The Zeppelin Deception Page 5

  With a little whumpf, I settled back, facing forward once more. I gnawed on that bit of information. Sir Emmett Oligary was paying a call on Lady Isabella. And if I had not fled Cosgrove Terrace, I would have been there as well.

  Was it an unexpected call? Or had he known I was invited to tea? Had Isabella expected him to come while I was there? Had she planned it?

  As my horse-drawn carriage rumbled along over the cobblestones and winter’s fury pelted the roof and windows, I mulled over my next step.

  It didn’t take much thought.

  I had no choice. I needed to have words with Miss Mina Holmes.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ In Which Our Heroine Takes on the Mantle of Criminality ~

  Upon arriving at my destination, I discovered I was just as hesitant to climb out of the hackney cab that had taken me far too long to find as I’d been to climb into it—for different reasons, of course.

  The condition of the vehicle’s interior was nearly unbearable, but alighting from its relative safety (if not pungency and the horrifying squishiness of some unidentifiable, decaying item on the floor) into Whitechapel was cause for apprehension. However, I had no other choice, and I steeled myself to step carefully down onto what passed for a street, but was more like a refuse-strewn alley that was currently soaking from the icy precipitation. The last thing I needed was to trip on Mrs. Raskill’s too-large boots and land on my knees—or worse, in the icy muck.

  I delivered myself safely onto the ground with no help from the driver, I need not add—for anyone who would conduct a business with a vehicle in that condition clearly has no sense of civility.

  I also need not mention that I declined to offer the driver a tip for excellent service.

  And then I looked around.

  During the carriage ride, I had removed the majority of my disguise—the wig, the stovepipe bonnet, the spirit gum and fog-tinted glasses, as well as the two small wads of cotton I’d stuffed into my cheeks in order to change the shape of my face. I was, however, still garbed in the several layers of clothing that gave me the added bulk of my housekeeper and hid the fashion-conscious frock I wore. Unfortunately, because I’d been interrupted by those uncouth Scotland Yard officers, I was still wearing the frock on which my mechanized umbrella had poured a stream of icy rain. It was chilly and heavy, and my fingers (still gloved, of course) were cold.

  During the ride, I’d taken care not to allow my market bag—which was stuffed with items I expected I’d need if, as I anticipated, I was on an extended exile from home—to rest on the carriage’s garbage-strewn floor, and now I stood on a dim, narrow corner in the part of London that was famous for the Ripper murders. (I purposely choose not to bestow any honorific on the loathsome creature who did such horrible deeds.)

  Normally when I was forced to travel to this area, I was accompanied by Evaline, who had no fear and who was, I admit freely, an excellent protector. And the other times I’d visited this particular neighborhood, it had been at night. Thus, I confess, I was rather trepidatious about being in that particular locale alone, with only my wits (and the miniature steam-stream gun I’d tucked into my cloak) to protect me.

  Although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, the weather was so dreary and the clouds so heavy that it might as well have been midnight. There was nothing to suggest that anyone had even attempted to install a gas street lamp in this area, and even the nearby buildings had little or no illumination oozing from within. The only benefit to the abhorrent weather was that it was so miserable the streets were empty and the corner was deserted. That meant, I told myself as I marched across the narrow throughway to a particular public house, I was far less likely to be accosted, pickpocketed, or otherwise bothered.

  Fenman’s End was a dingy, dark, disgusting pub frequented by Mr. Pix—at least, until he’d been arrested for murdering Emmett Oligary’s business partner. Despite Evaline’s seeming attraction to the place, I had no desire to set foot in that establishment ever again. But I was desperate. Although there were several exits, the only way I knew how to access Pix’s underground hideaway was through the pub. I only hoped no one would try to stop me.

  Or, worse, expect me to imbibe anything poured from behind the bar counter.

  I drew in a deep breath of (relatively) clean air—my last for some time, I was certain—and pushed through the door into Fenman’s End.

  (I had often thought to myself how well named the place was. Although I had no idea who or what Fenman was, the decrepit establishment certainly evoked the concept of a terminus of some sort—either that of any gentility, cleanliness, or refinement—or, more likely, all of the above.)

  A layer of wood smoke filled the top half of the room; it seemed whoever had built up the much-needed fire against the terrible weather had neglected to check the chimney for blockages. Nonetheless, the interior was almost pleasant relative to its temperature and lack of precipitation, and I stepped in, eager for my frozen fingers to move again.

  There were six patrons inside, three sitting at a table in the corner and two placed at a distant interval along the bar counter. When I saw the man behind the stand, I grimaced in disappointment. Bilbo was his name, and I venture to say he was the least sanitary person I’d ever encountered. (Up to that point, anyway. Since then, I have, unfortunately, come into contact with others who could easily wrest the title from him.)

