The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  It wasn’t until they’d gone back into the bushes and, presumably, back to wherever the inspector was stationed, that I realized I’d forgotten to obtain an update from Grayling regarding Mrs. Yingling’s murder. Where on earth had my brains gone?

  “We should attempt to find the rest of our party.” Mr. Treadwell offered his arm.

  As we strolled along, I brought my mind back to the matter at hand and contemplated a possible motive for Mr. Treadwell. He had the means and opportunity to be behind the nefarious scheme, but I could conceive no reason he would want to ruin Miss Ashton. Love was as good a motivation as anything—as I’d recently learned during the Affair with the Clockwork Scarab. But as she seemed to reciprocate his affections, I could fathom no reason he’d want to turn her mad. Every indication was that he truly cared for her.

  Where on earth had Miss Stoker gone off to? I needed to find out if she’d learned anything from Mr. Ashton.

  The scent of water was in the air, and I knew we were approaching the eponymously titled River Walk. Voices carried on the breeze, and I even discerned the distant calls of some wild creatures likely from the Animal Curiosities exhibit. An interesting duo of peacocks—one living, and one mechanized—strutted across the path. The gear-ridden bird’s tail was a magnificent display of glittering jewels: sapphires, emeralds, jet beads, and aquamarines set in a bronzed fan. Fortunately, the discordant violin had ceased to play and now I could hear the tinny sound of an organ grinder and, beyond, the rumble of some mechanized vehicles or machinery.

  To the northeast, I noticed the top of a massive cogwheel turning above the trees. It was lit with small lights and appeared to have gondolas hanging from it, large enough to hold two or four persons. Oligary’s Observation Cogwheel, I presumed. What a view one would have, sitting in a gondola at the top. Sitting beside a handsome young man . . .

  Suddenly, there was a loud pop-pop-popping. A spray of red, blue, and yellow lights burst into the dark sky, coloring everything below. Mr. Treadwell and I, along with every other person on the pathway, stopped to observe the fireworks exploding above.

  I watched in delight as a new round of dancing lights blazed above. Although everyone in the crowd was gazing up as well, I doubted they were calculating the trajectory of the discharged explosives, counting the seconds between launch and the resounding flare, and measuring how the different colors of illumination lasted for different lengths of time before they faded.

  Uncle Sherlock had given Dr. Watson and me a lecture on his experimentation with explosives of this nature. I was attempting to confirm his theories regarding the angle of trajectory versus the span of the explosion, as well as using the smell that lingered in the air to identify the particular accelerant employed. If I had the opportunity to return in the daytime, I’d also examine the area for the detritus that would be left behind from the explosives.

  Then someone screamed.

  Perhaps everyone else thought it was part of the reaction of the crowd, or perhaps the sound was drowned out by the pop-pop-popping . . . but I heard it and immediately determined from whither it was coming.

  No one else seemed to notice, but I didn’t care.

  I started toward the sound, and then heard another scream, followed by more urgent voices. Gathering up my long overskirt, I ran as fast as I could down a side path toward the noise. I might not be an inhumanly strong vampire hunter, but I wasn’t about to stand around and do nothing if someone was in distress.

  “Thief! Stop, thief!” someone shouted.

  I tripped over a rock but caught my balance and kept going despite the strain of my lungs fighting against the tight lacing of my corset. My petticoats and skirts whipped around my legs, and I could feel the unfamiliar sensation of my bustle jouncing over my posterior.

  A figure burst out of the darkness, nearly bowling me over. He had something in his hand like a reticule or pocketbook. I stuck out my foot in his path.

  The boy tripped, but kept going, and I started after him. “Stop! Thief!”

  Unfortunately, I doubt anyone could have heard me. I was using what little breath I could drag in to propel me after the pickpocket. The stones were uneven beneath my speedy feet and the items I’d secreted beneath my bustle and in the hidden pockets of my skirt—a Steam-Stream gun, an Ocular-Magnifyer, and even a wooden stake in case Evaline forgot hers—bounced alarmingly.

