The Chess Queen Enigma (25 page)

“But there is no body,” I mused. “So no one will ever know what happened to him, will they? How terrible. Mr. Dancy just disappeared . . . forever.”

“Not as terrible as his family learning he was turned into an immortal, blood-drinking demon, who has to take life from others in order to live. And he might have even been the cause of Lord Wexfeld's death.” Her pretty mouth twisted with distaste. “He actually told me he wanted to make me like him—immortal and horrible.”

I was silent for a moment, and apparently that caught Miss Stoker by surprise. “You aren't saying anything, Mina. Never tell me
you
would consider being immortal.”

My attention flew to her, and my reaction was visceral anger and offense. “Of course not. Immortality is unnatural. Nothing lives forever. What a boring existence that would be . . . to live for infinity. And to be required to drink the blood of other humans for sustenance? Most certainly not. But . . .”

“But
what
? It's not like you to be so . . . quiet.”

And it wasn't like Evaline to be so sensitive and insistent. Perhaps this vampire-hunting wasn't the simple, amusing activity she'd thought it would be.

“Whom do we know who
would
want to be immortal? To have that power? Whom do we know who has already tried to harness an ancient power so she could be omnipotent and in control? I'm certain I don't need to name the individual. It has just occurred to me to wonder if the Ankh has, in fact, pursued the option of becoming an UnDead herself. One must consider how Mr. Dancy got himself into such a condition—was it purposeful or accidental that he came upon the vampires? And how did it happen he was allowed to live and turn UnDead rather than be drained dry and left for dead as others have been? Is it a random happenstance, or a plan? Did he
choose
it or was it foisted upon him? That, my dear Evaline, is why I am so quiet. There are many things to consider at this time.”

She nodded, and appeared to be slightly mollified. “That's true.”

“I don't suppose you engaged him in any sort of conversation before—er—dispatching him?”

“Do you mean did I ask him how and when he became UnDead? And by whom? No, I did not. I was too busy attempting to stay alive.”

This was a sore point for Miss Stoker—my suggestion that she should attempt to engage the UnDead in some sort of meaningful discourse before staking them. I felt as if she should take any opportunity to interrogate them, and she was too impatient to do so. “Very well, then. But it would have been helpful to know where the vampires are congregating and how they are finding their prey . . . and even how many of them there are in London.”

I thought I heard the sound of teeth grinding from my partner. Instead of responding to my reasonable suggestion, she said, “In regards to her desire to become immortal . . . the chess queen is exactly the sort of object the Ankh would be keen to obtain, don't you think? If there are ancient secrets hidden in that chessboard, she would want them.”

“Indubitably. Even if there weren't ancient secrets or any treasure to be found in the base of the chess table, the very idea of owning the chess queen—a symbol of feminine power, as well as being an artifact possessed by so many other powerful women of history . . . Most definitely the Ankh would want to obtain the chess queen. And that is precisely why we must hasten to locate it—before she does.”

“I agree.”

“Now, I must ask whether you've any news about the
note you submitted through that false Domesday Book. Have you had any response?”

Evaline and I had spent some time discussing the best way to keep her identity safe, and the most expedient and convenient location through which communication from Mr. Pix would come. In the order, which I'd asked Mrs. Raskill's nephew Ben to write for us, we'd indicated any messages should be affixed under the last pew in the last row on the right in St. Sequestrian's Church in St. James.

“Pepper's cousin's neighbor's daughter prayed in the church this morning, and there was no message yet.”

I nodded. “That cannot come as any surprise, considering the events of last night. And no one would be able to connect you or me to your maid's cousin's neighbor's daughter, even if she were to be seen.”

“Yes. I asked for Callie to check again later today. Perhaps there will be a message then,” said Miss Stoker. “But for now, would you have any objection to making a stop at Scotland Yard?”

My heart gave a funny little jump. “Whyever for?” I asked, admittedly a trifle sharply.

“Inspector Grayling was injured last night, and I simply wish to ensure he's had the wound properly seen to. And to thank him for his assistance.”

