The Clockwork Scarab (21 page)

I had attempted to convince Dylan to accompany me, but he elected to remain in the small dark chamber with his so-called telephone.

“I’m going to have to figure out a way to recharge it soon,” he said, looking at me with haunted blue eyes in the glow of the device. “I only turn it on when I’m in this room. But it’s still getting low.”

“Very well,” I said, unsure of his precise meaning, but unable to take the time to further investigate.

I was worried about the young man. On the one hand, I understood his need to return home, to remain in the spot where he’d been shunted through time, in hopes that a miracle would happen and he’d get shunted back. But on the other hand, I suspected that keeping himself cloistered was only causing him more anguish. Before I left him in his dank dungeon-like chamber, I shared this opinion in rather passionate tones. He didn’t seem to care; instead, he continued to stare down at his illuminated device.

I had no choice but to leave him there. Having been locked away in the British Museum on a self-imposed exile for five days, I found the change of scenery refreshing. The sun had chosen to show herself today, and I felt the welcome warmth of her rays seeping through my clothing. For a wild moment, I thought of removing my gloves or tipping back the brim of my hat, just to feel the sun on my skin. I’d already allowed my parasol to rest on a shoulder instead of fulfilling its purpose of providing shade.

Now, as I waited on the porch of the Corteville residence—an imposing, grand mansion in the elite area of St. James, not more than two blocks from Cosgrove Terrace and Miss Stoker’s
own Grantworth House—I became even more determined to help Dylan. Not just to return to his time, but to help him accept his current situation until we could get him home.

The door lurched open and instead of the butler I was expecting, I found myself face-to-face with Inspector Luckworth.

Drat.

“Miss Holmes,” he said in an unwelcoming voice. “Why should I not be surprised to see you here.” It was clearly not a question.

Patting my bonnet to ensure it was still in place, I stepped over the threshold and offered my parasol to the mechanized umbrella stand by resting it on a set of open mechanical claws. A soft groan emitted from the device, as if it were waking. The brass fingers closed over my accessory, then the Brolly-Keeper turned and slipped my parasol into a neat cubbyhole in the wall. Several other small cubicles contained parasols, umbrellas, and walking sticks.

“Good morning, Inspector Luckworth. Kippers and sausage for breakfast I see,” I said, noticing the remnants on his collar. “Perhaps you should look into an adjustment on your mech-leg; it’ll keep your hip from being so sore. And you should see to replacing the lamp to the left of your mirror as soon as possible.”

He gawked at me as I sailed past him down the hallway, following the sound of low voices. They were coming from the parlor, outside which stood the butler I’d expected earlier.

“Miss Holmes,” I told him, offering my calling card. “I’m expected.”

He nodded and opened the door.

I paused before entering, adjusting my gloves and hat and patting at my hair again. Why was I suddenly nervous? I was dressed and groomed appropriately.

My skirt was a sunny yellow flowered
polonaise
, pulled back up into a bustle that exposed a cheerful gold, blue, and green ruffled underskirt. The tight-fitting basque bodice I wore over it was pale blue, trimmed with yellow, green, and white ribbons, making the ensemble bright and summer-like and complementing my golden-brown hair and hazel eyes. I would never look as elegant or stylish as Miss Adler or Evaline Stoker (neither of them had to contend with a nose like mine), but at least I was attired in clothing that befitted a visit to a home such as the Cortevilles’. Viscount and Lady Fauntley were of the upper crust of Society, and the latter, as Miss Adler had told us, was an intimate friend of Princess Alexandra.

When I stepped into the chamber, I took in the room and its occupants at a glance.

Miss Stoker sat on a chair nearby. She was dressed in ratty men’s clothing, and her black hair hung improperly loose in long curling waves over her shoulders. I noticed the bulge of a pistol as well as a variety of other implements on her person, along with dried mud and offal on the edges of her boots. She appeared annoyed and restless, and when she saw me, she sprang to her feet.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” she said, hurrying to my side. “Took you long enough. I’ll be off now.” Before I could respond, she made her excuses and slipped out of the chamber, clearly glad to be leaving.

