The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  “Interesting,” I said as a myriad of thoughts rushed through my mind. I glanced at Grayling, who until now, had neither moved nor spoken, and I offered him the letter. I was curious as to whether he would draw the same conclusions I had.

  “I presume you comprehend what it is Her Highness is attempting to communicate,” said my father.

  “I have my suspicions. And no, I have not as yet received any messages from her.” I gestured to the door. “May I see Lurelia’s chamber?”

  The maid managed to keep her emotions in check as she brought us into the adjoining rooms—a bedchamber, a walk-in wardrobe, and a private bathing chamber. Nevertheless, her voice quivered when she described the activity of the night before. I directed her to give me every detail of the evening, regardless of how insignificant it seemed.

  “I brushed my lady’s hair one hundred thirty times as usual. And then I braided it in one large plait and tied it with lace and helped her into her night rail.”

  “What did the night rail look like?”

  “It was blue. With lace, here.” The maid indicated where the flounces would go.

  “Go on.”

  “And then she got herself into the bed and when I left the chamber—for she dismissed me”—the maid cast a worried look at the Lord Regent—“she was reading that book. I never saw her again.”

  “What time did you leave the chamber, and what time did you come in this morning?”

  “It was five minutes after ten o’clock according to that clock, and this morning I finally knocked on her door at noon, when she hadn’t rung for me, miss.” The maid gave a brief curtsy as if to indicate the end of her speech.

  But I wasn’t yet finished with her. “Did the princess ask you to post any letters for her? Or to have any messages delivered to anyone?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Did you notice whether the paper was in the waste can before she got into bed last night? Were the writing implements on the desk? Are those her writing tools? Can you confirm this is her writing?”

  “No, miss, the paper wasn’t in the waste can. I noticed for certain because I tidied up the entire chamber, and emptied it myself. Yes, miss, that is her pen, and yes, that is her writing, as far as I can tell. When I tidied up, I put her pens away in their writing box, and left the box on the desk where she liked it. The paper is from the hotel, miss. You can ask the gentleman.” She glanced at the hotel manager.

  “Very well. Thank you. You’ve been extremely helpful . . . miss?”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy, clearly ready to make her escape. “Derrica, miss.”

  After the maid fled, I commenced with interrogating the hotel manager, whose name was Mr. Bentford, about the security of the building as well as these apartments.

  He took exception to my implication the security was lacking, and informed me that every entrance was either locked or guarded by robust doormen. “And this suite of apartments we reserve for our most important guests because it is the most luxurious and the most private and inaccessible. Of course it is on the fifth floor, and not reachable but through the main stairway—and of course the servants’ hall. We have never had any complaints from our guests, and we have had many important visitors.” He glanced at my father as if to confirm his statement and Sir Mycroft made a sound of agreement. I trusted my father’s opinion about this, at least.

  I examined the chamber and made several curious observations. All the while, I sent covert glances toward Grayling to see if he noticed the same.

  “The Guidebook to London,” he mused as he picked up the book Lurelia had been reading. “Fascinating.”

  “I agree. And note the last page she has read.”

  “I have.”

  “And the strand of hair . . . here.” I withdrew a pair of small forceps, lifting a long dark hair from the floor near the door.”

  “Quite right, Miss Holmes. And of course, the impressions left on this notebook of paper.”

  “Indeed.”

  We eyed each other speculatively, then I went to examine the doorknob and the entrance to the chamber. Just as I finished, I heard the arrival of Miss Stoker in the adjoining room.

  It was difficult not to.

  She swept into the chamber like a small windstorm. “So the princess has gone missing? She’s been abducted, then? Is there a ransom?” Evaline’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, surely anticipating a dangerous adventure.

  I hated to disappoint her.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Princess Lurelia is indeed missing, but she has not been abducted.” I glanced at Grayling, giving him an arch look.

  To my disappointment, he didn’t look the least bit nonplussed. “Not only has she not been abducted,” he said with a nod in my direction, “but she left the chamber early this morning, and under her own steam—so to speak.”

