The Chess Queen Enigma Read online

  Cryptic wording, but there was so much more to be deduced about the sender merely by observation.

  Expensive, thick, crème paper . . . yet not exceptional or unique and without monogram—the individual has wealth and taste but wishes to remain anonymous.

  Very little slant to the penmanship, letters formed nearly upright, with the left margin growing wider as the message went on—an assertive individual who is logical and practical but deeply invested in some future goal.

  Tall, spiky letters, particularly the “s”—the individual is intellectual and confident. Most likely a male, and very ambitious.

  Then I looked more closely, frowning. Curious. I lifted the paper to my nose and sniffed.

  Faint floral scent, a dusting of powder clung to the edge of the paper—no . . . a woman wrote this.

  I looked at Evaline. “From where did you obtain this?”

  “Pix gave it to me. He wants to know who wrote it.”

  “And . . . no, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t know who it is. When one is dealing in illegal trade, whatever it is, one certainly doesn’t want one’s identity known.” I sniffed with disdain for Mr. Pix and his business dealings. “Whomever this individual is, my first inclination is that it’s an intelligent, confident, and powerful female, who likely has some sort of objective on which she is focused. A business perhaps. She is clearly determined to remain anonymous, and is attempting to disguise her gender by appearing to be a male—” I stopped abruptly, staring at the partial note. My lungs felt as if mummy wrappings were binding them so tightly I could hardly draw a breath.

  “Like . . . the Ankh?” Miss Stoker’s voice dropped to an uncharacteristically modulated tone.

  I didn’t respond. My palms had become damp and my pulse kicked up faster as a thrill of excitement rushed through me, followed by a prickle of apprehension.

  Scotland Yard was under the assumption—an exceedingly shortsighted and false assumption—that the individual known as the Ankh was dead. I, however, knew that could not be the case. For the last three months, I had waited for some proof I was correct—which was part of the reason I read every publication I could get my hands on and forced myself to go about in public as much as possible while watching for signs she had returned.

  This meant I paid particular attention to the activities of Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt, wife of the esteemed leader of Parliament and distant relative of my nemesis, Scotland Yard Inspector Ambrose Grayling. Though I’d never publicly stated my opinion, I was certain she was the Ankh.

  And, in fact, I had once looked directly into the eyes of the Ankh and informed her I was aware of her true identity.

  “Everything we know about the Ankh fits the description of the individual who wrote this note.” I spoke slowly and deliberately as I tried to imagine what this development might portend . . . and if I was merely indulging in wishful thinking so as to prove everyone wrong. “How is Mr. Pix involved?”

  I couldn’t keep a hint of distaste from my tone as I asked about Evaline’s particular acquaintance. Aside from having a ridiculous appellation (although having been christened Alvermina, I suppose I should refrain from judgment; one truly has no control over one’s parents’ decisions), the disreputable young man was doubtless a thief, most certainly involved in illicit and illegal activities, and had no sense of propriety. Every time I recalled the sight of him in the Ankh’s opium den sporting an open vest that revealed tanned, muscular arms and a bare chest, I felt uncomfortably hot and a little breathless.

  No other male I knew would don something so scandalous—not even my friend Dylan Eckhert, who was from the future, where, I understood, things were quite a bit more lax when it came to propriety.

  And certainly the very last person I could imagine wearing such clothing—or lack thereof—would be the stiffly proper Inspector Grayling. Surely the swath of freckles that dusted his capable hands didn’t extend to the breadth of his shoulders . . . did it?

  “Your cheeks are turning pink, Mina. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Of course I am.” I lifted my teacup. “I’m merely waiting for you to tell me how your shady acquaintance is involved.”

  “He came to me for help.” Miss Stoker sounded supremely pleased with herself. “It seems the person who sent the note is a . . . well, a client of his. An anonymous client.”

  “Client?” Warning bells began to jangle in my mind. “One can only imagine what sort of business in which the likes of Mr. Pix is involved. And he wants your assistance? Are you addled?”

