The Chess Queen Enigma Read online

  To

  Darlene Domanik March

  Talented artist,

  Inspiring teacher,

  Dear friend

  Copyright © 2015 by Colleen Gleason.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Gleason, Colleen, author.

  The chess queen enigma: a Stoker & Holmes novel / by Colleen Gleason.

  pages cm

  Summary: In 1889 London, vampire-hunter Evaline Stoker and investigator Mina Holmes once again join forces at the request of the Princess of Wales—this time their mission is to escort and protect a princess who is part of a trade mission from Betrovia, a country which has had a rocky relationship with England, starting with a four hundred-year-old dispute over a valuable Byzantine chessboard.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-4317-0 (Hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4521-4686-7 (epub 2)

  1. Detective and mystery stories. 2. Vampires—Juvenile fiction. 3. Princesses—Juvenile fiction. 4. Chessboards—Juvenile fiction. 5. London (England)—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Princesses—Fiction. 4. Chessboards—Fiction. 5. London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction.

  6. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837-1901—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G481449Ch 2015

  813.6—dc23

  [Fic]

  2014047273

  Design by Jennifer Tolo Pierce.

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  Chronicle Books—we see things differently. Become part of our community at www.chroniclebooks.com/teen.

  Contents

  London, 1889

  Miss Stoker

  An Astonishing Request

  Miss Holmes

  In Which Our Heroines Take on Two Tasks

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein the Importance of a Matter Is Argued

  Miss Stoker

  Coincidence or Conspiracy?

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Miss Stoker Serves as Lady’s Maid

  Miss Stoker

  Wherein Our Heroine Plods About the Dance Floor

  Miss Stoker

  The Third Waltz

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Our Heroines Make an Exceptional Blunder

  Miss Holmes

  Cause for Termination

  Miss Stoker

  Miss Stoker Interrogates

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Mr. Holmes Is Pressed into Service

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Investigates

  Miss Stoker

  Wherein the Mechanics of Vampire Slaying Are Considered

  Miss Stoker

  An Overdue Discussion Occurs

  Miss Stoker

  Wherein an Uninvited Guest Insists upon Poker

  Miss Holmes

  Quick-Wit

  Miss Stoker

  In Which Miss Stoker Is Subjected to Some Courting

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Makes a Prudent Exit

  Miss Stoker

  An Unexpected Farewell

  Miss Holmes

  A Service of Tea and Prevarication

  Miss Stoker

  In Which Our Heroine Is Enlightened About a Number of Things

  Miss Stoker

  Our Heroines’ Endgame Begins

  Miss Holmes

  Into the Depths of Hell

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein an Evil Device Redeems Itself

  Miss Holmes

  In Which the Inspector Is Decisively Overruled

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Mina Explains Herself

  Miss Stoker

  The Final Checkmate

  Miss Holmes

  In Which Our Heroine Is Thoroughly Rooked

  Miss Stoker

  A Thief in Priest’s Clothing

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  London, 1889

  Miss Stoker

  An Astonishing Request

  You killed him. You killed my brother!

  I woke with a start and my eyes bolted open.

  My heart was pounding and the sheets covering my skin were damp. Darkness pressed into me. I fought to shake off the dream, but awful visions of blood and darkness, fangs and glowing red eyes, still danced in my mind.

  You killed my brother! The shrieking accusation echoed in my head. How could you kill him?

  I flung off the bedcovers and stumbled to the window with shaky knees. Silvery moonlight filtered over the tree looming just outside, but there was no flash of evil red eyes to be seen.

  As I drew in deep breaths of dank, gloomy London air, my pulse slowed. Surrounding me was the constant undercurrent of steam—the breath of our city, flowing and hissing like that of a massive being.

  In the distance, Big Ben’s round face glowed dully behind strands of heavy night clouds. Pikes, pipes, and the pitches of rooftops, along with the unmistakable spire of the Oligary Building, jutted upward in an infinite black jumble.

  I’d done the right thing, staking the vampire.

  I was a vampire hunter. That was my calling, my legacy. I couldn’t second-guess my duty.

  But Willa Ashton’s accusations and her enraged expression still haunted me, both during the day and in my nightmares. You killed Robby! You murdered my brother!

  A shadow across the street, sleek and catlike, caught my attention. All thoughts of Miss Ashton and her brother fled, along with the last bit of sleepiness.

  I recognized that shadow.

  It took only a moment to whip off my nightdress and yank on a pair of boots, a chemise, and a short, simple gown (in that order). I was still buckling my new front-fastening over-corset when I climbed out the window.

  While I dressed, I’d watched the shadow slip across the empty road and into the darkness spawned by our neighbor’s hedge. So when I landed on the ground, light and soundless, I knew where he would be waiting.

  But before I could open my mouth, a dusky voice spoke in my ear, “That was a righ’ quick change o’ duds, luv. Unless ye were sleepin’ in yer boots.”

  I managed to control my startled reaction. How did he move so fast? “Perhaps someday you’ll learn not to underestimate me, Pix.”