  “Quite correct, Inspector,” I interjected, ignoring his little jest. “And I know precisely where to find her. She has gone to see—”

  “Westminster Abbey,” Grayling and I announced together.

  “Oh,” said Evaline. “Drat.”

  Miss Stoker

  Wherein the Mechanics of Vampire Slaying Are Considered

  While I was disappointed there wasn’t to be an exciting rescue of Princess Lurelia from the clutches of her abductors, Mina was puffed up with satisfaction that she’d so easily solved the case. However, I was delighted my evening would be free.

  Tonight I was going to Bridge & Stokes.

  I’d had Middy drive me down St. Albans-street today so I could see what type of business Bridge & Stokes was. Bilbo could have been a little more specific with his information. But now I knew Bridge & Stokes was a gentlemen’s club.

  I could hardly contain a smile. Visiting a gentlemen’s club would be a welcome distraction—and an exciting challenge.

  I glanced at Mina. If she came with me, I’d have to save her if things went awry, and listen to her lecture all the way there and back. She would tell me things I needed to know, and a lot more things I didn’t need to know. My head hurt at the thought.

  However, if she accompanied me, she would no doubt know what to expect at Bridge & Stokes—that is, how to play all of the card games—and she would probably notice things I didn’t. She looked more like a man than I did, too, being taller and less curvy. Aside from that, it would be helpful to have a second person watching out for Pix . . . and the Ankh.

  It turned out the Lord Regent wanted to personally retrieve Princess Lurelia from Westminster Abbey. “We will make a public event uff it,” he said, glancing at the formidable Sir Mycroft. “In an attempt to qvash any rumors about zhe princess’s reputation. We shall make it appear as if we planned zhe entire visit.” He stroked his mustache, then worried its dark ends into tight pincurls.

  When she heard this news, Mina’s face fell. “Of course. I—and Miss Stoker—were happy to be of service.”

  “But how did you come to this conclusion?” asked the hotel manager, whose name I did not recall. He appeared quite relieved that his security was no longer in question.

  “It was quite simple. There are no traces of any individual other than Derrica entering the princess’s chambers—with the exception of this single dark hair.” Mina glanced at Grayling. “Recall the heavy rain overnight and into the early hours of the morning, and note the absence of any streaks of mud or dirt inside her apartments. Thus one can only conclude that individuals have left, but have not arrived. Therefore, no one has taken her from this location against her will.”

  I still didn’t follow. “But the dark hair? Her Highness is blond, and so is her maid, and—er—the Lord Regent.” Mostly, anyway.

  “If one looks closely, one will easily note that the single strand of dark hair is not human, but from a horsetail. One will also note, if one examines it even more studiously, the tiny blob of adhesive that had attached it to a wig. Therefore, my Lord Regent, when you arrive at Westminster Abbey, if you do not immediately see Princess Lurelia, I w
ould recommend searching for a young woman dressed in a blue walking gown—the only dress missing from her closet, according to her maid—with dark hair.”

  “But . . . how did you know she was traveling to Westminster Abbey? Oh, wait . . . it was the last page she looked at in the travel guide, wasn’t it?” I was supremely proud of myself for deducing such a thing on my own.

  “In fact, it was not, Miss Stoker.” Mina’s voice was smooth. “An amateur’s error, but I won’t hold it against you. You’re rather new at this—”

  “Right,” I interrupted. “So how did you know she was at Westminster Abbey?”

  “Inspector Grayling noticed it as well—the impressions on this page in the princess’s notebook. If one looks closely, one can see it is a list of times, and also one can make out the words ‘St. James’s.’ Clearly, the princess was noting down the Underground schedule, and the name of the station on which she would disembark—St. James’s Park.”

  “In fact, Miss Stoker, the last page Her Highness appears to have looked at in the Guidebook described the fees for the Underground trains, as well as a description of how to utilize the system for transportation. Being a member of the Royal Family, one wouldn’t expect her to be familiar with such plebeian modes of transportation,” said Inspector Grayling without a trace of the condescension I heard in Mina’s voice.

