And there would be no regrets about taking a life that had once been that of a normal person. No “You killed my brother!” accusations living in one’s nightmares.
No. It would be as unnerving as swatting a fly.
Mina sniffed and turned to a mechanical box on the wall. She pushed a button, and lights—gas lamps, of course—popped on one by one with their familiar yellow glow. Then she turned a dial and one of the costumes began to rise toward the high ceiling, revealing another one behind it. Then it too lifted, showing another, then another, in one tall circuit. The rotating mechanism creaked and hissed and rattled.
“What I meant to say was it was fascinating to hear about Mr. Bartholomew, Mr. Oligary, and Lord Moseley,” Mina said as she turned the dial back. The circling costumes came to a halt and she made a sound of satisfaction as she reached for the simple black suit hanging in front of us. I thought it looked like something a funeral director would wear.
“Excellent. This looks as if it will do nicely.” She turned to me with a cool smile. “I shall be masquerading as the Ankh this evening, Evaline. What about you?”
Miss Stoker
An Overdue Discussion Occurs
Unlike in the past, when Mina insisted we don our disguises separately and meet up later, this time we prepared for our visit to Bridge & Stokes at the Holmes house. My home, the spacious Grantworth House, would have been closer and more convenient. My bedchamber was larger, and there was the benefit of my maid, Pepper. But there was the problem of leaving the house unnoticed by my sister-in-law, Florence, or the rest of the staff while dressed as men.
We were in Mina’s bedchamber again—which felt surprisingly familiar to me. Of course, I’d been here only a few days earlier preparing for the Midnight Palace.
“Why are you dressing as the Ankh?” I asked as my partner smoothed a thick, shiny substance over her hair to keep it from kinking up.
“Because I suspect she has been to Bridge & Stokes—if indeed she is the one who is Mr. Pix’s mysterious customer. And if she has been there, then others might remember her. And if they believe I am she, who knows what we might learn about her.”
“And . . . what if she is there tonight too?” I confess, I had a spike of thrill when I thought about that possibility.
“Then it will be very interesting,” Mina replied with a small smile.
I helped brush her hair back in a smooth, sleek cap and then pinned it in several large flat pin curls to her head. Not as perfectly as Pepper would have done, but well enough that they would stay.
“I’m not certain you look that much like her,” I said.
“As you recall, Miss Stoker, the Ankh has never looked the same every time we encountered her. Yes, she favors male attire—a simple, stark, black suit with a white shirtwaist. And she alters her height, color of her hair, facial hair—and lack thereof—and even the shape of her nose and brows. But there are two things that do not change. First, her eyes. They cannot be altered in any way other than by makeup or obstruction. When one looks into the eyes of another, one sees the unchanging iris—and the essence, the very life, of that person—regardless of how dark the lashes or liner is, how much hair is falling into them, or how slightly elongated the shape of the eye has become due to the application of a bit of spirit-gum at the corners.”
“Well, since you don’t have her eyes . . .”
Mina gave me an exasperated look. “Of course not. And hers are a chameleon-like gray hue that appear to change color according to what she is wearing. But the other thing—and really, Evaline, I cannot believe with all of the encounters we’ve had with that villainess—including the time you were in close proximity to her—”
“Do you mean the time she tried to electrofy me? Oh, yes, right, of course. I was observing her very closely as I dragged her to the floor while a massive statue tumbled on top of us.”
Mina gave one of those sniffs of hers. “The Ankh always wears gloves, Miss Stoker—for the simple reason, as I know I’ve previously informed you—that one’s hands cannot be disguised. Additionally, one cannot often remember to suppress one’s natural habits, like the movements of a hand or the way one nods one’s head . . . In the game of poker—with which you must become familiar before tonight—those personal quirks are called ‘tells.’ But, as I was saying, not only does the Ankh always wear gloves, she also always sports a small but noticeable—if one is looking, of course—diamond stud on her right ear. I believe it must be held in place with a minuscule magnet placed at the back of the earlobe.”