  “Might I remind you, Mina Holmes, that Pix saved your life on at least one occasion—two, if you count him bringing me to find you in the vampire lair at Smithfield, where I saved your life. The least we can do is try to repay the favor.”

  “I refuse to do anything even remotely illegal.”

  Miss Stoker rolled her hazel eyes. “He just wants us to find out who wrote the note. And if it is the Ankh . . .” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

  I sighed. “Very well. I shall keep this note and perform a thorough examination. But it would be quite helpful to know what it is this client—who does appear rather threatening—wants from Mr. Pix. At one point, you repeated to me his assertion that he deals with information—collecting it and selling it or otherwise using it to his advantage. It’s clearly not the case here, for it sounds as if he—she—is ordering a supply of something. And if she doesn’t get it, I wonder what the consequences will be.”

  “I’m not sure about any of it. Pix had this device . . . he seemed very protective of it. He was selling it or trading it with a vampire when I interrupted the exchange—this was just before the night you and I were in Smithfield. I think the mechanism might have something to do with his business, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. And he’s obviously concerned about her threat, or he wouldn’t have asked for assistance.”

  “Do you suspect he is manufacturing it? Or was that the only one of its kind?”

  “I think there are more of them. If I had to guess—”

  “Guessing is a futile effort, Miss Stoker. How many times must I remind you that valid theories are borne of observation and analysis? One doesn’t guess. One deduces.”

  She rolled her eyes again, and I deduced (based on the observation of her tightening lips, narrowing eyes, and shifting jaw, combined with my knowledge of her character) she was about to say something irritable, but then the office door opened.

  My heart did a funny little skip every time that happened, for there was always the chance the newcomer would be Dylan Eckhert.

  In this case, however, my base physical reaction to the hoped-for arrival was in vain, for it was Miss Adler who breezed into the chamber . . . followed, quite astonishingly, by none other than Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandra herself.

  Miss Stoker and I bolted to our feet as I dropped the teacup back onto the edge of its saucer. It tipped with a loud clatter and slopped the floral-scented tea all over a stack of papers on the desk. My cheeks burned as I tugged a handkerchief from the cuff of my sleeve.

  “Excellent. You are already here,” Miss Adler said. “That will make our task much more expedient.” Her eyes strayed to the puddle of tea, but she made no comment.

  “Good morning, Your Highness.” Miss Stoker curtsied with perfect grace.

  I hastened to follow suit while trying to surreptitiously mop up the spilt tea and save the papers from their ink running.

  The princess, who employed a topaz-and-emerald- encrusted walking stick, made her way to the most comfortable seat in the chamber: a large, barrel-shaped armchair with generously thick cushions. She pushed a button on its arm and the seat rose silently to just beneath her bustle. She angled back onto the cushion, and the seat lowered her to a more comfortable level. “You may be seated,” she told us as the chair puffed to a halt.

  With one last dab at the wet papers, I vacated the desk chair for Miss Adler’s use and selected a place next to Evaline. M
y brain ticked through its checklist of observations about the princess (she’d recently acquired a small copper-furred dog, selected her own jewelry today, had breakfasted on kippers and blueberry scones, her coach had brought her via the Strand) and my mentor (she’d had her hair trimmed, burned her hand pulling a bread pan from the oven, and appeared particularly well-rested and lively) when the conversation began.

  “Ah, I see you’ve been reading up on the Betrovian visit, Mina,” Miss Adler commented. With spare, graceful movements, she extricated the current London Times from its moorings, taking care not to set it in the damp spot on her desk, and closed the Proffitt’s Dandy Paper-Peruser with a neat click.

  “It’s rather impossible to avoid doing so. It’s been the lead story in every periodical to which I subscribe.” With the exception of the Ladies’ Tattle-Tale, but I wasn’t about to admit I knew about that rag, let alone read it. Which, of course, I did. One can never be too informed, even through sensational gossip and fashion stories. I found the latest on dits about the comings and goings from a new gentlemen’s club called the Goose & the Pearl unaccountably fascinating.