  I don’t know how I managed to stay with the thief, but I kept him in sight as he followed the narrow footpath along the River Walk. Providence offered me a hand by providing a stick or stone along the way, and the lanky, fleet-footed pickpocket tripped, nearly tumbling into the river. But he careened upright after, giving me a few precious moments to catch up to him.

  I threw myself at his person as he stumbled back to his feet. Grappling with his coat, I held on, trying to wrestle him to the ground. This was a losing proposition, for though he was probably only fourteen or fifteen, he was tall and strong, nor was he hampered by corsets and skirts. He flung me aside and I staggered, almost taking a header into the bushes . . . but still I held on to his lapels.

  “Help!” I shouted. My cry came out as more of a croaking gasp. Where on earth were all of the other hundreds of people I’d seen earlier in the Gardens? The fireworks continued to explode above, the green and blue lights flickering over the sharp-faced pickpocket. “Help!” My lungs heaved weakly inside my corset. Blasted thing.

  We struggled, doing an awkward dance along the path, wrestling our way up a small footbridge. My assailant twisted suddenly, brandishing something long and silver.

  “Let go, ye blasted bitch!” The knife flashed, then surged down toward me.

  I choked out a scream as pain blazed along my arm. But somehow I continued to hold on, spinning us about and ducking at the same time. Then all at once, we were falling, tumbling over the side of the low bridge.

  The water was a cold, hard shock and necessitated that I release the culprit. The river enveloped me, dark and heavy.

  I was out of breath, restricted by the lacings around my torso, hampered by layers of skirt and petticoats. My gown became heavy and sodden, and I floundered in the depths, trying to reach the surface. Then my face broke into the fresh night air. I gasped, trying to gulp in more air before I sank again.

  My arms moved frantically, my legs slogging amid tangled skirts. I knew how to swim, but I was weighted down . . . sinking into the cold darkness.

  Suddenly, something grabbed me. I kicked out, struggling, grasping . . . but was too weak and tangled to have much effect. My lungs burned from holding my breath. When fresh air once again spilled over my face, I coughed and dragged oxygen into my restricted lungs. Strong hands pulled me out of the water. My vision was blurred, and I gasped, desperate to breathe, but my torso was banded too tightly.

  I sagged weakly to the ground, the energy drained from my limbs. Blackness closed over me. Everything was tight, growing tighter, stiffer, closer. . . .

  I felt a yank, a violent jolting at the front of my bodice. Jolt, jolt, jolt. My body jerked with each movement.

  “Bloody . . . damned . . . corsets . . . ,” growled my rescuer.

  And then . . . ahh! Everything loosened. I dragged in my first deep breath in what seemed like hours—clean and cool and sweet.

  The face of my savior was partly illuminated by a gaslight, making him appear golden and shadowy all at once. Water dripped from his curling coppery hair as he glared down at me, panting for breath of his own.

  “What . . . the devil . . . did you think . . . you were . . . doing . . . Miss Holmes?” Grayling demanded.

  “I. . . .” I was still gasping for air. He was looking down at me as if he wanted to throw me back into the river. And yet his expression made me feel warm and fluttery. Or maybe it was just the new breaths of oxygen.

  “Chasing after a bloody . . . thief,” he continued. “Blasted foolish . . . thing to do.”

  “He was getting . . . away. I had to . . . stop him.”

&n
bsp; “He had a knife!”

  I could feel the blood seeping from my arm. “I didn’t know that. Someone had to—”

  “You almost drowned. Bat-headed female.”

  Grayling glared down at me, his breathing slower and deeper now. His mouth was tight and I could see his jaw shifting. Water plopped onto my cheeks and chest from his hair and clothing, yet it didn’t seem to matter. He was close to me, propped on the grass, leaning over. Warmth seeped through layers of wet clothing into my hip and arm. His white shirt clung to his torso and I could see the outline of his shoulders and arms. They were surprisingly muscular for such a tall, lanky person.

  He was looking at me strangely, and when my gaze was caught by his, I suddenly couldn’t breathe again. I thought for a minute he was going to . . . move closer. My mouth went dry and I almost stopped breathing again. Then I looked away, my heart pounding sharply in my chest.

