Miss Holmes
Miss Holmes Has an Unexpected Visitor
I was exhausted when I climbed into the horseless cab outside the museum. Miss Stoker had somehow excused herself from being escorted home and disappeared on foot into the shadow of the colonnaded building. I had given my official statement to Luckworth, leaving out the minor detail of the museum intruder. I felt certain I'd see the foreigner again soon.
The cab had traveled a mere block from the museum when my suspicions were proved right.
A black shape across from me in the vehicle shifted and became a face, followed by two hands shining pale in the gray light of near dawn.
I froze, realizing that what I'd assumed was a pile of cushions and blankets-granted, not the usual accoutrements of a hackney cab in London-had been the foreign intruder, hiding in the darkest corner of the carriage. I'd been too tired and distracted to look closely.
I fumbled the Steam-Stream gun out and into my grip. It took me longer than it should have, yet the intruder held up his hands and said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."
"Of course you aren't," I said, juggling the gun into position, pointing at him from my seat. My fingers were a trifle shaky, but in the dark, he wouldn't be able to tell. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" It occurred to me that I could have screamed and drawn the cabbie's attention, but I'm by nature a curious person, and after all, I was the one who was armed.
"My name is Dylan Eckhert. And I . . . uh . . . I wanted to talk to you."
"Aren't you supposed to be waxing the museum floors?" I asked.
"I didn't really expect you to believe me." He gave a little laugh. "Um . . . could I put my hands down now? I promise I'm not going to do anything but talk to you."
"Very well. I want to talk to you too. But any movements on your part, and I pull the trigger and you'll be blasted with steam."
His first question surprised me. "Are you really Sherlock Holmes's niece?"
"Of course I am." I realized he must have been hovering about listening to the conversations with Grayling and Luckworth.
"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 at 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 fete 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 Cosgrove-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.
Made of velvet and silk, the fitted bodice and voluminous skirt were panels of rich chocolate brown alternating with a golden rust color. The sleeves were large and puffy near the shoulders, tapering into long fingerless gloves that ended in a point at her middle finger. From the elbow to wrist, brown and rust lace had been appliqued onto the fabric, and buttons, flowers, and little clockwork gears decorated the backs of the glove-sleeves.
Her brown corset was short and leather, and she wore it over the bodice in a new style that was just coming into fashion. But did she have another corset underneath? Four dangling watch chains and their matching clocks decorated one side of the corset and on the other were two slender pockets. And pinned to the front of her bodice was the most remarkable dragonfly pin, complete with rotating wings that made a soft, pleasant buzzing sound and little whirring gears that made up its body.
Not only was she dressed at the height of Street Fashion, but the gangly, long-nosed girl had done something with her hair that made her look even taller . . . but in a willowy way. And even her blade-like nose seemed balanced by the pile of chestnut-colored hair that had been braided, woven with ribbons, and decorated with clockwork gears in a neat but intricate coiffure.
Not that my own gown was anything to sniff at. At the height of accepted Victorian fashion, my frock consisted of a narrow skirt of frothier, lighter fabric than Miss Holmes's, with many layers of ice-colored pink caught up by darker rosettes and gathered into a neat bustle at the lower part of my spine. But the most important aspect of the dress was its concealed split skirts. That was Pepper's inspiration, and practical for someone of my vocation.
"Is something wrong, Miss Stoker?" Miss Holmes asked, patting her head as if to make certain her hair wasn't about to fall.
We were sitting in the carriage, and Middy, the driver, was waiting for directions from me. "No," I replied, noticing the set of keys dangling from the edge of Miss Holmes's corset-vest. Surely they were for decoration rather than practical use, but nevertheless, even a traditionalist handmaker like me found them cunning. I blinked and stuck my head out the small window to give Middy the address and then settled back in my seat.
"Are you quite certain?" My companion glanced down at herself, smoothing her full skirts. Even in the drassy light, I could see a stiff, black lace crinoline peeping from beneath the rustling material and the hint of elegant copper-toed shoes. "Do you think my-I wasn't certain what to wear." She lifted her nose and managed to look down at me despite the fact that we were both seated.