  “As well it should be, for it’s an important—and sensitive—event. In fact, that’s precisely why Princess Alix is here this morning. Madame the Queen has commanded her to be personally involved in all aspects of the visit, including finalizing the details for the event tomorrow.” Miss Adler turned to the other woman.

  “Indeed. There hasn’t been a diplomatic visit between Betrovia and England for more than fifty years. The last time a Betrovian contingent arrived in London, it was a disaster. The young Betrovian prince, who’d been engaged to marry a Russian princess, decided he preferred an English girl—a maid, no less—and the two ran off to Gretna Green in Scotland and eloped. The scandal nearly ended our trade agreement with the Betrovians. As it was, you may be aware that our current arrangement for the importation of their wool, cotton, and internationally prized silk is laden with tax surcharges and limitations.”

  Miss Adler took up the narrative, a smile curving her lips. “In fact, there have been comparisons to the unfair Stamp Act and Tea Act that England imposed upon my country last century, causing the Americans to revolt. Of course it is an utterly different circumstance—Betrovia is not and never will be a governing body over England and vice versa—but there will, of course, be complaints and unfair, inaccurate comparisons as prices go up. In fact, the trade agreement is in jeopardy of being renewed at even worse terms. And it is all due to a centuries-old dispute revolving around an ancient chess set. But we shall get to that shortly.”

  I cast a glance at Miss Stoker and wasn’t the least bit surprised to see her eyes glazed over with either boredom or confusion. I confess, in this instance we were both of the same mind (although I assure you, Dear Reader, I might be bored, but I wasn’t the least bit confused).

  “Right then.” Miss Adler seemed to recognize our polite disinterest and, thankfully, moved from politics to more relevant information. “The Lord Regent Mikalo Terrence will be the Betrovian official in attendance. He has been charged with delivering a gift to England—a long-lost letter from the Great Queen Elizabeth—along with negotiating a new trade agreement between England and Betrovia. Most importantly, the Princess Lurelia will be accompanying the Lord Regent. It is because of this young lady’s attendance that Her Royal Highness requires your involvement. Princess Lurelia must not only be entertained and amused during her visit, but she must also be kept safe and her reputation spotless. Who better to fulfill both requirements than the two of you.” Miss Adler bestowed a pleased smile upon each of us in turn. “You are of an age with her, and I trust you will show her the delights of London Society as well as ensure nothing untoward happens.”

  I dared not look at Miss Stoker, for I suspected the same horror I was feeling would be reflected in her eyes. Society? Entertainment? Did Miss Adler truly expect Evaline and me to be the princess’s chaperone to musicales, teas, and soirées? Rides in the park? And whatever else young royals did for amusement?

  I could think of few things I would less like to spend my time doing.

  “How long will the princess be in London?” ventured Miss Stoker. I noticed she wasn’t looking at me either.

  “No more than a month, I daresay,” our mentor replied. “And as it is Second High Season from now until the end of October, there will be plenty of opportunity for you to show her a varied and exciting time.”

  A month?

  “Is the princess in danger? I mean to say, do you expect anything untoward to happen?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” replied Princess Alix. “But Lurelia is engaged to be married in six months, and it is incumbent upon us to ensure that she returns to Betrovia fully prepared to be wed, and with absolutely no hint of a scandal attached to her. Anything other than a continued spotless reputation could put her marriage at risk. I need not say we do not want a repeat of the previous debacle.”

  This time I did exchange looks with Miss Stoker. Considering the fact that during our brief acquaintance we’d visited an opium den, encountered two dead bodies, allied ourselves with a pickpocket, and been held captive in a vampire’s hideaway—not to mention nearly died at the hands of the Ankh—I wasn’t certain we could guarantee Princess Lurelia’s reputation would remain spotless if she were encouraged into our company.

  “Right then,” Evaline said. “When are they due to arrive?”

