The Zeppelin Deception Read online

  He was gleefully chewing on the edge of the new rug.

  The advantage of Grayling’s sudden need to leave along with his coolness toward me was that it left me the freedom to do what I had meant to do earlier: examine the scene of the crime at Frederick Boggs’s home.

  Despite my protestations, the inspector saw me safely (and efficiently, yet with a bare minimum of conversation) into a taxi. The last thing I saw as the hack rolled off was him removing the special magnetic canvas from his steam cycle.

  I settled back into the seat of the carriage and reapplied my costume while contemplating what had caused him to become so short with me. Then I realized that of course it had nothing to do with me—for Pix had escaped from jail.

  I knew that the murder of Hiram Bartholomew was one of Grayling’s only unsolved cases. Surely he’d been looking forward to closing that one, and now, with that slippery miscreant’s escape, he’d been dealt an unpleasant turn of fate. That would dampen anyone’s mood.

  Still, what had he meant when he responded to my teasing jest that I was staying at a friend’s house? What was it he’d said… A friend? Right, then. I should have known.

  This sort of pique was very uncharacteristic of the steady, even-tempered Scot (despite his gingery hair, which in some individuals is an indication of short temper).

  I set those thoughts aside as the hack approached Boggs’s house. It would take only a few moments for me to examine the crime scene to determine whether the real murderer had left any clues to his—rather, her—identity.

  Although I was convinced the Ankh was behind this entire debacle, I wasn’t certain that she herself had actually done the deed. In fact, if I wasn’t convinced it was she who’d ensured I’d be named as the culprit, I would have dismissed it as impossible that the elegant, measured villainess would have resorted to conducting such a clumsy method of murder herself for the same reasons I would never do the same.

  As much as I am loath to admit it even now, Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt and I were very much alike. We possessed many of the same admirable characteristics, we thought similarly, we were intensely quick-witted, vastly intelligent, and superior in our reasoning and deductive skills. That was, of course, why she’d entreated me to become her ally and partner that night at The Carnelian Crow.

  And she’d been correct. Together, Isabella and I would be not only formidable, but, I believed, utterly unstoppable in any endeavor we undertook. We could, quite literally, rule the world. (Or at least the civilized part of it.)

  It was a shame she’d elected to utilize her skills and intelligence for evildoing—although, to be fair, I suppose she didn’t think of herself as doing evil. No great villain ever does.

  I wasn’t long at Frederick Boggs’s house. It wasn’t difficult to gain entry; no one was in attendance at the crime scene.

  (That is the sort of lapse that causes Uncle Sherlock to rage and harrumph about, for he is of the mind—and now that I’ve conducted several of my own investigations, I wholly concur with his position—that the crime scene must be preserved for several days, if not weeks, so that all bits of evidence can be collected from it. Allowing all and sundry to wander through within days or even hours of a murder taking place only ensures that whatever tracks the criminal might have left would be obliterated or otherwise disturbed.)

  I was mildly disappointed that no one was there, for I’d been prepared to explain that I was a journalist from the Betrovian Standard and the fiction of Mr. Boggs being a well-known purveyor and exporter of Betrovian water-silk (which, of course, is quite rare and astronomically expensive; thus there would be public interest in such a man’s demise). As it was, I was able to walk inside with the same ease of entering my own home.

  The first thing I noticed was a photograph of a man and woman in formal dress. At the bottom was printed: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Boggs.

  So now I knew what Mr. Boggs—the man I supposedly murdered—looked like. And he seemed vaguely familiar. In fact…it was possible he was the man in the photograph with my mother and Emmett Oligary and Pix.

  But I couldn’t be certain.

  I moved on to the kitchen, where the scene of the crime was evident, for Scotland Yard had at least marked off part of the area with bright orange ribbon, and some enterprising individual had drawn out the position and location of the body in bright blue chalk.

  I had just crouched to examine the floor when I heard voices approaching.

