The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  “As are you,” replied Lady Cosgrove-Pitt after a noticeable pause. “I understand you’re working at the British Museum now?” Her tone was pitying. Not surprising, coming from a woman who hadn’t worked a day in her life.

  At that moment, the princess turned her attention back to Mina and me. “Very well then, ladies. I’ve told you all I can at this time. I suggest you visit Willa Ashton yourself and—er—get to know her. She’ll be expecting your visit.”

  This was clearly a dismissal, so the four of us curtsied (and bowed).

  “Your Majesty, we beg your leave,” Miss Adler said to the Queen.

  “Of course.” The Queen smiled and was reaching for another truffle when she noticed her dog scrabbling at something beneath the settee. “Marco!” she scolded as she slipped the cherry-sized chocolate into her mouth. “You bad boy!”

  He poked his head out from beneath the skirt of the settee with a scrap of lace hanging from his mouth like a long, pink mustache. The poor thing looked completely bewildered at being caught out that everyone erupted in raucous laughter, including his mistress.

  But Queen Victoria’s laugh stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened. She began to clutch at her throat, her mouth open.

  “She’s choking!” exclaimed one of the footmen.

  “Do something!” cried Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.

  But no one seemed to know what to do.

  It was horrid: a noiseless, gaping Queen, her eyes goggling and terrified, her face turning pale. Not a sound came from her throat, for the round chocolate was fully lodged there.

  We all stared—frozen and helpless. Time seemed to stop.

  The chamber had gone sickly quiet. We watched in horror as the Queen continued her silent struggle. Her face was turning gray and her hands eased from her throat.

  There was nothing that could be done.

  We were watching the Queen of England die.

  “Do something! Why is no one doing anything?” Dylan shouted as he looked around frantically.

  “Try pounding her on the back,” cried Miss Adler, starting to move to do it herself.

  One of the footmen reached the Queen first, and, after a brief hesitation, began pounding on the choking woman’s back. But the Queen continued to collapse, horribly silent and still. Grayer. Weaker.

  “Move.” Dylan rushed over. “Let me.”

  He pushed the footman aside so hard he bumped into Miss Adler. When Dylan put his arms around the Queen from behind, I heard a soft gasp from one of the ladies.

  The Queen is a large woman, but Dylan was strong enough to . . . “My gad, what is he doing?” I whispered to Mina as our friend seemed to embrace Victoria, his hands wrapping around her center.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Dylan clasped his hands together in the middle of the Queen’s torso and slammed this joined fist sharply into her, once, twice, thrice.

  Someone gasped and one of the footmen shouted, “What are you doing to her? Stop him!”

  “I’m . . . saving . . . her . . . life,” Dylan said, struggling with the heavy woman. By now, the Queen, still eerily silent, was half sagging over his strong arms, and as we watched, he delivered four sharp blows to her back, then did that odd embracing-thrust again.

  He cursed under his breath, his expression desperate and determined as he slammed a hand into her upper back for a third time, one, two, three. . . . Two of the footmen lunged for Dylan, but he wrapped his arms around the Queen and thrust his fists once more into her torso. All at once the chocolate flew out of her mouth.

  “Oh!” gasped one of the ladies. Another screamed. Marco the dog lunged for the candy, but a footman snatched it away in the nick of time.

  The Queen dragged in a loud, desperate drag of air and began to gasp and pant. But she was breathing! Dylan gently released her onto the settee as the chamber erupted in exclamations, applause, and solicitous activity around the Queen.

  Dylan tottered over to Mina, pale and bewildered. “Did I just save the Queen of England’s life?”

  “Yes,” she replied, gawking at him. “That was . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. Extraordinary.”

  “How did you know what to do?” I looked at Dylan with new admiration. “And she’s not light of weight.” I could have lifted her, but then again, I was an unusually strong vampire hunter.

  “It’s called the Heimlich Maneuver.” A smile played about his lips. “I guess you don’t know about it yet.”

  Mina shook her head. “We do now.”

  “Young man!” A querulous, scratchy voice caught our attention.

