The Spiritglass Charade Page 19

  “It’s brushed and the badge polished. And the button fixed as well. That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss Holmes.” He hung the coat on a hook inside the door.

  “I’ll pass on your gratitude to Mrs. Raskill. It was her doing,” I confessed. “I see Angus has been availing himself of your hospitality by gnawing on your footwear.”

  “Oh, aye. The little menace seems to prefer the taste of my leather boots to the beef bones I give him to chew. I’ve had to buy two new pairs since the little boyo took over my house.” Despite his words, Grayling seemed unaware when the menace in question flopped on the ground and began to sharpen his puppy teeth on the edge of his new boots.

  “Erm . . . Inspector.” I gestured to the little devil.

  “Angus, nay there.” He reached down to snatch up the dog. Ears flopped and a tongue swiped out, catching Grayling along his firm, square chin. “Little beastie.”

  “I’ve also come to see if you’ve made any progress in the investigation of Mrs. Yingling’s murder.” I pulled my attention from the dog and his enthusiastic affection for his master. Poor creature had no idea how misguided he was.

  “Ah, the ulterior motive is revealed.” Grayling set Angus back down. “Well, you might as well come in.”

  I stepped over the threshold into the office. It was immediately clear which workspace was Grayling’s and which belonged to Inspector Luckworth. The latter was absent at the moment, but his desk was obvious, for it showcased cluttered stacks of papers, broken pencils and their shavings, a handheld magnifying glass, notepads, two cups, and, most telling of all, the childish drawing of a stick figure wearing a too-large badge and a too-small hat.

  Grayling’s work area was just as strewn with paper piles, but on his desk was an automated Ink-Stipper for refilling writing implements, the newest model of Mr. Kodak’s camera, a stack of books (one of which I recognized as the excellent Gray’s Anatomy), and a small wooden case that likely contained some sort of gadget. I also noticed an efficient-looking Ocular-Magnifyer, as well as a slick mechanized measuring device I immediately coveted. Next to the desk were a number of photographs tacked onto a wallboard.

  Intrigued, I walked over to look at the board and was pleasantly surprised to find a collection of images from none other than Mrs. Yingling’s rooms. Aside from the photographs, Grayling had included sketches of the room layout, as well as a draft of the position in which the body had been found. There was also a picture of what appeared to be a fingerprint.

  “What is this?”

  Grayling’s cheeks became slightly more ruddy. “It’s my case-wall. I find it easier to study and make observations when the information is spread out in front of me.”

  What a fascinating way to display the elements of an investigation. I was entranced.

  “He stares at it for hours on end, he does,” came a voice behind us. “Waste of time, I say, all those photographs and measurements. Good afternoon, Miss Holmes.”

  I turned to see Inspector Luckworth. He carried two paper-wrapped sandwiches (which immediately caught Angus’s attention) and a new cup of something steaming. Coffee, from the smell. His gait was even, which indicated he’d finally taken my previous advice and had his mechanical hip adjusted—although he clearly hadn’t changed his habit of trying to shave in the dim light of morning rather than lighting a lamp.

  “Hello, Inspector Luckworth,” I said. “Wife’s been away to the Brighton shore for a few weeks, I see. Taken the children with her too, I presume.”

  “What? Hm? How did you know that?” He looked around as if to see the ghost of his wife or some other specter standing behind him, giving me the information.

  I gestured to his desk. “The postmarked envelope from Hove and its accompanying letter signed ‘All my love, Bettina’ was the clue. Along with the small finger smudges on the paper itself. It appears your children are very fond of toffees.”

  Luckworth mumbled something about cheeky young ladies and unceremoniously dropped Grayling’s sandwich on his desk. “Don’t know why you’re wasting your time with that Bertillon bloke’s ideas.” He settled into his chair with an ominous creak. “And now you’re all worked up about that Doctor Frauds and his harebrained schemes. Detective work’s not about photographs and measurements. It’s ’bout long hours, lots of talking to people and tracking blokes down, and paperwork. Lots of blooming paperwork.”

