The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  “But I thought Sherlock Holmes was a fictitious character,” Mr. Eckhert said. His expression was bewildered and perhaps a little frightened. “Am I in London? What year is this?”

  Clearly, the stranger was suffering from a case of amnesia. Or he was utterly mad. And here I was, closed up in a carriage with him. I gripped the Steam-Stream gun more tightly. “My uncle is as real as you and I. And yes, you’re in London. The year is 1889. Who are you and where are you from? I want some answers.”

  “I’d like some too, to be honest,” he said. “Actually, what I really want is my—that thing back. You picked it up off the floor.”

  I pulled the device from my pocket. It looked like a small, dark mirror, but its window or face was black and shiny and reflected a bit of light and no clear image. About as big as my hand, it was slender and elegant, made of glass and encased in silver metal. I turned it over and noticed the faint image of an apple with a bite out of it. “This? I thought you’d given it to us. After all, you threw it across the room.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re too smart to believe that.”

  I couldn’t disagree, so I changed tactics. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . . a . . . phone. A telephone,” he said hesitantly. “A special kind of telephone.”

  It didn’t look like any sort of telephone I’d ever seen. There was nowhere to listen, and nowhere to speak. And it had no wires. I smoothed my fingers over the device, amazed at how light and sleek it was. I must have activated it somehow, because all at once, it lit up and there were multicolored little pictures on its face. At least it didn’t start screeching. “I might give it back to you if you answer my questions.”

  “What do you want to know? And by the way, why didn’t you tell those detectives about me?”

  As I wasn’t certain of the answer to that myself, I declined to reply. There was something about this young man that I found compelling. I sensed there was more to him than met the eye. Instead of answering his question, I asked one of my own. “Did you see or hear anyone before you saw the girl’s body?”

  “I might have heard a door opening and closing, but I’m not familiar with all the sounds in the museum, so I can’t be sure. Probably. Then I heard a scuffle, like someone’s shoe on the floor. I was . . . um . . . walking through the museum, trying to find my way . . . out, and I almost tripped over her. I only got there a few seconds before you.”

  From Miss Adler’s office, we’d heard the rumbling sound of a steam-powered door, but it had taken us a minute or two to get to where we’d found Miss Hodgeworth and Mr. Eckhert.

  “Where was the knife when you got there? Was she holding it?”

  “No. It was on the floor next to her. I think . . . I think I might have interrupted someone. It looked as if the knife was lying next to her, as if it had been dropped.”

  “Why are you living in the museum?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m not living in the museum. I just got there tonight. A few hours before I saw you.”

  “That’s impossible. Your shoes are clean.” I shifted the gun in warning. “How about the truth, now, Mr. Eckhert?”

  “It’s complicated. But I guess if there’s any chance of me getting home, I’m going to have to trust someone.” He looked out the window and a gaslight streetlamp cast a brief golden glow over his sober face and the tousled hair that brushed his neck and covered his ears and forehead. I felt my chest tighten and looked away. He was one of the most handsome young men I’d ever seen.

  At last he turned and looked at me once more. “So . . . I’m . . . uh . . . from a long way away. And I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m really not sure how I’m going to get back home. It was freaky. I was in the museum, back in a far corner all alone. It was dark and empty, and it was—well, okay, I’ll be honest. On a dare, I sneaked into one of the back rooms in the basement, and I found this door in the middle of nowhere. It was, like, locked, but the lock was old and rusty, and I got it to open. Inside, I found an old Egyptian statue, totally covered with dust. I don’t think anyone had touched it for years. It was a person with the head of a lion. I looked it up. I think it was—”

  “Sekhmet.” I spoke the name in a whisper. A chill washed over me. There are no coincidences.

