The Zeppelin Deception Read online

  “Miss Holmes,” Grayling said after a pronounced, awkward moment of silence. “Perhaps you should take a seat so we can discuss the case against you.” He gestured to a straight-backed chair pushed up to the tiny table where he obviously ate his meals.

  Feeling as though I’d been slapped, I extricated my footwear from Angus’s teeth and sat. The case against me?

  “So you’re investigating the murder of Frederick Boggs,” I said evenly.

  “Unofficially. It’s Blaketon’s case. But I…” He sighed, scrubbing his forehead with a freckled hand. “Och, Mina—Miss Holmes—you were obviously there. People saw you, saw you arguing with Boggs, and then five days later, he turns up dead. Your footprints are all over the place, and—”

  “What are you talking about?” I bolted up, and Angus stumbled back with a pained yelp as I trod on his paw. “What are you saying, Inspector? That’s— Why, absolutely none of that is true!” My mouth, which had been dry before, felt utterly parched. And my brain, which normally ran swift and smooth, was clunking like a cogwheel whose teeth had gone completely out of sync. “How do you know they’re my footprints—what is the meaning of all of this?”

  He was watching me carefully with those steady gray eyes—as if he were assessing me. Analyzing me. Then his expression changed to something more like concern. “If you didn’t murder Frederick Boggs—”

  “Of course I didn’t. It’s absurd to think I did. Why, there are a number of very good reasons why accusing me is ludicrous—first and foremost is because if I were going to murder someone, I certainly wouldn’t do it in such a haphazard, unwieldy manner.

  “Hitting someone over the back of the head? That is a very foolhardy fashion in which to attempt to murder someone. There are so many ways that could go wrong—he could move at the last minute and then the culprit would be caught out, the plan foiled.

  “Or if he managed it, the blow might not be strong enough—do you know how hard a single blow is required to be in order to kill someone immediately? And in just the right place on the head? Why on earth anyone would resort to such an imperfect, bungling tactic, I can’t imagine. I assure you, Inspector Grayling—if I were going to murder someone, it would be in a manner with much more elegance, finesse, and certainty—and no one would know I’d done it. They wouldn’t even know it was murder.”

  I’d gotten up without realizing it, gesticulating and pointing as I held forth with my position.

  “Right, then.” His voice shook a little. “You—erm—make excellent points.”

  “And I have not finished making excellent points,” I told him, whirling around to pace back in the opposite direction (easier to do in trousers, but not nearly as satisfying as feeling the swirl of skirts and petticoats emphasizing the sudden movement). “You said my footprints were there? You think I would leave footprints at a crime scene? I, the daughter of Sir Mycroft and the niece of Sherlock?”

  “N-no,” he replied, muffling a cough behind his hand. “I don’t believe you would.”

  “Indeed.” I was out of breath by this point, and desperately in need of something to drink, thanks to the cotton that had been in my mouth. I plunked myself back into the chair and looked around hopefully for a jug that might contain water.

  He must have read my mind, for he strode over on those long legs to the mechanized water pump over a minuscule sink. After a short hum, followed by a splashing stream, he presented me with a cup of water. “Your voice sounds rough. I wouldn’t want anything to—er—inhibit your speech, Miss Holmes.”

  There was a glint in his eyes that indicated he was having a moment of levity, possibly at my expense, but I much preferred that to the cool assessing look of moments ago. I drank gratefully.

  “Thank you,” I said calmly when I had finished. “Now, tell me what exactly is ‘the case’ against me, Inspector Grayling.”

  “Right, then.” He scratched his nose. “As I said previously, there are witnesses who saw you arguing with Frederick Boggs five days ago—”

  “That’s impossible. I’ve never met the man before.”

  Grayling gave me a tight smile. “Did you want to actually hear the case against you, or shall I subside and allow you to continue ranting?”

  I glared at him, but said nothing.

