The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  “Never better! Honest.” He lifted a hand to brush his long blond hair from his eyes, and I noticed how thin his wrist seemed to be. Even the skin there was pasty and gray. There was blood on the inside of his sleeve, dots here and there all along the white cotton.

  “What have you been doing? I’m sorry I haven’t been here to see how you’re faring.” If it wouldn’t have been so improper, I would have grabbed his arm and pulled back the sleeve.

  “Oh, I’ve been busy. I just came back here to get some of my things. Everything is just fine, Mina. Don’t you worry! Things are going really well.”

  Though enthusiastic, his voice sounded thick and slow, and I was growing even more worried. This was not the Dylan I knew. There was something wrong, something that made him different.

  The office door burst open and Evaline swept in. “Do I have some news for you, Mina!”

  “Do you indeed?” I intended to continue my conversation with Dylan, but he’d gathered up his things and, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, hurried from the chamber before I could say another word.

  “Later!” he called just as the door closed behind him.

  I stared after him, torn between demanding more answers that he didn’t seem willing to give, and knowing that Willa Ashton’s life was on the line. I had to choose the more pressing problem, and turned to Miss Stoker—who’d been chattering on anyway.

  “Gadreau? That’s the vampire leader’s name? He has a mortal mistress who has a pet spider and frequents the Pickled Nurse? Indeed. Excellent information, Evaline—at least, it would be if we were investigating the whereabouts of the UnDead instead of a disturbing plot to incarcerate—or kill—an innocent young woman.” I could hardly conceal my frustration. In fact, I don’t believe I concealed it at all. “Do you not even care to know what happened in Willa’s chamber?” “Of course I do.”

  Evaline flumped into a chair. “Do you not even care to know how many UnDead I killed last night?”

  “You needn’t sound so . . . delighted about it.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Of course you’re a Venator, but you needn’t be so gleeful about killing people. It’s rather unbecoming, and a little startling.”

  Miss Stoker gaped at me. “Blooming fish! They’re not people, Mina. They’re UnDead. Vampires. Half-demon, immortal beings. Horrible creatures. They drink blood from mortals in order to stay alive. They live off the human race. And they’d as soon as leave a person to bleed dry than kill them outright.”

  “I’m aware of all that. I have read The Venators.” I sniffed and looked away. “Still. It seems wrong to feel that way. They were people at one time.”

  “I suppose you don’t believe a murderer should hang, then, for his crimes?”

  I spread my hands, unsure how we’d even come to this conversation. “I believe in the judicial system, but I certainly don’t celebrate a hanging.”

  “I’m not celebrating—well, maybe I am a little. After all, it’s my legacy to protect the mortal world from these creatures. And they aren’t people, not any longer. There’s no hope for them to ever . . . get better, or return to their normal, mortal self. They’re like that forever. And every vampire I stake is one less horrible creature that takes from people we know, draining the blood from people we love.”

  I went cold. A horrible, frightening thought lodged in my brain. Draining the blood from people we love.

  The blood spots on the underside of Dylan’s shirtsleeve. The pasty, gray tinge of his skin. The circles under his eyes.

  No. Surely that wasn’t possible.

  Don’t be ridiculous. How would Dylan find a vampire anyway?

  I pushed the absurd thought from my mind. I could consider it and its implications later.

  Miss Stoker was still glaring at me, but I lifted my nose and proceeded to inform her about the events from the night before—everything from the glowing spiritglass to the green amorphous cloud.

  “How did Willa come to have the spiritglass anyway? Surely if we knew who gave it to her, we’d know who is behind all of this.”

  “I have asked her, and she simply doesn’t recall where it came from, nor does she remember anyone particularly drawing her attention to it. One day she noticed it sitting on the table in the front hallway. On her first visit to Willa’s house, Mrs. Yingling was the one who told her that it was an spiritglass to be used for communing with the spirits. If we only knew who’d set Mrs. Yingling up to do so . . .”

  “Miss Norton! She was the one who introduced Willa to Mrs. Yingling.”

