The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  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.

  Though my heart still thudded beneath the twisted blankets, I forced away the remnants of the dream. “Yes?”

  “You all right, there, missy? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes, and then I heard you carrying on like a caterwauling cat!”

  “I must have been dreaming,” I said, avoiding her eyes. Sitting up, I pushed the tangles of hair from my face.

  “A message has come for you,” said my housekeeper, looking at me with concern.

  “From whom?”

  She shook her head and firmed her lips. “I’m not about to give it to you until you eat some breakfast. This is the second time in three days I’ve had to wake you from whatever it is you’re dreaming about.”

  Since I had no other option, and I was hungry, I freshened up and dressed quickly. Moments later, I sat at the kitchen table eating the results of Mrs. Raskill’s latest household gadget, the Flippers-Fryer & Toaster. The double-layer pan was quite a time-saver, she boasted, and it never broke a yolk.

  Though the bacon and eggs tasted heavenly, I had only a few bites before I held out my hand. “The message, if you please, Mrs. Raskill.”

  She eyed me balefully, but dug the note from her apron pocket. I immediately recognized Miss Adler’s penmanship—unslanted, purposeful, and very neat—and my stomach dipped a little. I broke the seal and read:

  Please present yourself in my office promptly at 10 o’clock.

  I squeaked when I realized it was beyond half-past nine, and bolted from my chair. My teacup went tumbling, followed by a rasher of perfectly crisp bacon (a terrible waste!), and Mrs. Raskill began to bellow.

  I dodged the dripping tea, stepped on the bacon (unfortunately crushing it into the floor), then slipped past the housekeeper as she descended upon the mess, griping loudly as she mopped it up with vigorous sweeping motions.

  I would have helped her clean up, but I’d learned from experience that not only did I not do it to her satisfaction, I got in her way while she was doing it. Instead, I swooped up my reticule, jammed on a hat, and snatched a pair of gloves from the front table.

  I would never be able to find a cab in time to get to the museum for our appointment, but I dashed out the door anyway. Not for the first time, I wondered why someone as important to the Crown and National Security as Sir Mycroft Holmes didn’t have a telephone or ready access to transportation from his residence. But I already knew the answer: because he was never at home.

  I pounded down the steps and had just reached the walkway when a familiar horse-drawn carriage pulled up in front of my house. Evaline!

  “Apparently you received the summons as well.” I pulled the door open without waiting for Middy to step down to assist. “To the museum,” I told him.

  Evaline watched with undisguised amusement as I fairly tumbled into my seat—crinolines, bustle, reticule, and all. “Yes. I knew you would need a ride as well.”

  “I can only imagine there is a new development in the Princess Lurelia incident. Or perhaps the princess wishes to visit Bond-street. I was telling her about the lace shop, and she seemed interested in patronizing it,” I said calmly.

  Miss Stoker eyed me, but didn’t speak. I lapsed into silence as well, for I was unable to dismiss a growing sense of trepidation. Perhaps something had happened to Lurelia. Or, on a more optimistic side, perhaps the stolen letter had been found.

  The ride to the museum seemed longer than ever, but Evaline and I arrived just as Big Ben struck ten. Moments later, the door opened to Miss Adler’s office, and we bustled in.

  Our mentor sat at her desk. Her favorite wrist-clock rested on the surface next to a steaming cup of Darjeeling and a plate of paper-thin slices of lemon. A cunning pair of scissors with double circular blades rested atop a small wooden box. Miss Adler had a stack of papers aligned neatly at her elbow, and her dark hair was pulled back into a particularly severe hairstyle.

  “Please sit.”

  Her expression did nothing to ease my trepidation, and I glanced at Evaline. She didn’t appear to be the least bit concerned.

  “I trust Lurelia has recovered, if not fully, then at least somewhat, from last night’s incident?” I asked.

  Miss Adler nodded briefly. “Yes. She seems to have come through it with little ill effect.”

  “I’m very relieved. She seemed quite frightened—”

  “Mina.” Miss Adler spoke quietly, but it was enough. “I’ve called the two of you here today because it’s quite clear you have given little interest or attention in fulfilling the request Princess Alix has set before you. Not only have I noticed a decided lack of enthusiasm for this task, but this disinterest and inattention have already resulted in two unpleasant and embarrassing incidents. I thought you were aware how vital it is that this Betrovian visit be free of scandal and upset, but apparently . . . well, suffice to say, Miss Holmes and Miss Stoker, that, due to the circumstances, you are hereby relieved of your duty. Your services are no longer needed.”

  Miss Stoker

  Miss Stoker Interrogates

  For a moment, I thought Mina was going to faint. Her face went deadly white and then a dark flush swept her cheeks. And for once, she didn’t have a thing to say.

  On the other hand, I was ecstatic we no longer had to watch over the colorless princess. Now I could set my attention to Pix’s mysterious customer and forget about balls and shopping and holding royal hands.

  However, I did hate for Miss Adler and Princess Alix to think poorly of Mina and me. I wished there had been a better way for us to give up the task.

