The Chess Queen Enigma Page 4

  I didn’t care. And one would have thought she’d take the hint when I began to edge toward the food table again. All the speechifying made me hungry. I had seen some puffy delicacies that looked like little blue clouds and I wanted to make sure I got one before they were gone. And then there was that bright red beverage that fizzed so much little sprays shot out from the top of the punch bowl.

  But to my dismay, Mina followed me, hissing in my ear about missing epistles—which I figured out were letters—and Byzantine treasure (which did get my attention somewhat) and finally something about Queen Elizabeth and a Betrovian duchess.

  She would have continued until midnight, I’m certain, if she had the chance, whether I was listening or not. But I was just about to reach for one of the frothy blue clouds when I was rescued.

  “Why, Miss Stoker. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you in attendance . . . and that you have found your way to my favorite part of the food table as well,” a voice murmured in my ear. “If I may?”

  I looked up to find Mr. Richard Dancy standing at my elbow. A curl of light brown hair had fallen over his forehead, and his sideburns were trimmed short and neat. He had a square jaw with a handsome cleft chin, and showed dimples when he smiled. Blue eyes twinkling with warmth, he offered me a tiny doily-covered plate holding a frothy blue cloud. I had remembered to remove my gloves for once, and I reached for the tiny puff of sweetness. “Why, thank you, Mr. Dancy.”

  My smile was warm, partly because he was one of the few—well, the only—young men I knew from London Society who was gracious and wasn’t boring, and partly because Mina’s lecture had been stopped in its tracks.

  “Am I to assume that since you are in attendance here, you shall also be gracing the dance floor at the Official Welcome Ball tomorrow evening?” Our voices remained low so as not to disturb the Exchange of National Gifts, which appeared to be continuing without our attention. Fortunately.

  Mr. Dancy stood close enough that I could feel the warmth of his arm near mine and smell a hint of something pleasant, while at the same time maintaining a proper distance.

  At least he would never back me into a dark corner and steal a kiss.

  “Indeed I shall,” I managed to reply, irritated that the thought of Pix had broken into my concentration. He always managed to put me into a foul mood, blast him.

  “Then I must make certain to find your pages—surely you must have two or three of them—in the dance album immediately upon arriving, for I fully intend to claim at least two waltzes. Perhaps three. And I must warn you, Miss Stoker . . . even spilt lemonade won’t keep me from squiring you about the ballroom this time.”

  My heart skipped a little beat and I smiled up at him. “I shall endeavor to keep from wearing eau de limone, then, Mr. Dancy, for I should hate to see you disappointed.”

  He grinned and was reaching for another tiny plate when the room plunged into pitch black.

  A woman screamed, and a chorus of surprised voices filled the air. I heard the sounds of people moving, of clunks and bumps and a heavy scraping noise. A male voice shouted for everyone to remain calm, and someone else directed people to remain in their places. That was a good suggestion, for I couldn’t see my hand in front of my eyes. There was a distinct chill in the air, as if a drafty window had been opened. Someone floundered against me, flailing in the darkness (Mina, of course), and from the other side, a hand steadied my arm.

  “Have no fear, Miss Stoker. I’m certain the lights will be fixed momentarily.” Mr. Dancy probably meant well, but he would have been better off keeping Mina from stumbling into the food table than offering me assurances. I was the only female in the room—probably in all of London—who had no reason to be afraid of anything.

  The hair on the back of my neck lifted and prickled. I wasn’t sure whether it was because someone had opened a door and released a draft, or for some other reason.

  A red-eyed, sharp-fanged reason.

  Blast and blots. I hadn’t thought to bring a stake.

  Pulling from Mr. Dancy’s grip, I slipped into the close throng of people. His “Miss Stoker? Where have you gone?” was lost in the chaos.

  There was a dull clang and the sounds of scuffling. Someone bumped into me from behind, and that same person grappled with my sleeve and bodice to steady herself.

