The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  He dove into the water, a yapping puppy with long ears on his heels. I recognized Inspector Grayling by his height and curling gingery hair. Good. He could be the one to pull Mina out of the water.

  That way he’d get her lecture, telling him everything he’d done wrong.

  I watched as the thief paddled toward the opposite shore, where I waited in the shadows. When he slogged onto the grass some distance from the bridge, I was waiting for him.

  He didn’t have a chance. In a trice, I relieved him of the knife he still gripped, as well as the three drawstring purses and two wallets tucked into his pockets. Then I tossed him back into the river.

  Valuables recovered. Thief submerged. And I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Mina and Grayling had been joined by others on the opposite shore and I hurried across the bridge. Skirting the back of the crowd, I placed the stolen items where they’d be found. I didn’t want to rejoin our group, but I needed to make certain Mina wasn’t injured. Since she was lecturing Grayling, I decided it was safe for me to leave.

  I turned to go and glimpsed a familiar figure in the crowd. Miss Adler?

  Craning my neck, standing as tall as I could, I peered through the throng. But the person I’d noticed was gone, or else I’d been mistaken. If it had been our mentor, wouldn’t she have been assisting Mina?

  Then I slid into the shadows to search for Pix and, hopefully, vampires. But by the time dawn broke, I’d found neither Pix nor an UnDead. I had, however, become very familiar with New Vauxhall Gardens. Frustrated, I returned home—for once entering through the front door.

  Florence called sleepily from her room near the top of the stairs. “Evaline?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m exhausted, but it was very fun. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

  My sister-in-law had been thrilled about my social engagement with several young people tonight, so she had no complaints about the lateness of my return. As far as she knew, I’d been chaperoned with a large number of friends.

  Then I heard her rustling in bed, and the soft, deep murmur of my brother. An unexpected wave of comfort washed over me, taking me by surprise. This was home. Where I lived with two people who loved me and who loved each other. They couldn’t understand my life, but they still loved me.

  Which was more than I could say for Mina Holmes.

  The unusually strong, comfortable feeling of being loved and cherished remained with me as I climbed the stairs to my room. But as I drifted off to sleep, a different thought lodged in my mind: the memory of the dark, angry eyes of an irritated violinist.

  When I woke the next morning, it was well before noon—somewhat unusual for me. But I had plans today, for I was going to Smithfield and Pristin Canal to poke around a bit and check out Herrell Ashton’s story about his boxing club.

  Mina Holmes wasn’t the only one who could investigate.

  I didn’t send word to my so-called partner about my conversation with Cousin Herrell and Dr. Norton. Surely Mina was recovering from her dunking in the river. She’d probably stay in bed all day. And if I found out anything more about Robby Ashton’s disappearance in Smithfield, I could tell her everything at once.

  Pristin Canal was just as Mr. Ashton described it: deep, with its railings in disrepair, and smooth, sheer sides that wouldn’t allow anyone to climb out once in the water. It was sludgy and smelled of rotting fish and gad knew what else. If you fell—or were pushed—you’d best be an excellent swimmer who didn’t have a weak stomach.

  I grimaced. I wasn’t certain whether to hope Robby had drowned and was now at peace, or whether he had been somewhere else unpleasant or dangerous for the last month.

  In Smithfield, where the meat markets and cattle trading took place, the second street-level buildings hung so far over the roads it was like walking through a tunnel. Little sunlight made it to the ground, and even someone as ungainly as Mina Holmes could jump from one side of the second level street-walk to the other.

  Not far from the canal, a small, weatherbeaten sign on the brick wall of a narrow mews caught my attention. nickel’s fighting-club.

  Could this be the boxing house Mr. Ashton frequented?

  Intrigued, I turned down the passage. Just as I came to the small, black door that said nickel’s, I glanced toward the other end of the alley. A pub faced me and even from where I was, I could read the sign.

  the pickled nurse.

  That was the place Pix said two drunks had seen a vampire. Robby Ashton had disappeared in this vicinity. And during Willa’s séances, I’d received messages about the UnDead.