I turned back to the room.

Lady Fauntley was seated on a settee, speaking with two women. One of them was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt, and the other Lady Veness, the wife of another leading member of Parliament who’d more than once called on my father for assistance. They appeared to be soothing the distraught mother—although why they should be soothing her when her daughter was alive and safely home, I wasn’t entirely certain.

Lilly Corteville was indeed home and safe—and by the look of it, she was also being soothed herself by none other than Inspector Ambrose Grayling.

It was a touching tableau: Lilly half-reclined on a small chaise, looking pale and weak, and Grayling had drawn up a chair so close it touched the upholstery of the chaise. He leaned toward her, holding one of her hands in his, speaking earnestly.

Tsk
, I thought to myself in disdain. Neither of them wore gloves, and if he were any closer to her, I do believe he would be sitting on her lap.

I sniffed. If the lowly, working-class Inspector Grayling imagined he had a chance with the likes of Miss Lilly Corteville, daughter of a viscount, he would have a rude awakening.

Although
 
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.
 
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My attention slid to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. He was related by marriage to one of the most powerful men
in England. Perhaps his chances weren’t utterly hopeless. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt looked up at that moment and gave me a nod of recognition.

“Lady Fauntley,” I said to Lilly’s mother, with a curtsey. “I’m Miss Mina Holmes.
 
.
 
.
 
.” Just how was I to explain my presence here? After all, my involvement and that of Miss Stoker was meant to be clandestine and covert; I couldn’t announce to the room the purpose of my visit.

“Miss Holmes, I’m pleased to meet you,” Lady Fauntley said, taking my hand in both of hers. “Thank you for coming. Your presence means a great deal to me and my family at this time. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I blinked at this easy acceptance of my intrusion, but I realized Miss Stoker must have already made some sort of explanation for it. Perhaps even Miss Adler or Princess Alexandra herself had apprised Lord and Lady Fauntley of our involvement, though we’d been warned to keep it a secret.

“Thank you, my lady,” I said. “I’m relieved your daughter has arrived home at last.” I turned to Lady Veness and was introduced, and finally I faced Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. “I must apologize for retiring from the Roses Ball without taking your leave last week. I intended to say good-bye, but you were engaged at the time, and I didn’t wish to interrupt.”

The truth was, after returning from the harrowing experience with the Society of Sekhmet, I’d wanted to make a quick exit before anyone noticed my hair was in disarray and
my skirt hems were a mess. I had seen Lady Isabella, but she’d been in an intense conversation with another woman on a balcony overlooking the ballroom.

“But of course, Miss Holmes,” she said, her grayish eyes sparkling with warmth. “I should be the apologetic one for not being available to bid you farewell. I do hope you enjoyed the ball and that Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and I will see you at more functions.”

“I did enjoy myself. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll say hello to Lilly.”

As I approached the reclining girl and her companion, Grayling looked up. “Miss Holmes.”

“Inspector Grayling,” I said, resisting the urge to comment on the fact that he didn’t stand to greet me. “I do hope you aren’t getting a cramp in your side, bending over as you are. Hello, Miss Corteville. I’m Miss Mina Holmes. I’m very relieved you’re home and safe.”

As I looked at the supine girl, I could hardly keep from cringing. Her face—a very pretty one; breathtaking, in fact—was mottled with bruises and embellished with cuts. Her green eyes were veiled with pain and shock. Someone had obviously helped her wash up and brushed and braided her hair, but aside from that superficial attention, it was obvious she was still distraught over her experience.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice, and gestured to an empty chair that wasn’t as close to the chaise as the other occupied one.

As I took a seat, I noticed Grayling had released her hand from his and eased back. I hesitated. I needed to speak with Miss Corteville about the Society of Sekhmet, but I didn’t want to do so in his presence, and I didn’t want the other ladies in the room to hear me.

But to my surprise, Lilly Corteville spoke unprompted. “I was telling Inspector Grayling what happened.”

“Pray continue,” I said. “I’d like to listen.”

