The Clockwork Scarab (3 page)

My chest felt tight, for I had just enumerated my shortcomings and pointed out my shameful lack of social invitations, and Miss Stoker had done just the opposite. It was difficult to make me feel inadequate, but her pointed comment bruised my feelings more than I cared to admit. Things
might have been different if Mother were here to usher me through the intricacies of Society, but she was not.

Despite my discomfiture, I continued, “The number of invitations and obligations aside, Miss Stoker, I suspect you’d rather be doing something
other
than attending parties or dances. You might have obligations, but perhaps you would prefer not to have to accept them.”

She closed her mouth rather sharply, and I recognized her tacit agreement. It was obvious through her demeanor and tones that she had an underlying need to prove herself worthy of her family legacy.

Perhaps we had more in common than I realized.

“You are quite correct, Mina,” Miss Adler said. “Now, shall we move on? Are either of you acquainted with Miss Lilly Corteville?”

The name, though familiar, did not produce the image of a face or personality. In many ways, London Society was a foreign environment to me. The thought of dressing up and lining the walls at a party waiting to be asked to dance by some eligible young man terrified me. I knew I’d be standing against the wall alone all night, watching everyone else spin about the dance floor. And even if I was asked to dance, I’d either smash the poor man’s foot or trip and fall on my face. Which was why I preferred not to waste my time with such nonsense as balls and the theater and shopping.

“I’ve met Miss Corteville,” said my companion. “She’s Viscount Fauntley’s daughter, and she’s engaged to Sir Rodney Greebles.”

“Indeed,” Miss Adler said. “She’s gone missing since the twenty-fifth of April, three weeks ago.”

“Could she have eloped? Run away? Been abducted?” Miss Stoker’s eyes glinted with the same interest that bubbled inside me, although my fascination was tempered by concern. I wasn’t convinced one could say the same for the other young woman. “We must conduct a search for her!”

“Of course the search has been ongoing.” Miss Adler smiled, and Miss Stoker settled back into her chair looking disappointed. “The facts are Miss Corteville left no note or other message. It appears she absconded in the middle of the night, and there was no evidence of struggle.”

“Perhaps she didn’t wish to marry Sir Rodney and eloped with someone else. He’s not at all attractive, and he’s more than twice her age,” suggested Miss Stoker.

“It’s possible. Yet, according to her maid, Miss Corteville didn’t appear to have packed any personal items to take with her as she’d do if she were going away permanently—eloping, for example.”

“Unless she didn’t plan to be gone for more than a brief time,” I interjected.

“Indeed. However, there was one other thing. We found this slipped down behind her dressing table and the wall.” Our hostess laid an object on the table for both of us to see.

“An Egyptian scarab,” I said. There were countless examples of the beetle-shaped medallions here in the British Museum. Miss Adler handed the item to me for closer perusal.
“No
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
something modern that’s made to
look
like one. This amulet isn’t thousands of years old.”

The object was made from soft metal, unlike an original Egyptian artifact (which would have been crafted of stone), and it was in the shape of a very large beetle that would fit comfortably in the center of my palm. Twice as large as a coin, and a bit heavier.

“Scarabs were like talismans,” I mused, turning it over in my fingers, noting the coolness of the metal, its smooth edges, and the intricate embossing on it. “They were put in Egyptian tombs or used as jewelry or even a token of affection.”

“They could also be employed as a sort of identification,” Miss Adler said, “among a connected society.”

The scarab’s bottom was flat, and the top rounded like an insect with two wings folded tightly over its dome-like body. It was made of verdigris metal, and the ridged carvings were filled in with black and green paint. I pressed on the wings, the head, and even the edges to see if it might open like the Royal Medallions. When I squeezed the tiny pincers at the head, at last something clicked and whirred, bringing the scarab to mechanized life. I watched in fascination as the shiny wings opened to reveal clock-like inner workings of tiny cogs and gears.