I blinked. “So you will wear gloves and a tiny diamond earbob and dress like a man, and the people at Bridge & Stokes will believe you’re the Ankh.”
Mina smiled. “That is my intent and my belief. Now, shall we attend to your disguise, Mr. Kevin Newman, distant cousin of Sir Mycroft Holmes—who shall, incidentally, be our sponsor this evening? Yes, of course my father is a member of Bridge & Stokes. He is a member of most of the clubs in London, regardless of whether he visits them.”
I took her place in the chair in front of the mirror. As she battled my thick, curling hair into a smooth braid that could be tucked under the blond wig we’d selected, my attention strayed to the photograph of Desirée Holmes.
While Mina was definitely a Holmes—she had the prominent nose and tall, slender figure—I did see a resemblance between her and her mother. She had Desirée’s—Siri’s—green-brown eyes and chestnut hair. The shape of her mouth was similar as well. But while Mina was passably attractive, her mother was quite lovely.
And she was an excellent fighting mentor. She’d demonstrated spins and kicks and moves I could only hope to copy some day.
“What was she like?” I asked suddenly.
Mina’s hands stilled on my scalp, then began to move again. Perhaps a trifle more firmly. She didn’t respond, and I avoided her gaze in the mirror. We both knew who I was talking about.
It felt odd, knowing that a person I had known in such a familiar—yet unusual—way was also the mother of one of my friends. And that neither of us had known of the other’s existence because of Desirée’s secret life.
“She was nothing like me, or my father,” Mina said finally. She too refrained from looking at me. “She liked to go to parties and balls. She liked to dress and shop and be around people. She was often quite amusing. She found my work in the laboratory . . . tedious. Claimed she had no patience for that sort of thing.”
Mina was speaking of Siri as if she were dead. And for all we knew, she was. But we’d never talked about it. I didn’t know what Mina knew . . . and she didn’t know what I knew.
I’d never told her about my experiences as a vampire hunter, but, I realized, now was the time. “The first night I attempted to stake a vampire, I . . . I must have fainted. I remember Siri being there with me, and I remember pulling my stake out, and getting ready to use it. But there was so much blood. Everywhere. It wasn’t like the two bites you had on your neck. The UnDead had torn open the belly of Mr. O’Galleghy and his . . . insides . . . were spilling out.” I swallowed hard as my stomach lurched. I still dreamt about that night. “I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up in an alley. Alone. I haven’t heard from her—from Siri—since.”
I didn’t know whether she had killed the vampire herself, or whether I had somehow done it . . . or whether something else much worse happened. Although she was an excellent trainer and advisor, Siri wasn’t a Venator. She didn’t have the superior strength and speed that had been bestowed upon me and the others of my family legacy. As Mina had pointed out, anyone could feasibly slay a vampire if one knew how to do it—but that didn’t mean she had been able to get beyond the power of the UnDead.
Siri could be dead. Because of me. Because I had failed to kill the vampire. If that were the case, I wondered if I could ever look Mina in the eye again.
“What was the date of that event?” Mina asked.
“The tenth of February, last year. Or before dawn, in the
early morning of the eleventh.” I held my breath, because I knew her response would answer at least one of my questions.
“My mother left on the eleventh of February, last year. At least, that was the last time I saw her. That morning. I did see her, Evaline. She was alive. Had I known it would be the last time . . .” Her voice trailed off in an uncharacteristic fashion.
I felt a wave of relief, so tangible I trembled. Now I met her eyes in the mirror. I made sure she saw my gratitude, for I didn’t trust myself to speak.
She nodded, then turned to dig in a box of hair pins. “What was . . . she like? As Siri?”
A rush of something like pity surprised me. Of course she would wonder, and be curious. And not just because she was a Holmes.
Being a mother and a lady of Society was commonplace and natural. But being a woman of physical action, of cunning and strategic hand-to-hand combat—things that only men did, and few as well as Siri—was so foreign to anything Mina or I would have known if things had been different.
