The Zeppelin Deception Page 19

  “Good idea,” Evaline said. She was standing on tiptoes, looking over the crowd. “I’m going to see if I can find the Egyptian person.”

  “Don’t do anything rash, Evaline,” I said.

  “Like what?” she said then, with a grin from behind her mask, slipped off into the crowd, her delicate Greek gown rippling like a shimmery bronze veil and the elegant quiver bumping against her scapula.

  I rolled my eyes. This was precisely the sort of thing she loved: mystery and the possibility of danger. I just hoped she stayed on guard. We both had to be ready to act on a moment’s notice. It was too bad we had to split up—I would have preferred to keep my eye on her to make sure she didn’t do anything rash.

  I plowed my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes on Grayling so as not to lose him, but at the same time watching for any hint of an Egyptian-style costume. If I could find the Ankh…

  I finally reached the inspector and hurried up to him and the gentleman with whom he was in conversation. The man’s back was to me, which was why it was reasonable for me not to realize that he wasn’t masked until it was too late.

  “Oh, there you are, Inspector. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” I said, breezing into their conversation. I recognized the warning in Grayling’s eyes just an instant too late (my excuse is that they were partially hidden behind his mask).

  Then I got a good look at the other man.

  It was Sergeant Blaketon of the Met.

  The man who wanted to arrest me for murder.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Unmasking Sekhmet ~

  Be ready.

  What in the blooming Pete did that mean? Should I expect vampires? Some other danger?

  If it was the Ankh who’d warned us—which I wasn’t so certain of, even if she was at the ball—why would she bother to let us know ahead of time that something was going to happen?

  Or could it have been someone else? Miss Adler, maybe? But why would she warn us anonymously? I had already spoken to her. It just didn’t make any sense.

  I wandered over to the food table and managed to snag another two crab claws (I’d decided they were my new favorite food item—at least, that wasn’t a sweet) and then obtained a second glass of the pale blue champagne. Sipping it, I wandered through the crowd, enjoying my anonymity while poor Marie Antionette continued to manage her adoring crowd. I don’t think the girl (whoever the unlucky thing was that had inherited my costume) had managed to take two steps from where she’d been when I first saw her.

  I was just glad it wasn’t me trapped by a cluster of people, needing to make chitchat with them. And Mina was right—the poor girl hadn’t had the chance to try any of the food!

  I finally caught sight of the snake tiara about halfway to the center fountain and began to shove my way through the crowd as rudely as the person (or persons) who’d delivered the messages to Mina and me.

  When I got close enough to see that the costume was a lioness’s head, my pulse jumped.

  Yes.

  Mina was right. Of course the Ankh would be here. And her presence was her way of telling us so—for who else would think to dress as Sekhmet (except for Mina)? It was a clear signal.

  Besides, who else even knew who Sekhmet was? Well, except for the young ladies who’d been part of the Society of Sekhmet—but I would think they’d learned their lesson after three of them were murdered. Unless by wearing the costume the Ankh was quietly trying to signal the society that they should meet again…

  I threaded through the crowd faster now, uncaring that I was knocking into people or causing them to trip or bump into someone else. The orchestra had taken a break, which meant no one was dancing and everyone was just standing around in clumps, talking.

  I finally got close enough to reach Sekhmet. I grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop, uncaring that I bumped into the people around me. She spun around, stumbling into me.

  “Hello there, Sekhmet,” I said in a steely voice. “Or should I say Isabella?” Ignoring the shocked look in the blue eyes behind her lioness mask, I dragged it off her head and whipped it aside.

  It wasn’t Lady Isabella.

  It was Tarra Scott-Rondeau, the mother of the ballerina who’d been standing next to Mina a few moments ago. That was when I realized that she was shorter than Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. By several inches. Blast it.

  “Mrs. Scott-Rondeau,” I said. “Oh, dear, oh no, I am so very sorry. I—I thought you were someone else.”

