The Clockwork Scarab (5 page)

“It wasn’t suicide,” I said, just as Grayling interjected, “I said
apparent
.”

We looked at each other. His lips tightened, and he said, “Pray go on, Miss Holmes.”

My heart was pounding as I lifted the woman’s right arm, the unwounded limb. “It would be impossible not to get blood on this sleeve if she used this hand to cut her wrist,” I said. “It’s much too clean; only a few tiny drops. And—”

“Aside from that,” Grayling interrupted, “she wouldn’t have cut herself on that hand because—”

“She was left-handed,” we both said in unison.

“Indeed,” said Miss Adler, her eyes going back and forth between us.

“We’ll need to identify her,” said Luckworth, speaking to his partner.

“That won’t be difficult,” I said.

“No, it won’t,” Grayling said. “Based on her clothing, which is well-made of good fabric and from a seamstress, she comes from a well-to-do family. We can observe her shoes—”

“Or Miss Stoker can tell us her name,” I said, perhaps a trifle too loudly. I looked at the young woman in question, who’d been peering into the shadows as if looking for something. Or someone.

Grayling shot me a disgruntled look as Luckworth turned to my companion. “Well?” he said grumpily.

“I believe this is one of the Hodgeworth sisters. Lecia or Mayellen. Of St. James Park.”

Luckworth grumbled under his breath and wrote down the name as I took the opportunity to move toward the knife, which had heretofore been left unexamined. It still lay on the floor where the young man had dropped it at Miss Adler’s command. The blood had long dried on the blade and handle. I resisted the urge to pick it up to examine it.

“Look at this,” I said, forgetting Grayling and I were at odds. “Do you see this?” I crouched once again and lifted Miss Hodgeworth’s wounded arm to show him the incision. “Now look at the blade.”

Grayling knelt to get a closer look. The museum’s light glinted over his hair, highlighting occasional strands of copper and blond in the midst of dark mahogany waves. “That blade couldn’t have made this incision. The cut is too smooth, and—”

“The blade is dull and too thick,” I interrupted. “It would have made the skin jagged.”

“Precisely,” he murmured, still looking down at the wound. Grayling fished in another vest pocket and withdrew a gear-riddled metal object hardly larger than a pince-nez. It clinked as he settled it over one eye, fitting an ocular lens into place. Leather straps held the device over his temples and around the crown of his head; it looked like the inner workings of a clock with a pale blue glass piece through which one eye could see.

I’d never seen an Ocular-Magnifyer of that type before; this particular device seemed not only to magnify the objects,
but to measure them as well. Grayling lifted his large, elegant fingers to his temple and turned a small wheel attached to the gears. I heard soft clicking sounds as it measured the wound on Miss Hodgeworth’s wrist.

Uncle Sherlock often complained about the lack of care taken at crime scenes by the authorities. They trampled over grounds and moved objects and, in his words, “wouldn’t notice a weapon unless it was pointed straight at them.” But even he would have found little to fault in Grayling’s handling of this crime scene, except, perhaps, for the use of such fancy gadgetry. My uncle was a medievalist when it came to such devices.

“What’s that there?” said Luckworth as he approached, noticing his partner’s task for the first time. “Wastin’ yer time with the numbers again, Brose? Why aren’t you questioning the witnesses here? They found the girl. Witnesses and people, not mathematics, is going to solve this case—and all of the others on your desk. I’m tired, and I want to get back to m’bed.”

Grayling stood, and his face appeared ruddier than usual. He didn’t look at me, but spoke to his partner in a stiff voice, one greenish-gray eye still magnified behind its lens. “Bertillon’s process has already proven useful in three cases—”

“In
Paris
,” Luckworth said. “Not here in London. Waste of blooming time—pardon me, Miss Holmes,” he added. “Hasn’t helped us to find Jack the Ripper, now, has it? Or the bloke who done away with the Martindale girl.”

“I thought the Martindale girl hanged herself.” I stood abruptly. “Are you saying she was murdered too?”