  Clearly, that was Luckworth’s biggest complaint.

  I slid a glance at Grayling, whose mouth had tightened at his partner’s diatribe. “Dr. Faulds has a sensible theory that fingerprints can be used to identify people,” he replied evenly. “There’s no harm in beginning to build a collection of them, ye ken, if I choose to spend my own time and resources on it?” The fact that his Scottish brogue had become more pronounced seemed to indicate his rising irritation.

  Then, as if recalling I was still present and witness to this exchange, Grayling turned to me. “Miss Holmes, as you can see, I’ve not forgotten about the unfortunate Mrs. Yingling. Chloroform was found in her body, confirming our suspicions that she was, indeed, murdered. Poisoned. And at this time, it’s my belief the murderer was an individual—most likely a man—approximately five feet, eight inches tall. His hair is medium brown and he—or she—is presumably of the upper class, and with a fairly athletic ability, for as you are aware the perpetrator entered or exited from the window. And the perpetrator was in Mayfair within twenty-four hours of the violent event taking place.”

  “Indeed.” I confess, I was a bit taken aback by Grayling’s certainty. He sounded uncomfortably like my uncle.

  “And, of course, you would already be aware that he is right-handed.” Now there was the most subtle note of triumph in his voice.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “But there are countless upper-class men with brown hair of that height in the city.”

  “I don’t argue that. But I have a copy of the culprit’s fingerprint, which, despite my partner’s rude comments, could be matched to a suspect, should we identify him.”

  “Or her.”

  “Or her.” Grayling nodded. “Precisely. And as poison is generally the tool of a woman, one must keep all options open. It would have been no trouble for even a slight woman to overcome the frail Mrs. Yingling with a rag soaked in chloroform.”

  Luckworth made a snorting sort of noise that would never have been accepted in polite company. “You can ’ave your fingerprints and measurements, ’Brose, but I’ll stick with old-fashioned, handmaker ways. We’ll see who finds the culprit first.”

  At that moment, an energetic rustling caught my attention. “Oh, no, Angus!”

  The recalcitrant pup had sneaked Grayling’s sandwich from the desk and was now tearing into its paper.

  “Angus, ye blooming beast!” The ginger-haired detective lunged and managed to save most of his sandwich, but I suspected he’d find puppy bite-marks in the bread anyway. “This is for you, ye nogginhead.” He picked up a bone from the floor and gave it to the pup. Angus sniffed at it, then crawled under the desk with his prize. He looked out at us with a woebegone expression, then began to gnaw on his treat.

  “Very well then, Inspector. I appreciate your information and would like to add some of my own.” I went on to tell him what I’d learned about the dirt sample from Miss Ashton’s front porch. “Therefore, the list of suspects is rather more limited than you might have believed.”

  “Thank you, Miss Holmes,” he said. “That is very helpful information. I shall take it under advisement and compare my measurements with the list of individuals who visited the Ashton household.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll be on my way.” I started toward the door.

  “Miss Holmes.”

  I turned to discover Grayling in my wake. As always, I found it irritating to have to look so far up to meet his eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’ll escort you out.” I lifted my brows in surprise, and he added quickly, “There are always unsavory characters being brought in here. I�
�d hate for you to encounter one.”

  “I see.” I didn’t, quite, but I wasn’t about to make a scene with Luckworth as witness, despite the fact that the older inspector seemed quite involved with his ham and cheddar sandwich. Angus, for his part, had emerged from exile under the desk. He was delighted with the shower of crumbs from the crusty bread.

  “I trust you came through the activities of the other evening with no ill effects,” said Grayling as we walked down the corridor together.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “The injury on your arm?”

  “A mere glancing blow. And you?”

  “None at all, of course.”

  We walked several more paces in silence, then he added, “And I trust your party wasn’t completely disrupted by your unexpected bathing in the river?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I see you haven’t given up consorting with that questionable young man,” Grayling said. “Dylan Eckhert? An American and a likely thief.”