  I strode purposefully across the room to the bar counter. Fortunately, the two patrons were sitting closer to the opposite end of where I needed to go, for the entrance to Pix’s lair was near the left end of the stretch. Unfortunately, Bilbo noticed me.

  “Wotcher about, there, Sally-Sue?” he said loudly.

  Drat. Now everyone would notice me.

  But as I continued my path across the way, I realized none of the patrons had bothered to look up from their tankards. Thank Heaven for small favors.

  I edged up to the counter, speaking purposefully but in an unusually low voice. “I’ve been sent by Mr. Pix to retrieve an item from his—er—apartments.”

  Bilbo, who was a man of indeterminate age—though probably well past forty—had fingers that were so dark with dirt and soot that they probably hadn’t seen a splash of water for months. His sparse, graying beard and sideburns were a tangle around his mouth, and thanks to the crumbs and other detritus adhering to the growth, I could easily ascertain what he’d eaten for his last several meals. I preferred not to know this information, and stifled a shudder as I forced myself to draw closer.

  “’Ave a seat there,” he ordered me, pointing sharply to a stool at the farthest end of the counter, then turned to refill a tankard for the customer on the other end.

  The last thing I wanted to do was place my posterior on a seat that had been dirtied by Providence knew what, but then I realized it was Mrs. Raskill’s skirts that would take the brunt of whatever sticky, smelly, crunchy remnants were left there. And aside from that, Bilbo didn’t seem to be in the mood for arguments.

  So, taking care not to touch the counter or the stool with my gloved hands, I managed to slide myself onto the seat. I plunked my market bag onto the stool next to me and looked at Bilbo, who’d returned from his task. His lips were pursed in an irritated and, dare I say, judgmental expression.

  What on earth had I done to deserve such a look?

  Before I could decide how to approach the situation, he leaned closer to me and said, “Bloody demmed well took ye long enough.”

  My eyes stung from the pungency that accompanied his movement, and I instantly ceased breathing, hoping he would quickly return to his side of the counter. Thus assaulted, I nearly missed his actual words—and the fact that they were an accusation.

  “Pardon me?” I managed to say, still breathing shallowly, for he’d not yet returned to a complete upright position.

  “Bloody ’ell, Sally-Sue, I been expecting ye fer months now t’get it.” He glanced behind me. “Where’s t’other one?”

  “The other on
e?” One must understand that I was battling not only his personal perfume (I use that term sarcastically) as well as his incomprehensible words.

  “T’other one o’ ye. Molly-Sue—the one what broke Big Marv’s fingers. Whaddaya think?” He spewed out a frustrated breath, and I nearly fainted.

  “Right.” I fought to corral my scattered thoughts and leaned back slightly on my stool. With that relative relief, I was able to discern what was happening. “If you’re speaking of Miss Stoker, she is not currently assisting me. However, I am here, as anticipated. Now, if you could please—”

  “Well, wot’s wrong wi’ ’er, then?” he growled. “Molly-Sue fergit abou’ ’im now she gots a fancy bloke on ’er arm?”

  “Er…um…” Although, to some extent, his words echoed my own thoughts, I couldn’t bring myself to join him in disparaging Evaline. Instead, I took an assertive position and a gamble that I’d properly read the meaning between his words. “Mr. Bilbo, if you please. Clearly you’ve been expecting me—hasn’t enough time been wasted? Now, if you’ll provide me access to Mr. Pix’s—erm—apartments, I’ll be able to attend to things.”

  He gave me a jaundiced look from his beady eyes, and the spiderlike gray and black hair of his brows seemed to punctuate his skepticism. But, to my surprise, he jerked his head toward the wall next to the bar counter. “Go on, then, wit’ ye.”

  I wasted no time in sliding off the stool and gathering my bag. I considered myself quite fortunate in having completed a conversation with the bartender without being required to order a beverage.

  I’d only been through this particular door to Pix’s lair once before, and that had been in Evaline’s presence—and with Bilbo’s blessing. I knew I’d be walking through a dim, dark, narrow tunnel that went beneath the streets of London.

  However, since taking on the responsibility of working with Miss Adler and Princess Alix, I’d had more than my share of experiences in such dismal places. Although I admittedly have an intense dislike of dim, dark, narrow underground places, one must carry on and do one’s duty.

  And so I did, with damp palms, weak knees, and the resolve of Her Majesty.

  Having been here before made it easier for me to take the steps down, down, down to the passage, but being without Evaline made it all the more difficult. Still, someone (Pix) had thoughtfully strung up (illegal) electrical light bulbs that, though they needed to be cleaned of the grime that tends to cling in such below-ground environs, nonetheless cast small, helpful circles of light.

  By the time I reached the door to the reprobate’s hideaway, I was slightly out of breath—not from my exertions, but from the clamminess and nervousness that grips me when I am required to be in dark underground places. However, once I arrived at the door, which was fitted with three rows of locks in a code that I had deciphered during The Carnelian Crow Incident, I felt steadier.