  “Blast it, Mina, just stay where you are,” I said from between gritted teeth, as she hissed, “The princess! Get to the princess!”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  Just as I pulled free of her death grip, the soft glow of a light beamed from a corner, illuminating the familiar face of Inspector Grayling. Of course he’d have a light-up gadget on hand—he was such a cognoggin. After a moment, more and more circles of light began to fill the chamber. And finally, the full lights came on and everything was back to normal. The murmurings and strained exchanges settled into conversation, and the tension in the chamber relaxed.

  I had pushed my way toward the stage and looked over the crowd to assure myself Princess Lurelia was still there. Yes, there she was—unharmed and just as drab as ever. I turned to point this out to Mina when someone exclaimed, “The letter! It’s gone!”

  This caused another surge of excited voices to rise. Some people shouted, others muttered and gasped. Most everyone seemed to spin around in place, looking for the missing letter.

  “It vahs right here, in zhees case!” Lord Regent Terrence cried in Betrovian-accented English. His bi-colored mustache fairly quivered with indignation as he jabbed a finger at the small case standing next to the chess table. The case had been positioned conveniently near the edge of the stage. “Efferyone saw it! And now it’s gone!”

  I swallowed my own comment—which would have been along the lines of “Who cares?”—and caught Mina’s eye. She was right behind me, fire in her eyes.

  “Hurry!” My partner began pushing me toward the small dais.

  What the blooming fish did she expect me to do? An old letter from Queen Elizabeth might be of interest to someone like Miss Adler or Sir Franks, the museum director, but I didn’t care. As long as the princess was all right, and there weren’t any UnDead in the vicinity, I had no reason to be involved. Thievery was a job for Scotland Yard.

  But Miss Mina Holmes is a force all her own. She shoved me forward so firmly I stumbled from the crowd and nearly slammed into the platform.

  Before I could turn and glare at her, I found myself looking up at Princess Lurelia. Our eyes met, and for a moment I thought I saw a flash of something there . . . Excitement? Interest? Or perhaps it was just a glint from the lights, for whatever I might have seen was gone. The princess’s expression was the same blandly polite one of before. She seemed as stiff as her starched petticoats, which were so brittle they made a crinkling sound as she gave a nod and turned back to the Lord Regent.

  Mina had brushed past me and made her way to Miss Adler, who’d come forward and was speaking with Princess Alix from below the stage. Our own royal’s face was strained and set, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  The only thing left for me to do was to ensure the chilly breeze that had filtered over me was nothing more than a drafty door or window, and not an UnDead. But I wasn’t sure how to go about proving there hadn’t been a vampire around.

  I pushed my way through the crowd, which was still chattering about the missing letter, and headed toward the east end of the chamber. It led deeper into the museum, while the western end was an exterior wall. The southern side tucked up next to the main galleries and was where most visitors would have come. Eastward was the direction I supposed an UnDead—or anyone else, such as a thief—would have made an escape, for it would be easy to lose one’s pursuers in the maze of halls, and an UnDead would not go outside, as it was an unusually sunny day in September.

  I was looking for any sign of a shadowy figure—with or without red eyes—lurking in the alcoves or behind the tall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, or down other corridors—
when I stubbed my foot on something that shouldn’t have been there.

  The large, heavy object made a soft grating sound across the hardwood floor. I looked down, intending to shove it out of the pathway, when I saw what it was.

  A stone statue, as long as my forearm. It was supposed to be a person, I think. Mina would probably know what kind it was or what age, and probably who it depicted. Someone appeared to have knocked it over . . . or placed it there. I went cold.

  But it wasn’t the entity or the face that caught my attention and sent that chill down my spine. It was what the statue’s stone hand was holding. Brandishing, like a shield or weapon.

  Or a threat.

  Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that the statue’s fist was gripping an ankh.

  Miss Holmes

  Wherein Miss Stoker Serves as Lady’s Maid

  “Evaline, there are no coincidences.” I glared at her reflection in the mirror behind me as one of the hairpins I was attempting to utilize slipped from my fingers. I muffled an unladylike exclamation and bent to pick it up, which is easier said than done whilst wearing a corset.