  “I’ve been expecting a report from you,” I managed to say, frantically collecting my thoughts. My throat felt as if it needed to be cleared. “About the Yingling case.”

  “A report?” His voice was strangled and he sat upright. “From me? For you? Miss Holmes, you are the most—”

  His exclamation was aborted when a ball of fur blasted into the area, barking and yapping wildly. Long ears flopped on my face and claws scraped my arm as Angus leapt and bounded around us. His puppy weight settled on my belly, his tail slapping furiously against my jaw.

  “Angus,” Grayling said, in a much nicer tone than he employed with me but nevertheless filled with irritation. “Get off. Get off.”

  He dragged the excited canine away and I took the opportunity to sit up. As I did so, gravity pulled my corset away. I reacted with an embarrassing squeak and clapped a hand back to my chest, pulling the two halves of the ruined garment into proper position. Fortunately, Grayling seemed too occupied with Angus to notice. Thank fortune I was wearing a dark undergarment beneath my sheer bodice, or—gad.

  I stopped the rest of that thought. I couldn’t even consider what might have happened otherwise, what Grayling might have seen beneath my suddenly loosened corset and the transparent fabric of my shirt. It was bad enough that he’d practically undressed me.

  “You ruined my new corset.” I staggered to my feet, still holding the sagging undergarment in place. Droplets of water flung everywhere. Angus leapt up at me, eager for attention, and I patted him on the head. It wasn’t his fault his master was an expert at annoying me.

  “My apologies,” Grayling said stiffly, also rising as excited voices approached. “Next time, I’ll let you gasp for air like a beached fish and hope you don’t drown in the meanwhile.”

  Before I could make some sort of smart retort, he flung something dark and heavy—and dry—over my shoulders. I took his coat while holding my corset in place and managed to pull it over my sodden clothing, wincing only slightly at the pain in my arm.

  “Mina! What happened?”

  Huddling under Grayling’s coat I turned to see Dylan rushing down the path. He was accompanied by the rest of our party . . . and a small crowd of others. But Evaline was missing, drat it.

  “I was chasing a thief. We struggled, and I fell into the river.”

  “And got a bit of a slice in the process.” Grayling was still dripping and Angus was still bounding around—although now he had a variety of newcomers upon which to employ his paws.

  “Chasing a thief? Do you mean you were running after him?” a male voice said in shock.

  “You should have called for help,” agreed another. “There were plenty of people around.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything so . . . improper,” a female whispered loudly enough to be certain I heard. “Chasing a thief. Running alone down a dark path. Young ladies have lost all sense of decorum in this day!”

  “Proper young women don’t run. They wait for assistance. Call for help.”

  “And they certainly don’t fight. What was she thinking?”

  Murmurs of agreement rose and I felt my temper rising as well. I didn’t even look at Grayling, for hadn’t he said the same dratted thing? Calling me a bat-headed female?

  In my entire life, no one had dared insult my intelligence. My long nose, my graceless limbs, even my tone of voice and pedantic lectures . . . but never my intelligence.

  “Come on, Mina,” Dylan said, putting an arm around me. “Let’s get you home.”

  I spared a brief thought for Miss Stoker’s whereabouts and a farewell pat on the head for Angus—but not even a backward glance for the man whose coat I was wearing.

  Inspector Grayling could drip all the way home in his sodden clothing for all I cared.

  Miss Holmes

  A Milestone for Miss Holmes

  Dylan helped me into the cab and I settled onto its seat. Fortunately, it was a midsummer’s night and I wasn’t cold as much as bedraggled and out of sorts. Yet I shuddered at the unattractive picture I must have made, even in the shadows.

  I wasn’t attractive on a good day, with my long, slender Holmesian nose and my too-long limbs and angular figure. But now I knew I must have looked hideous. My fetching little hat was gone and my corset was ruined. My injured arm was bound up, but there were bloodstains on my glove. I didn’t even want to imagine the state of my hair.

  “Are you all right? Are you cold?”

  “No,” I said, wishing I was. Perhaps then I could move closer to him, and . . . no, of course not. What on earth was I thinking? Here I was, half-clothed—thanks to that annoying Grayling. . . .