  “I’m pleased you recall that bit of information, Evaline. Yes, that’s true. But it doesn’t mean Miss Norton was the one who engaged the medium for the nefarious scheme. That could just as easily have come about after the introduction was made and the relationship between Willa and Mrs. Yingling was established. And so, for now, we must be on our way to visit Olympia Babbage. Surely she can shed some light on the spiritglass, for her grandfather’s mark is on the bottom. If we can find out who commissioned it to light up via its timer-mechanism, I suspect we’ll find our perpetrator.”

  A short time later, we were trundling through London traffic in Miss Stoker’s carriage. It really was very convenient to have a partner with a vehicle at her disposal. It nearly made up for her impetuousness.

  “So you think Charles Babbage designed the spiritglass?” Miss Stoker seemed doubtful. “Hasn’t he been dead for . . . a while?”

  “Did you not observe such a marking on all of the notes and journal pages on display at the Oligary Building? Perhaps he left his—wait.” I went still, my brain whirring into action. Oh. “I’ve made a mistake. It’s—”

  “Wha—huh? You’ve made a mistake? You? Wait.” Evaline yanked open the window and stuck her head out, looked around, then drew herself back in. “The world isn’t ending. Big Ben’s Infinity Day Clock hasn’t stopped. You can’t have made a mistake. It’s simply not . . . possible. It’s a day just like any other day.”

  I was not amused by her antics. “Fine.” I lifted my chin. “Then I suppose I shan’t tell you what I just realized. And it’s not a huge, great mistake. Just a minor one.”

  “Oh, well, then. You can tell me if it’s only a minor one. I shan’t think quite so poorly of you since it’s only a minor mistake.”

  I pursed my lips and considered being obstinate and keeping my realization to myself. But that sort of circumspection is simply not in my nature. I have the compelling need to prove myself and educate others on the errors of their ways. So I succumbed.

  “I thought the mark was the initials C and B. But it’s a very detailed design, with many serifs and descenders and even some decorative colophons around it, and—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Blooming fish, Mina, get to the point. If it wasn’t a C and B, what was it?”

  “An O and a B.”

  “O and a B . . . ah! Olympia Babbage?”

  I smiled benignly. “Miss Stoker, there is indeed hope for you.”

  Just then, we rolled up in front of the Babbage residence. Instead of a grand estate, it was a single-family house about the size of mine. However, the lot on which it sat was large enough that it could have contained two other buildings of comparable size. A barn sat near the back of the property.

  Miss Stoker strode boldly toward the wrought iron railing that enclosed the yard. The gate swung open, its mechanism purring softly. The opening clicked closed behind us, and no sooner were we climbing the steps than we heard a distant chime inside the house.

  No one answered our knock, but I already knew what to do next. “The barn. It would be a perfect workroom. I wager we’ll find Miss Babbage inside.”

  We picked our way across the grass, which was clipped short but damp from the ever-present fog and drizzle. The building had several windows as well as random pipes that stuck out from the roof like fingers. As we approached I heard sounds coming from inside. Machinery—rumbling and growling, vibrating and rattling
.

  I peered through one of the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Babbage.

  While I didn’t see her, it was clear the stable had been turned into a vast, cluttered workspace—even more vast and more cluttered than my laboratory. There were many lights strung up throughout the area and I was shocked to note that most of them were the clear electric bulbs that had been illegal for the past five years.

  Half-built contraptions littered every surface—pieces of machinery and complicated inventions. Springs, coils, cogs, bolts, sheets of copper, aluminum, steel, wires, ropes, twine . . . and tools: metal snips, wrenches, pin-tuckers, and an ominous-looking metal pipe with a blue-orange flame dancing at one end. It sat in a metal holder attached to a large metal pole.

  And there was no sign of Miss Babbage.

  “Mina.”

  Miss Stoker’s tense voice had me hurrying from the window. “What—”

  I didn’t need to finish the question. The door was splintered as if someone had broken through it—into the barn, rather than out of it.

  “I can sense them,” Evaline said. “Even now. I don’t know how recently.”

  “Sense what?”