  “Right. Sekhmet.” He seemed to relax a little bit. “I noticed a sort of emblem, like a button, set into the stone base. It was so tall that I could crouch down and fit my head between its knees. It was glowing. I touched it, and then all of a sudden I felt this really odd vibration, this strange buzzing. It was in my head, my ears, all through my body, just crazy. I felt the emblem sort of move, like it sank in a little more, and the vibration got stronger. And then I felt as if I was falling and falling and falling . . . and then all of a sudden, I realized I was lying on the floor.” His expression was one of misery and shock. “I don’t know how long I was out of it, but when I opened my eyes, I was in the same room, but there were different things there. The statue of Sekhmet was gone. It was like I’d . . .”

  I realized my jaw was hanging open, and I snapped it closed. He was telling the truth; I could see it in his eyes. At least, the truth as he understood it. He’d somehow traveled here by touching the emblem on a Sekhmet statue?

  My mind was awhirl with questions and theories, but I managed to pluck one topic from the storm. “An emblem? What did it look like? You say it was glowing?”

  “It was about this big,” he said, drawing a circle on his palm. “And it was a really bright blue color—I think they call it lapis?”

  “Lapis lazuli?”

  He nodded. “And it had a picture of a beetle on it.”

  I felt as if a basketful of clockwork gears had just tumbled into my lap and I didn’t have any way of knowing how they fit together.

  “It looked a little like the one, the scarab—that was by the girl.”

  “There was a scarab by the victim?” I said sharply. How could I have missed that? “There was no scarab there.”

  “Yeah, there was. It was on the ground next to her.” He shifted in his seat, and I lifted the gun. He stilled. “I took it.”

  Ahh. “May I see it, please?”

  “How about a trade? I give you the beetle, and you give me back my phone.” He flashed me a charming smile.

  “You’re in no position to be bargaining,” I said, and held out my hand for what I was certain would be a clockwork scarab decorated with a Sekhmet cartouche. After a long moment, he sighed and complied, digging into the pocket of his denim trousers.

  The item produced was similar in size and design to the scarab Miss Adler had shown us earlier. As I peered down at it in the dim light, unable to hold my illuminator and the gun, a thought struck me. I looked up at Mr. Eckhert. “Do you recall how long it was between the time you opened your eyes and found yourself in the room with the Sekhmet statue missing and when you found Miss Hodgeworth’s body?”

  “Like, three hours, maybe four. I was confused because the room had either changed, or I had . . . moved.” His voice cracked with emotion.

  Three hours, maybe four.

  Miss Hodgeworth had been dead for about that amount of time.

  Another coincidence?

  As Inspector Luckworth might say, not blooming likely.

  The sun was just coloring the rooftops when I stumbled into my chamber. I tore off my trousers, shirtwaist, and coat, thankful that I didn’t need to struggle out of a corset tonight. The Milford Gentlelady’s Easy-Unlacer, whose slender, metal fingers made a nuisance of a clacking sound as it went about its business, not only took too long to loosen the ties of one’s corset, but was loud enough to wake Mrs. Raskill.

  The house was dark and silent, except for the distant rumble of the aforementioned lady’s slumberous breathing, and although I had stopped near my father’s chamber, the sounds of his own snoring were not evident. His boots were not in their place, and his walking stick was still missing, thus leading me to conclude he had chosen to once again sleep a
t his club.

  My mother’s chamber adjoined his, and, as was my habit, I cracked open the door to look inside. Everything was as pristine as it had been the day she left, but now, a year later, I could no longer smell the soft lily of the valley scent that had always permeated the space. I closed the door tightly.

  When I had realized Mr. Eckhert had no place to sleep, I invited him to stay at our house. As it turned out, my father’s empty bedchamber was a blessing in disguise, and Mr. Eckhert had eagerly flopped onto the made-up bed.

  One might wonder why I would do something so far outside the bounds of propriety and invite a single young man—and one who’d come into my life so unusually—to stay in my home, unchaperoned, but it had become obvious he was out of sorts and had no funds. I sensed he meant me no harm and that he needed some sort of help. Besides, he was clearly linked to whatever was happening relative to Sekhmet and her scarabs. It was best I keep Dylan Eckhert under close watch.