  Dylan stiffened and turned to face the Queen, his smile fading. I could tell he was worried whether he was going to be reprimanded for touching her so roughly. I was worried that he was going to be reprimanded for touching her at all.

  “You. Come here.”

  He walked over to face the Queen, back straight, head held high. With a glance at each other, Mina and I edged in behind him.

  “Your Majesty,” Dylan said, then gave a deep bow. “I hope I didn’t . . . um . . . hurt you.”

  “You dared to put your hands on me,” Queen Victoria said. Her voice was rough and raspy, but normal color had returned to her face. Dylan stiffened at her words and began to speak but she interrupted. “And in so doing, you saved my life. And though I miss my Albert terribly, I am not quite ready to join him yet. So I will always be grateful, young man.”

  She fiddled with something at her cuff, then handed a small shiny object to Dylan. “Keep this. It’s one of Albert’s onyx and diamond cuff links, one of my most prized possessions. You’ll see his seal is on it. If you ever are in need of anything, Mr. Dylan Eckhert, you need only show this as a sign of my favor and gratitude.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Your Majesty,” he corrected himself. “It was nothing.”

  “I beg to disagree, young man. It was quite something to me. And,” the Queen said, turning sharp eyes onto Princess Alix, “you will tell your chef that he must henceforth make those truffles much smaller, or much larger. They are quite a hazard at their current size.”

  Miss Stoker

  In Which Evaline Reveals Her Cognog Side

  Although Mina was straining at the bit to visit Miss Willa Ashton and begin our investigation, Miss Adler insisted on returning to the Museum following the incident with the Queen. In fact, she urged us to wait until first thing the next morning to call on Miss Ashton, when we would more likely find her at home.

  I had no complaints about this. The princess’s assignment seemed dull and uninteresting compared to my plans for the evening. Dylan’s silvery device was burning a hole in my pocket.

  The only person I knew who might be able to put electricity into the mechanism lived in Whitechapel, the most dangerous area of London. The one time I’d been to his hideout, I had seen electric lightbulbs instead of gas lamps. A shadowy, disreputable character, Pix was fond of showing up at the most unexpected places.

  Thus, I had preparations to make for a trip to the stews—and the most pressing one turned out to be shaking my beloved sister-in-law from my tail.

  “But you haven’t had a new gown in ages,” Florence lectured me over luncheon. I had returned from the royal visit just after one o’clock. My brother Bram had already left for his job managing the famous Lyceum Theatre and their son, Noel, was visiting Florence’s sister in the country. Which left me at the mercy of my sister-in-law. “And there’s a new fabric merchant on Clements-lane who has brought in the latest styles from Vienna.”

  “Ages” in Florence terms was merely weeks in reality. “I don’t need anything new. My wardrobe is overflowing with the gowns we got for the Season.”

  But my interest was piqued by the mention of clothing from Vienna, which was coming close to surpassing Paris as the fashion center of Europe. It had something to do with its proximity to the small nation of Betrovia, known for its fine fabrics.

  “Bram expects us to wear something spectacular for the Ope
ning Night soiree.” Florence’s blue eyes sparkled. “It’s the new play by Mr. Gilbert! The crème de la crème of Society will be there, and you know how much Bram loves to arrive with two beautiful women on his arm.”

  And I knew how much Florence loved to shop. She looked so pretty and enthusiastic, it was hard to tell her no. Except when she was trying to play matchmaker between me and an eligible bachelor. Vampire hunters didn’t marry, but since Florence had no idea about my secret life, she didn’t understand why I wasn’t as excited as she was about attending balls and going to the opera in order to be seen by bachelors on the hunt for wives.

  “The soiree isn’t for more than a week,” I reminded her. “We have plenty of time to find something.”

  “But it’s such a nice day . . . ,” she said, then, as we both glanced toward the windows, she gave a little laugh and flapped her hand. “Well, a little drizzle won’t hurt either of us. And I think you should wear something ice-blue with sapphire underlays for the soiree.”

  I had picked up a piece of toast and paused with it halfway to my mouth. “Oh, yes. I really like that idea.”

