The Chess Queen Enigma (11 page)

I
think
my companion rolled her eyes, but I was walking too quickly—just ahead of her—to know for certain. I stepped
onto one of the elevators and yanked Evaline on board before the gate closed. “Did you dance with that Mr. VanderBleeth? Do you think there is any chance at all he was the one who accosted Lurelia?”

To my great annoyance Evaline began to laugh. “There is no chance he accosted the princess. I'm certain of it. Did you not recognize him, oh Mistress of Observation? Surely the great Miss Alvermina Holmes wasn't taken in by a mere disguise!”

I turned to glare at my partner. What on earth was wrong with her? I had no idea what she was taking about, but I ground my teeth and chose not to reply.

“Oh, don't sniff at me,” Evaline finally said as the elevator gate opened. We were on the ground floor and the ladies' retiring room was across a small alcove. “You always do that when you don't know what to say. Mr. VanderBleeth is actually very well-known to both of us.” She lifted one eyebrow at me in a manner I find very irritating.

Mr. VanderBleeth had been in the trolley car ahead of Grayling and me when we entered the ball, and I had thought he seemed familiar. All of a sudden I understood. “That disreputable Mr. Pix! How on earth . . . ?” Well, at least we didn't have to worry about Mr. VanderBleeth luring Princess Lurelia into eloping with him.

At least, I didn't think so.

Evaline was still laughing as we slipped into the ladies' lounge. The space was empty, and still illuminated with a great number of soft gaslit sconces, which made it much easier for
me to spy any traces of face powder. I had, of course, come prepared with a number of small paper envelopes with which to collect samples.

I carefully scooped up several dustings from the counter-top in front of the long row of mirrors where ladies generally put themselves to right. I'd have to examine and test them at home, but I did catch the faintest scent of vanilla from one of them.

“Oh, dear. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt lost another of her butterflies.”

I turned sharply. Evaline was rising from the floor, something in her hand.

“Let me see that,” I said. For some reason, my heart was pounding.

With an odd expression, she offered me the small embroidered butterfly. It was no larger than my thumbnail, very delicate and trimmed with green and blue stitching. I remembered seeing them all along the neckline of Lady Isabella's gown; they were quite a lovely accessory.

I lifted the butterfly, looking at it carefully in the light. Did I see the faint glitter of gold there? The faint dusting of white powder? Indeed I did.

My hand shook a trifle as I brought the decoration to my nose.

I sniffed.

Vanilla
.

I
nspector Grayling sat stiffly across from me in the carriage. “For the last time, I am not going to discuss the Bartholomew case, Miss Holmes.”

I lifted my chin. “No one is fond of discussing one's failures, Inspector Grayling, but perhaps I could be—”

“
No
.”

“There is no need to raise your voice.”

“Apparently there is, for you seem to have become hard of hearing. And I don't have failures. In fact, I have the greatest number of closed cases on the homicide team. There are only two unsolved—” He clamped his lips shut and glowered at me. “Since you've spent so much time badgering me about the Bartholomew case, our ride is almost over. We'll be at your house shortly, so perhaps you would do as Mr. Oligary suggested and apprise me of what Princess Lurelia told you, and your observations about tonight's incident.”

I gave him a withering look but complied with his request. I did
not
mention my suspicions that the princess's assailant was the Ankh. He could come to his own conclusions.

“As for my observations, Inspector Grayling, I confess there were few relevant clues. The assailant left no trace of his presence, either on the terrace or on Her Highness's person. My suggestion for conducting this investigation is to determine which guests or servants at the ball match the physical description of the villain, and then attempt to determine who had the opportunity to slip away and—”

“
Thank you
, Miss Holmes.”

I sniffed and peered out the window. We had turned past Cavendish-square. In two more streets, I would see the bell-shaped gas lamp that hung from the porch at my house.

“Perhaps you could at least enlighten me about the homicide you are investigating related to the robbery of the Queen Elizabeth letter,” I suggested stiffly. “After all, you were the one who raised the topic.”

“Indeed I did.” He sounded as if he regretted it. Nevertheless, he did go on to answer my question. “The connection to the robbery is fairly evident, even to a non-Holmesian investigator such as myself, although I must clarify that it is a
possible
homicide. The body of one of the museum guards was found near the lighting controls for the North Wing of the museum—where the Arched Room is located—”

“I'm aware that the Arched Room is in the Northwest Quadrant of the museum, Inspector Grayling.”

“Pardon me, Miss Holmes. Of course you are.”

“Presumably the location of the body is relevant to the fact that the lights were extinguished so the thief could carry out his plan?”

“Indeed. There are indications the museum guard was actually the one to cause the blackout. His hands showed traces of burns, and there was black around the control box as well as on his person. There was one more curious thing, Miss Holmes, and I'll leave it to you to consider,” he said as we turned onto my street. “There were two tiny marks on the back of the guard's shoulder. Perhaps six inches apart, hardly larger than pinpricks.”

“Fascinating,” I murmured, mulling over this tidbit. “I do appreciate the information, Inspector.”

As the royal carriage glided to a smooth halt, Grayling cleared his throat. “Er . . . Miss Holmes . . . that is, I wish to say . . . it was an honor to be your escort this evening—”

“Why, thank you, Inspector Grayling.” I replied in surprise.

“—in spite of your tendency to take the lead during every dance.”

I gave him a dark look, but my lips had begun to quiver. “That is a gross exaggeration. I did not attempt to lead during the quadrille.”

His mouth twitched as he helped me out of the carriage. “That's because, as you very well know, Miss Holmes, the
quadrille is a country square dance. Even
you
wouldn't be able to manage a group of eight couples.”