  “Vampires. UnDead. They were here. And I’d guess they got what they came for.”

  Olympia Babbage.

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Takes a Drive

  “Why would the UnDead want to take Olympia Babbage?” Miss Stoker said as we rode off in her carriage. “I have no blooming idea. But I’m certain they were there in her workroom. I might be new at this, but I have instincts. They leave a light, deathlike odor behind. The UnDead were there for certain, and recently. Likely just before dawn.”

  “Right.” I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and knit and think. There were so many pieces to this puzzle, I needed one of those wallboards like Grayling had to keep them all straight.

  And now there was a connection between the Willa Ashton case and the UnDead: Olympia Babbage.

  Coincidence? My uncle claimed that was impossible, but for once, I wasn’t certain. What could the UnDead have to do with someone trying to murder a young woman?

  “What is it?” Miss Stoker demanded, for I’d sat upright.

  A shiver went down my spine and prickles needled the bottoms of my feet. No. That’s absurd. The Ankh . . . is out of the picture.

  But the Ankh wasn’t dead. I was sure of it. And that was why I’d collected and kept all my notes about her.

  The vampire Gadreau had a mortal woman who served him. Not that I could imagine the Ankh serving anyone . . . but La société seemed like the sort of thing in which that villainous woman would be involved. And many members of La société hoped to gain immortality through their connection to the UnDead. Immortality was certainly something to which the Ankh, who tried to harness the powers of a goddess, would aspire.

  Then I deflated. No. It didn’t seem quite right. The Ankh was a leader, not a servant. Still . . . I would review my casebook on the Ankh.

  I refused to discuss my theories with Evaline, and she pouted the rest of the way back to the Museum. I was glad to quit her presence, for she was grating on my nerves. However aggravating she might be, I was nevertheless disappointed that Evaline was unable to assist me for the remainder of the day.

  “I have to attend that dratted Opening Night Ball at the Lyceum tonight or Florence will draw and quarter me. And she’s got the seamstress coming for last-minute adjustments to my gown, and a special woman doing our hair . . . I’m already late. I was supposed to be home by two!”

  Her miserable expression was the only reason I forgave her for shirking her duty. “Very well then. I’ll be with Miss Ashton today and tonight, but you shall have to relieve me first thing tomorrow. It’s imperative she’s not left alone any longer, but I have investigations to conduct. I am on my way there as soon as I speak with Miss Adler—if she’s arrived yet.” I alighted from the carriage and started up the steps to the Museum.

  But according to the guard, Miss Adler hadn’t been in her office for two days. A zap of uncertainty wriggled up my spine, but I had to put worry over my mentor aside for now.

  Willa Ashton’s life was in grave danger and that must be my focus.

  Less than an hour later, I arrived once more at the Ashton residence.

  I was immediately struck by a sense of disquiet, and it was with great foreboding that I employed the knocker at the front door.

  The butler, Rightingham, answered, and I knew immediately something was wrong. His eyes were rimmed red and the tip of his nose pink.

  “Miss Ashton!” I said it in more of a demand than a request, but I already knew the answer.

  “She’s gone. They come and took her away.”

  “No!” Uncaring of my rudeness, I pushed past him. “Where did they take her? Do you know? When? Who?”

  “It was two men in a curtained carriage. They had the papers. Miss Geraldine, she cried and screamed and tried to fight them off, but there was nothing for it. He showed her the papers. Mr. Ashton, he wasn’t here, and there was no one else. No one else to stop them.”

  “Where is Miss Geraldine now?”

  “She went after Mr. Ashton, or to find someone—a magistrate or someone to help. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

  Ill at my stomach and cold with fear, I was already running up the stairs to Willa’s bedchamber. I didn’t know why—perhaps it was to take one last chance to look for clues, to examine the spiritglass for anything that could betray the villain.

  I had a suspicion, yes, I was fairly certain I at last knew who the perpetrator was . . . but I wanted to make certain. I grabbed the spiritglass and the sheaf of papers next to it, startling the cat from his perch on the chair. He hissed and thumped to the floor, his tail twitching in warning.