“She was brilliant. She moved so quickly and gracefully.”
“She was an excellent dancer,” Mina said with a small laugh. “At least, so I’ve heard.”
“She was a demanding taskmaster too. She made me work hard, and study history and facts about my family. I practiced for hours every day—most of the time without her. And I had to read a lot too, which I didn’t like as much. But she came nearly every day to work with me. She could always tell when I hadn’t spent enough time practicing or studying.” I bit my lip. I realized then that the moments Siri spent with me were moments she could have been spending with Mina. “Did you do a lot of . . . things with her? Shop? Um . . . talk?” What would Mina do with her mother? “Go to parties?” That was a ridiculous question. I groaned inwardly. The last thing I wanted to do was make this awkward conversation even more awkward.
“No. Not very often. She did take me shopping on occasion; I believe I learned how to dress from her. That’s how I came to know of that modiste off Fleet-street, in Chewston-alley. The one whose work is all the latest of Street-Fashion. I always thought it odd she liked that shop, for it wasn’t particularly her style.”
“You still haven’t told me the name of it,” I said, in an effort to lighten the mood.
“It’s called Lady Thistle’s. It’s on the third street-level.”
I wanted to ask more questions—about how her beautiful, social mother ended up married to someone like Sir Mycroft—but someone knocked on the bedchamber door. Mrs. Raskill poked her head in.
“There is an individual here who wishes to speak with you.”
Mina frowned. “I am not available. Please take their card and inform the person I shall be in touch tomorrow.” When Mrs. Raskill left, grumbling, my friend said, “I am not about to receive anyone dressed in this fashion. And would it hurt Mrs. Raskill to use a pronoun when she announces a visitor?”
This time Mrs. Raskill didn’t knock. She merely looked around the open door. “The individual is insistent and will not leave. I was given this.” She offered a small ivory card with fancy red printing on it.
Sighing, Mina walked over to accept the card. When she looked down at it, her eyes widened in shock. “Good gad. Princess Lurelia is here!”
Miss Stoker
Wherein an Uninvited Guest Insists upon Poker
There was nothing for it; Mina had to receive Lurelia. One couldn’t turn away a princess—especially one who traveled to one’s door . . . in a hired hackney? I gaped as the vehicle rolled off down the street as soon as the princess stepped inside.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” Mina said.
“Mina! Evaline! You are both here. I’m very pleased.” Lurelia seemed slightly less awkward than usual. When she took note of how we were dressed, her expression changed even more. “Are you . . . you are wearing very odd clothing.”
“Please, have a seat.” My companion neatly ignored the implied question. “May I offer you some refreshments?”
“Oh, no, I’m not the least bit hungry.” The princess chose not to sit down, but instead to walk through the front room toward the kitchen. “What a quaint home.”
“Thank you.” Mina gave me a look that, for her, was rather amusing. I’d never seen her look so discombobulated. “What brings you to my . . . er . . . quaint home? Did you . . . er . . . travel without escort?”
“Oh, yes. Lord Regent Terrence is busy tonight—he is with your father, I believe, Mina, doing something boringly political. I sneaked out the back of the hotel and hired a—what do you call them? Taxi? Yes, a taxi. I’m here because I wish for you to entertain me this evening. Princess Alexandra assured me you would be available whenever I wished, and I wish to be entertained tonight.”
“But . . . erm . . .” Mina looked helplessly at me. If I hadn’t been in the midst of the same predicament, I would have found her expression hilarious.
“Where are you going dressed in that fashion? Are you pretending to be men? I shall do the same. It will be a grand adventure. I have always wanted to wear trousers!”
“But . . . erm . . . Your Highness, it’s not quite—”
Lurelia lifted her chin and gave us an imperiously royal look. She was almost more frightening than my sister-in-law, Florence, when she got annoyed with me. “I wish it, Mina. I should not want to report to Princess Alexandra that you disappointed me—or her. Again.”