  Drat!

  I bolted to my feet just in time to see Sergeant Blaketon and another of the constables strolling along the block toward the house.

  I had no choice but to make a premature exit. I slipped out the back door and around to the front of the house, passing Blaketon just as he turned to approach the Boggs residence. I had no fear he would recognize me in my disguise, but I was still quite frustrated, for I had barely looked at the crime scene.

  I hailed another hack—reluctantly, for I was now down to my last bit of money. I didn’t dare attempt to broach the entrance of my own home to replenish my funds, for it had become a sunny day (relatively speaking) and there were too many people about. Though I wouldn’t be recognized, it would certainly cause comment if a strange man was seen entering the Holmes residence.

  Thus I was forced to contemplate returning immediately to the safety of Pix’s lair, which, as I’m certain the astute reader would have figured out by now, was an excellent plan.

  For if he’d escaped from jail, surely that was the first place he’d go.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Our Heroine’s Desire Is Stymied ~

  Florence was so relieved to learn that Ned wasn’t upset about the news article that she left me alone for the rest of the day. I think she was reviewing lace samples for the ribbons that were to festoon the chairs at the wedding feast, but I didn’t care to ask.

  I was far too distracted by the warring emotions and wild thoughts battling through me.

  Instead, I tried to take a nap so I would be fresh for the night. (I don’t think I actually slept.)

  Florence was to accompany Bram to a dinner party with some of the Lyceum Theater’s sponsors—a number which had swelled noticeably since my engagement was announced—so she was spending her afternoon preparing for that. Thus, she wasn’t around to harass me.

  Tonight would be the first time I sneaked out of the house since my engagement was announced, and Pepper would make certain I was fully equipped. I knew exactly where to find Pix, and I intended to confront him—and bring him back into custody if he didn’t go willingly. Didn’t he realize things would be much worse for him if he didn’t? My hands were icy, and there was a heavy, solid rock inside my stomach.

  What a fool he was!

  I was so distracted that it wasn’t until early in the evening when I realized I’d never received a response from Lady Isabella. Unless it had come while I was taking a nap (trying to), and Brentwood had decided not to bother me.

  The clock struck seven as I hurried down from my bedchamber to see whether a message had been left for me on the salver in the front hall. I wasn’t intending to visit Lady Isabella this late, for it was approaching suppertime, but I didn’t want to be rude and not respond.

  The salver, a gleaming, ornate silver tray, was empty. Hmm. I opened the drawer in the table. It was empty of everything but stationery and a mechanized ink-pen. I frowned. How strange that she hadn’t sent word back from my message. She’d seemed so desperate for social interactions yesterday. And surely she would have been intrigued by my note.

  Her message hadn’t fallen on the floor; I checked. The table stood on four elegant, curving legs, and the area beneath it was clear of any envelopes. But there were cobwebs and a little clump of dust behind one of the legs, along with a string that I recognized was from my nephew Noel’s pony pull toy.

  I frowned. That was what happened when a place the size of Grantworth House was making do with a very small staff of servants. Our housekeeper Mrs. Gernum was stretched to mana
ge with only one chambermaid and the cook, along with Pepper.

  Because I had bent slightly to look beneath the table, I noticed a tiny corner of white poking down from behind the top of it. An envelope had fallen down between the table and the wall and lodged there.

  Aha. I slipped it out, expecting to see the seal from Cosgrove Terrace. Instead, I recognized the firm, no-nonsense penmanship of Mina Holmes.

  I caught my breath and stared at it for a moment. Then I tore it open.

  I gasped again when I realized it was from two months ago. The morning after The Carnelian Crow.

  Evaline:

  I cannot adequately express my regrets over the unexpected conclusion of our activities last night. I’m certain it must have been quite a shock to you for your friend to have been arres taken away so abruptly.