  “My daughter, perhaps? Her name is Isabella, you know.” She didn’t seem upset, but she was watching me very warily. “Though no one calls her that. Only Bella.”

  I desperately hoped she didn’t recognize me beneath my helmet mask. It would be terrible if the hostess of the ball, the guest of honor, was discovered to have been so horribly rude.

  My face was already burning with mortification, which was made even warmer by the stifling helmet. “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Scott-Rondeau. Please accept my apologies. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  I started to slip away into the crowd—the sooner I got away, the better. But then I thought of something and turned back. The idea of being interrogated by Mina then listening to her grouse because I didn’t have the answers she’d try to wring from me was worse than taking the chance of being recognized.

  “Um…how did you decide to wear such a unique costume? It’s very lovely.” I realized belatedly that her lioness head with its snake tiara was still on the floor. I picked it up and handed it back to her, noticing that the snake decoration was now bent awkwardly. At least the papier-mâché lioness head-mask hadn’t been crushed.

  She smiled at me, and I was relieved that she hadn’t turned tail and run off. “It was so unexpected! And quite a happy occurrence. The costume arrived at our house today. You see, I had planned to come as a lady-in-waiting from Queen Elizabeth’s court, but somehow my costume was ruined at Mrs. Glimmerston’s and I didn’t have anything else to wear. I couldn’t let my daughter come tonight unchaperoned, of course, and as you can imagine, Bella was in tears at the thought of missing it—for it’s Miss Stoker’s masquerade, after all—and we just couldn’t imagine staying home. But then this arrived today as a replacement for my original costume. It was a most happy solution.”

  “Someone sent you the Sekhmet costume to wear?” I said.

  “Is that what it is? What’s a Sekhmet? I thought it was an Egyptian person,” she replied.

  “It is.” I was relieved Mina wasn’t present, or the poor woman would have been given an entire lecture about who Sekhmet was. And Mrs. Scott-Rondeau was far too nice to tell Mina to stop talking, so she probably would have been stuck until the ball was over and they were extinguishing the candles. “Was there any sort of message in with it?”

  “Just a note that said, ‘With compliments.’ That was it. It wasn’t even signed.”

  Very interesting. I wasn’t a Holmes, and even I could put it all together. Someone—surely the Ankh—had made certain Mrs. Scott-Rondeau’s costume had needed to be replaced, and then sent her a Sekhmet outfit in order to confuse Mina and me. “Do you still have the message? At home, I mean?”

  Mrs. Scott-Rondeau looked at me strangely. “I suppose I do. Why? What’s so important—”

  All at once, someone grabbed my arm with a very firm grip. I spun, shocked and annoyed at being so rudely interrupted, and found myself eye to eye with Florence.

  Her eyes burned through her sparkling snow-white mask. “Evaline Eustacia Stoker,” she said from between clenched teeth in a tone that only I could hear. I hoped. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  I smiled innocently, even though the blood flow in my arm was being cut off. “Why, I was simply talking to Mrs.—”

  But Florence was already dragging me away. I think she was raging on about something regarding hostessing, but I was happy to let whatever she was saying get lost in the conversations around us.

  But drat and blast.

 
Now what was I going to do?

  Miss Holmes

  ~ An Inconceivable Predicament ~

  I stared at Sergeant Blaketon, immediately grateful that I was wearing a mask. It would be impossible for him to recognize me under the most promising of circumstances, but certainly not after only seeing me through the crack of the door one time.

  “Miss Holmes,” he said, shocking me into paralysis and obliterating all of my previous confidence. His dark, furious eyes bored into mine. “You’ve been quite a slippery miss, haven’t you, then? But of course you would attend your closest friend’s birthday ball. I knew I would find you here.”

  I didn’t respond. I don’t think I could have, even if I’d wanted to.