“But, Lurelia . . . where we are going is not quite . . . well, it isn’t precisely the best location for a young, affianced princess to—”
Lurelia lifted her chin, and for the first time, I saw a real spark of emotion there. “If you do not take me with you—dressed as you are, on whatever adventure you are going—then I shall follow you. All on my own.”
And that was how the three of us ended up in a carriage disguised as young men.
Mina still looked mildly nauseated, but I was beginning to appreciate the humor in the situation.
“Besides wanting entertainment tonight,” Lurelia said as our carriage made its way from Grosvenor to Pall Mall, “I have another request of you.”
I had a feeling her idea of a request was more like a command, but I kept that thought to myself.
“We are happy to serve you in any way, Your Highness.” Mina’s words were smooth, but I saw the trepidation in her eyes.
How ironic that what we’d—or at least I’d—anticipated being a dull, quiet assignment might yet turn out to be quite amusing.
“You must help me find the chess queen.”
Mina relaxed a trifle. “The letter describing its probable location is missing, but presumably you have made a copy of it.”
“Correct.” Lurelia seemed pleased.
“Why do you want to find the chess queen?”
The princess’s gaze darted away. “I’m to exchange it for some . . . letters. Letters that I . . . wrote.”
“Ah.” Mina and I exchanged glances. Blooming fish, this was going to be a mess!
Nevertheless, my companion nodded. “Of course I—we—will assist you to find the chess queen, provided it is still to be found. It has, after all, been missing for centuries. But I am afraid I cannot allow you to give it up to the perpetrator of this blackmail scheme.”
“But—”
“Your Highness, you must trust me. I am a Holmes. We will find the chess queen and we will unmask your blackmailer and retrieve those letters for you.” Mina didn’t seem to realize—or care—that she’d interrupted a princess. I decided not to point this out. Mina interrupted everyone.
“Very well.” The princess smiled behind her false mustache. Mina had made certain to hide as much of the girl’s face as possible behind bushy sideburns, thick hair, and a mustache. “Now, will you teach us how to play the game you call poke?”
“Er . . . poker. Yes, but you must learn quickly, for we have nearly arrived at our destination.”
Although the sign for Bridge & Stokes was at the third street-level above the ground, I d
iscovered (I say I because Mina claimed she was already aware of this) that the actual establishment was at the sixth, and most elite, level. In fact, in most areas of London—at least the ones outside Whitechapel and Seven Dials, where reputable people frequented—there were only four, and on occasion, five street-levels.
Each level was accessed via a street-lift, which required coin as payment. The higher one wished to go, the more one had to spend.
The lower the level, the darker and dingier the walkways, shops, and vendors. The ground, or street-level, was traversed mostly by vehicles, for there were few shops or businesses at the lowest level. The streets were nothing more than a conduit and a place where refuse and other waste collected and puddled in the sewage canals. Even the Refuse-Agitators couldn’t keep up with the amount of waste from our good city.
Lining each side of the street, along the shops, were walkways with waist-high railings. Vendor carts were moored to the edge of the walkways with massive clamps, floating out over the street below. Occasionally there were sky-bridges connecting both walkways that allowed pedestrians to cross the “street.”
It was an ongoing gripe of Mina’s that I often forgot to bring money for the lifts, but this evening I had stuffed a good number of coins and bills in my coat pocket. That was fortunate, for it cost two pounds to take the lift to the sixth-level.
“I could buy an entire meal for two pounds,” I grumbled.
“Or an excellent brandy,” Mina said in a deep voice, giving me a quelling look.
Unlike most street-lifts, which were public and merely needed payment to enter, the one that traveled to Bridge & Stokes was operated by a burly man wearing a uniform and a cap. He had no intention of allowing us on board. Mina jabbed my foot sharply with her walking stick and I remembered the card engraved with Sir Mycroft Holmes’s seal. On the reverse was a note in which he confirmed the sponsorship of his cousin, Mr. Kevin Newman.
The Chess Queen Enigma Page 13