  I’ve also seen the announcement in today’s papers, and I confess I was rather shocked that you hadn’t mentioned the imminence of such an important event when we were together. Despite my surprise at your choice to resolve your conundrum in this manner, please know that you have my complete understanding and support as you embark on this new adventure.

  I expect you’ll be quite busy, but I hope you’ll call as soon as you are able. We have much to discuss.

  —Mina

  I sank into an armless chair in the foyer, staring at the note. It changed everything.

  After a moment, I rose slowly, still staring at the message. Everything I’d thought and believed in the last two months was suddenly different. Upside down.

  Still stunned, I pulled the table away from the wall to make certain nothing else had become lodged back there. A pen clattered to the floor, but no other envelopes.

  I sighed. Now what was I going to do? Mina was in hiding somewhere, and I realized I wanted—no, I needed—to talk to her.

  A sudden, strong knocking at the door pulled me from my thoughts. In a more formal (and well-staffed) household, I would have waited for Brentwood to answer it, even though I was right there. But I don’t stand on formality, and so I opened it myself.

  “Inspector Grayling!” I couldn’t have been more shocked. I started to wonder what on earth he’d be doing here, then I realized he was probably coming to tell me what he’d learned about the case against Mina. “Come in.”

  “Miss Stoker.” He seemed very businesslike and not at all friendly. “May I have a—er—private word with you?”

  “Of course. The parlor is this way.”

  Brentwood had appeared from the butler’s pantry, and his eyes were wide with disbelief at my dismissal of propriety by actually opening the door myself. I waved at him to go away, and he did—reluctantly.

  Grayling didn’t waste any time. As soon as I’d taken a seat on the divan, he said, “The individual known as Pix has escaped from police custody.”

  “Yes, I know.” What on earth did this have to do with Mina and the murder of Frederick Boggs?

  “You were there yesterday. You spoke with him—and then, only hours later, he was gone. Miss Stoker, I am fully aware of your—er—connection to the man, as well as your rather—er—unconventional skills. Did you have anything to do with his escape?”

  “No!” I was outraged. “Of course not! Why would I help a murderer escape?” I realized too late that my voice had risen and was likely carrying through the house. Fortunately, Florence was already gone.

  Grayling looked at me suspiciously. “Miss Stoker, do you understand that aiding and abetting a criminal can land you in prison as well? If you had anything to do with it, I enjoin you to tell me now, rather than later.”

  I was so shocked that my mouth moved silently like that of a fish out of water. It took a moment before I could speak. “Inspector Grayling, I assure you, I had nothing to do with that loathsome man’s escape. As far as I’m concerned, he should be in jail.”

  He still seemed skeptical, but he nodded. “Very well, Miss Stoker. Thank you for your time.” He hadn’t sat down, and now he turned to leave.

  I bolted from the sofa. “Inspector, wait. Can you tell me anything about the—the problem with Mina? The case against her? Did you learn anything? Have you spoken to her?”

  He paused at the parlor door. “It’s not my case, but I have done some investigation. I’m confident Miss Holmes is innocent of the charges, and I’ll be speaking with Sergeant Blaketon about it as soon as possible.”

  “Is she back at home, then?”

  His face stiffened. “I don’t believe Miss Holmes has returned to her home. And at the moment, I’m in search of a more dangerous criminal, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  I was still unsettled by Grayling’s visit and accusation when I left the house three hours later. Normally, I would climb out the window of my bedchamber and down the large oak that grew there. But since Florence was gone, there was no need to do that. Besides, I was wearing a heavy cloak against the cold night, and that would have gotten tangled in the branches.

  There was no need to expect—hope—that a secretive figure might detach itself from the shadows beneath that tree and greet me as I stepped onto the ground.

  Oh, Pix, you fool.

  I thrust those sappy thoughts from my mind. Edison Smith was an accused murderer, and I had to face the fact that it was very likely he was the culprit.

  After all, why else would he be slinking around the city wearing disguises all the time?