  He laughed softly, and the sound traveled down my spine as if he’d traced it with a finger. “Evaline, luv, yer the one person I would never underestimate.”

  My knees felt trembly again, and I decided it would be best to put some distance between myself and the disreputable, annoying, sneaky pickpocket. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought ye migh’ want some company on yer patrols.” Pix remained in the shadow of the tree, but I could still make out the pale shape of his eyes, a sliver of light along one side of his jaw, and the messy cloud of dark hair. I’d also come to know him well enough to recognize the exaggerated nonchalance in his voice.

  “Is that so?” I asked, realizing I sounded uncomfortably like my cohort, Mina Holmes. If she were here, she’d probably already have deduced how Pix had gotten to my neighborhood, why he was present, and what he’d last eaten. I pushed away the thoughts of my know-it-all partner—who claimed her unnatural ability was merely a practice of observation and deduction—and shifted to get a better look at him. “How many nights have you been lurking here, waiting for me to go out?”

  I felt a little exposed, and I don’t mean because I was hardly dressed (at least by my sister-in-law’s standards).

  The truth was, despite the fact that three weeks ago I’d slain nearly a dozen vampires in the space of
seven days, I hadn’t been out on the streets, looking for more UnDead. Not since that awful episode with Willa Ashton. And if Pix had been watching and waiting for me each night, he would know I had been shirking my duty.

  I pushed away a niggle of guilt.

  “Now, luv, don’ yet get yer corset lacings all mollied up. I jus’ happened t’be in th’ vicinity and thought I might find ye climbin’ down yer tree.”

  A Night-Illuminator trundled by, burping steam and sending a small circle of golden yellow light around in its wake. Pix and I shifted as one, moving out of the edge of its glow.

  “I haven’t seen any UnDead since that night in Smithfield,” I said, which, strictly speaking, was the truth—mainly because I hadn’t been looking for them. I was certain there weren’t any left in the city anyway. Or so I’d been telling myself. “Have you?”

  “Nay, luv. Nary a red eye nor a fang t’be seen—at least in Whitechapel and thereabouts.”

  I relaxed slightly. After all, it had been Pix who’d warned me the vampires had returned to London for the first time in decades. “So what brings you to this ‘vicinity’”—I’d noticed the inconsistency of his Cockney before—“that made it convenient for you to be calling on me?”

  His shadowed expression changed, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. His lips flattened, his gaze shifted away . . . then came to focus, sharp and dark, on me. “I need yer ’elp, Evaline.”

  I blinked and closed my mouth, which had fallen open. Then I grinned. “Of course you do. So . . . what’s the problem? You said you haven’t seen any vampires around, so it can’t be my stake you need. . . . Is Big Marv giving you a difficult time? You need someone to put him in his place again? Break another finger? Or—wait, I know—you want me to be your arm-wrestling champion for some big competition. No worry, there, Pix, luv . . . I’m happy to stand in for you.” I could hardly control my glee. “Or are you looking for pointers about your wardrobe? You could stand to replace that overcoat. It’s a bit shabby, and there are some fine Betrovian wool—”

  “Evaline.” His voice shook, as if he too were fighting to keep from laughing. “Be still. And I do believe that’s the first time ye’ve ever called me luv.” He ducked closer to me as he spoke, and the last few words wafted over my cheek. His breath was warm and pleasantly scented with tobacco and some other pungent spice that Mina Holmes could probably identify, but I couldn’t. Pix’s hand—ungloved as usual—brushed against mine, and I wasn’t certain whether it was an accident.

  “Oh, you needn’t read anything into it—that’s how I address all the young men I know.”

  “Including your Mr. Dancy?”

  “Of course,” I responded—even though I’d hardly given a thought to the handsome, charming, and well-dressed Mr. Richard Dancy in weeks. “Now, about that overcoat . . .”

  “We can discuss overcoats and sundries later, luv. Righ’ now I’m on to more pressin’ concerns.” He hesitated, and I got the impression he was steeling himself to make his big request—whatever it was. “I need ye t’find out somethin’.”

  My interest faded. “I’m not the one who finds out things, Pix. I’m the one who does things. I’m sure Mina would be delighted to assist you, after she lectured your ears off—are those your real ears, or are you wearing fake ones again?—about her techniques and observation skills and how she’s as brilliant as her Uncle Sherlock, which I think is stretching things quite a bit.”

  “I’ve a new customer,” Pix said. “A partic’larly large and lucrative client, and I need to find out who—”

  “Customer? For what?” I had a fairly good idea what he was talking about, despite my question. I still didn’t know what that small, palm-sized device was I’d pickpocketed from him a few weeks ago, but I’d come to the conclusion it wasn’t the only one of its kind.

  Approximately the size of a pound note folded in half, the object had been flat and sleek, with an intricate array of copper, bronze, and silver wheels, cogs, and dials on one slender end. It also had two small, stiff wires protruding from it. I couldn’t begin to guess what it was or what it did, and I hadn’t had the chance to ask Mina to take a look at it before Pix blackmailed me into giving it back. But I was fairly certain the little machine had something to do with what he called his “affairs.”