I owed Grayling my gratitude as well, and I had certainly intended to express it at my earliest convenience. In writing;
not in person. I was not looking forward to the lecture he was bound to inflict upon me.

“Very well,” I said, unable to manufacture a reason for declining that Evaline wouldn't immediately ridicule and discard.

If I had hoped Providence would smile down upon me and arrange for Inspector Grayling to be absent from the offices of the Metropolitan Police, I was bound to be severely disappointed. We found him in his office, along with Angus—who was vocally delighted to see me—and, interestingly enough, Inspector Lestrade.

“You're a hard-lined cognoggin, Brose. If you can't figure out what it is, I don't know who can. Aside from Holmes, that is, and the bloke can be such a bloody—” Lestrade started when he saw Evaline and me being accosted by an enthusiastic Angus, who was acting as if I had appeared solely to deliver more Stuff'n Muffins to him.

“Down, doggie, good doggie,” I said, unable to keep a hint of crooning from my voice. I also found my hand—still gloved of course—straying down to pat the little beast on his white and chestnut-brown head. It was at a most convenient height, for he was jumping up on Evaline's skirts in an effort to determine whether
she
had brought him a muffin-flavored bribe.

I was more than a little irritated when she produced a bit of wrapped cheese from the depths of her reticule. She could have a piece of cheddar in her bag, but forget to pack money for the street-lifts?

“Erm . . . good day, Miss Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade. His cheeks were slightly pink. “And . . . ?”

“Miss Evaline Stoker,” I said.

“Well . . . erm . . . give my best to your uncle,” he said, taking his leave so abruptly he nearly stepped on one of Angus's ears. “Brose, will you take a look at that today and give me something so at least Holmes—er—right, then. I'd like to have something to tell him for once, since he . . .”

“Yes, of course,” Grayling said as he put something on his desk. Then he turned to greet us, and I observed his left arm was injured. Not because it was bandaged—although it likely was, for there was extra bulk beneath his coat sleeve—but because of the way he was holding it, unmoving, against his torso and the fact that his shave on the left side of his face wasn't as clean. “Miss Holmes. Miss Stoker. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I was quite certain he wouldn't have greeted me so cordially if Evaline hadn't accompanied me. In fact, I was fairly certain his greeting would have been something rather loud in volume and vehement in tone.

“How is your arm, Inspector?” asked Evaline. “I hope you've taken the time to have it looked at by a doctor.”

“It's naught but a scratch, but I thank you for your concern. And also for your—er—assistance last evening.” The tone of his voice was something I had heard only rarely, and never directed at me. “I don't believe . . . well, it was not at all what I expected when I was called to the club.” Now he turned to fasten that arrogant gaze on me. “There were,
in fact, several unexpected discoveries last night. Might I inquire, Miss Holmes, what on this blooming earth you were doing there?”

I found it rather offensive that he would pose such a question to me, and not to Evaline. Was she not there with me? Was she not also party to the Princess Lurelia debacle? And dressed in men's clothing as well?

“I had business to attend to,” was all I could think of to reply.

“I cannot begin to imagine what business—”

“Excellent, then. You shouldn't waste your brain power attempting the impossible.” I leveled my gaze at him, and he returned the favor. His gray-green eyes sparkled with fury. I decided that disarming him might be the best option. “Regardless, I owe you a debt of gratitude, Inspector Grayling, for your discretion last evening. I'm certain you're aware of how disastrous the outcome could have been—on many levels. I am truly in your debt.”

The ire in his gaze eased. “You're too kind, Miss Holmes. I did only what any gentleman would do.”

“Except for Mr. Richard Dancy,” said Miss Stoker. She'd sidled over behind Grayling and sat at his desk chair, petting a wriggling Angus. The creature appeared ready to bolt into her lap. I thought of warning her about the volume of hair the beast would leave on her skirt, but lost the opportunity when she continued. “It was he who—um—murdered Lord Wexfeld.”

