There was a note and another item that will likely interest you.”

  “An Egyptian scarab.”

  The expression that flashed on his face was gone as quickly as it came, but it was testament to the fact that I had surprised him once again. “Aye, you are correct. There was a scarab with a Sedmet, er, Sethmet—”

  “Sekhmet.”

  “Right,” he said. “An image of Sekhmet was visible inside, once the object opened. The scarab was on the bed next to the vial and the note.”

  “She wrote the note to make it appear as if she took her own life.”

  “All indications are that she did take her own life,” Grayling said. But his voice wasn’t argumentative. It was filled with the same suspicion that echoed my own thoughts.

  And what about the scarab? Did Lilly have another besides the one that had been found in her room, or had someone—the poisoner?—left another as a warning or as some sort of message? There had been a scarab found with Mayellen Hodgeworth’s body too.

  All at once, one of those thoughts crystallized, and I actually started. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there, at Lilly Corteville’s house, today.

  “What is it, Miss Holmes? You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”

  “I . . .” I realized I couldn’t voice my suspicions. Not to him, and certainly not without more proof. But the fact that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there was somehow relevant. It had to be. There were no coincidences.

  I was even more determined to go to Witcherell’s tonight and see the Ankh. And, if possible, to unmask it.

  Her.

  “I . . . erm . . . suspect the note said something about not wanting to hurt her mother?”

  Grayling fixed his eyes on me. At the moment, they appeared more green than gray, and their steady regard made me feel jittery. “Is that what you suspect?” he said in a mildly derisive voice.

  “What did it say?”

  “It did say something of that nature, in fact,” he said, still watching me. From his inside pocket, he pulled out the journal and the self-inking pen with the bulbous reservoir on top. After flipping through the pages, he stopped at one, paused, and then read, “ ‘I’m sorry, Mother and Father. I love you. But I can no longer live with this burden. Lilly.’ ”

  I blinked rapidly, feeling the sting of unfamiliar wetness at the inside corner of my eyes. What burden had been so heavy that she couldn’t bear it and had chosen death over life?

  She made the choice to leave her parents. For whatever reason, she took the poison. She left.

  My throat burned and my eyes stung, and I could feel the inside of my nose dampening. Why was I so upset? I hardly knew the girl. Yet, I must have felt something akin to rage—as well as grief—toward the poor wretch. For she’d made the choice to leave her parents. To leave them behind, to leave them wondering what they’d done to deserve being abandoned.

  I knew what it felt like, being abandoned. Left behind with no warning, no chance to right whatever was wrong. It was I who’d been left by one of my parents.

  In fact, for all intents and purposes, I’d been left by both of them.

  Grayling thrust something into my hand, and I looked down to see his handkerchief wadded in my palm. I dabbed sharply at my eyes, mortified that I’d revealed this range of emotion.

  “It’s been confirmed,” I asked, aware that my voice was rough and unsteady, “that the note is in her handwriting?”

  “Aye,” said Grayling. And even in that simple syllable, I could hear the thickness of his Scots burr. He wasn’t as unmoved as he appeared.

  I wiped my nose and then, instead of giving him back the soiled handkerchief, I stuffed it inside the hidden pocket of my skirt. Never allow any form of emotion to color your investigation, observation, or deduction. It was that excess of emotion, Uncle Sherlock claimed, that made the female gender unable to make
rational decisions and deductions. Which I’d spent my entire seventeen years of life attempting to disprove. At least, in my case.

  I forced myself to thrust away any influence of my emotions and review the facts. I knew there were others Grayling either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t provided, but I could draw three theories:

  Lilly Corteville had written the note and taken the poison.

  Or she’d been forced to write the note, and then the poison had been forced upon her.

  Or she’d written the note under some other circumstances, and it had been used at the scene of her murder in order to imply suicide.

  If it truly was a suicide, where had she obtained the poison?

  After a long moment of silence, Grayling spoke. “I suspect Miss Corteville obtained the poison from whoever murdered Allison Martindale and Mayellen Hodgeworth.”

  “I would suspect the same,” I agreed, wondering if I should mention the Society of Sekhmet. “In which case, this is likely murder. Or accessory to murder.”

  “I would concur.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him what Miss Stoker and I had learned about the Ankh . . . and then closed it. Through Miss Adler’s direction, Princess Alexandra had insisted on utter secrecy about our work. She must have her reasons, and I dared not compromise them without permission.

  We sat in silence for another stretch of time. It felt surprisingly comfortable, and I realized I was loath to disrupt it. But the clock at St. Bartholomew’s struck five, and I knew it was time for me to return home to prepare for my evening excursion.

  As if reading my mind, Grayling stood abruptly. He looked down at me and said, “Miss Holmes, I hope you aren’t planning to visit Witcherell’s tonight.”

  I was hardly able to control my surprise. Perhaps he knew more than he was telling me. Including about the Society of Sekhmet.

  “It wasn’t difficult to find out where Miss Corteville was going on the night of April twenty-fifth,” he said in answer to my unspoken question. “She didn’t lie about taking a cab; she lied about the wheel breaking. The cabdriver left her at Witcherell’s and watched her walk inside. He remembered it because it was an unsavory establishment for a young woman of the gentry to be visiting. I suspect you gleaned at least that much from her during your interview, and I am just as certain that you’re planning to investigate it yourself.”