I turned it over. On the reverse were carvings, and I identified the image of a half beast, half man. “A cartouche? Of a lion-headed pharaoh? No
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
it’s not a pharaoh. It’s a god.” I frowned at Miss Adler. “A goddess. It’s Sekhmet.”

She nodded as Miss Stoker spoke up, her voice peremptory: “If you don’t mind.”

I handed her the object, seizing the opportunity to educate her as she examined it. “Sekhmet is the Egyptian goddess of war and destruction. She has the head of a lion because she’s known as a great warrior and ferocious fighter. She’s also been known as the Lady of Flame and the Lady of Slaughter.”

“Legend has it that her breath was so hot and powerful it created the desert,” Miss Adler said. “She is also the goddess of immortality and the underworld.”

“You believe this has something to do with Miss Corteville’s disappearance?” Miss Stoker smoothed her finger over the round top of the beetle.

“We wouldn’t have thought so if there hadn’t been another, similar object among the belongings of Miss Allison Martindale.”

My new partner’s face sobered. “Miss Martindale? Didn’t she hang herself?”

“Yes. It was a most tragic and horrifying discovery. She was found dangling from a tree in Hyde Park. The family tried to hush it up, but news does travel.”

“Do you mean to say Miss Martindale had a scarab as well?” I asked.

“It was found among her personal effects. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t believe so. Two young women of the same age, within the same month. One took her own life, and the other disappeared.”

“There must be a connection. Uncle Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences.”

“Why is Princess Alexandra taking such an interest in something like this?” asked Miss Stoker. A crease had appeared between her brows.

“Because—” Miss Adler hesitated and looked down at the scarab that had just been handed back to her. “Because she is very fond of Lady Fauntley, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and wishes to help find her daughter.”

“Is there anything more?” I prompted.

“If these two events are connected, the only clues we have are the scarabs. The two girls were acquainted, but they weren’t particular friends. Neither was known to have a deep interest in Egyptology, although they both visited the museum at least once.”

Just then, I heard a sound in the distance beyond the door inside a vast museum that should have been empty. The rumbling of a heavy door closing.

Miss Adler stood abruptly as Miss Stoker bolted to her feet. I did likewise. “Hurry,” our hostess said, moving toward a door through which we hadn’t entered.

The soft hiss of steam and a quiet squeak heralded an opening into a small square alcove. Our hostess hurried us through a silent, shadowy corridor that smelled of lemon wood polish. Mahogany floors shone unevenly in the moonlight, filtering through glass cases and over the paneled walls and mechanized cabinets that rotated slowly, even here at night.

I strained, listening for sounds of an intruder as we rushed through a back room of shelves, tables, and crates of antiquities.

“This way,” Miss Adler said.

We followed her through a little transept approaching the long, narrow Egyptian gallery where the famous Rosetta Stone was displayed. We all stopped beneath the ornate arch. I caught my breath at the sight before us.

A young man knelt in the center of the gallery, bathed in the moonlight. A large knife glinted in his hand, and he was looking down at a lump that even an untrained observer would recognize as the dead body of a woman.

“D
on’t move.” Miss Adler was the first to speak, and she took charge instantly. I’m certain her bravery was helped in no small part by the gun that shone in her hand.

“Step away,” she said. “Place the knife on the floor, then raise your hands.” She stood so the man had no opportunity to slip behind a sarcophagus or the statue of Ramesses II that loomed to his left.

“I didn’t—I was trying to help,” said the man caught in shadow. “I think she’s dead.” I couldn’t place his accent.

“Evaline,” Miss Adler said without taking her eyes from him. “On the wall next to the fist of Ptah. Find the lever. We need light.” As she spoke, she moved away from the body on the ground, all the while keeping the gun trained on the man, edging him away from the center of the chamber.

Moments later, a glow illuminated the space. The looming seven-ton statue of Ramesses II and massive pieces of
frescoes and hieroglyphs were no longer casting long, dark shadows that hampered my observations. The gaslights now shone on the intruder. He was hardly any older than I and wore a style of clothing I’d never seen before.