I couldn't keep a straight face any longer and began to giggle in a horribly girlish fashion as I looked up at him. For some reason, his ridiculous height no longer bothered me. “If only they would all listen to my suggestions to follow the tiles on the floor, the dance squares would remain uniform and no one would cut the corners short and tread on the ladies' hems!”

His eyes crinkled charmingly when he laughed, which he did now. “Miss Holmes, you are quite—” He froze and his arm lashed out, halting me from taking any steps up my walkway. “Get back in the carriage.”

Before I could speak, he reached beneath his formal coat. Something metallic gleamed in his hand and he gestured for me to heed his command. Of course, I was to have none of that.

“What is it?” I brushed against him from behind.

“Miss Holmes, I told you to—
You!
There! Show yourself! I'm with Scotland Yard!” He stalked up the walkway, pointing a magnificent-looking hand-weapon toward the shadows. “I said
show yourself
!”

But by now I'd seen him. “Dylan! What on earth are you doing here?” Heedless of Grayling's weapon, I charged past him toward my friend, who had emerged from the side of the house.

“Mina! Where have you been?”

“I had an engagement this evening. What are you doing here?”

“It appears to me this gentleman was attempting to break into your residence,” said Grayling. “Perhaps he didn't learn his lesson previously.”

The inspector was referring to the first time I'd met Dylan, for the newcomer had broken into the British Museum and been jailed shortly afterward. Since then, Grayling seemed certain Dylan was some sort of criminal.

“You had an engagement?” Dylan's voice was none-too-polite.

“Why, yes. Miss Adler requested my attendance at—oh, never mind. What are you doing here?” I hadn't seen him for more than a few minutes since the incident with the vampire pickpocket gang, for Dylan had been spending all of his time working at the hospital with Dr. Lister and Dr. Gray.

“There are some things—I—well.” He stopped and glanced at Grayling. “Can we can go inside, Mina? I don't really want to talk about it out here.”

I had the feeling he meant he didn't want to talk about it in front of the inspector. “Very well. I shall . . . I will . . . just one moment, Dylan.” I dug in my handbag and produced the house key, which I handed to him. Unlike at Miss Stoker's home, there was no butler or footman to greet us at the door.

As Dylan started toward the entrance, I turned back to take my leave of Grayling. He had a most peculiar expression
on his face—as if he violently wished to say something, but dared not open his mouth. He was still holding that hand-weapon, with its fascinating array of bronze cogs and gears. It had a slender barrel like a firearm, and a small orange light glowed on one end. I had half a mind to ask him if I could examine it, but decided to wait until I had better illumination.

“Thank you again, Inspector—”

“Are you quite certain you mean to allow that character into your home? In the dead of night? What on earth are you thinking, Miss Holmes?” Apparently he had given up on restraint.

“I've nothing to worry about with Dylan—”

“And so it's
Dylan
, is it? And not Mr. Eckhert? Miss Holmes, do you recall that gentleman has been jailed for breaking and entering? And that no one seems to know who he is and from where he's come? Do you not have a care for your reputation?”

The fact that Grayling knew Dylan's full name, and quite a bit more about him than I realized, came as a surprise to me. Still, I didn't care for the tone of his voice. “I don't give a whit about my reputation. And I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Inspector Grayling.”

“Except when you are falling out of a bloody
window
. Or
drowning
in a creek because your corset is too tight.” He drew in a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was marginally quieter. “Very well, Miss Holmes. Good evening. And never
say I didn't warn you about consorting with criminals.” He gave a smart, sharp bow, then turned and strode back to the carriage.

I watched him go, then turned back to the house. Dylan stood on the porch, waiting for me.

“What are you doing here? Tell me at once, Dylan, for I am exhausted. It's been a very eventful day.”

“I need you to come to the hospital. There's something I need you to see. It's important.”

“
Tonight?
”

“Yes. Please, Mina?”

“What is it?” I asked wearily. The only thing I wanted to do was get out of my corset and pinprick-heel shoes and climb into bed.

“I think . . . I'm pretty sure we have some patients who've been bitten. By vampires.”

I don't remember what time I finally fell into bed, but dawn was imminent and I could hardly form a coherent thought.

As I slipped into slumber, my mind was filled with grotesque images of twin bite-marks and the deep, bloody weals on three of Dylan's patients at Charing Cross Hospital.

I had no doubt the damage had been caused by one or more UnDead.

I dreamt in those early hours of dawn . . . of the red-eyed, sharp-fanged vampires, with their blood-tinged teeth and
foul, claw-like hands . . . of my mother, trapped with Evaline while they fought off hordes of the UnDead from attacking Miss Adler as I watched helplessly from behind a solid glass window . . . of my mother and Evaline laughing and sipping tea in the parlor as Lady Cosgrove-Pitt served them biscuits while a dead vampire lay slumped and bloody in the corner.

But then I dreamt of the Ankh. Of her calm gray eyes and her small, strong hands as she faced me across a massive chessboard. With a flick of her wrist, she set a large fire around us. I was somehow chained to my chair, and she forced me to play chess . . . and then she reached out, smiling, and petted me on the head as the flames roared and licked at the backs of our chairs . . . and the black tendrils of smoke snaked around us like an evil vine, as if binding us together . . . 
Checkmate
, she whispered.
Checkmate . . . checkmate . . . checkmate
 . . .

“Mina!”

I bolted awake, chest heaving, hair plastered to my face and throat. Mrs. Raskill stood over me. She was holding the top of her Phinney's Instant Butter Mill in one hand, and the fingers of the other were wrapped around my arm.