  How could it be that I’d been able to evade Blaketon for three days by wearing a number of disguises—including passing him on the street in front of Mr. Boggs’s house—and he immediately picks me out at a masquerade ball? A gathering to which he clearly hadn’t been invited and was in no way intending to participate.

  How did he even know I was going to be here?

  I managed to glance at Grayling and allow him to see the variety of emotions that were surely blazing in my eyes.

  Had he given me away?

  His eyes widened, and I saw the exasperated frown behind his mask. Don’t be silly, Miss Holmes. I could almost read the words he would have spoken if he could have.

  “Oh, look—they’ve put another tray of canapés out,” I said blithely. “I’ve just got to have one. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  I didn’t even manage a full step before Blaketon moved, blocking my way. “Miss Holmes, we can make this very simple and quiet…or we can make it an event for society to talk about for years. Sir Mycroft’s daughter, dragged out of a society ball, arrested for murder. The gossips will enjoy every word of the article, won’t they? Watch out—there might even be a photographer to catch the moment on film.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir,” I said haughtily, trying desperately to find a way to escape.

  And why wasn’t Grayling doing anything?

  Blaketon’s hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. “Grayling!” he growled, and I was dumfounded when my very own escort stepped forward to take my other arm.

  Once again, I was so shocked that I couldn’t react. What was happening? How could Grayling do this?

  “Remove your hands from me at once,” I demanded. “Both of you. Especially you,” I added, giving Grayling a look that would have smote him to the ground if eyes were lethal. At that moment, how I wished they were. “I’ll come along graciously.”

  “Graciously? Pah!” Blaketon scoffed. But he released my wrist.

  Fortunately for his own well-being, Grayling did the same. I did not deign to look at him as I began to move very slowly toward the exit.

  How could this be happening? The demand—for it wasn’t a question in my head; it was a dumfounded refrain—ran over and over through my thoughts as I scrambled to think of a way out of this impossible predicament. Being arrested at a ball? I? A Holmes?

  Especially when something important, exciting, and possibly dangerous was about to happen!

  If I wasn’t here, who was going to stop the Ankh from executing whatever her villainous plot was?

  I hadn’t even had the chance to tell Grayling about the messages—not that I would tell him now, the cad!

  I walked stiffly, making certain I didn’t come close enough to either of my escorts to even hint of brushing against them as I picked my way through the crowd as slowly as possible.

  I had to think of something.

  We had reached the main entrance to the Starlight Palace, and not only had no one seemed to notice my reluctant exit, but nothing had happened. The party was going on as it had been. Evaline was probably still at the seafood tower.

  I ground my teeth as Blaketon gestured for me to precede him out of the ballroom and toward the exit to the outside.

  I simply couldn’t believe the evening was going to end this way.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen!

  This wasn’t—

  And then something did happen.

  From inside the ballroom, from behind us, someone screamed. Blaketon, Grayling, and I came to a halt, and I turned as if to go back.

  “No you don’t, missy,” said the sergeant. “There will be no—”

  “Hush!” Grayling said. “Blaketon.” His voice was urgent, and though he wasn’t looking at me, I knew something was wrong.

  Then I realized what it was. The chamber we had just left behind—filled with a loud, raucous, crowded party—had gone utterly silent.

  The three of us turned, and as one, we started back toward the ballroom at a near run. Whatever would make an entire room go dead quiet would have to be mortally serious.

  As we approached, I could see that the entire crowd was looking in the same direction—and up.

  Something lodged in my throat—fear, comprehension, horror—for the image of a dumbstruck audience watching with rapt attention at a raised location immediately brought to mind the horrific event at the Yule Fête, when Lord Belmont Cosgrove-Pitt had thrown himself off the balcony in front of his guests.

  I pushed blindly past my two escorts and blundered into the ballroom, already looking in the direction that everyone else was staring.

  I came to a sudden halt when I saw what they saw.

  Up on the balcony—the very same one Princess Lurelia nearly fell from at her Welcome Ball—was a man.