  “Evaline.” His voice had gone sharp. “I’ve tol’ ye before, there are things ye don’ need t’know.”

  “Right then. How can I find out who your new customer is—that’s what you want from me, isn’t it?—if you won’t tell me what they are buying.” That was a reasonable question.

  Something crinkled softly, and he pressed a paper into my hand. I was bringing it up to examine in the drassy light when he stiffened.

  “Hush.” He shoved me into the darkest shadow—and though I hadn’t heard anything, I closed my mouth and listened.

  Nothing. I heard nothing but the normal, mechanical sounds of the city at night, saw nothing but the random golden circles of gas lamp streetlights, felt nothing but the normal shift in the air . . . and the strong, silent power of his grip.

  After a moment I started to speak, but Pix lifted a hand sharply.

  Then, without a word, he curled his fingers around my arm and tugged me after him. I pulled easily out of his grip, but continued to follow as he darted from the shadows of tree to hedge to alley to fenceline.

  “Look.” He pointed abruptly into the sky.

  Several blocks away in the narrow space between buildings, brushing past the sky-anchors that floated above a fog-enveloped cluster of roofs, was a slender, elegant vessel, cruising through the sky. Of a long, elliptical shape, it had a bulge at the bottom and batlike wings on the sides.

  It was an airship, the likes of which I’d only seen once before: the night I met Pix.

  I was aware of a sense of déjà-vu, standing in the darkness with his lean, muscular body brushing against mine, looking up at the eerie object as it made its way silently through the sky.

  A beam of light winked on from the airship. The pale stream aimed straight down, riding over the peak of a roof, bumping down the side of the building, and then up the side of the next building as the ship continued to glide over the city. Another beam flashed out, scoring over more buildings in the same choppy way. The ship was coming closer, and the very sight made all the hair on my body prickle and lift as if I’d been dunked into an icy river.

  Pix’s breathing had become more shallow. His normal easy stance tensed.

  “What is it?” I asked. I’d done so before, several times, with no response—so I had little hope he’d actually answer. “Is it the same one we saw . . . before? At the British Museum?”

  His chin brushed my forehead. “Aye. I’d hoped they’d gone, but no.”

  “They? Who?” I realized he hadn’t dropped the ‘h’ in ‘hoped,’ but for once I was smart enough not to be distracted. I was more interested in finding out about the airship than calling him on his inconsistent accent.

  “They’re watching the city. All of us. Stay out of the light, Evaline,” he said, his words warm against my hair. “Mark m’words, luv, things are about to be changin’.” He groped for my hand, and the paper crinkled as he closed my fingers around it. “I gander this might ’elp. Find out what ye can, and let me know. Ye know where t’find me.”

  And with that, he melted into the shadows.

  Miss Holmes

  In Which Our Heroines Take on Two Tasks

  Though I was certain my colleague, Miss Stoker, spent all her mornings lazing in bed, I had adopted the daily habit of perusing a range of newspapers and other noteworthy publications whilst in Miss Irene Adler’s office at the

  British Museum.

  Happily, this process removed me from underfoot of Mrs. Raskill as she attended to her daily tasks in our household, which more often than not included multiple and varied expressions of her opinions. Most of them were regarding the work I did in the back room, which was outfitted as a la
boratory. Her range of emotions—from disgust to irritation to shock and horror and back again—were so common as to be predictable (not to mention loud, as in the time a scorpion scuttled over the counter she was dusting—I had been attempting to collect its poison, for obvious reasons), and thus I seized the opportunity to be absent as much as possible.

  Therefore, whether or not Miss Adler was present in her office as the Keeper of Antiquities, and whether or not I had some other reason to be there, by eight o’clock nearly every morning I could be found sitting at a massive desk, drinking her excellent Darjeeling tea, and using the Proffitt’s Dandy Paper-Peruser to turn the pages as I scanned the Times, the Voice, and the Herald . . . as well as numerous publications from the Continent and America.

  I was engrossed in this process when the impetuous, bold, and—one must admit—brave Miss Evaline Stoker found me one Wednesday morning precisely twenty-three days after we concluded the Case of the Spiritglass Charade. It had been a dull three weeks, and I was eager to find something of interest to occupy my brain.

  My colleague burst in, as was her own habit, in a flurry of skirts, umbrella, and cloak, bringing in a gust of musty museum air tinged with the coal smoke of outdoors. The papers on my desk puffed up and shifted as she slammed the door closed, and the top of Miss Adler’s teapot rattled in its brand-new brasswork Pouring Station.

  “What can you tell me about who wrote this?” Miss Stoker said without preamble.

  I confess I wasn’t disappointed to be distracted from the uninteresting article about an imminent State Visit involving representatives from the Kingdom of Betrovia. Political and foreign maneuvering are my father’s expertise, not mine.

  I accepted the scrap of paper from Miss Stoker, noticing she’d eaten a glazed cherry tart whilst wearing gloves and had once again neglected to put money in her tiny handbag. Rather than ask for further information, I turned my attention to the note, which read:

  Two dozen this week.

  Two dozen next week.

  The usual location.

  Don’t be late, or you’ll know the consequences.