  “I see. But how did you know she meant to visit Westminster Abbey? St. James is near so many other possible attractions. She could have been going to see Parliament or Jewel Tower. Or was that a lucky guess?”

  “Evaline, you should know by now that guessing is not a valid part of detecting. I—and Inspector Grayling as well—deduced that Princess Lurelia was going to visit Westminster Abbey because of the very faint check marks she’d made in the table of contents of this guidebook—presumably attractions she meant to visit whilst here in London. It was the only check-marked item near St. James’s station. It was, really, quite an elementary deduction, if one is paying attention.”

  “Right.”

  “Ferry well done, Miss Holmes,” said the Lord Regent, who had followed our conversation with interest. “I zhank you ferry much vor helping us.”

  “Indeed,” replied Mina. She appeared to want to say something more, but instead she turned to me. “May I share your carriage, then, Miss Stoker?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you again, Inspector Grayling, for . . . er . . . providing me transportation here. I’m not certain my hat will ever be the same again, but it was . . . appreciated.”

  He bowed and excused himself, and Mina and I took our leave as well. I didn’t have the chance to tell her about my plan for the evening, for as soon as we settled into the carriage, my companion began to talk. Big surprise.

  “Well, that was quite an interesting turn of events, don’t you think, Evaline?”

  “Um . . . yes. I think so.” I hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was talking about.

  “Lurelia may not be as simple and timid as we supposed. But why did she sneak out of her chamber to go to Westminster Abbey, of all places? I have several theories, Miss Stoker. But feel free to share yours first.”

  “Your feathers are drooping,” I told her, a little meanly. Of course I didn’t have any blasted theories!

  She reached up and patted vaguely at the decorations on her hat. “Drat. Next time I—never mind. There will never be a next time. I will never set my—my posterior on that dratted vehicle again!”

  I snickered, for I had seen Grayling’s steamcycle parked in front of the hotel. Then I became serious. “I’m going to Bridge & Stokes tonight. Do you want to come with me?”

  “To a gentlemen’s club? And why? Are you mad? Do you have any idea how to play poker? And you do realize, this would not be a night to forget your money. And one cannot simply walk into a gentlemen’s club—even if he is a gentleman. One must be a member—or have a member who is a sponsor. Honestly, Evaline, do you ever plan ahead?”

  I grinned. I could see the light of interest in her eyes. “Hardly ever.”

  “I presume you have a good reason for this foolishness.”

  “Of course. It’s where Pix’s customers place their orders for his devices. You’ll want to go with me, then?”

  “Someone must, to keep you from getting into trouble.”

  Creating a foolproof disguise meant a visit to the Lyceum Theater. Fortunately, Bram never minded when I raided the costume and makeup rooms under his roof, as long as I returned them.

  My brother was typing madly in his office, working on the book he called Count Dracula, when Mina and I knocked on the open door. He looked up and I nearly laughed, for his hair was standing up in wild waves every which way.

  “How do you kill a vampire?” he asked as we walked in.

  “You stab him in the heart with a wooden stake,” I replied. “Preferably one made of ash wood. And then he poofs into dust. Which smells disgusting, by the by.”

  He frowned and glared at me. “That doesn’t work.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t make the rules. We’re going to borrow some things from the men’s wardrobe, all right, Bram?”

  “I’m going to have to change that,” he muttered, still frowning and glaring. “It’s not interesting enough. It can’t be that simple. Stab an UnDead in the heart, and suddenly he’s gone. It doesn’t even work that way for mortals! We at least have a body afterward. And blood. What about the vampire’s clothing?”

  “You could always behead the UnDead. One stroke with a sword works just as well as a wooden stake, and it’s a little more exciting.”

  He looked interested. “And what happens afterward? Does the head roll away and the body slump to the ground? Is there blood splattering everywhere?”