  I glanced at up him but held my tongue. Grayling knew Dylan as an intruder who’d attempted to break into the British Museum, and clearly remembered my part in releasing him from prison. He didn’t know, of course, that Dylan was an American from the twenty-first century. “The charges against him were dropped.”

  “Aye, they were.” His response was so bland as to imply his disappointment with that occurrence.

  We’d reached the main entrance to the building, and I was prepared to walk outside and be on my way. “Thank you for your time, Inspector Grayling. And for the use of your coat.”

  He looked down at me and all at once I was reminded of that moment two nights ago, when his powerful hands pulled away my corset. Considering the fact that it was an extremely well-constructed garment, with slender leather thongs threaded through metal grommets stitched firmly into the boned satin, it must have taken great strength to rip it apart. My face heated and I was aware of a strange, rolling pitch in my lower belly.

  “Miss Holmes.” His voice carried an odd note. “I—er . . . what you did, chasing that thief, I thought was quite—heroic. Foolish, you understand, but heroic nonetheless.”

  I blinked, stunned and yet piqued at the same time. Before I could respond, he gave a brief bow. “Good day, Miss Holmes. Do attempt to keep yourself from any other foolish situations.”

  Then he spun on his heel and walked away.

  Miss Stoker

  An Unexpected Arrival

  After speaking with Miss Ashton in her bedchamber, Mina went home. She claimed she needed to knit, of all things. I couldn’t imagine anything more unlikely than cognoggin Mina Holmes making a sweater . . . except for Mina Holmes staking a vampire. I snickered, envisioning her lecturing the UnDead to death.

  In Mina’s absence, I was charged with watching over Miss Ashton. “I don’t want her out of your sight,” my partner ordered.

  The only problem was I’d promised Florence I’d go shopping with her today.

  She’d greeted me when I left in the morning. “The Opening Night Ball is on Sunday. That’s only three days! And as much as I prefer to have custom-made gowns, you’re going to have to settle for a ready-made ensemble, I fear, unless we get very lucky with Madame today.”

  I hadn’t much choice but to agree to accompany Florence on the long-awaited shopping trip. But, as much as Mina Holmes might think otherwise, I’m not a fool. I was fully aware of the danger Miss Ashton was in, and that she couldn’t be left unguarded.

  Thus, as soon as I mentioned Willa Ashton’s young, single cousin Herrell, with whom I’d walked through Vauxhall, Florence was delighted to include Miss Ashton in our excursion. So, I invited Willa to come shopping with us—and the girl agreed enthusiastically, despite her aunt’s insistence she stay in bed.

  Willa looked slightly better than she had earlier this morning but still had dark circles under her eyes. However, she was stylishly dressed, her hair coiffed and cream gloves spotless. She sparkled with excitement at the prospect of a day out.

  We spent a pleasant afternoon shopping. Willa seemed to have forgotten her worries, and she and Florence got on well together. It was after six-thirty when we arrived back at the Ashton home, and Willa was kind enough to invite Florence and me in for a small supper.

  Aunt Geraldine, who joined our meal, was perfectly lovely and charming. She regaled us with stories about her youth spent on the Continent, including summers in Rome and Greece and a short term of study at university in Paris. The clock was striking seven forty-five by the time we finished our meal. Mr. Herrell Ashton, however, made no appearance.

  Mina wasn’t due to arrive until eight-thirty. I couldn’t think of any further reason to delay returning home with Florence, and it was close enough to her arrival that I thought Willa would be safe if I left my post. I also hoped that if I kept my sister-in-law away from home late enough into the evening, she’d get ready for bed upon our return and I’d be able to sneak back out.

  I was going hunting tonight.

  However, I delayed as long as possible, even though Florence was making signals behind Willa’s back for me to hurry. There was always the chance that the eligible Mr. Ashton might appear, which would delight my sister-in-law and could keep us there for another fifteen minutes to ensure Willa’s safety. But that didn’t happen.

  We were standing on the front porch making plans for another shopping trip when a delivery carriage drove up behind my own vehicle and parked. I hardly noticed the tall delivery man as he carried his parcel to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house, for I was scanning the street in hopes of another carriage appearing. Namely that of Mina Holmes.