  I ignored him, casting about the chamber. Nothing seemed to be out of place from earlier this morning. Then I smelled something pungent and unusual. I’d noticed it before, but now I sniffed again, lifting the papers to my nose for a better whiff.

  Ah.

  Crickets. Pickpockets. UnDead. Smithfield. A floating key.

  My eyes widened and all at once, everything fell into place.

  I rushed from Willa’s chamber, pounding down the stairs like an army just as the front door knocker clacked. Rightingham and I got there at the same time, opening the door to an earnest-looking Mr. Treadwell.

  “Is . . . erm . . . Miss Ashton at home?” the handsome young man asked the butler.

  Oh, no. The poor man!

  I hesitated, wanting to assure him I’d do everything in my power to save Willa, but time was of the essence. Instead, I thrust the papers, which I’d wrapped around the spiritglass, at him and said, “Whatever you do, keep these safe. I will send you further instructions. Do it for Willa.”

  Bewildered, he nevertheless took the objects and stuffed them in his coat pocket. Meanwhile, the butler struggled to control his grief whilst explaining that Miss Willa Ashton was not at home, and would not be for the foreseeable future.

  To my great annoyance, the cab I’d engaged to bring me here had left, against my specific direction. Thus I was forced to walk out to the street and three blocks down in an effort to find another one. Drat and blast! Where was a taxi when you needed one? I needed my own dratted carriage.

  Chafing at the delay, my stomach still upset and in knots—for I knew the clock was ticking—I hurried all the way back to the Ashtons’, hoping Mr. Treadwell might still be there. I could beg a ride from him.

  To my relief, a Two-Seat Charley was parked out front, presumably brought around for Mr. Treadwell now that he learned Willa wasn’t there.

  Puffing from my rapid walk, I approached the front steps just as the door flew open. Instead of Mr. Treadwell, however, I found myself confronted by Aunt Geraldine.

  The usually perfectly groomed woman was a wild mess—her hair straggling, her eyes wide and desperate, her hands wringing her skirts.

  “Miss
Kluger!” I stepped out of the way so she wouldn’t bowl me over.

  “Miss Holmes, forgive me, but I haven’t any time. It’s Willa! They’ve taken her away, and I must try and stop them. I must save her!”

  “She’s not mad,” I told her. “Willa isn’t a lunatic. I can prove she’s been manipulated into certain actions that cause her to appear to be—”

  “Is this true?” She halted. “What you say, is this true?”

  “You can trust my word. But I don’t know where she’s been taken.”

  “I do! Oh, will you come with me, Miss Holmes? You must tell them, prove it to them . . . before it’s too late. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course I’ll go. But we mustn’t delay. We must leave immediately. Is that your carriage?” I gestured to the Two-Seat Charley.

  “Yes, oh, yes. I just returned from trying to find Herrell, but I couldn’t. He seems to have disappeared! I didn’t know what to do. I am so relieved you’re here, and that you can help!”

  I took a moment to scribble two messages, giving them to Rightingham to have delivered to Evaline and Mr. Treadwell, respectively. Then a footman helped me into the seat of the small, mechanized carriage. Miss Kluger climbed up next to me, and I was intrigued by the fact that she meant to drive it herself. Perhaps such a vehicle could be the solution to my transportation woes, and I wouldn’t have to rely on Evaline any longer.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as Miss Kluger navigated neatly through the busy streets. She was an expert driver, and again I considered how much more independent I would be if I should acquire my own form of transportation.

  “There is a place in Smithfield where they’ve taken her.”

  “Ah. As I suspected. I trust it’s near the locksmith Ivey & Boles?”

  “You suspected? Is that so?” Her expression changed to a very cold smile. “And did you suspect that you would be joining her there as well, Miss Holmes?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “In what way do you mean, Miss Kluger?”

  “You seem to know an uncomfortable amount about my niece’s situation. I think it would be best if you stayed with Willa at our purlieu in Smithfield. Then no one else will hear about your theories or proof that she was—how did you put it? Forced into doing things she didn’t mean to?”