Grayling’s teeth ground together, and he shot Luckworth a glare as he yanked the magnifyer off. Then he looked at me for a moment. “There was no step,” he growled at last, as if in challenge. His Scottish burr had gone thick.

“Do you mean to say, there was nothing that she’d stood on to—ah—affix the rope to the tree branch, then knocked away?” I swallowed hard.

Grayling didn’t reply; therefore, I took that as an affirmative response.

If there was no step for her to stand on, Miss Martindale
couldn’t have hanged herself
. Someone else had to be involved.

We had two cases of young women dying in apparent suicide, that were not really suicides. And a third young woman who’d disappeared. Two of the women were connected by the Sekhmet scarab.

Would Miss Hodgeworth be as well?

Like my uncle, I didn’t believe in coincidences.

I
watched Mina Holmes climb into the horseless cab that had stopped in front of the building. The marble of the museum’s front colonnade entrance was cool to the touch as I slipped away. A wide stripe of moonlight filtered over the top of the vehicle and illuminated the glistening road. The gas lamps that normally lit the grounds were dark. Someone had been busy, making certain to keep the area in shadows.

Another carriage trundled by, this one pulled by a clip-clopping horse, but otherwise, the lowest street level was deserted. The only movement was a slinking cat and the something small and dark that was its prey.

I still couldn’t dismiss the rumble of shame at the way my insides had earlier pitched and churned at the scene of the dead girl. All that
blood
 
.
 
.
 
.

But the sight of poor Miss Hodgeworth had been nothing compared to my memory of Mr. O’Gallegh, his neck and
torso torn open, his innards spilling out
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and the red-eyed vampire that looked up at me, its fangs dripping with blood.

It had smiled at me.

I closed my eyes even now, curling my fingers tight. I fought away the horrific images, the memory of fear and terror that rushed over me as I stumbled toward the vampire, stake in hand. I’d never forget the smell. Blood.

Death.

Evil.

I remembered washing my hands over and over, trying to scrub the blood away even as I tried to recall exactly how it got there. I had no clear memory of what had happened: whether I’d killed the vampire as I’d meant to do
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
or remained paralyzed by the sight of Mr. O’Gallegh’s blood spilling everywhere.

Had my mentor, Siri, intervened? Or had the vampire escaped?

That uncertainty and the knowledge of my failure haunted me.

Now, a year after my only encounter with a vampire, I still shuddered over the memory of that night
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and from the horror I’d witnessed in the museum.

Mina Holmes had approached that awful scene so readily. She’d seemed so fascinated with it, I half expected her to crouch and sniff at the blood with that long, slender nose of hers.

Shame rushed through me, landing like a stone in the pit of my belly. I was the Chosen One of my family,
born
to
hunt vampires, endowed with superhuman strength and speed. And yet at the sight of blood and carnage, my insides curdled, my stomach heaved
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and I became paralyzed.

I often wondered why Bram hadn’t been the one called. He had a morbid interest in all things UnDead and considered himself an expert. And yet he had no comprehension of what it was like learning how to fight them. How to wield a stake and where to slam it into the vampire’s chest for the fatal blow. Preparing to take the life of a creature, damned or not.

But I was the one who’d been chosen, the one who’d been called to this life. And I was determined to follow in the footsteps of my ancestor Victoria, the most famous female vampire hunter to ever have lived.

Naturally, Mina Holmes and her steel-cased stomach lacked the physical attributes that enabled me to protect myself from dangers on the dark streets. Miss Holmes might have a brilliant mind, but I was faster, stronger, and possessed the ability to sense the presence of a vampire by the unpleasant chill over the back of my neck. That, at least, was small consolation.

As Miss Holmes’s cab trundled off on damp cobblestones, leaving me alone with the night, I closed my eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of sleeping London. There was the faint
shhhhhh
and the accompanying rumble of a Night-Illuminator meandering its way down the street. On the next block, one of the heavy gates to a street-lift clanged. The air smelled of damp grass and coal smoke, along with the ever-present twinge of sewage—stale, putrid, dank.