  At the same time, I realized a shopping trip this afternoon could help me in other ways. It could provide me an excuse for not going anywhere this evening—for I would be weary and have a headache by the time we returned. That way I could sneak out. I could milk Florence for any gossip about Miss Ashton and her poor brother. And I truly enjoyed Florence’s company, though she could be overbearing and controlling at times.

  Hm. She rather reminded me of Mina Holmes.

  I felt guilty about hiding my secret vocation from Florence, and even guiltier about any dishonesty I was forced to use in order to fulfill my responsibilities. I made it a habit to never lie directly to her, but sometimes it was difficult not to. She was a combination of mother and sister to me. It was she who insisted I live with her and Bram when my elderly parents became too old to provide for me. They still lived in Ireland, where I’d been born, and they were now cared for by our other siblings.

  “Splendid!” Florence said, and our shopping trip was settled. “Now to review the latest batch of invitations.” Her expression grew a little frosty, due to the occasion a few weeks ago when I’d purposely kept her from attending the most premier ball of the Season. Mina and I had been working on the Scarab case and had to attend. That was the only reason I went, but when Florence discovered I’d gone without her, she was not happy.

  Thus, she insisted our housekeeper, Mrs. Gernum, intercept all of the invitations that arrived so we could “review” them together. It was a delicate balancing act for me to keep Florence happy by accepting enough of my own invitations that her social calendar was more varied than if she relied on her own—while declining as many as I could. I hated Society events. I despised the formality of them, the inane conversation, and the silly men who talked about their horses or clubs while trying to look down my bodice. Many of them had horrible breath or dirty gloves.

  Although, lately, the events at which a certain Mr. Richard Dancy was present had become slightly more interesting. He actually knew how to carry on a conversation, and occasionally even listened to what I might say.

  As the day turned out, after our shopping trip I no longer needed an excuse to stay in that evening. Florence was the one who went to bed early with the megrims, as she called it, after urging me to go to the card party at the Royce-Bailey house.

  “Mr. Dancy’s sister is supposed to attend,” she told me, holding a cool cloth to her forehead. “It’s a splendid opportunity for you to get to know her better.”

  “Right,” I said, thinking not of whist or bridge, but of what to wear tonight. I knew how to dress when I was going to the theater or to a musicale or a ball . . . but what should I wear to the darkest, dingiest, most dangerous pub in all of London?

  The pub in question, Fenmen’s End, was located at the corner of Flower- and Dean-streets in the Spitalfields neighborhood. The most disreputable area of Whitechapel, it was famous as the location of the Jack the Ripper murders.

  Any female would be beyond mad to wander the weblike culs-de-sac of the rookery at any time of day, let alone night. It was easy to get lost or trapped in the warren of dead-end streets, covered by low, overhanging roofs and darkened by tightly packed buildings. Thieves, murderers, and smugglers frequented the shadows, carrying out their business and removing anyone who got in their way.

  But I was an exception. If Jack the Ripper appeared and showed me his wicked knife, I would be eager to introduce him to my own weaponry. In fact, I would relish the chance to do so. If I couldn’t get to a vampire, a serial murderer was a fitting substitute.

  I walked boldly into Fenmen’s End and every eye in the place turned toward me. I was one of only four females in the establishment, and, I daresay, the cleanest of the lot. It was my plan to attract attention, for I knew word would get to Pix once I showed myself.

  As for my attire . . . I wanted to be noticed, but I wasn’t mad enough to wear a ball gown. Or even men’s clothing, as I’d done the first time I came to the pub. Instead, my clothing was a walking dress in what was called Street-Fashion. Though I was much less of a cognoggin than Mina Holmes, I had come to appreciate elements of that style—especially the exterior corset. Actually wearing your undergarment for all to see! It was shocking. Yet the corsets made to be seen were often gorgeous pieces of fashion, and more decorative than practical.

  Tonight, my ensemble jingled with decorative cogs and gears instead of the normal lace and embroidery. I wore long fingerless gloves made from soft, buttery leather. Tiny watchworks and jet beads were stitched all along the tops of them, and they laced tightly from palm to elbow, over my shirtsleeves.