  Now that Miss Adler’s news had been delivered, I saw no reason to remain in her office. I rose and thanked her, then excused myself.

  Mina—still more subdued than I’d ever seen her—pulled to her feet as well. “Thank you, Miss Adler. I’m sorry to have disappointed you and Her Royal Highness.”

  She didn’t speak again until we were in the carriage and Middy closed the door. “Well,” was all she said. “Well.”

  That was when I realized the tip of her nose was red and she was blinking rapidly. Blooming fish! Was Mina Holmes crying?

  “Uh . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  “You needn’t look so pleased about it all,” she snapped. “You look as if you were just—just given an entire ballroom of vampires to stake! Doesn’t it matter to you that we have been terminated from the princess’s special service league? And that we’ve disappointed Miss Adler? Did you see the way she looked at us? Whatever am I going to do now? A Holmes, fired from a case! A failure!” She snapped her jaws closed and stared out the window, still blinking.

  “Well . . . er . . . maybe you’ll have more time to try and catch the Ankh, now that we don’t have to watch over
Princess Lurelia.”

  “I shall be relegated to my laboratory working on a treatise over—over coffee grounds. Or—or embroidery threads. Or something equally useless.”

  “Well, you never know, Mina. If there were ever coffee stains at a crime scene, your—um—treatise might come in handy.”

  She whipped her head around. There were two spots of pink on her cheeks. “I suppose I should tell you . . . there are indications that UnDead are present in London. So at least you will have something to do.”

  I sat upright. “There are? How do you know? What makes you think—”

  “I don’t think, Miss Stoker. I know. I saw the evidence myself in the pre-dawn hours this morning. At Charing Cross Hospital. Three victims, and none are expected to live.”

  I wasn’t nervous. Not really.

  Why should I be?

  “You killed my brother! Murderer!”

  I pushed away the memory of that horrible shrieking accusation, and blocked the image of the wide eyes and furious mouth.

  I was a vampire hunter. I was descended from one of the most famous Venators of them all, and I had already slain a dozen of the UnDead.

  But I was a little queasy as I felt for the stake in the hidden pocket of my trousers. Pepper, my maid—the only other person in my household besides Bram who knew about my secret calling—had helped me dress in men’s clothing tonight.

  Loose trousers held in place by dark suspenders, a plain, undyed shirt that buttoned down the front, and a hat had turned me into a slender young man. The mass of my pinned-up hair made the flat-topped newsboy cap bulge on top. Pepper had sneaked a pair of her nephew’s shoes for me, because my feet were so small.

  Mina and I had visited the hospital after leaving the museum and I tried without success to speak to one of the victims. Although in the past, Dylan had been able to save others whose blood had been drained by UnDead, this time each of these patients were so badly wounded there was little hope for survival.

  Since none of the victims were coherent enough to give me any information about where they’d been attacked, I didn’t know where to start looking. All I could do was listen, watch, and wait for that telltale, eerie chill over the back of my neck that told me a vampire was near.

  So I walked and wandered in the darkest part of night, and then I walked some more. Aimless and yet with purpose . . . for somehow, I found myself in Whitechapel: the darkest, dingiest, dirtiest, and most dangerous area of London.

  It was also the place Pix called home, and where he reigned supreme over an underworld of pickpockets and other thieves, as well as a seedy pub called Fenman’s End.

  Actually, I didn’t know if he truly reigned supreme. But I did know an awful lot of violent criminal-types in the stews showed Pix nothing but respect and obedience. Including a large, grabby-handed facemark known as Big Marv.

  I wondered, not for the first time, how such a young man—for he couldn’t be older than twenty-three or twenty-four—could command that amount of power in such a violent world. Surely he hadn’t been around for that long. And I was fairly certain he hadn’t been raised in the dark, dangerous rookery.

  I just didn’t know where he’d come from.

  Or, as Mina would no doubt say, from where he’d come.

  The fact that my route took me to Fenman’s End did make some sense. The last time I was here, I’d staked a vampire—much to Pix’s fury. I was saving his life, but he wasn’t the least bit appreciative.

  That was also the first time I’d seen the small palm-sized device I was so curious about. The intriguing machine that was apparently Pix’s “business.”

  I strode into the pub, glad I’d decided to dress as a boy tonight. I wasn’t in the mood to attract the attention I would have done if I was wearing a skirt.

  As usual, Bilbo was tending bar. I took a stool at one end of the counter so I could watch for trouble—as well as Pix—and glanced at the older man. His sparse tufts of hair looked as if they grew thinner by the hour. And he had a very large, ripe pimple on his chin. I found it hard to look anywhere else.

  He remembered me. “Wotcher pleasure, miss? Lemonade or ale?”

  “Neither. I’m looking for Pix.”

  “’E ain’t ’ere.” He scratched the dark stubble that grew on his chin, narrowly avoiding the ready-to-burst pimple. “I ain’t seen ’im.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he’d seen any vampires, but I held back. “How’s Big Marv?”

  Bilbo might have cracked a smile. Or he might have grimaced. “’Is finger’s mostly ’ealed up, fin’lly.”

