The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  I felt a little like Uncle Sherlock must have when he realized Irene Adler had been one step ahead of him. “Inspector Grayling,” I said, thinking of the variety of accoutrements I borrowed from the Lyceum Theatre, “you might feel it necessary to visit Witcherell’s tonight, but I can assure you, Mina Holmes will not be sighted on the premises.”

  Grayling looked at me long and hard before giving a brief nod. Nevertheless, his expression was filled with suspicion as he offered me his arm for our return to my residence.

  When I arrived, I bid him farewell and went inside to find that a message had been delivered in my absence.

  Dylan had found what he believed was Sekhmet’s diadem.

  Now all we had to do was lure the Ankh to the museum so we could capture her.

  Smiling to myself, I closed the door to my bedchamber and began the process of eliminating any resemblance to Miss Mina Holmes.

  Miss Stoker

  Miss Stoker Is Stymied

  That evening, I approached Witcherell’s Pawnshop on foot. Thanks to the resources Miss Holmes and I had plundered from the Lyceum’s costume trunks, no one would recognize me.

  Pepper had braided my hair tightly against my head and pinned a bonnet over it. I chose the hat because it was abominably ugly. With five long pheasant feathers sprouting from the back of the crown and miniature brown-speckled blue bird’s eggs decorating it, I knew no one would believe it was fashionable Evaline Stoker under that brim. We pinned false red-gold curls underneath. Miss Holmes had suggested I wear clear-glass spectacles, which she claimed would help to disguise the shape of my eyes. I also wore flat shoes to make me appear shorter.

  “Merely changing the color of your hair and style of dress isn’t enough to hide your true identity,” she lectured. “And for heaven’s sake, keep your gloves on at all times. One’s hands are an excellent means of identification, and most people don’t think to disguise them.”

  Thinking it might be fun to don our disguises together, I suggested we get dressed at Grantworth House. But Miss Holmes gave me a disapproving look. “We can’t arrive together, even if we are in disguise. I will be at Witcherell’s at nine o’clock.”

  I’d seen many disreputable storefronts and buildings, but Witcherell’s was the dirtiest place I’d ever seen. Located at ground level several blocks from Haymarket, it was on the same street as a dingy pub, a sad-looking bakery, a second pawnshop, and an empty storefront. Just the sort of places a pickpocket or thief would frequent.

  The street and walkway were busy. Yet when I glanced up and down the way, there was no sign of Mina Holmes—even in disguise. So I walked into the pawnshop.

  The only person inside was the proprietor, a skinny man with protruding eyes and a bald head. His nose was a large triangular blade that made even Miss Holmes’s look dainty. He looked at me as I came in. Was I to ask about the Sekhmet Society meeting? Unlike when we attended the Roses Ball, this time Miss Holmes hadn’t given me any indication of how she expected to proceed.

  And I hadn’t thought to ask. Or to plan ahead.

  Chafing with impatience, I looked around for inspiration. How on earth did this place stay in business? Every one of its offerings seemed to fall under one of three categories: filthy, broken, or filthy and broken.

  A little tinkle of bells drew my attention from behind, and I turned to see a young woman walk through the door. Finally. A young woman would never be in a place like this unless she was planning to attend the Society of Sekhmet meeting.

  She glanced around hesitantly, then edged her way toward the counter where the proprietor sat watching both of us like a large, silent toad.

  I would have assumed the newcomer was my partner, but it wasn’t. Miss Holmes’s nose would have given her away immediately. This young woman’s nose, although by no means delicate, was shaped differently. Her cheeks and jaw were round and pudgy, and her skin was an unbecoming ruddy color. Her dark hair looked as if it were about to tumble free of its haphazard pins. She obviously didn’t have a lady’s maid to help her dress, although her clothing seemed well made.

  However shyly she moved, this young woman appeared to have a better notion of what to do than I. She walked with small steps up to the counter.

