The Clockwork Scarab (24 page)

“Right,” she said. “And I know just the place to get whatever we need.”

T
he public entrance to the Lyceum Theatre was at ground level on Wellington-street, but I brought Miss Holmes through the back entrance used by the actors and other personnel. I often visited Bram and knew how to navigate the backstage to his office.

It was just past noon, and the wings, prop closets, costume wardrobes, and dressing rooms were deserted. The actors and stagehands wouldn’t arrive for several hours, having been up until well past two o’clock the night before. It was no wonder this was the quietest part of the day in the theater. Like vampire hunters and pickpockets, actors and actresses carried on their festivities until dawn.

My brother’s voice boomed from his office as we approached. He was talking to someone, and he sounded bothered. I was used to Bram’s moods, especially when he was working on his book. Miss Holmes looked at me in question, but I knocked on Bram’s door.

The talking stopped, and the door swung open. “Evaline.”

“I hope we aren’t interrupting,” I said, glancing around him into the office.

“No, no, come in,” he said, gesturing us into the chamber.

I could feel my companion’s attention sweep over him. The only resemblance between my brother and me is our thick, curling dark hair. I’m petite and elegant, and he’s rather stocky. He has a full beard and a mustache with an auburn tint in the growth nearest the lips.

I walked into the office and wasn’t surprised to find it empty.

“I thought I heard you talking to someone.” Props and papers were everywhere, along with costumes, a sword, and a crushed papier-m
â
ch
é
cauldron. The company was currently performing
Macbeth
.

“I was working on my book,” he said, gesturing to a large typing machine. A paper protruded from its roll and was filled with words. Crumpled papers littered his desk and the floor. “You likely heard me cursing at the blasted thing. Writing a book is blooming difficult, even when ye know the topic of vampires and vampire hunters.” His hair was a mess, as if he’d been pulling on it.

He noticed Miss Holmes for the first time, and I introduced her.

“Sherlock Holmes’s niece, are you? You’re being the intelligent one, then, aye? You don’t go taking yourself off and doing dangerous things like my sister here, do you? Trying to find
vampires, hunting them with supernatural strength,” he muttered, glancing at the typing machine again. His brows drew together. “That’s after being my biggest problem with this book. No one would believe it, Evvie. The critics would be laughing for weeks—a story in which a
woman
kills the evil, cunning vampire. It’s not possible for a woman to outsmart and kill the powerful and intelligent Count Dracula.” He looked at Miss Holmes and added, “It’s the character of which I speak, of course.”

“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.

A
fter 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?