  All at once a carriage came barreling around the corner. As it trundled down the street, passing the delivery wagon and my carriage, I heard a loud boom.

  Something light and sparkling erupted in the air, and smoke billowed. Willa shrieked, Florence gasped, and I spun, looking around. An accident? Not blooming likely.

  I dashed off the front porch, watching for anything that could be considered a threat. People came rushing out of nearby houses. The carriage had disappeared down the street, but a bulky item sat in the middle of the road, left behind by the speeding vehicle. Middy leapt from his seat in my carriage, and I joined him in the middle of the road. The large item was smoldering and looked like a bundle of clothing.

  “Stand back! It might explode,” I ordered.

  But neighbors gathered in the yard and street. Middy and I, as well as one of the Ashton footmen, approached the bundle. The footman had brought a pitchfork, and I held my breath as he poked the dark object.

  Nothing happened. He poked it again, using the pitchfork to open what appeared to be nothing more than a wad of cloaks and blankets.

  It continued to smolder, and though I looked around, I neither saw nor felt evidence of a threat. No vampiric chill. No villainous figure lurking in the shadows. This would be just the sort of thing Pix would do to attract my attention. Hadn’t he done so just last week in order to climb into my carriage?

  But I wasn’t taking any chances. The gawkers eased away, and I turned to Willa. “Let’s go back inside for a moment.”

  The delivery carriage pulled out from behind my vehicle, and Middy waved as he took his place back in the driver’s seat. Meanwhile, the helpful groom had poked the dark wad into a flat mass that smelled like smoke but no longer flamed.

  I turned to Florence. “I left my gloves inside. I’ll be right back. You can get settled in the carriage.”

  Still alert, I went back inside with Willa. Aunt Geraldine and the servants who’d come out to see the commotion followed us.

  “I believe I left my gloves in the parlor,” I said, walking quickly in that direction. I managed to check in every chamber on the way there. Nothing seemed off. When the gloves weren’t found in the parlor, nor in the dining room, I said, “I must have brought them up to your chamber when you showed me your new earbobs, Willa.”

  She seemed startled at t
he idea, but after my impatient gesture, she led the way. As we approached, I sensed someone within. I stopped, holding out a hand to stop her beyond the door, and I peered into the room.

  Just as I thought. It was the delivery boy. He stood at the window, looking out into the growing darkness. But he was too slight to be Pix.

  “And what have we here?” I stepped into the chamber. Willa gasped behind me, and I shook off her grip. “Stay back,” I warned just as the clock struck half-past eight.

  When I heard the sound of the chimes, I stopped. Then I began to chuckle ruefully and gestured for Willa to join me inside the room.

  The delivery boy, who was rather tall and slender, turned from the window. He swept off his cap and shucked his coat, then peeled off a false chin and pug nose.

  “Good evening, Miss Ashton. Evaline. I trust you had an enjoyable supper?”

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Miss Holmes Becomes Chilled

  Once Miss Ashton recovered from my unexpected appearance, she found the same humor in the situation as Miss Stoker did. They both plied me with questions.

  “So it was just a pile of old blankets in the street?”

  “I had to ensure everyone would run from the house at the same time, so I could remain inside, and unnoticed after my delivery. My uncle executed a similar plan when he was engaged in the Adler-Bohemian king case. It worked quite well, although the circumstances were very different.”

  “And you arranged for the man in the carriage to drop those blankets and set off a small explosion—”

  “Just at the precise moment. I didn’t know you’d be standing on the porch, but that simply made it all the more successful.”

  Evaline was fidgeting. “Florence is waiting in the carriage. I’m leaving. Good luck tonight.”

  “What do you have planned—” I began, but she slipped out before I could finish my sentence. I wondered what she had up her sleeve.

  Nevertheless, there was nothing I could do about Evaline and her tendency to hare off on adventures without taking the necessary precautions, so I turned my attention to the more pressing matter of examining the bedchamber.