  “Oh,” she said, pausing to poke her fingers around inside a shallow bowl. There was a soft rattling sound, as if the small objects were being stirred up. Her voice was loud and a little squeaky. “These beetles are just utterly too, too!”

  Beetles? I wasted no time edging my way toward the counter.

  “If ye be likin’ dem, missy, ye mun fin’ more o’ dem back ’roun’ ’ere,” said the proprietor. He flipped up a section of the counter and gestured the young woman through.

  Despite my impatience, I waited until she disappeared into the back room. Then I approached and looked in the bowl. It was filled with Egyptian scarabs.

  “I like these beetles,” I said. “May I look at the others in the back?”

  The proprietor looked at me balefully. “I ain’t got no more dem beet-ulls,” he said, and picked up a rag that might once have been white. “Dis ’ere’s wot I got.” He began to polish a metal cup, ignoring me.

  What had I done wrong? Was I supposed to speak some sort of password?

  Surely no one chose a password as ridiculous as “utterly too, too” . . . did they?

  I stewed about the situation for a moment, wandering the shop. All the while, I watched the skinny toad out of the corner of my eye. Then I came back to the bowl and dragged my fingers through it again, disturbing the disk-like scarabs. “What cunning little things,” I said, trying not to sound as ridiculous as I felt. “They’re simply, utterly too, too!”

  “If y’ain’t gerrna buy nuthin’ or sell nuthin’, then ye can stop wastin’ m’time,” the shopkeeper snapped, setting the metal cup down with a loud clang.

  “I’m looking for more scarabs like those,” I said. “You sent that other girl to look at them. Why won’t you let me through?”

  He remained silent.

  What in the blooming fish was wrong with me? I couldn’t even get past the owner of a pawnshop. And though I waited, hoping Miss Holmes or some other Sekhmet Society member would arrive, the shop remained empty of anyone but me and the beady-eyed proprietor.

  At last I had no choice but to leave. The door slammed behind me as if to punctuate my displeasure. It was nearly half past nine. If I didn’t find a way into the back room, Mina Holmes was liable to get herself killed. Aside from that, she’d never let me forget it if she gained access and I didn’t. She must have made her way past the obnoxious gatekeeper prior to my arrival. I could only imagine what she was doing in the midst of the Society of Sekhmet.

  I should have insisted we meet up ahead of time. This was no place for someone like her to be on her own. For one thing, she’d probably trip and draw the Ankh’s attention to her straightaway.

  But there was more than one way to skin a cat. And a scrawny little toad wasn’t going to keep me from my mission.

  As I came out onto the narrow walkway in front of Witcherell’s, I peered up at the tall stretch of building. It rose several stories, appearing to merge into the dark sky. High above was a fly-bridge connecting this building to the one across the air-canal. A tiny golden light winked on either end, and there appeared to be a small landing on either side of the fly-bridge.

  There.

  I hurried across the throughway opposite Witcherell’s, and along the stationary walkway until I found a lift. For once, I had a small pouch of coins with me. I slid two farthings onto the money tray and shoved it in place. The brass gate clicked, then opened, and I slipped through onto the lift. The night air was cool and crisp at this height, and the heavy layer of polluted fog dissipated as I rose in the open-air conveyor.

  I exited five levels above the pawnshop and at the same location as the fly-bridge. Up here, the buildings were so wide at the top that they were only a short distance across the air-canal. Looking overhead, I saw th
e air-anchors wafting gently in the breeze, outlined by a drassy moon and stars. Each anchor sported several tiny glowing lights on the balloon as well as on the line attaching it to the building as a warning for airships that might fly through.

  I heard a distant clock strike half past nine. I had to move quickly or chance drawing attention to myself entering the meeting after it had already begun.

  The fly-bridge shimmied as I hurried across. On the other side, I located the pawnshop down several levels and to my right. Just above, I could see a small ledge that angled around the front of the building to the side—and, hopefully, to the rear. The perfect entrance.