“Is she dead?” asked Miss Adler, glancing at Miss Stoker, who had refrained from approaching the body. The question was clearly meant to spur my counterpart into action.

“Er
 
.
 
.
 
.” Miss Stoker began. She moved forward with reluctant, robotic movements. She looked ill.

Impatient, I went to the unmoving figure and crouched next to the rumpled mass of skirts and limbs. I’d never come across a body, or a fresh crime scene like this before. I had certainly seen corpses, even studied them under my uncle’s tutelage. But not like this. Not so
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
raw
.

I forced myself to actually look at her, then to touch the pulse point on the girl’s throat. Even before I did that, I knew she was dead. But her chill skin and lack of pulse confirmed it. “There’s no hope for her.”

“I’ll ring for the authorities. They must be notified. Evaline, if you please.” Miss Adler gestured for my companion to take her place with the pistol.

I returned my attention to the victim. The poor thing could have been no older than seventeen or eighteen, a peer of my very own age. The fact that a short time earlier we had been talking about the disappearances and death of other young women was not lost on me. Could Miss Adler have anticipated such an event might happen here, tonight? Had she meant for us to prevent it?

I drew in a deep breath, smelled the sharp iron of blood and other bodily excretions, and pushed away my uncertainties. Only minutes ago, I had pledged my loyalty and self to the Crown. The moment of truth had come sooner than we could have realized.

Who was she? How had she come here? Why would someone do this to her and how? I forced myself to observe. Coldly. Objectively.

She lay on her side, curled up, eyes open—
fallen or dumped here
.

Her hair still pinned in place—
she hadn’t struggled
.

Not enough blood on the floor—
she hadn’t been killed here
.

Which meant
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
I looked at the intruder, who, still under the control of Miss Stoker, had nevertheless edged closer to the sarcophagus at the side of the gallery.

No bloodstains on his odd clothing—
he had not moved the body. He wasn’t the murderer
.

Grateful for an excuse to edge away from the girl, I approached the young man. “Did you touch her or change her position?”

“No, I didn’t move her.” His accent sounded American, but not like any other American accent I’d ever heard. “I was checking to see if she was alive when you showed up. I just touched her
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
for a pulse.” His voice was tense, and his eyes darted from me to Miss Stoker and back again.

I believe even the most objective of persons would agree he was a handsome man, with his golden-tan complexion and
startling blue eyes. His jaw was square, and his chin firm. He looked as if he were not even twenty, and as he stood there, his hands raised in surrender, I admired his mussed, too-long dark blond hair plastered around the ears and neck.

He wore a red shirt with no opening down the front. Its material made it cling to his chest as if it were wet, even though it wasn’t. Strangely, there were large letters painted or sewn on the front of it. I could see enough to make out
AEROPOSTA
—a French word, which added to my suspicions that he was a foreigner. If there were more letters, they were hidden by an unbuttoned plaid shirt. I’d never seen a man wear a shirt like that, open and unbuttoned. I found it scandalous.

Over the unbuttoned shirt, the intruder wore a jacket of black leather that was much shorter than any other coat I’d seen, ending just at his waist instead of halfway to the knees. The hem of the plaid shirt hung below it. His trousers were just as unfamiliar—made of dark blue denim, like the Levi Strauss pants worn by American laborers. They were frayed a little at the hems and worn in the knees.

And his shoes! I wanted to crouch and examine them, for I couldn’t identify the material from which they were made. They laced up the front like a woman’s shoe, but without the tiny little buttons that took forever to hook. (My mechanized Shoe-Fastener had broken three weeks ago.) Gray with age, yet decorated with an odd swoop-like design on the sides, they looked as if they were made of
rubber
.

Despite being worn, his footwear was not blood- or mud-splattered, which was curious because it had been raining today—as was usual for London. It would have been impossible to avoid the muck outside, even on the upper streetwalk levels.