  “Right, then. Witnesses put you at his house. They saw you—or someone”—he held up his hands to forestall my furious denial—“arguing with Boggs on his doorstep. Or at least speaking vehemently. Four days later, yesterday morning, he was found dead from a blow to the back of his head. There are footprints that match a pair of your shoes—”

  “How on earth do they know the footprints match my shoes? Oh, I see. They must have retrieved them when they went into my house yesterday, after I left. The blackguards!”

  Grayling’s expression was serious. “There was also your calling card, Miss Holmes. It was found crumpled beneath the body.”

  “That means nothing, of course.”

  He pursed his lips then seemed to change his mind about what to say. “It’s obvious that while you’re clearly innocent of the crime”—I nodded regally at this acknowledgment of my previous excellent arguments—“the evidence at the scene makes it plain that you should be considered a suspect—the only suspect. Which means that someone has gone out of their way to frame you up for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  My insides tightened. He’d uttered the very conclusion at which I’d already arrived—and, for once, hoped that I was wrong.

  “That means someone wants me in jail. Or—or worse.” Hanged. I swallowed hard and immediately put the thought from my mind. I was innocent.

  Grayling nodded grimly. “Someone certainly wants you out of the way or otherwise occupied, Miss Holmes. And quite desperately—for whoever it is has gone to significant trouble to create a scene that clearly implicates you.”

  “Not to mention committing a murder in the process,” I said. “Abhorrent.”

  “Indeed.” His eyes searched mine, and I found it difficult to pull my gaze away as he spoke gently. “Who would do such a thing, Mina? And why?”

  I couldn’t answer the latter question, but I had a very good idea about the answer to the first.

  The Ankh.

  The Ankh was up to her old tricks—and doing her best to keep away the only person she knew could stop her. Me.

  The only real question that remained was why.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ The Difference Between Early & Late Morning Editions ~

  My conversation with Ned went far better than I’d hoped.

  He arrived just after noon. I’d been chafing and pacing for two hours, waiting for his message. It wasn’t my nerves that caused my pacing in the front parlor. It was Florence.

  I wanted to shout at her to sit down and do some auto-embroidery or something like that, but I kept my mouth shut and waited. I wondered how long it would take Lady Isabella to respond to my message—and what she would think when she received it.

  I mulled over where Mina had gone, and whether it was possible she had murdered this Frederick Boggs person. While I couldn’t imagine a scenario where she had, that didn’t mean it was impossible. And if she had murdered Boggs, surely she’d had a good reason to do so. Even though I was annoyed with her, I could admit that.

  One thing was certain: if my sister-in-law didn’t stop pacing and lecturing me and wailing over things she couldn’t control, I was going to be facing a murder charge.

  Ned, who never rose before eleven, did finally arrive—just in time to keep Florence from going completely mad. He didn’t seem to be in any disgruntled state of mind, and I thought perhaps (and I know Florence had hoped) that he hadn’t seen the papers.

  But after his regular kiss-on-the-cheek greeting, he waited for me to sit. Then he tossed a packet of newspaper onto the table in front of me. It was the Times, open to the society page. And there was the headline about me, screaming from the paper.

  I winced and gritted my teeth.
r />   “I see you had a bit of a detour yesterday, then, Evaline? After tea at Cosgrove Terrace?” He gave me a small smile as he flipped up the hems of his coat so they wouldn’t wrinkle when he sat next to me. “Scotland Yard? What on earth would have taken you there?”

  Florence had fled the parlor as soon as Ned arrived, but I knew she was listening at the keyhole. Surely she was relieved by the nonchalant tone of voice and his easy expression.

  I had had plenty of time to formulate what I thought was a reasonable explanation. I leaned closer and made a point of glancing conspiratorially at the parlor door. “I didn’t want Florence to know, but I stopped in to report a thief. While Middy was driving me home, I saw a boy break the side window in a watch shop. He got away with a handful of timepieces, and since I couldn’t chase him”—I smiled demurely—“I thought I must do the right thing and report the scoundrel.”