  There are no coincidences. Mina Holmes’s strident voice rose in my mind.

  Intrigued, I pushed open the door to Nickel’s. Of course I didn’t have a plan. I was going to wander in and see what happened. Did I think someone was going to come right out and tell me what I wanted to know? Of course not. But I’d done a good job getting information from Mr. Ashton last night.

  Like most proper women, I’d never been in a fighting-club and I wasn’t certain what to expect. The establishment smelled of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke. The place was a large room with low ceilings, two measly windows, and a planked floor covered with dirt. An older model of Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor leaned against one wall, tarnished and with one arm dangling. I had one of the newer devices at home. Florence thought it was to help me learn the waltz, but I used it for training to fight vampires.

  My entrance didn’t seem to draw any notice. Other than one sleek, muscular man in the corner, pummeling a bag hanging from the ceiling, the other half-dozen occupants were arranged around a boxing ring, watching a sparring match. The sound of fists thudding against flesh, laced with grunts and groans, was raw and primitive.

  I edged closer, my attention drawn to the two fighters. Both had fabric wrapped around their hands and wore only trousers. Even their feet were bare. I found the sight of a man’s unclothed torso both fascinating and unsettling.

  At the Ankh’s opium den, I’d seen bare arms and shoulders and a hint of chest—but this was even more risqué. The boxers were riddled with bruises, cuts, and blood mingling with sweat. Men, I discovered, had muscles that rippled—even in their backs. And the sight of broad, uncovered shoulders, gleaming with perspiration, made my face unusually warm.

  Blood and spittle flew as the duo circled and sparred, thrusting with strong jabs and ramming shoulders, hips, and even heads into their opponents. I could probably learn something from them—

  “Who the blazes are ye?”

  I turned to face a bewhiskered man, who was decently clothed in a shirt and vest. But he looked as if he were staring at some sort of odd, foreign creature—that odd, foreign creature being me, a female.

  “I’m . . . er . . .” Blast! This was what happened when one didn’t have a plan. “I . . . uhm . . . Mr. Herrell Ashton—”

  “Ashton? That bleedin’ rat! Do you say you know him?”

  Unexpected, to say the least. I gathered my thoughts quickly. “I don’t know him well. Does he come here often, then?”

  “Too oft for my taste. The man’s up to ’is knickers—sorry, miss—in debt. He owes half the house for his wagers. Oy! Bernie! This gel here knows Ashton!”

  His call had some of the spectators turning from the match. None of them looked pleased.

  “You tell Ashton he best not show his face round here until he’s got cash,” one of them ordered me, then turned back to the fight.

  “Did you hear about a boy disappearing from this area? Three weeks ago? It was Mr. Ashton’s cousin, Robby,” I asked the bewhiskered man, who seemed a little calmer now.

  “Aye. There’s talk he fell into the canal, but no one knows for cert. He used to come in sometimes with Ashton. The Yard come around asking questions ’bout him.”

  “Did you see him that night? Mr. Ashton said the boy followed him without him knowing. And then he sent Robby home, but he never arrived.”

  Mr. Whiskers shook his head
. “Ashton was ’ere for a while. Then ’is little cousin showed up, an’ ’e left. I ain’t seen ’im since—an’ that’s what I tole the coppers. Cove knows better ’an to come in here without the glint he owes. But mark m’words, he best come up with it soon.”

  “Do you know where he went after he left? Or if there was another place he tended to frequent while he was in this neighborhood?”

  “’Oo knows. All I know’s I ain’t seen ’im since that night.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I mulled this over as I turned to go. Surely if Mina Holmes were here, she’d have a slew of deductions and theories. I wondered what Cousin Herrell’s other, more adult pursuits were—the ones he didn’t want Robby to experience.

  I took two more steps toward the door, then turned back. “Have you heard any rumors about anyone seeing red-eyed men with long teeth around here?”

  Mr. Whiskers stopped. “Red eyes? Glowing-like, in the dark?”