Miss Mina Holmes was nervous. That was an eye-opening revelation and eased my . . . whatever it was that made me feel prickly and uncomfortable around her.
"Not at all," I told her candidly. "Your gown is stunning. I'm certain the gentlemen will be most taken with you."
"Well, that might be the case, but it's neither here nor there. We have business afoot tonight." Despite her brisk words, her fingers, which had been toying with a group of buttons on her glove-sleeve, relaxed in her lap.
"Yes, of course. You could bring me up to date on what you and Miss Adler discovered today." I kept my voice neutral but felt compelled to add, "My apologies for not joining you at the museum. I was out late patrolling for UnDead and overslept this morning." I didn't mention the fact that neither of the ladies had contacted me about a time or place to meet, so Miss Holmes must have taken it upon herself to visit Miss Adler first thing in the morning.
"Oh," she said, looking surprised. "It must be a rather difficult proposition, being out late and then being required to awaken shortly after dawn. I didn't think the UnDead were quite a threat any longer."
I gritted my teeth. No, they weren't, but she didn't need to remind me of it . . . and the fact that I'd failed the single time I'd faced one. "The reason they aren't a threat is because of people like me who ensure that they aren't."
"Right."
I quickly changed the subject. "I had a beast of a time of it, leaving tonight without my guardians. Did you have difficulty obtaining permission to attend the ball?"
"Permission?" Miss Holmes gave a short laugh. "My father rarely darkens the door of our house, and even if he does happen to find his bed for the night, he'd hardly notice whether I was present or not. Of course, it's because he's quite busy helping the government at the Home Office and spends long hours at his office or club."
"And your mother didn't object?" I'd had to lie and tell Florence I was attending a small musicale at the Tylingtons'. If she got wind that I was attending the Cosgrove-Pitt ball, the event of the season, nothing would have kept her home . . . which was why I'd hidden my invitation when it came two weeks ago.
"My mother is gone."
The tone of Miss Holmes's voice snapped my thoughts from dear, practical Florence. "Gone? Do you mean dead . . . or . . . ?" My voice trailed off.
"She left my father and me a year ago," she said in a voice that tried too hard to sound nonchalant. "Obviously, she cares even less than he does what I do and where I go." She shifted, her skirts rustling, and sat up ramrod straight. "Which is precisely why Miss Adler chose me to be part of this society, knowing I wouldn't be hampered by such authority figures as parents."
I couldn't imagine what it would be like not to have any adults about, meddling in my daily life. The thought made me uncomfortable rather than envious.
Miss Holmes changed the subject, her voice brusque. "Miss Adler and I determined it was of importance for us to attend the party tonight at the Cosgrove-Pitts' because of what we learned today at the Hodgeworth home. It was Miss Mayellen who was last night's victim, and her sister and mother were gracious enough to allow us to search her bedchamber."
"Did you find another beetle?"
"Aside from a scarab that was left on the floor next to her body, Miss Adler and I found this." She produced a creamy notecard from some hidden pocket. "Observe."
The engraved invitation to the party at Cosgrove Terrace this evening was familiar to me. I had the same one tucked in my small reticule. It was identical except for the faint mark in the bottom corner, hardly noticeable unless one were looking for something. "A beetle," I said.
"Look more closely," she said impatiently. "Do you not notice anything else of importance?"
"Perhaps if I had a bit of light," I retorted, then snapped my jaw closed when she produced a little device that flared into some bright illumination. Blasted cognog. But even though I stared at the invitation, with its formal script and detail of the party, I could see nothing else out of the ordinary.
Lord Belmont & Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt
extend a cordial invitation to
The King & Queen of the Roses Ball
Wednesday, the 15th of May, 1889
at eight o'clock in the evening
Beneath the Stars
Cosgrove Terrace
St. James Park
I read the words thrice, turned the card to the reverse, and found nothing remarkable but for the small beetle drawing. At last admitting defeat, I looked up at my companion.