  Despite my physical exhaustion, the events of the night made me feel energetic and invigorated. I was confident I wouldn’t sleep much at all, but once in bed, I forced myself to close my eyes and relax. I would need a clear mind and rested body for later, when our secret society reconvened.

  But just as I slipped into the lulling embrace of Morpheus, a pair of sharp green-gray eyes popped into my memory and ruined it all.

  I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t encounter Inspector Grayling any time in the near future.

  When I awoke much later that morning, Mr. Eckhert was gone.

  Not only did he not leave a note, but he’d also sneaked into my chamber whilst I slumbered and pilfered the sleek, silver device he claimed was a telephone.

  Miss Stoker

  In Which Miss Stoker Is Twice Surprised

  Neither Miss Adler nor Miss Holmes had indicated if or when we should meet again, so after the events at the museum, I was in no hurry to return to Grantworth House to sleep. Probably the two had plans for the next day—likely exciting tasks such as visiting the Hodgeworth family home, getting to know each other better, and searching for beetles. Miss Holmes could search for clues by interviewing every young woman in London if she wanted to. I had more important things to do, like saving unsuspecting mortals from the fangs of demonic vampires.

  Barring that, at least I might be able to interfere in a mugging or other criminal assault between two mortals. I had to find something to do with myself.

  After Pix melted into the shadows and left me wiping all trace of his soft, arrogant lips from the back of my hand, I took my time walking home. Unfortunately, nothing dangerous or exciting presented itself. By five o’clock, I gave up and returned to the house I shared with Bram and his family.

  Though it wasn’t necessary that I climb the oak tree growing outside my balcony, I did so simply because I could. It seemed only right that a vampire hunter should be sneaking in and out of the house, rather than walking through the front door. My brother Bram knew how I spent my nights, but his wife, Florence, did not. Even though she was like a mother to me, Bram and I chose to keep her in the dark about my vocation.

  I’d been living in London since I was ten. Born to an elderly mother and father, I’d been raised by a variety of young relatives, most recently Bram and Florence. My brother was twenty-five years my senior and more of a father to me than my blood parents, and I’d come to love Florence as a mother as well. She was sweet and practical, though she was more interested in marrying me off than I was in finding a husband. Our family life was simple and uneventful until a little more than a year ago. I’d had a series of terrifying dreams in which I was being chased by a vampire, and that was when I learned not only of our family legacy, but of my calling to be a vampire hunter. When I told Bram about the dreams, at first he seemed surprised and then a little disgruntled. But apparently he knew what to do and arranged for my introduction to Siri.

  The woman who became my mentor had trained other vampire hunters. Siri taught me that the UnDead tend to collect in populous areas, where their victims were less likely to be found or missed. She also arranged for our household to move into the spacious Grantworth House, which had been in the Stoker family since before my great-great-aunt Victoria. Not only did it give me space to practice, but it was almost like an inheritance I gained after learning I was the next vampire hunter. The move to the mansion had coincided with my debut into Society and gave me access to the upper crust of London. Florence couldn’t have been happier with this turn of events, and she and I spent far too many hours shopping for clothing to wear to balls, dinner parties, the theater, and even summer picnics in Hyde Park.

  My real parents still lived in Ireland, unaware of the secret legacy of vampire hunting by select members of our family. I wasn’t certain how Bram even knew, and he never bothered to tell me. Although it was nice having someone I could talk to about my vocation, I also felt awkward. He believed it should have been he who’d had the calling.

  But Bram had a wife and child. He couldn’t put himself in the way of evil and danger. Who would take care of them if something happened to him?

  I didn’t have anyone to worry about. Just me.

  Bram might love me as a sister and even as a daughter, but he was so enamored with our family legacy and the unnatural skills that came with it that he seemed more interested in encouraging me than protecting me. Sometimes I wondered if he was too certain of my abilities and assumed I was infallible. And since Siri had disappeared shortly after my encounter with a vampire, there really wasn’t anyone else to worry about me.