“Am I to assume Mr. Dancy will never be called to task for it?”

“No, he will never been seen again. Unfortunately.” She gave Grayling a hopeful glance. “Is there any way to notify his family that he . . . er . . . is . . . won't be back? Ever? So they needn't always wonder—and hope?”

He nodded gravely. “I'm certain there's a way to do so effectively. Thank you for suggesting it. I'll see that it's done immediately.” He returned his attention to me. “And I do thank you for providing me with the information I needed to find Miss Stoker and help her find her way out as well. I . . .” He looked as if he wanted to say something more, for his gaze went from me to Evaline and back again. I suspected he wanted to know more about how
we'd
known of the presence—or even existence—of the UnDead. But he did not. “I . . . suppose I now have several notes to add to a—er—particular file of mine.”

He looked meaningfully at me.

Oh. Drat! How had he known?

It was Angus's fault for startling me. I'd dropped the file and things must have gone out of order.

I felt my cheeks flush, but I made no comment.

“Right, then. Mina, we should allow Inspector Grayling to return to his work. Oh, I'm so sorry.” These last words were spoken after the soft clunk of something heavy landing on the floor. “I didn't mean to knock that off your desk. I do hope I didn't break it.”

She lunged under the piece of furniture before Grayling was able to do so, and when she emerged, she was holding the object Lestrade had given him. It took her longer than it should have, due to Angus's delight that someone had ventured down to his level.

“Why, thank you Miss Stoker. And I don't believe it's broken at all.” He accepted it with the hand of his uninjured arm, and looked down at the small mechanical device. “Hmm. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

“What is it? Where did it come from?” asked my companion.

“I'm not quite certain myself. Inspector Lestrade—whom you just met—asked me to look at it. Apparently, Holmes—er, Mr. Holmes—is assisting with a case over on Magpie-alley, and this was found on the site of the crime.” Grayling turned the small object over in his hands, clearly favoring one over the injured other. “It appears to be some sort of . . . well, I don't know, but perhaps it provides some sort of power? But that's . . . hmm.” He squinted at it more closely, making interesting sounds as he examined it.

He looked as if he'd just realized we were still there. “Right, then. Miss Stoker, it was a pleasure to see you again. And Miss Holmes, do attempt to keep yourself from the vicinity of any other dead bodies for . . . oh, perhaps at least a month?”

I sniffed and stooped to take my leave from Angus. His ears were so ridiculously long and soft. He flopped one of
them on my shoe as he pawed on my foot in an effort to keep me from leaving. I would have to remember to bring more Stuff'n Muffins the next time I visited.

“Good day, Inspector,” Evaline said. All of a sudden, she seemed to be in a great hurry.

“Good day,” I managed to say as she fairly dragged me out of the office.

“Mina! Do you know what that was?” she hissed as soon as we were out of earshot.

“That small metal device? Based on your enthusiasm, I can only assume it is the very same mechanism your Mr. Pix is so secretive about.”

Evaline's face flattened comically. “Oh. Well, you're correct.”

“Of course I'm correct. I'm a Holmes.”

“Well, since you're a Holmes, you can take advantage of that fact and find out from your uncle exactly what the case is and where that device was found. Then I'm going to learn once and for all what Pix is up to.”

I had Middy drop Mina off at her Uncle Sherlock's home on Baker-street to discover what she could about the Magpie-alley case. Then she planned to settle into her father's library to begin researching in which bower Queen Elizabeth had likely hidden the chess queen.

When I walked into the foyer of Grantworth House, I glanced at the stack of mail sitting on the front table. My sister-in-law, Florence, had recently instituted a new rule that all invitations were to be kept aside for her to peruse
with
me. This was due to the fact that, given the choice, I would decline them all. And also because only a few months ago, I'd gone to the Event of the Season without her knowledge—an event Florence claimed she would have killed to attend.

Though any invitations that might have arrived had already been taken away, there was a folded note on the table that bore my name. It was sealed with a simple blob of black wax. And it looked familiar. My heart thudded down to my belly.