The Clockwork Scarab (25 page)

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.”

I felt a little like Uncle Sherlock must have when he realized Irene Adler had been one step ahead of him. “Inspector Grayling,” I said, thinking of the variety of accoutrements I borrowed from the Lyceum Theatre, “you might feel it necessary to visit Witcherell’s tonight, but I can assure you, Mina Holmes will not be sighted on the premises.”

Grayling looked at me long and hard before giving a brief nod. Nevertheless, his expression was filled with suspicion as he offered me his arm for our return to my residence.

When I arrived, I bid him farewell and went inside to find that a message had been delivered in my absence.

Dylan had found what he believed was Sekhmet’s diadem.

Now all we had to do was lure the Ankh to the museum so we could capture her.

Smiling to myself, I closed the door to my bedchamber and began the process of eliminating any resemblance to Miss Mina Holmes.

T
hat evening, I approached Witcherell’s Pawnshop on foot. Thanks to the resources Miss Holmes and I had plundered from the Lyceum’s costume trunks, no one would recognize me.

Pepper had braided my hair tightly against my head and pinned a bonnet over it. I chose the hat because it was abominably ugly. With five long pheasant feathers sprouting from the back of the crown and miniature brown-speckled blue bird’s eggs decorating it, I knew no one would believe it was fashionable Evaline Stoker under that brim. We pinned false red-gold curls underneath. Miss Holmes had suggested I wear clear-glass spectacles, which she claimed would help to disguise the shape of my eyes. I also wore flat shoes to make me appear shorter.

“Merely changing the color of your hair and style of dress isn’t enough to hide your true identity,” she lectured.
“And for heaven’s sake, keep your gloves on at all times. One’s hands are an excellent means of identification, and most people don’t think to disguise them.”

Thinking it might be fun to don our disguises together, I suggested we get dressed at Grantworth House. But Miss Holmes gave me a disapproving look. “We can’t arrive together, even if we are in disguise. I will be at Witcherell’s at nine o’clock.”

I’d seen many disreputable storefronts and buildings, but Witcherell’s was the dirtiest place I’d ever seen. Located at ground level several blocks from Haymarket, it was on the same street as a dingy pub, a sad-looking bakery, a second pawnshop, and an empty storefront. Just the sort of places a pickpocket or thief would frequent.

The street and walkway were busy. Yet when I glanced up and down the way, there was no sign of Mina Holmes—even in disguise. So I walked into the pawnshop.

The only person inside was the proprietor, a skinny man with protruding eyes and a bald head. His nose was a large triangular blade that made even Miss Holmes’s look dainty. He looked at me as I came in. Was I to ask about the Sekhmet Society meeting? Unlike when we attended the Roses Ball, this time Miss Holmes hadn’t given me any indication of how she expected to proceed.

And I hadn’t thought to ask. Or to plan ahead.

Chafing with impatience, I looked around for inspiration. How on earth did this place stay in business? Every one
of its offerings seemed to fall under one of three categories: filthy, broken, or filthy
and
broken.

A little tinkle of bells drew my attention from behind, and I turned to see a young woman walk through the door. Finally. A young woman would never be in a place like this unless she was planning to attend the Society of Sekhmet meeting.

She glanced around hesitantly, then edged her way toward the counter where the proprietor sat watching both of us like a large, silent toad.

I would have assumed the newcomer was my partner, but it wasn’t. Miss Holmes’s nose would have given her away immediately. This young woman’s nose, although by no means delicate, was shaped differently. Her cheeks and jaw were round and pudgy, and her skin was an unbecoming ruddy color. Her dark hair looked as if it were about to tumble free of its haphazard pins. She obviously didn’t have a lady’s maid to help her dress, although her clothing seemed well made.

However shyly she moved, this young woman appeared to have a better notion of what to do than I. She walked with small steps up to the counter.

“Oh,” she said, pausing to poke her fingers around inside a shallow bowl. There was a soft rattling sound, as if the small objects were being stirred up. Her voice was loud and a little squeaky. “These beetles are
just
utterly too,
too
!”

Beetles? I wasted no time edging my way toward the counter.

“If ye be likin’ dem, missy, ye mun fin’ more o’ dem back ’roun’ ’ere,” said the proprietor. He flipped up a section of the counter and gestured the young woman through.

Despite my impatience, I waited until she disappeared into the back room. Then I approached and looked in the bowl. It was filled with Egyptian scarabs.

“I like these beetles,” I said. “May I look at the others in the back?”

The proprietor looked at me balefully. “I ain’t got no more dem
beet
-ulls,” he said, and picked up a rag that might once have been white. “Dis ’ere’s wot I got.” He began to polish a metal cup, ignoring me.

What had I done wrong? Was I supposed to speak some sort of password?

Surely no one chose a password as ridiculous as “utterly too,
too
”
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
did they?

I stewed about the situation for a moment, wandering the shop. All the while, I watched the skinny toad out of the corner of my eye. Then I came back to the bowl and dragged my fingers through it again, disturbing the disk-like scarabs. “What cunning little things,” I said, trying not to sound as ridiculous as I felt. “They’re simply, utterly too,
too
!”

“If y’ain’t gerrna buy nuthin’ or sell nuthin’, then ye can stop wastin’ m’time,” the shopkeeper snapped, setting the metal cup down with a loud clang.

“I’m looking for more scarabs like those,” I said. “You sent that other girl to look at them. Why won’t you let me through?”

He remained silent.

What in the blooming fish was wrong with me? I couldn’t even get past the owner of a pawnshop. And though I waited, hoping Miss Holmes or some other Sekhmet Society member would arrive, the shop remained empty of anyone but me and the beady-eyed proprietor.