  The street was empty, for it was quite cold. Everyone must be tucked away somewhere warm. Other than the rustle of the trees in the breeze above and the yip of a nearby dog, the night was quiet and still.

  Because I had, as Grayling put it, unconventional skills, I chose to walk to Whitechapel. I daresay I’m the only person in London—male or female—who could be perfectly safe doing so, even at night.

  I was in a strange, prickly, angry mood.

  I needed to use all of the fury and frustration that had built up in me over the last two months. I felt tight as a cog with a splinter of wood in its teeth—grinding helplessly, unable to move. My breath came out in sharp white bursts in the frigid night.

  I walked confidently, daring the dangers that lurked in the dark to accost me. Rapists, muggers, murderers—I was ready for all of them.

  Even more than that, I itched to encounter an UnDead. I paid close attention to the back of my neck, waiting to feel that eerie, telltale prickle that indicated one was nearby. But it was unlikely.

  There simply weren’t any vampires in London anymore—other than the few Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had found and taken under her wing. And, with the help of Grayling, Pix, and even Mina, I’d slain most—if not all of them—at The Carnelian Crow.

  I wondered again why Lady Isabella had asked for my assistance with the UnDead. Were there any left? Were they truly out of control? Or was she only trying to trick me?

  From what Mina and I had been able to piece together, Lady Isabella—as the Ankh—had been using the little devices called batteries to attempt to control the UnDead by using small wires to connect the small mechanisms to their bodies. She had done the same with Lord Belmont. We had seen the result of that when he jumped from the balcony at Cosgrove Terrace during the Yule Fête, so obviously she’d made some progress.

  But since Mina and I hadn’t spoken after that night at The Carnelian Crow, we hadn’t had the opportunity to share our experiences and talk about why the Ankh was doing this. I knew the villainess despised the way women were treated in our society—upper-class ladies like herself, particularly. I’d heard the speech she gave to the members of the Society of Sekhmet—all young women my age—meant to rouse their anger and to encourage them to join her cause.

  Little did they know, her “cause” meant that one or more of them would die during the process.

  Although her arguments and complaints rang true, at the time I dismissed her thoughts and ideas because I knew I was different. I had those “unconventional skills” that would protect me and enable me to move about in this world in
a manner no one else could. I wasn’t going to be repressed and restricted like those other young ladies. I would never marry.

  Ha.

  My laugh was bitter and audible in the cold night.

  Who was the fool now?

  By now, I’d found my way to Whitechapel. Fenman’s End squatted like an ugly toad there at the intersection of two dark, cluttered roads whose street signs were long gone—if they’d ever existed.

  How was it that I’d come all this way and no one had accosted me? It was infuriating.

  I strode into Fenman’s End. At least there, I could stir up something that would allow me to expend some of the pent-up energy inside me.

  Inside, I looked around for a likely victim. Someone whose chair I could take, or a person who might be in a mood as feisty as my own and willing to start an argument. Or someone that I could insult and otherwise provoke into a fight. Or challenge to an arm wrestle.

  There was no one inside. No one except Bilbo, at the bar counter, who merely lifted a brow when he saw me. This was the first time I’d ever come into Fenman’s End when no one was here. How was that possible?

  Was the entirety of London conspiring against me tonight?

  Where were all the lowlifes? The criminals? The angry, dangerous men who had nothing better to do than to cause trouble—or to sit around and drink?

  Where was that blasted Jack the Ripper?

  My feet pounded angrily as I walked across the room, the heavy cloak swishing about like a sail caught in heavy wind.

  “’Bout bloody time ye made yer way ’ere, Molly-Sue,” growled Bilbo.

  I eyed him for a moment, then dismissed the idea of starting something with him. He was tough and wiry, but I didn’t actually want to get that close to him, let alone touch him. Even though I was wearing gloves, I had enough exposed skin that something slimy or smelly would probably attach itself to me.