“Waitin’ for something?” said a male voice. Very close behind me.

My eyes popped open, and I barely managed to swallow a gasp of surprise. “I was simply waiting for you to show yourself,” I replied without turning around. Though my heart was ramming in my chest, my voice came out smooth and steady. I eased a hand toward the pistol weighing down my skirt pocket.

His low, rumbling laugh sent a prickle of awareness over the back of my neck. It was almost
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
pleasant. Not like the eerie warning that an UnDead was near.

“Cop to it, luv,” he said, a heavy dose of Cockney in his tone. “Ye didn’t granny me till I spoke.”

I turned, searching the shadows. I spied him in a dark nook of the wall, tucked behind a slender bush. I could just make out his form next to the sharp line of the bricks, but no details other than the angle of his hat.

“Right,” I replied. “Neither your presence nor your absence matters to me.” My pulse had spiked, and anticipation barreled through my veins. At last, something interesting was happening.

Something dangerous.

He chuckled again and shifted a little. A splinter of moonlight slashed down from the hat brim to his face, jolting over a shoulder covered in a long, flowing coat. I had the fleeting impression of a dark brow and the quirk of a smile.

The man eased out of the shadows. He was taller than me and had broad shoulders. I caught the glimpse of a square,
clean-shaven chin. Although I hadn’t seen more than an impression of his countenance, from his voice and demeanor, I guessed he wasn’t much older than I. “Pr’aps you were waiting for someone else to appear? Some ’andsome gent t’woo ye in the moonligh’?”

The cool metal of the firearm felt comforting in my pocket, but I saw no need to pull it free. I was more curious than anything. And even with my unfinished training, I could easily defend myself against a mortal man.

“I was merely taking in the night air,” I replied. Why was I still standing there talking to him? Unless
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
“What are you doing, lurking about at this time of night? You must be up to no good.”

Again he smiled. This time, I caught a glimpse of white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. “I’m allus up to no good, Miss Stoker,” he said in a voice that dipped low and dark and velvety.

A little surprised flutter went through my belly—
only
because he knew my name. Not at all because of the way his voice seemed to wrap around me and tug, deep inside. “You seem to have the advantage of me, boy.”

But my juvenile insult didn’t have any effect on the young man, who was years past being a boy.

He gave another of those low, rumbling laughs. “ ’Aving the advantage o’er a vampire rozzer is quite the accomplishment, then, aye?”

This time, the prickle that squirreled up my spine wasn’t as pleasant. Not only did he know my name, but he knew my secret identity as well? My fingers tightened around the cool butt of the pistol.

“What do you want?” I asked again. I’d definitely lost my advantage, if I’d ever even had one.

He seemed to sense the change in my demeanor, for his own easy personality became more intense. “I don’t know all that ’appened inside there tonight, but when the Jacks get called in, even a glocky like me knows ’tain’t for the good. Someone buy it? The Ripper at it again?”

I raised my eyebrows, even though I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dim light. “A glocky like you?” I understood his Cockney slang and the false modesty he was attributing to himself. Even from the few moments in his presence, I knew this man was not the least bit half-witted or, in his term, “glocky.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a bit o’ modesty, luv, now, is there?”

Just then I caught the faintest shadow of movement from above. He noticed it too, for we both looked up at the same moment. It was an odd airship, cruising much lower to the ground than usual.

My companion muttered something, and the next thing I knew, I was propelled back into the deepest niche of the building’s exterior. The force of his body, strong and quick, shoved me into the dark V of two brick walls as if he intended for us to melt into them.

Surrounded by the damp, tobacco-scented wool of his coat, I found my chin pressed into his shoulder as a strong arm curved around my waist. Nevertheless, I kept looking up and watched as the strange airship slid past us. Low enough to enter an air-canal, it slid between the buildings. It was so close, a person could step from the upper streetwalks onto the vessel.

This was unlike any airship I’d ever seen. It was a slender, elliptical shape, smaller and more elegant than the ones I was familiar with, and it boasted wicked-looking fan-like wings and a swallowtail.