  I had dark moments when I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d given up on me. Or had there been a mistake? Maybe I really wasn’t a vampire hunter after all, and she’d moved on to train someone more worthy.

  My mouth turned down, and I brushed away the unpleasant thought. I was a Venator.

  I’d prove myself worthy. Somehow.

  I slept well and woke when the sun raged through the window of my bedchamber. It was hours past noon, as well as being an unusually sunny day in our dreary London. Bram would be at the Lyceum Theatre, where he was the manager, and Florence would be shopping or making social calls. I considered myself fortunate that my sister-in-law hadn’t awakened me to join her. My nephew, Noel, would be at school, and my maidservant, Pepper, was likely off with the cook, Mrs. Bullensham, on their daily errands.

  I anticipated a quiet afternoon wherein I could sharpen some extra stakes and perhaps practice some of my fighting skills in the music room. Even though I wasn’t a cognoggin by any means, I was looking forward to using a new device Bram had found for me. It was designed for gentlemen who liked to spar in a boxing ring and wanted a way to practice at home. Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor was a life-size machine sporting two “arms” and self-propelling wheels, along with the ability to squat or duck from side to side. With a small adjustment, it also could be used to practice the waltz, which was the excuse Bram had given Florence for acquiring the contraption. Her delight had likely been due to visions of me dancing flawlessly with some eligible duke or viscount.

  When I came downstairs, our housekeeper, Mrs. Gernum, gave me a thick, white folded notecard. Another invitation to a ball or dance or picnic that I had no interest in attending. I would have tucked it away so Florence wouldn’t see it, but I noticed the seal of the British Museum.

  It is necessary to our recent appointment for you and I to attend a fête at the home of Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt this evening. I presume you have a carriage at your disposal. I shall be dressed and prepared for you to call for me at eight o’clock this evening, at which time I will give you further details. Please respond soonest.

  —M. Holmes

  My response ranged from vexation at the tone of her letter to exasperation that I’d have to subject myself to the fawning attentions of anemic, boring young men who had no idea how easily I could outdo them . . . and ended with me rolling my eyes. What possible reason could there be for us to attend a party at the home of Lord C
osgrove-Pitt, the leader of Parliament?

  . . . at which time I will give you further details.

  And was it just my imagination, or was that phrase laden with smugness? Mina Holmes seemed like an insufferable know-it-all who ordered people about and rolled over anyone who disagreed with her . . . like one of the Refuse-Agitators that moved along the sewage canals and flattened everything into muck.

  Right, then, Miss Holmes. I glanced down at the masculine writing, taking a page from her book and examining it. I sneered. One would have expected Mina Holmes to write with precise, neat characters instead of such a scrawl.

  Then a prickle of guilt trickled over me, and my irritation evaporated like a puff of steam. Had I not promised my services to Princess Alexandra only hours ago? And here I was, grumbling about the next task set before me simply because it was not to my liking.

  Maybe I wasn’t the right sort of person for this assignment. Maybe I didn’t quite fit in Miss Adler’s society. After all, I couldn’t even look at a dead body without turning into a jellied mass of paralysis.

  I sat up straight and glared down at the letter as if it were Miss Holmes herself. No. I was just as able as she. Probably more so.

  I wasn’t going to let that gawky brain-beak show me up.

  As I dashed off a quick response to Miss Holmes, I couldn’t help but smile. I might prefer to be doing something other than having Pepper attend to my hair and then making conversation with a roomful of people I hardly cared to know, but Mina Holmes was bound to be even less enthusiastic about the idea. From our conversation last night, it was obvious she didn’t know anyone in Society, nor did she seem comfortable with the idea of interacting within it.

  My smile turned into a smirk. At least I had something suitable to wear.

  When Miss Holmes climbed into my carriage at eight o’clock, I goggled at her, and my snide thoughts about the contents of her closet evaporated. Her gown was one of the most gorgeous pieces of up-to-the-date, cognoggin-influenced fashion I’d ever seen.