  “My word, you’re blood-thirsty,” I told him affectionately. “I do hope that doesn’t put off your readers.”

  “No, indeed. People love to hear about gruesome and horrific things—as long as they aren’t happening to them. To whit—think of all the terrible things that happen in Shakespeare!”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the same thing happens when you behead an UnDead as when you stake him: he explodes into ash. Which is messy, you know. It gets everywhere, and it smells like a dead body.”

  “Perhaps a more complicated, more—er—ceremonial approach?” Mina asked. I could tell she was only half serious. “Sneaking up on the creature when he is unaware, and . . . oh, perhaps, binding him down? Shoving a head of garlic into his mouth—they don’t particularly care for garlic, do they? Maybe a pike that affixes the creature to whatever he is sitting or lying on? It would be rather gruesome to imagine, but it would certainly be more interesting than the simple thrust of a stake to the heart. Why, anyone could do that.” She cast me a look.

  I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t seen her stake a dozen wild-eyed, sharp-fanged, out-for-blood UnDead when the opportunity presented itself. In fact, I hadn’t seen her stake one. “Right.” I turned back to Bram. “Do you mind if we dig through the wardrobes?”

  “No.” He was looking at Mina consideringly. “A pike that holds the creature down. And what if it went through each arm? No, no . . . too Christ-like. Ah. His head. Perhaps through his head?”

  Mina shuddered. “I shall leave that to you, Mr. Stoker. Incidentally, we met Mr. Oligary recently. Apparently you know him quite well.”

  “Aye, yes, one could say that. He’s a great lover of the theater, and a patron as well.”

  “Are you going to get a new steam-machine for the lighting? He indicated the one you have is too loud and a bit outdated.”

  “Frank—Mr. Oligary—has been trying to convince me to trade up to a better machine for a year. I wanted to install electric lights four years ago, but then Moseley-Haft came along and now that’s impossible.” Bram glanced longingly at his typing machine.

  “So you aren’t afraid of the evils or danger of electric lighting?” Mina asked.

  “No, indeed. N
ot at all. Why, they have begun to install electric lighting at the Broadway Theater in New York, and there hasn’t been one hint of problem. And they certainly don’t have to account for the constant smell from the coal burner . . . or that incessant hiss. In our last performance of The Merchant of Venice, it nearly drowned out Shylock’s best speech!”

  “Fascinating. And did you know Mr. Oligary’s business partner, Edgar Bartholomew?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. He was a fine gentleman. Tragic.” Bram’s sentences were getting briefer, which meant he was becoming distracted. “Wasn’t fond of Moseley, though.”

  “No? Are you saying Mr. Bartholomew wasn’t a supporter of the Moseley-Haft Act? That he would have wanted electrical power to remain legal?”

  “What? Oh no, I don’t know about that.” Bram’s fingers strayed to the keys of his typer. “He didn’t care for Lord Moseley himself. There was rumor the man wanted to buy out Bartholomew and partner with Mr. Oligary.”

  I had no idea why Mina was wasting our time with this, but I was bored, and Bram clearly wanted to return to his work before the actors and actresses arrived for the evening performance. “Let’s leave my brother to his make-believe vampire killing,” I said, pulling her out of the office.

  “Well, that was enlightening,” she said, yanking her arm out of my grip. “I wonder if Grayling knows about that.”

  “How so? And what’s this nonsense about anyone could stake a vampire?” I glared at her as we pushed into the dimly lit men’s wardrobe chamber.

  It smelled faintly like tobacco and mothballs. In the drassy light, the ten rows of clothing looked like an eerie lineup of gentlemen.

  “I was simply speaking theoretically,” Mina replied. “And it is possible—anyone could stake an UnDead. If they knew what to do. It’s not as if one needs special skills or knowledge.”

  “Right. Especially since vampires are stronger than the strongest of mortal men, not to mention much faster, and they can’t be killed or injured any other way—unless you could get them to walk into the sunlight and stay there until they burned. No, it would be as simple as a walk in the park, staking a vampire.”