  “What a very smart thing to do, Evaline.” Ned smiled. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Why did I feel as if he were patting me on the head again?

  “I should hope anyone would have done the same, had they witnessed such a crime.”

  “Indeed. But what an odd thing for a person to do in broad daylight,” Ned commented. “Such a risk.”

  But I was ready for him. “I thought exactly the same thing. But it was on a narrow side street, and I suppose since the weather was so terrible, and it was dark and stormy, the thief thought he was safe in taking the chance. I didn’t see any constables about—probably they were staying out of the bad weather too—and so I thought I’d best go directly to the Met.”

  “Well, again, I’m very relieved to know that my future wife inconvenienced herself in order to do the right thing. I’m certain the shop owner will be pleased to know that someone cared enough to help.”

  I braced myself, for the next obvious question would be “what was the name of the shop?” or at least “where was the shop, then, Evaline?” but, to my surprise, Ned didn’t pursue the topic any further.

  Instead, he gave me a rueful look. “And now I must apologize to you, my dear, for I’d intended to take you to dinner tonight at Fenciful’s, but I’d forgotten about a business engagement that will keep me occupied all evening.”

  All evening? What a terrible shame.

  “I’m very sorry, and I hope you understand,” he continued.

  “Of course I understand—business must come first. I was looking forward to trying Fenciful’s—I’ve heard wonderful things about a dish of fried olives they serve. Miss Southerby, I believe it was, had been telling me about it. But surely there will be another evening.” I tried to sound appropriately disappointed without appearing petulant. Since I wasn’t feeling either emotion, I’m not certain how believable I was.

  “I promise it,” he said with a smile. “As soon as possible. Now, my dear, I must be on my way. I wasn’t expecting to make a detour to your side of town this morning, but of course I had to answer your summons. It’s not all that often that you deign to send for me.” His smile curved into teasing, affectionate one. “Never say I’m not an attentive fiancé—or husband. I’m looking forward to seeing you on Friday night.”

  I blinked. Oh, right. My birthday masquerade. “It should be interesting,” I replied vaguely.

  “I hope you recognize me,” he said, then, rising, he kissed me on the mouth (since no one was around to witness it) and took his leave.

  The fact that the meeting was done and over so quickly—and without any of the high emotion Florence had anticipated—was so surprising that I sat in the parlor for a few moments.

  Then my sister-in-law burst into the room. She looked absolutely radiant. Tears of relief were actually glistening in her eyes. “Oh, Evaline, well done,” she said. “Well done.”

  As I was still feeling rather stiff and annoyed with her, I merely nodded.

  She didn’t seem to notice, for she’d gone off on a rambling tangent about lace napkins for the wedding supper.

  As usual, I wasn’t listening.

  But this time I had a good excuse.

  When Ned left, he’d knocked the Times to the floor. I reached to pick it up and saw that not only had he left the Early Edition, but a single page Late Morning Edition was also in the sheaf. It was the headline on the latter that jumped out at me: Prisoner Escapes!

  My heart surged into my throat as I read the second part of the headline below it: Suspect in Bartholomew Murder Leaves the Met in a Bind.

  I stared at the words for a long time before they, and the accompanying article, actually sank in.

  Pix had escaped from jail sometime late last night.

  Only a short while after I’d been at Scotland Yard.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Our Heroine Pontificates Further ~

  You are as familiar with the workings of the criminal mind as I am, Inspector. Surely it’s not necessary for me to enumerate all the possible ways the villain could have obtained a pair of my shoes in order to create false evidence,” I said calmly.

  “Indeed not,” Grayling replied.

  “As well as one of my calling cards.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I need not mention that anyone could don a disguise that, at a distance, might appear to be me.” I had already explained the innocent reason I’d been in the vicinity of Boggs’s home last week, which had obviously been part of the grand scheme of the Ankh—although, of course, I could never have known that at the time.