"That is precisely the problem with most people," she muttered. "Uncle Sherlock is right. People look, but do not observe. They examine, but they do not see. Behold," she said, pointing her light at the invitation. "Beneath the nine, do you not discern the tiny dot? And also beneath the word Stars?"
I frowned and peered down. She was correct . . . now that it was pointed out to me, I saw the small dots. "But that means nothing," I protested. "A drip of ink from a careless scribe."
"Miss Stoker, please observe. Those dots were made purposely. See how perfectly uniform and round they are? A drip would have an oblong shape. And aside from that, notice that the text is engraved upon the card, while those markings are not. Finally, although you likely cannot see it in our faulty light, the shade of ink used to draw the beetle is precisely the same shade of indigo ink as the two dots. From Mr. Inkwell's specialty shop on Badgley, I'd wager."
"So what's the purpose of these markings? Some sort of message?"
"That would be the logical assumption," she said crisply. "But what, I'm not yet certain. We'll both have to be vigilant this evening to determine what it could mean. I suspect that the nine might refer to a time, thus at nine o'clock, I shall be quite attentive to anything related to stars."
"What else?" I asked as she clicked her light closed and tucked it away. I could see her face only during the brief flashes of illumination from the streetlamps as we trundled along.
"We found no envelope or seal. So we have no way of knowing who made the marks or when-whether it was before it left the Cosgrove-Pitt residence, or afterward; whether Miss Hodgeworth did it herself for some reason or whether it was given to her that way by someone else who received the invitation or someone involved in the sending of the invitation."
"And so the rest of the plan for tonight is to . . . what? Look for more beetles?" I asked, trying not to sound bored. I was going to be subjected to simpering young men and gossiping ladies simply so Miss Holmes could look for beetles? The most dangerous and exciting part of the night would be to avoid getting my feet trod upon or a lemonade spilled upon my gown.
"Of course. We must look for more beetles or Sekhmet scarabs and attempt to direct conversations whenever possible to the topic of Sekhmet. Even superficially," she added as the carriage pulled up to the drive at Cosgrove Terrace. "If anyone should show interest in Sekhmet, that could be a lead. As well, I should like to gain access to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's study to see if we can find the list of invitees."
"Do you mean break into her study?"
Miss Holmes once again managed to look down at me from her seated position. "I prefer to think of it as accidentally stumbling upon the chamber. Regardless of how it occurs, once we ascertain whether Miss Hodgeworth is on the original invitation list, we will then have narrowed down the identity of the person who made the marks."
"How?"
Miss Holmes sighed. "If Miss Hodgeworth isn't on the original list, then we can assume someone else marked up an invitation-presumably his or her own-and sent it to her. Narrowing down who the invitation was originally meant for, or who marked it up, will assist us in identifying the messenger, and hopefully provide us a connection between Miss Hodgeworth and Miss Martindale."
I blinked at her convoluted explanation. Yet it made sense. "But her mother or sister would have known whether Mayellen received an invitation to one of the most talked-about parties of the year." The carriage lurched forward, then stopped. I peeked out the window to see a long line of people disembarking from other vehicles. "The Roses Ball is the event of the season, and only the creme de la creme would be invited."
"Of course," my companion replied with a hint of aggravation. "That was my first question to the Hodgeworths. Neither Mrs. Hodgeworth nor her other daughter were aware of an invitation from Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt."
I nodded and handed back the notecard, which she might need to gain entrance. I had my own, of course. "Very well, then." Sneaking into Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's study would at least bring some intrigue into what was sure to be a boring evening.
"I think it might be prudent," said Miss Holmes, "for your invitation to be marked up as well. One must be prepared for any eventuality."
"One must," I said, keeping my sarcasm to a minimum, "but I'm sorry to say that I don't happen to have in my possession any specialty indigo ink from Mr. Inkwell's-" I stopped when I saw the look on her face. "Right. Of course."
She produced a writing instrument that was, presumably, already loaded with the special indigo ink. I handed over my invitation without another word, and to my relief, she didn't make any further comment or show any sign of smugness.