  It was simple to descend to the ledge. I climbed down by using a shadowy flight of stairs and then lowering myself from one ledge to another. When I got to the ledge above the pawnshop door, I skirted along its narrow width until I found a dark window. Moments later, I’d pried the glass free and slipped inside. The unlit chamber was filled with trunks, crates, and covered furniture. It was so dusty my eyes watered, and I had to muffle a sneeze in my sleeve. I hoped the toad below didn’t hear.

  In the dark, I could make out the faint outline of a door. There were no sounds of voices or footsteps, so I pushed . . . but it wouldn’t open. Blast. It was locked.

  I hesitated. The lock wasn’t an issue; I could use the weight of my pistol to smash it. But the noise would be a problem. Fishing out a small burn-stick, I snapped it in half, and a soft green glow from the algae inside gave me a moment of illumination and the opportunity to look at the barrier more closely.

  But before I could attempt to pick the lock, someone screamed.

  I dug the pistol from my pocket. The scream had been feminine, and it came from above and toward the back of the building. It wasn’t repeated.

  No longer caring about noise, I slammed the heavy weight of metal down onto the doorknob. It shifted as the wood enclosing it cracked, and I drove the pistol butt down once more with a powerful blow. The knob snapped off and tumbled to the floor with a thud, but I was already pulling at the door.

  I found myself in a corridor just as dark and dusty as the chamber I’d left. Despite the urgency, I paused to listen and sense where to go. Chafing at the delay, I drew in a deep breath, feeling, straining my ears. Waiting. Finally, I heard another, softer but no less desperate shriek.

  I ran.

  The voices drew me—sharp ones, and a high-pitched desperate one, along with some other spine-chilling cry I couldn’t identify. I followed the sounds: down the corridor, up dark flights of stairs, and through a hallway, and so on. I went as silently as possible while running pell-mell, my pistol in hand.

  At last I came to a long, shadowy hallway that ended at a double set of doors. They were closed, but golden light spilled from beneath and around the edges. I stopped and, putting my ear to the door, I heard movement from the other side. The heavy, cloying smell of something sweet wafted from the cracks. Opium. Voices came from the other side, but they were soft and didn’t sound desperate or troubled. Had the scream come from here or not?

  I wanted to burst through the doors and take whoever was on the other side by surprise. A rush of excitement had my fingers closing over the knob. But a prim voice in my head suggested that I might not want to be so capricious. It was as if Mina Holmes had somehow invaded my conscience. Capricious. That was definitely a word she’d use.

  I tried the doorknob, grasping it carefully to muffle any rattle, and turned it slowly. It wasn’t locked, and the door loosened.

  Now all I had to do was gently pull it open and peek inside. I had just begun to ease the door open when a hand landed on my shoulder.

  Miss Stoker

  By the Fog of an Opium Stew

  “It would have behooved you to be more expedient and punctual in your arrival.”

  My fingers still on the knob, I spun around, taking care not to jolt the door open. It was the shy, ruddy-faced girl from the pawnshop who’d charmed the toadly proprietor into letting her into the back room.

  “Who the blooming fish are you?” I demanded. Then I looked her in the eye. “Miss Holmes?”

  “Who else would it be?” Satisfaction flickered in her expression, then she said, “You weren’t going to simply walk in there, were you?”

  “No,” I lied. And eased my fingers away from the knob.

  Her eyes narrowed as she followed the movement of my hand. “Right.”

  I sniffed. “You smell like opium.”

  “Brilliant observation, Miss Stoker. It resembles an opium den in there. I find it quite interesting, for, as you might recall, Miss Hodgeworth’s hair smelled of opium the night we found her. I suspect we are going to learn the answers to many questions within.” She gestured to the double doors, then made another sharp movement. Apparently I was to follow her. “This way. There’s a side entrance that’s not as visible.”

  Blast. I’d been in too much of a hurry to notice the heavy black curtains that hung along the corridor, shrouding a side door. “Have you been inside? What are they doing? I heard someone scream.”