  “Maybe that’ll teach him to keep his hands to himself.”

  “Don’ know ’bout that. ’E ain’t too smart, Big Marv.”

  “That’s the truth.” I sat there for a minute, then realized what a golden opportunity I had. “So . . . how long have you known Pix?”

  Bilbo gave me a sidewise look as he turned to fill a tankard with foaming ale. He shoved it at a customer and demanded payment, then turned back to me. “Long enough.”

  “Right, then. So did you know him when he was a little boy? Or more recently?”

  “’E warn’t no boy first time he come in ’ere. But I can’t as right tell ye ’ow olden ’e was. I ain’t ’is blooming pappy!”

  “Of course not.”

  “But it warn’t that long ago,” he added a little less loudly.

  “Right. So was he . . . well, why did he come in here? What I mean to say is, was it an accident or did he come here purposely? To Fenman’s End. To Whitechapel.”

  This time, there was definitely a smile, and even the hard bark of a laugh. “No one comes purposely to Whitechapel, Molly-Sue. Thought ye ’ad more brains’n that.”

  I decided to try another tactic. “Does he own Fenman’s End? Is that why everyone—er—fears him so much?”

  “Fear? That ain’t the way I’d call it. Respect, maybe. An’ ye’d ’ave to ask ’im about that.”

  I gritted my teeth. I’d hoped the old man would be an easy solution to the problem of who was Pix. Bilbo turned away to serve another patron, giving me the opportunity to think about my next question.

  He didn’t have to make his way back to my end of the bar counter, but he did. Which told me Bilbo was either just as curious about me as I was about Pix, or he’d been told to keep an eye on me if I came into the pub.

  “If I wanted to place an order with Pix, how would I go about doing that?” I asked casually.

  The bartender lifted one bushy eyebrow and wiped his nose with the back of a hand . . . then with the front, for good measure. When I saw the shiny streak left on his skin, I decided never again to allow him to serve me anything to eat or drink. “An order? An’ wot would ye be orderin’ then, girl?”

  “Er . . . one of those little gadgets.” I smiled innocently. “I don’t know what they’re called, but they’re just this big”—I showed him with my hands—“and have some wires curling out from them. I could use one.”

  “An’ wot would the likes o’ ye be doin’ wi’ something that could land yer pretty self in th’ clapper?”

  I kept my smile in place. “I’m willing to take the risk. After all, you’ve seen me in action. You know I’m no easy mark.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment, his eye lighting with appreciation at my use of slang. “Well, now, oy can’t argue wi’ that, Molly-Sue. Anyone ’oo can take Big Marv ain’ gonna go easy.”

  “So, if I wanted to place an order, then, how would I do it? In order to keep my identity secret.” I leaned closer, caught a whiff of the pungent tobacco and sweat scents that clung to him, and eased back a little. “Pix refuses to sell to me, so I don’t want him to know it’s me who wants it.”

  Bilbo considered me for a moment as he toyed with the ripe pimple on his chin. I braced myself, ready to dodge if it should burst. “Pix don’ wanna sell t’ye? Woy not? I ain’ never knowed the boy t’pass up a bit o’ flimp.”

  I shrugged. “He won’t say. S
o tell me . . . how do I get one?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I could get in th’ black wi’ him if’n ’e finds out.”

  “How will he find out? I’m not going to tell him. No one else in here is paying any attention to me. All they want is ale from you.” I made my smile as innocent as a baby’s.

  “Awright. There’s a place. Bridge & Stokes is wot it’s callt. On St. Albans, way over t’Pall Mall where all them dandies be. An’ inside summere, there be a book in a case. Ye ask t’see th’ book an’ when ye put th’ book back, ye’ve got yer order slipped inside. Ye granny all ’at, Molly-Sue?”

  “Right. Bridge & Stokes on St. Albans-street. Ask to see the book in the case, put the order inside.”

  “Aye. In the back o’ the book, it’s hollered out wi’ a spot fer the paper where it’s writ.”

  “And then . . . what? How do I pay? How do I get it?”

  “Questions. Allus questions.” He paused and shouted at a customer near the other end of the counter. “Shut yer trap. Oy’ll be wi’ ye when I’m wi’ ye! I gots busy-ness ’ere.” He was shaking his head when he leaned on his elbows, bringing his aromatic self a little too close for my taste. “Ye tell in th’ order where ye wan’ the communi—communicay—th’ messages t’go. And ye get d’rections fer the rest then.”

  I nodded. That seemed reasonable. I eased back on my stool as Bilbo left me to tend to the cluster of patrons that had gathered while we talked.

  Pix wouldn’t tell me what the little device was. He also wouldn’t give me any information about his mysterious customer. So I would become a customer myself.

  There was more than one way to cut a cogwheel.

  I was ready to make my way home. No vampires tonight, but at least I’d made some progress in another direction. I’d better leave before Pix arrived and saw me talking to Bilbo. It would be best if he didn’t know I had been there.

  I gave the bartender what I hoped was a masculine farewell wave—in case anyone was watching. I’d taken three steps toward the exit when I caught a movement from the corner of my eye.