The carriage jolted forward again, then stopped. Miss Holmes used the little fan-like wings of her dragonfly pin to dry the ink and then handed me my invitation. We lapsed into silence until our door was opened and a white-gloved coachman helped each of us down. The sun had set and any natural illumination was only a glimpse of moon from behind wispy gray clouds and a faulty swath of stars arcing over the dark sky.
The mansion, which was one of the few in the city that boasted large, gated grounds, loomed above us. A flight of steps led up to a well-lit entrance on a side of the building rather than the door facing the drive. A smooth mechanical ramp ascended so ladies in their cumbersome skirts and high-heeled shoes wouldn't wear themselves out from the climb. Some fashionable skirts were so narrow, with their high bustle over the rear, that the wearer could only take small, mincing steps. At least Mina had had the wherewithal to don a gown with petticoats that allowed for some movement, despite their weight and layers.
Medievaler that I am, I disdained the ramp in favor of the stairs and found myself waiting for Miss Holmes as she rode up the mechanized trolley.
A series of panels and doors had been removed from the building, leaving an entire wall of the foyer open to the night air, with no boundary between terrace and interior. The dull roar of people talking and laughing mingled with the music from a small orchestra, spilling into the outdoors. Even from where I stood, I could see glittering gold streamers and bunting, and hundreds of bloodred roses in vases, clustered on trellises and attached to potted trees. Someone had cut many large leafless branches, painted them dark red, and arranged them like trees. A number of self-propelled, copper-winged lanterns flitted about like hand-size fireflies.
"It's beautiful," Miss Holmes murmured. "Like a gilded English rose garden."
I couldn't disagree, but how often did they have to replace the gears in those silly flying lights anyway? "They'll want to announce us," I said. She grimaced, but stepped up with me to hand our calling cards to the butler.
"She pronounces her name Evah-line, not Evah-leen," Miss Holmes informed the butler as she pointed to my card. I rolled my eyes. I didn't care.
"Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes," the butler intoned.
The place was an absolute crush, with people hardly able to move about the room. Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt stood just inside the entrance to greet each guest, and we dutifully approached.
Lord Cosgrove-Pitt, who was older and grayer than his pretty dark-haired wife, was stately and a bit portly. He took my hand and bowed, but it was my companion who attracted his attention. "Sir Mycroft's daughter?" he boomed over the noise. "Mr. Holmes's niece? How can it be that we've never met? Bella, surely you've invited Miss Holmes to our parties, haven't you? Important young lady, you know."
"Why, Miss Holmes," said his wife, taking my companion's hand in her gloved ones. "I am so pleased to meet you, and I apologize for never having done so in the past. Mr. Holmes's niece, you say?"
My companion's nose had gone dull red, but she curtseyed and thanked Lord Cosgrove-Pitt for his kindness, then responded to his wife. "Yes, indeed, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. Sherlock Holmes is my uncle."
"He is quite a clever man." She looked up at her husband. "He assisted me with a little problem some years ago-you do remember, don't you, dear?"
"Something to do with the upstairs maid filching the silver?" He rubbed his chin.
Lady Isabella patted his arm. "It was the downstairs maid, and Mr. Holmes proved she was innocent, as it turned out, of breaking one of the glass cases in the gallery." She turned back to us. "I do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here."
As we thanked her, turning to make our way into the throngs of people, I felt a sudden awareness sing down my spine. Someone was watching me.
I glanced around the party. Since we were still standing on the terrace, which connected the outside with the ballroom, we were several steps above the main floor. Through the dancing and visiting below, I could see quite well.
A huge cluster of potted topiaries festooned with rich red roses mingled with some of the painted trees. My attention focused there on a trio of manservants, standing at the ready with trays and white towels over their arms. Even as they watched the partygoers, they talked and laughed together. They wore gold jackets with a rose on each lapel.
As I stared at them, one in particular caught my eye. There was something familiar about him.
That tingle up my spine grew cold.
He reminded me an awful lot of Pix.