“Miss Corteville was explaining that she was in a hired hack on the way to
 
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.
 
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where was it, Miss Corteville?” Grayling asked. He reached into the pocket of his wool coat, which had been brushed and the buttons all tightened. He withdrew a small journal and self-inking pen.

I made quick observations:

Very close shave, no nicks, no leftover shaving soap—
a newly sharpened razor blade
.

The ticket stub from the Underground and a blotch of dark grease on his boot and staining his small fingernail—
reduced to using public transportation, likely because his steamcycle wasn’t working properly
.

“I was going to attend a lecture. A salon,” she said. My interest perked up, and I felt a sizzle of expectation, for the Ankh had referred to the Society of Sekhmet and the meeting of its salon.

“What was the topic of the salon?” I asked. “And, pray remind me, what day are we speaking of?”

“It was the twenty-fifth of April, and the salon was an evening gathering of friends. We enjoy discussing aspects of Egyptian culture. I hired a cab because I didn’t want my mother to know I was going out. To be honest, I sneaked out of the house while she was at the theater.” Lilly shifted on the chaise, her hands fluttering over the blanket as she glanced toward Lady Fauntley. “But I never arrived at the salon. The wheel on my cab broke—it must have hit some large stone or fell in a pothole and split. Either way, the wheel needed to be repaired, and I was required to alight from the cab.”

Grayling’s fancy writing implement, which had a large bubble-like reservoir of ink at the top, scratched busily in his journal.

“I decided to walk for a short distance and take some air. I was on the third level—I felt safe enough. I left the cab on Fleet-street, and there was a quaint little lace shop just closing up for the night. I wanted to stop in before I found another cab. But that’s where it all went wrong.”

Looking down at her fingers, which twisted in the crocheted blanket, Lilly continued, “Someone was following me. There weren’t any cabs in sight, and I kept walking, trying to find one. I kept hearing the footsteps behind me, and it was starting to get dark. I was almost running, and I lost track of where I was. The next thing I knew, I went past St. Paul’s and I was walking down Trinity, when I waved at several cabs, but they didn’t stop. The moon was right there in front of me,
just above the rooftops, but it barely gave any light. Then all at once, they were there. Three of them.”

Her voice caught in a sob, and her fingers no longer played with the blanket, but instead trembled. “They
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
grabbed me and took me off and gave me to that man. B-Bad Louie. I don’t know where he took me, but it was awful. Dark and dirty and frightening. I
 
.
 
.
 
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I don’t want to talk about what happened
 
.
 
.
 
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there.” Her words trailed off, and I could tell she was reliving the horror of her captivity. I could only deduce what sorts of pain and activities had been visited upon her, and my practical insides softened with sympathy as she continued. “He kept me there. For weeks and weeks.”

I sat back in my seat, considering. Her story generated a variety of questions and emotions, many of which I wasn’t prepared to share at the moment. The least of which regarded why she was lying.

Grayling’s pen was poised above a page of his journal, and when she finished speaking, he paused, then rested it on his knee. “You’ve had a harrowing experience, Miss Corteville,” he said in the kindest voice I’d heard from him. “Perhaps you might like to rest for a while. We can speak with you again when you’re feeling better.” The “we” in this last sentence clearly included me, and I stiffened at his presumption.

I was about to correct him about my intentions (if I wanted to continue questioning the young woman, I would certainly do so), when the door to the parlor opened.

Inspector Luckworth appeared and gestured to his partner. Grayling nodded, then looked at me. “Inspector Luckworth has retrieved the clothing Miss Corteville was wearing when she was abducted. Perhaps you wish to examine it, Miss Holmes?”

“Yes, I do.” An examination could confirm my suspicions that she was lying about much of her experience. I was also aware of the real benefit to Grayling: I would not be left alone with Miss Corteville to continue the questioning without him. I was under no illusion that he was including me in the investigation for any other reason.

“If you would excuse us, Miss Corteville,” he said, standing. He tucked away his journal and closed the cap on his pen before sliding it into his pocket.