  Miss Stoker had arrived unannounced at my home, ostensibly to provide transportation to the Official Betrovian Welcome Ball. But, though clearly dressed for the event, she was nearly an hour too early. And aside from that, Princess Alix had already arranged for a carriage to pick me up. Apparently, Her Royal Highness was determined I would attend, and in a timely manner.

  “How many times must I remind you that coincidences simply don’t happen?” I continued, jabbing the pin into place at the back of my head. If only my hair wasn’t so thick and unmanageable . . . and if I had a lady’s maid like Miss Stoker did. Mrs. Raskill was useless when it came to coiffures and fashion, and the one time she’d suggested my employment of her niece Kitty for such tasks had been an undisputed disaster. “It’s utterly impossible that statue fell by accident. The Arched Room is a library, and there are only small artifacts in cases. An Eighteenth Egyptian Dynastic statue—especially one of that size—doesn’t belong anywhere in a library, it belongs in the Egyptian Saloon! Someone put it there. She put it there.” And Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been present at the Welcome Event, further strengthening my belief.

  “But why?”

  “Why would the Ankh leave a message? It’s a calling card, Miss Stoker. How can you not see that? It’s a message, a taunt, a tease. She knew we would see it. She’s sending us a message. It’s a challenge.”

  I had no doubt about this last statement, and I had even less doubt about to whom the Ankh was issuing her challenge: Holmes & Stoker. (Or, at least, Holmes. After all, it was I who had outsmarted her in the end, and I who had seen through her disguise.)

  “Do you think the Ankh stole the letter? What would she want with an old message?” Miss Stoker wandered through my small, book-cluttered bedchamber, brushing past the Easy Un-Lacer I was obligated to use to extricate myself from corsets when Mrs. Raskill had retired for the evening, and peered into my wardrobe.

  I followed my companion’s progress in the mirror as I struggled with my dratted coiffure. It was hard enough to do my hair when I was alone, but while carrying on a conversation—especially one fraught with unnecessary and banal questions—while monitoring a guest’s nosiness made it even more frustrating.

  “I’ve been attempting to tell you precisely why the letter is important for two days now, Evaline,” I snapped, bending awkwardly to pick up another hairpin. “It’s from Queen Elizabeth—over three hundred years old—and in the letter it explains where she’s hidden the Theophanine Chess Queen.”

  The bored look in her hazel eyes told me all I needed to know. “You don’t understand the importance of the Theophanine Chess Set, do you? What did you learn in school, Evaline?”

  “I got my education in other ways . . . from other people. And though I may not have as much book-learning as you, I’ve been taught other, more useful skills.” Her eyes moved deliberately to the photograph of my mother, which I had recently moved into my chamber.

  My cheeks warmed and I looked away. I still hadn’t been able to come to terms with the realization that my mother, the beautiful, social, graceful Desirée Holmes, had secretly been a vampire-hunter trainer. (Less than a month ago, I hadn’t even fully believed in the existence of the UnDead creatures, but recent events had proven otherwise.)

  The knowledge that Evaline Stoker had known my mother—Siri, as she’d called her—in a way I couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t share or even imagine, caused an ugly combination of emotions to surge inside me every time I looked at her picture. I couldn’t name the emotions; I didn’t want to try. The very thought of the woman who’d birthed me caused my insides to twist and churn. And then left me feeling empty.

  Mother had disappeared, leaving Father and me more than a year ago, with no explanation and very little communication since. The last I’d heard, she was in Paris—or so the letters and their postmarks had indicated. Three notes, the last of which had arrived more than ten months ago, and none of them gave a real clue as to her location or motive for leaving.

  My eyes stung. I blinked rapidly, keeping my face averted as I pretended to search through my small jewel box for more hair adornments.

  “Why don’t you tell me why the Theoph—whatever—chess set is so important, and I’ll finish the back of your hair. Otherwise we’ll be here forever.”