  “Tomorrow,” I replied, feeling as if I’d just announced a death sentence.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Adler. “Princess Lurelia decided to join the trip at the last minute, hence the urgency of our meeting today. There will be an official Welcome Event at the museum late tomorrow afternoon. Of course the two of you will be in attendance.” Her voice was smooth and assertive, but her gaze was sharp and unyielding.

  Evaline and I exchanged glances once more, but the die was cast. We were to be babysitting a princess for the next month. I could only imagine what the girl would be like: spoilt, fairy-headed, and interested only in shopping, dancing, and her forthcoming nuptials. I wasn’t certain which would be worse: listening to the girl prattle on about wedding plans already in place, or having to offer advice and suggestion in order to help her make them.

  As we left Miss Adler’s office, the note Mr. Pix had given Evaline crinkled in my skirt pocket. At least I had something interesting to look forward to.

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein the Importance of a Matter Is Argued

  Since I would be at the mercy of a princess and her social whims for the next month, I decided it would be to my benefit to find out as much as I could about the Betrovians and their visit.

  I remembered reading something about the chessboard Miss Adler mentioned. It was ancient and of Byzantine origin, but other than that, I knew little detail about the situation that had nearly caused our two countries to go to war. Whatever the event, it had happened three centuries ago and was hardly pertinent to my daily work.

  Miss Stoker wasn’t convinced about the necessity of spending time on such research, but she had no choice but to receive (though likely not fully comprehend the implications of) the information I’d gathered as we rode to the Welcome Event late the next afternoon.

  Unsurprisingly, Evaline’s first concern was about that disreputable pickpocket’s client, rather than the Betrovians. It was six o’clock when I climbed into her carriage, and she immediately began to pester me.

  “I’ve been waiting to hear from you since yesterday, and not a word. Not even a brief note. I thought you were a Holmes! I thought you knew everything! What did you find out about Pix’s client?”

  It had been dark and blustery all day, and, already being damp and cold, I had hardly settled my bustle and skirts into place on the carriage seat (which is a task easier spoken about than accomplished, considering the numerous layers of fabric involved, and the awkward bump of the bustle low on my spine). My thick hair was turning
into bric-a-brac kinks, and I was in no mood to be lectured. “Miss Stoker. One doesn’t ‘find out’ things when one is investigating. One observes, then analyzes and dedu—”

  “Mina.” Her eyes blazed and I thought she might lunge across the carriage at me. I believe I also heard the sound of her teeth grinding. Apparently, she was in no better mood than I. “What have you deduced about Pix’s client? Is it the Ankh?”

  I resisted the urge to hush her; we were, after all, in her private carriage, and Middy, the driver, couldn’t hear anything we said. “I shall tell you all about that later. I have had limited time to spend on the scrap of paper, due to the more pressing matter of the Betrovian visit.”

  “The Betrovian visit is more important than knowing if the Ankh has returned? Blooming Pete, are you mad?”

  “I did not say it was more important. I said it was more pressing. Of course it is of the utmost importance to determine whether the Ankh has returned. But, unlike others in this vehicle, I have no intention of blazing off on a trail without a plan, or at the very least, solid information. I, for one, won’t be standing up in the middle of a meeting and shouting accusations and jeopardizing our investigation—not to mention ourselves.”

  This was, of course, a reference to the time Miss Stoker had announced our uninvited presence at a secret meeting led by the Ankh. We were there anonymously until my companion stood up in the back of the chamber and demanded answers from the villainess. We barely escaped with our lives, and that was only the first time Miss Stoker’s impetuousness had endangered a case.

  Miss Stoker’s face turned pink, and then red, and I was uncertain whether its cause was shame or fury. I didn’t care; we weren’t far from the museum and I had information to share.

  “I’ve done some research about the Betrovians—”

  “I don’t care about the Betrovians. Blooming fish, Mina, what’s wrong with you? Are you afraid the Ankh has returned? Is that it? You don’t want to face her again? You’re avoiding the investigation because—”