  He was wearing an elegant evening coat of unrelieved black over a brilliant white shirt and black cravat. He was sitting on the rail of the balcony, his legs hanging over the front, speaking to the crowd. For once in his life, he was the only person in the room not wearing a mask.

  I recognized him immediately, although it was probably the first time I’d ever seen him without a disguise.

  It was Edison Smith, also known as Pix.

  And he was holding a pistol.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Pandemonium ~

  Grayling’s muttered curse reached me from behind. I started to edge closer to the balcony, and he grabbed my wrist firmly to hold me back.

  “No, Mina,” he said near my ear.

  I decided to forget, for the moment at least, that I was furious with him, and turned to speak quietly and urgently. “Evaline and I were both given messages that something was going to happen tonight.”

  He nodded to indicate he’d heard me but kept his eyes on Edison Smith, who was talking. The pistol was visible, obvious even, but he wasn’t aiming it at anyone. Yet.

  I felt Grayling’s hand move into the depths of his coat, and I suspected he was removing his own firearm.

  Good gad, I hope he won’t need it.

  “Now that I have your attention…” Smith said with a wry smile, still on his high perch. “Ah, I see that I truly do have your attention. All of you. Especially you, young lady. It’s difficult to believe a neck as slender as yours could carry the weight of such a wig. But, after all, it is your party, isn’t it?”

  I tensed, for there was something about the way he was speaking, something about the inflection in his voice that made chills run down my spine.

  He didn’t sound anything like the smooth, cunning charmer that I knew as Pix.

  Perhaps this was how Edison Smith actually sounded and spoke. His American accent was true, if flat and a bit nasally, but there was also something that rang false about the tone. At least to my ears.

  My insides were so tight that they felt as if they were being twisted into huge, heavy knots. I could hardly breathe.

  “As many of you know, the horrific death of Mr. Hiram Bartholomew was no accident. And yours truly—that would be myself, Mr. Edison Smith, originally of Menlo Park, New Jersey, but most lately of the stews of Seven Dials here in the lovely metropolis of London—well, I have been identified as the culprit. Accused of murdering Hiram Bartholomew, who was the partner of the esteem
ed Mr. Emmett Oligary—who, as I understand it, is now known as Sir Emmett. I cannot imagine whom he paid off to make that happen. And the Genius of Modern Times, as I believe he’s also been called.”

  There were a few soft—very soft—murmurs at this, and several heads turned as if to look around and locate Sir Emmett. I had, of course, identified him and Mr. Ned Oligary by now. The former was costumed as an Elizabethan troubadour, complete with lute, and his younger brother as Richard the Lionheart in a glittering gold and purple costume. They were standing near the crowd in the center of the room.

  Right where Marie Antoinette stood, with her tall, heavy wig. Just between the balcony and the central fountain.

  In the exact center of the room.

  I felt a very uneasy prickle down my spine. Where was Evaline?

  “I was indeed present the night of Mr. Bartholomew’s death,” Smith went on.

  Grayling tensed next to me. I heard him mutter an oath I need not repeat herewith, and he started to move forward to the balcony that loomed ahead and above us.

  Of course, I followed him.

  “But before I get to that,” Smith went on, “I want to extend my felicitations to the lovely queen of the masquerade ball tonight—not only on the anniversary of her birth, but also for her upcoming nuptials.” Using the wall for support, he climbed gracefully to his feet on the balcony railing and offered a mocking bow to Marie Antoinette from this position. “Unfortunately, after the conclusion of tonight’s activities, I suspect I’ll be unable to attend that happy occasion.”

  He shifted and raised the gun. “If it even occurs.”

  The room gasped as one, and I joined them.

  Good gad, Pix, what are you doing?

  Grayling had moved to the edge of the room in order to, I assumed, remain as far out of sight from Smith as possible while he was making his way toward the balcony. I didn’t know which lift or mechanized stair would deliver me to the balcony the fastest, but I was intent on finding one.