  I sat rigid as Evaline moved in behind, taking up the heavy hanks of my chestnut brown hair and deftly pinning them into place. “What is known as the Theophanine Chess Set was created and designed for the Byzantine King Otto II, and his wife, Theophano. Scholars believe it was one of the first instances of the game in which the chess queen piece makes an appearance.”

  “Do you mean the queen wasn’t always part of it? But chess is a very old game, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed.” I relaxed slightly and launched into my lecture; Miss Stoker seemed surprisingly well-versed in playing lady’s maid. “The game we know of as chess was first played in India and Persia in the fifth century, although it resembled more of a war strategy exercise rather than a game of entertainment. Along with the king and his men, there were chariots and elephants as well as horses as pieces—all of which were common to Arabian armies.

  “The earliest versions of the game that came West from the Far East included a piece that was called a vizier, which as surely you know, is the king’s most trusted advisor and confidante. And that piece began to be replaced by a queen around the year 1000, or more specifically, in the 1030s . . . when King Otto was married to Theophano. The particular chess set of which I am speaking was commissioned with a chess queen replacing the vizier—for the white player only. Not only is it a unique set because of the mismatched pieces, but it could be the first one ever with a queen.” I eyed Miss Stoker’s work critically, but could generate no complaints. If anything, she made my hair look softer and more feminine than usual, which was fortunate, considering the size of my proboscis.

  “Your hair is such a pretty color,” Miss Stoker said as she jabbed—none-too-gently—a glittering sapphire and jet pin into the top of my coiffure. “It’s brown, but looks auburn in some light. And it’s got threads of gold in it, and even a little copper.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, surprised by her compliment. But there was more to tell her. “The Theophanine Chess Table, as you have seen, is currently housed in the British Museum, but for centuries it was in the custody of the Betrovians until it was brought to London fifty years ago during the last State Visit. However, the chess pieces themselves have been in the possession of the English since Eleanor of Aquitaine, the mother of Richard the Lionheart. The entire chess set, with the exception of the queen, has been on display in the museum since the return of the chess table. The queen has been missing for centuries, and the last person known to have had it was Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Right. So this letter—which has been stolen—supposedly tells where she hid the chess queen. I
do not understand all this fuss about an old chess piece.” She sounded bored.

  “It’s not just an old chess piece, Evaline.” I rose impatiently from my chair. “It’s part of a combination-like key that opens the bottom of the Theophanine Chess Table. Surely even you noticed it yesterday, and you can see how massive the base is. Legend claims a cache of Byzantine jewels, as well as some ancient writings, are hidden inside.”

  The mention of jewels seemed to perk up my companion. “Well, that’s something. So if the chess queen is located, then the treasure is found.”

  “Naturally. And the Ankh is clearly after the treasure. Why else would she want the letter? Although,” I mused, “I would suspect the Ankh’s interest would lie more heavily toward the writings than jewels. Who knows what ancient secrets might be in those papers.”

  “Speaking of the Ankh.” Evaline began pacing the chamber again. Her vehement steps made the glass jars on my dressing table clink. “What have you learned from the note Pix gave me? And don’t tell me you haven’t had time to look at it.”

  She was correct, of course. “I subjected the item to a number of vigorous tests and examinations. The penmanship has similarities to the two previous communications I received from the Ankh during your short-lived captivity at her hands. But I cannot be certain whether it—or any of the messages, for that matter—were actually scribed by the villainess in question. It is extremely likely, but not yet utterly provable, that all three were written by the same person. However, I did note several important factors about the origins of the scrap provided by Mr. Pix. I detected a scant bit of facial powder dusting the corner of the paper, which supports the supposition that it was a female correspondent. The brand of facial powder is lightly scented with vanilla and has a minute amount of gold dust mixed in, making it extremely unusual and expensive. Nevertheless, the ink is commonplace, and the paper easily obtained by anyone who frequents Mrs. Sofrit’s Stationery.”