  “Certainly.”

  “Therefore it behooves us to focus on the why, rather than the how. I am already quite certain of the who.”

  He lifted a brow, but I decided to be reticent in naming the Ankh at this early stage.

  “I suppose you are speaking of the individual known as the Ankh,” he said.

  I managed to hide my surprise. “Who else?” I responded coolly.

  “I happen to concur with your surmise, Miss Holmes. Ever since the—er—incident at The Carnelian Crow—well, since the Theophanine Chess Queen debacle—there’s been no doubt in my mind as to the cunning perfidy of that woman.”

  I eyed him, searching for evidence that he might actually be aware of her true identity, but there was nothing in his expression that indicated he did. Or didn’t. I was still considering whether to broach the subject when a strange click-clattering sound came from the large desk in the corner.

  Grayling immediately went to the table, whose surface, as I’ve previously mentioned, was cluttered with a jumble of devices and mechanical parts. Apparently, however, a portion of the disorder was an actual gadget that had turned on—seemingly of its own accord.

  Not a gadget, but some sort of communication machine, I realized after I sidled over to peek around his shoulder. But not a telegram machine.

  It was a typing device, but Grayling wasn’t pressing the keys. No one was. Instead, letters appeared one by one on a strip of paper as if someone was using one of those typing machines to write out a message but no one was there. I realized that somehow the information was coming across—perhaps via a telegraph wire—and causing the machine to type a message all on its own.

  Fascinating! I wondered if all of the homicide inspectors had such a device in their homes, then thought of Inspector Luckworth and immediately rejected the idea.

  To my frustration, Grayling stepped in front of the device and blocked my view—purposely, I knew.

  “What is it?” I asked when he hissed under his breath.

  He snatched the paper from the machine with a sharp rip and glared at it. “Edison Smith—the individual also known as Pix—has escaped from the Met.” He transferred his attention back to me. “I apologize, Miss Holmes, but I must take my leave immediately. This is quite disastrous.”

  “Yes, of course.” My mind was already working in many different directions. “I’d offer to accompany you—to offer my assistance in examining for clues as to how he managed to liberate himself—but of course it wouldn’t be prudent for me to be seen
at Scotland Yard. Despite the efficacy of my disguise.”

  Grayling made a strangled sort of noise. “Most certainly not, Miss Holmes. But—er—where will you go?”

  I smiled mysteriously. “’Tis none of your concern, Inspector.”

  “But Miss Holmes, I must insist—I mean to say, you cannot stay here, of course, but I am certain—”

  “Not at all, Inspector. I assure you, I will be quite safe.” I breezed over to scoop up my coat, hat, and the satchel I’d put aside. My false mustache and the other underpinnings of my disguise I’d stuffed inside the pockets. I could don them whilst riding in a hack.

  “Where are you staying?” he said in a voice that was quite insistent and could almost be described as strident.

  I shook my head, still smiling. “That information I will not divulge, Inspector Grayling. Simply know that I am safe at the home of a friend.” (Identifying Pix as a friend was quite a stretch, I admit, but that vernacular was an attempt to mislead the inspector of course.)

  “A friend?” he snapped, and I got the impression that I’d done something to anger or upset him. “Right, then. I should have guessed it.”

  Bewildered by this mercurial change of mood, I slowly pulled on my coat and hat. “Inspector, I am grateful for your time and the information you’ve given me about the case against me. Particularly since you aren’t the one investigating it—although I venture to say if you had been, you’d have contacted me in a much less vulgar manner than sending six constables to arrest me.”

  If I thought that wry statement might coax a glimmer of humor into his eyes, I was disappointed. Instead, he said, “I must leave straightaway, Miss Holmes. I beg your pardon.”

  “Oh.” Feeling even more confused, I followed him to the door, casting one last look at Angus—who’d been uncharacteristically quiet for some time. As I stepped toward the threshold, I saw the beast in the corner.