  She led me through the door and into a small alcove. The opium smell was even stronger here. A gaslamp lit the area, and I realized it was a narrow passageway that ran parallel to the room behind the double doors. It was barely wide enough for us to pass through in our voluminous skirts.

  “Yes, of course I’ve been in there.” It was odd to hear Miss Holmes’s precise tones coming from this young woman. I looked closely and saw the outline of a false nose and the layers of makeup. “I arrived punctually and gained entrance on time. I was only inside the meeting chamber for a short while, and then I came to search for you. I do hope you weren’t wasting your time shopping in that filthy store.”

  “I was examining the exterior of the building,” I told her through gritted teeth. “One of us should know whether there is another entrance if we need a quick escape.”

  She nodded in agreement. “A commendable plan.”

  “How did you know the password to get in? And why didn’t you take me with you? The shopkeeper wouldn’t let me pass.”

  “Password? I employed no password. I suspect,” Miss Holmes said archly, “you were denied entrance because you clearly had no idea what you were doing there. I saw the scarabs and made an enthusiastic comment, which identified me as a member of the society. Had you done the same, I’m certain you would have experienced the same positive—”

  “Someone screamed,” I interrupted her lecture.

  “Yes. A female individual had the misfortune of spying a mouse,” she said. “It ran over her feet, and then someone else’s. Hence the second scream. It was quite chaotic for a moment.”

  I rolled my eyes and then pointed to the wall which separated us and the double-doored room. “What’s happening in there?” For someone so fond of lecturing, Miss Holmes had been surprisingly distracted about this topic. “Have you seen the Ankh?”

  “No, I haven’t seen it. Her. But the Society of Sekhmet is gathered, and they’re . . . well, you must see it to believe it.” She stopped and gestured to a small door that led into the chamber. “No one will notice us entering here.”

  She cracked it open, and light filtered into the passage, along with a gust of sweet opium smoke. I peered around the edge and confirmed that we were entering from the side of the chamber, well placed in the shadows. Lights glowed, but there were none near the door, and it was simple to slip in unnoticed.

  My jaw dropped at the sight. This was nothing like the previous Society of Sekhmet meeting we’d encountered.

  Lamps, one in each corner, gave off small circles of light. The thick cloud of smoke was heaviest near the ceiling but it made the entire chamber seem muted and foggy. Silky fabric in crimson, garnet, topaz, and rust rippled on the walls. Large cushions and other soft, round furnishings littered the floor. Shallow bowls sat on low tables in front of the seats. They each held glowing coals . . . no, burning opium crystals. The smoldering drug gave off a low light and the narco
tic smoke. Mellow music from an unfamiliar string instrument resonated, making the room feel even more exotic.

  The scene reminded me of a picture of the thieves’ den I’d seen in The Arabian Nights. So where was the massive chest of jewels and gold spilling onto the floor?

  A dozen young women were seated or half reclined on the cushions. They were arranged in lounging, unladylike poses. Florence would have fainted at such an improper display: loose hair falling over their shoulders, missing gloves, and stockinged feet. But it was the bare ankles exposed by their bunched up skirts that was the worst offense.

  However, the most shocking sight of all was the young men in attendance. There were several who seemed to be serving the young ladies—offering them goblets, plates filled with food, and even long-stemmed pipes.

  They were shirtless.

  I gaped for a moment, counting a total of seven men wearing nothing but breeches and sleeveless, open vests. I’d never seen a male without a shirt, and I could not tear my eyes away from the sight. They looked so very different than we women do, with their broad, square shoulders and bulging arms. And the muscular ripples on their torsos.

  Was the room tilting, or was it the effects of the opium? My brain went soft. I felt warm and tingly everywhere, and my knees weakened. If I sank onto the cushions, would one of those young gentlemen come over and serve me? The thought made my insides flutter.

  Someone pinched me on the arm, then jammed something sharp and pungent beneath my nose. It smelled bitter and unpleasant, but it cleared the fogginess away immediately.