  “You could have drowned. Seriously. You could have drowned.”

  “I know how to swim.” Even to my own ears my defense sounded weak.

  He shook his head, his eyes fastened on me from across the carriage. “You chased that thief without even thinking about the danger to yourself. And you must have really held on to him. . . . Like a barnacle or something.” He gave an admiring laugh. “You’re an awesome piece of work, Mina.”

  “Is that good?” I thanked Providence it was night and he couldn’t see the color of my burning cheeks.

  “Definitely. It means you’re so cool and so different and unique and awesome . . . and yet challenging at the same time. It’s a good thing.”

  “Right,” was all I could manage. “Thank you.”

  “I know I’ve told you this before, but in my time, women aren’t treated the same way they are now—told to sit and do nothing. Just get married and have kids. It’s not like that.” His eyes gleamed in the low light. “Don’t listen to what those jerks were saying back there. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Some men wouldn’t even have chased after that thief. You were really brave.”

  I was aware of an unfamiliar emotion bubbling up inside me. Warm and fluttery, it stole my breath. “Thank you.”

  I had no experience with this sort of dialogue—with anyone, and certainly not with a young man. My father hardly said two words to me. My uncle, on the other hand, constantly lectured and demanded I do more and better. My mother—There had been times of soft words, a gentle touch. Even encouragement.

  Fighting off the weakness of grief—I would never allow myself to become like Willa Ashton, desperately holding on to someone I’d lost—I drew in a long, shaky breath and tried to think of a way to change the subject. I needed to ask if he had seen Evaline—for I had not before being bustled off to the carriage under the disapproving eyes of the crowd.

  Before I could speak, Dylan moved to sit on my side of the carriage. I wasn’t crowded when he settled next to me, likely sitting on my sodden skirts, his arm brushing warm against mine. Before I could react and explain how improper this was, he took my hand.

  “I suppose this is totally improper,” he said, reading my mind. “Me sitting so close to you. Us alone in the carriage.”

  I swallowed. I was no longer the least bit chilled. “It is.”

  He squeezed my hand tighter, and I became aware of how large his fingers were. How warm and sturd
y. His thumb began to move over the top of my gloved one, and I could feel the gentle caress through the bloodstained, damp leather.

  “You know . . .” Dylan’s voice sounded odd, and his fingers twitched a little. “If we were in my time, I’d want to date you.”

  “Date me? Do you mean, determine how old I am? I don’t mind telling you that; you don’t have to guess. I’m seventeen, and—”

  I stopped because he was chuckling, his eyes narrowed with humor, his fingers loosening. “Ah, Mina. Thank you. I needed something to break the ice.”

  I was grateful for the change of mood as well, and I smiled at him. The next thing I knew, he moved closer to me. His hand slid around the back of my head, his fingers into my soggy, sagging hair.

  And he kissed me.

  Miss Stoker

  Evaline Investigates

  I slipped away from Mr. Ashton at the earliest opportunity, determined to track down the disreputable Pix, who kept turning up like a bad coin. But though I searched for over an hour, I couldn’t find him.

  As I wandered down the path from the Oligary’s Observation Cogwheel, a fireworks display exploded above. Moments later amid the popping sounds, I heard shouts of “Stop, thief!”

  Ah. I’d found Pix.

  I smiled grimly and started over toward the cries, aware that the night had cooled a little. As I came around the corner of a deserted pathway, I saw two people struggling on a small bridge over the river.

  Blooming fish! Was that Mina Holmes?

  She looked ridiculous, clutching the hem of the thief’s coat, her tall, slender body jerking and swaying as he attempted to shake her free while running away. Then a glinting blade slashed down toward her arm.

  Oh no, Mina!

  I was too far away to help. Pix, you fool! What was he thinking?

  I ran faster.

  Then the two battling figures fell off the bridge.

  By the time they hit the water, I was at the shore. Two heads emerged and I identified Mina’s. With a wave of relief, I realized her assailant wasn’t Pix after all. I was just about to jump in to drag her out when another man ran from the shadows, stripping off his coat.