  I’d chosen a pale yellow shirtwaist, and the corset I wore over it was made of brown leather, plaited up the side so I could do it myself. My maid, Pepper, had helped me dress. She had assisted me in assembling the outfit—for Florence would never darken the door of a shop that sold Street-Fashion.

  Pepper had also done my long, dark hair curled up into a tight, intricate coiffure. She insisted on secreting small vampire-hunting stakes in the mass of hair. She refused to let me leave the house at night without at least one somewhere on my person, in case I encountered a vampire. But that was highly unlikely, for there hadn’t been any vampires in London for decades other than a random few over the years. And instead of a bonnet, I wore a gently curved topper positioned above my left temple. Its feathers and fringe gave it a rakish appearance.

  But in spite of the visible corset, the most daring part of my attire—and what I liked the most—was the skirt. Its hem was in the shape of an inverted U. This meant it came to my knees in front, then draped down and around to a more proper length in back. Layers of ruffles and gathers of the emerald brocade created a fashionable bustle at the base of my spine. And for my footwear? Tall brown boots that laced up on the inside from ankle to knee—completely, shockingly visible due to the short skirt in front.

  If Florence saw me, she would be overcome with vapors. But in truth, I hardly looked any more daring than some of the barmaids, who hiked up their skirts while serving.

  “Good evening, Bilbo,” I greeted the bartender. I’d only met him once, when in my disguise as a young boy. He gawked at me, overfilling a mug of ale or some other liquid that splashed onto the counter.

  I sailed through the crowded place with ease, due to my short skirt and the fact that most of the patrons stepped back as they ogled me. My movements were as free as the rare times I wore trousers. I appreciated the way the chunky heels of my boots made firm, powerful clumps across the wooden floor.

  I was halfway to a table when two bulky men appeared, blocking my way. Based on their dingy smiles, I was sure they’d never even heard of tooth powder, let alone used it. One of them might have shaved last month, but I doubted the other had used a razor since he sprouted his first chin hair. And maybe they’d bathed at Christmas.

  “Weeeel . . . wot a pe
achy blowen we gots ’ere,” said the one who might have once used a razor.

  “Shore ain’t no slavey, eh, Garf?” They laughed in apparent agreement. “Look’en ’ow nobby this one is. I’d like t’see wot’s under dem daisy roots she gawt there.”

  “’Ow kind o’ ye t’join us, fresh jenny,” said Garf as he grabbed my arm. I gasped and reared back in pretend fright.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, struggling a little.

  “Now, now, li’l loidy. We e’en ’ave a place t’sit,” the nameless one said as I was propelled roughly toward a table in a dingy corner. He leered at me, his face coming much too close. The stench made my eyes sting.

  The numbfists must have thought I was light-headed because of their charming personalities, for they laughed and congratulated each other as I was shoved onto a chair. They took a seat on either side of me; the rest of the patrons were watching without appearing to be watching.

  “No, thank you,” I said, attempting to stand. But a heavy hand shoved me back in my chair.

  “’Ave a seat, missy. Yer ’avin’ a drink wi’ us. And then later . . . we’ll ’ave a bit more fun. If’n ye know’at I mean.”

  I hid a smile. Idiots were going to get the surprise of their lives if they tried anything with me.

  My so-called companions hollered for a round of whiskey, and three small glasses were delivered to the table.

  “Drink’m up, jenny,” ordered Garf as his friend gulped down the spirits. Great. Rotting whiskey breath. “Things’ll be much mo’ fun if ye do. Loosen t’ings up a bit, eh? Like them laces on yer side, eh?” He poked at them.

  “No, thank you. Do you have any lemonade, Bilbo?” I called to the bartender. “With a bit of ice in it, perhaps?”

  This suggestion caused great guffaws of laughter and some backslapping from my so-called escorts, as well as some snickering from the other patrons. Bilbo seemed as shocked as if I’d asked for a new parasol, and Garf gave a long, aromatic belch that probably rattled his teeth. I gagged.