  My heart beat faster. “Yes. Have you seen anyone like that?”

  “I ain’t seen nothing like that, but there’s been some ’as talked about it at the Nurse over yonder. But I can’t believe half of what them drunks say, all knockered up as they are. Though there could be sump’n to it, I spose, since more’n one of ’em claims it.”

  That was enough for me. I thanked Mr. Whiskers and left, heading to the Pickled Nurse.

  Though it was just past noon, the alley was drassy as if it were twilight because of the overhangs above. And the pleasant London weather didn’t help: once again, it was cloudy. Fog seeped down the streets and walkways, giving the neighborhood a frosty, eerie atmosphere.

  It would be the perfect location for a vampire to lurk, even during the day . . . waiting for his or her prey, out of the sun and in the shadows.

  As if to emphasize these thoughts, a chill passed over the back of my neck and settled there. I turned quickly, scouring the people walking by, focusing on the ones who stayed near the buildings beneath the overhangs. Could one of them be a vampire?

  Or was it just a cool breeze?

  But the chill persisted as I continued to the Pickled Nurse. I scrutinized the passersby, wondering if any of them were vampires—but not quite knowing how to figure it out. I was still new at this.

  When I reached the pub, I pushed the doors open and strode up to the counter. It was early in the day, and this was a workingman’s neighborhood, so the saloon wasn’t crowded. A handful of men and one woman sat at various tables with tankards in front of them. The place was much quieter and cleaner than Fenmen’s End. There were even windows studding the front wall, which allowed in what little daylight there was.

  Behind the bar was a row of huge glass jars held in place by a cagelike mechanism. A small rail-like contraption ran along the front of the line. Each jar was filled with pickles and had a small chalkboard label on it with names like honey-ginger spiced, zook spears, spicy anise, curried clove, and sour dill.

  Settling on a stool at the counter, I watched as the bartender took a coin from one of the patrons and slid it into a tray. Then he turned a dial and pushed a button. With a soft clicking sound, a spindly device ticked along the cagework in front of the jars, stopping at the one labeled fancy hot.

  Two delicate mechanical hands popped open the top of the jar, and a third reached inside, withdrawing a long, dripping pickle. A small tray piled with butcher paper hummed along the row of jars, stopping so the pickle could be placed on the top sheet. Then the bartender wrapped it up in the paper and gave it to the patron.

  Then he turned to me. “What’s yer fancy, miss?”

  I didn’t suppose they had lemonade or tea, so I bravely ordered an ale. “Don’t fill it up too high,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t drink it.

  “Still the same price either way,” he said, putting the drink on the counter. “What flavor?”

  “Flavor?”

  “The pickle. It goes in the drink, stir it up, give it some flavor,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

  “Oh . . . uhm . . . I’ll have the plain Sweet.”

  While the mechanism retrieved my pickle, I plunged into my questions, keeping my voice low. “I’ve heard rumors some of your patrons have seen men with glowing red eyes.”

  The bartender paused from wiping pickle juice off the counter. “There’s been rumors. I ain’t seen nothing. But . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing would surprise me in this day and age. Glowing red eyes. Long white teeth. Spider pets. I’ve heard it all.”

  “Spider pets?”

  “Yep’m. That one I seen myself. Man and a woman come in here with a small cage, this big”—he indicated the size of a loaf of bread—“covered up with a cloth. She liked the Honey-Butters; had about three of ’em in her ale at one time. That’s extra, ye know,” he warned. “More’n one pickle’s extra.”

  “What about the cage?”

  “Yeah. Guy ’ad an accent, too. He took off the cloth and showed me a peek. Inside was the biggest, hairiest spider I ever seen. Big as my hand.” He shuddered. “Guy really liked spiders, too; both of ’em did. And then they come back some more times since. I don’ like to wait on ’em, so I lets Luke do it. Coupla lunatics if ye ask me, takin’ up w’ caged spiders. Bloodsucking, crawly creatures. Ugh.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “What makes you think they both liked spiders so much?”

  “They had—both ’em did—a mark on the wrist. Right here.” He showed me the inside of his wrist. “Had a long-legged spider on it. Creepy and ugly. Wouldnt’a seen it if she hadn’t taken off her gloves ’cause of the pickle juice. You want another pickle?”

  I hardly heard him. Surely the man and woman were members of La société. “Did you see where they went?”

  The bartender shrugged again and gestured to the front windows. “I can’t see much. But they went out and to the left, as I recall. Hard to forget them. He had a mark on his wrist, too. Looked like two small red punctures. Maybe he let that spider pet suck on himself.”

  Or maybe something else had been drinking his blood. Something UnDead.

  “Ain’t seen ’em for a while, and I’m glad to say it.” He shuddered again, then turned to serve another patron.

  Filled with excitement, I slid off the stool and, leaving a generous payment, hurried out of the pub. I knew it was unlikely I’d figure out where the spider couple had gone, but at least I could look around.

  I could hardly wait to talk to Mina.

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein a Legality Is Reviewed

  “Excellent investigative work, Miss Stoker.” My approval was sincere, for she had uncovered quite a bit of interesting information. “Most excellent. You may become my Watson after all.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  But I could tell she was pleased.

  It was the morning two days after the events at Vauxhall. At my request, Evaline had picked me up in her carriage after breakfast. The game was in full swing.

  “So what have we learned . . . That one of our suspects has large gambling debts, which strengthens his motive of wanting to maintain control of Willa’s finances—particularly if he was beginning to see the writing on the wall of the resolution of Mr. Treadwell’s courtship of his cousin. This information requires a closer look at Mr. Ashton, who, I confess, I hadn’t given as much thought to until now. I shall endeavor to do so today when we visit Miss Ashton.”

  “So that’s where we’re going. Nice of you to tell me.”

  “Do you not think we ought to hear her side of the story—about what happened when she climbed out onto the roof and attempted to catch her brother’s soul with a fishing pole? This latest development is quite concerning. She actually climbed onto the roof with a fishing pole. . . . Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the villain isn’t trying to drive her mad, but to go so far as to cause her death. We must tread carefully from here on out, Evaline. We must watch over Miss Ashton very closely.”

  “I agree.”

  “As for your ex
perience at the Pickled Nurse . . . It does seem to indicate, at the very least, the return of La société.”

  “And the vampires.”

  “Mm. Yes. I suppose one must accept that as well.” Since Evaline’s encounter with the vampire at the Oligary Building, I had reluctantly acknowledged the existence of the UnDead. But I wasn’t at all ready to believe in spirit-talking and messages from beyond. That was simply ludicrous.

  “Did you see Miss Adler?”

  “Miss Adler? Where?”

  “At New Vauxhall. I thought I saw her in the crowd of people after you were pulled out of the river. But if she didn’t speak to you, I must have been mistaken.”

  “I would have noticed her. And surely she would have made herself known to me.”

  Or perhaps she wouldn’t have. The lead ball that had settled in my belly since Vauxhall grew heavier. Perhaps Miss Adler had witnessed my debacle with the thief and agreed with the spectators. And Inspector Grayling, who’d called me bat-headed.

  After all, when Miss Adler pressed me and Miss Stoker into service for the Crown, our mentor never indicated she expected us to engage in fighting and running and drawing attention to ourselves. At least, in public. And perhaps the princess had heard of my lack of decorum and was displeased. I pushed the worry away.

  “I did, however, have the misfortune of encountering Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.” That had been a moment of sheer mortification as I stood there with my hair dripping wet over my shoulders, required to be polite and deferential to the Parliamentary leader and his wife . . . the latter whom I had very nearly accused of being the murderous Ankh.

  Not to mention that I was wearing the overlarge coat, complete with Metropolitan Police badge, that belonged to their distant relation. Fortunately, Lady Isabella hadn’t seemed to notice.

  “I’m not surprised. It seemed as if everyone in the upper crust of Society—and below—was at New Vauxhall Gardens last night.”