  Fortunately, Pix (I supposed I should begin to think of him as Mr. Smith, but old habits die hard) had not made any changes to the locks, and it took me only a moment to set the door ajar.

  I all but burst into the space, knowing that at last I was safe—at least for the time being.

  The hideaway was much the way I remembered it being, which was unsurprising, since the previous time I’d been here was only days before Pix was arrested. Presumably, no one else knew how to access the place, and therefore nothing had been disturbed since he was last there.

  As well appointed as any gentleman’s study in the mansions of St. James Park, the large space lacked only the luxury of windows. However, I’d previously observed a number of electrical light bulbs in the room. I pushed a button near the door, and a string of lights on each of the two walls along the sides of the chamber came to life. They cast a clean white light over the space—so very different than the golden glaze that gas lamps gave to everything they illuminated. I would have been delighted to have such incandescence in my laboratory. Not for the first time, I bemoaned the fact that “the generation, utilization, and storage of electrical or electromagnetic power” was illegal, thanks to the Moseley-Haft Act.

  I set my bag down and closed the door behind me. Thick, expensive rugs from Persia or Egypt covered the stone floor. Comfortable furnishings were arranged in a pleasing manner: a large brocade sofa with two generous side chairs upholstered in leather, and a low table between them. There was an eating table as well as an area that acted as an office. A massive fireplace, whose chimney presumably piped up through Fenman’s End or some other building so as to maintain its secrecy, covered most of one wall and would provide plenty of heat—once I got the fire going, although the room was dry and already surprisingly comfortable in temperature, considering the blustery, ugly weather outside.

  On my previous visit, I’d been both amazed and delighted to discover bookshelves filled with tomes of all subjects and fiction lining the walls of this thief’s den of iniquity. It was through my careful examination of said shelves that I had been able to discern the message (of sorts) that Pix had left for me. And for Evaline, I suppose.

  His sleeping area, with a thick feather mattress and pillows, was tucked behind a partition wall. He had a large wardrobe—large enough for me to walk inside. There was even, I discovered to my great astonishment, a bathing area—with a bathing tub—discreetly adjoining the makeshift bedchamber. I hadn’t noticed it during my last visit, mainly because Evaline and I had been interrupted by an invasion of UnDead.

  At the memory, I looked around, suddenly nervous. I would be vulnerable to any sort of attack by the fanged ones without Evaline here to sense them and fight them off. Although I had managed to stake a vampire myself—once—it’s not nearly as simple as it seems. I would be sorely outmatched if even one UnDead made an appearance.

  I checked the door and made certain it had locked behind me, and then I found the other two exits and ensured they were secured as well. It was the only thing I could do, aside from positioning garlic and holy items across the doorways. Of course, I had had the foresight to pack several vials of salted holy water, as well as a cross and a wooden stake in my bag. Considering the number of times I’d berated Evaline for not being prepared for all circumstances, I couldn’t risk the same myself. Especially since I was on my own.

  On my own.

  It struck me, then, with the force of an anvil to the head: I was literally and figuratively alone.

  I had no one with whom I could share this horrendous predicament—which was not of my own making—and no one to help me.

  And now that the actual activity of fleeing had ceased and I was safe in my sanctuary, I found myself at a loss.

  What should I do?

  I was well hidden and no longer at a disadvantage, and there was nothing to keep me from mulling over the situation that had been so violently and unfairly thrust upon me. I had plenty of uninterrupted time to ascertain what had brought Scotland Yard to my home—with such a preposterous accusation.

  Why would anyone think I’d murdered someone named Frederick Boggs? I didn’t even know the individual. I’d never even heard his name.

  Was it simply a mistake? Or was there some other, more pernicious reason for the misunderstanding?

  I tried to focus on the problem, but for some reason, I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t think. I hadn’t brought my knitting—which was something I liked to do to keep my hands busy when my brain was mulling over a puzzle.

  I found it impossible to keep from pacing, from wandering about the chamber, from touching Pix’s possessions and rearranging them.

  All right, then, I decided. I’d put my mind to some other engagement for a while—something that had lodged in the back of my mind during my desperation to get to safety—and to avoid ingesting anything at Fenman’s End.

  I’d fibbed, of course, when I told Bilbo that I’d come to retrieve something for Pix from his hideaway. But the fascinating thing was that the proprietor had foreseen my arrival (I venture to say, he’d only been being polite when asking about Evaline). His
unexplained anticipation of my arrival was a far easier riddle to contemplate than the other one that loomed large in my mind.

  Why had Bilbo been expecting me? What was I supposedly retrieving, and why would he expect me to come? Had Pix told him I would?

  I couldn’t ask Bilbo about it, for that would expose my falsehood. Instead, I’d have to cogitate on the problem…perhaps by investigating Pix’s hideaway.

  The fact was that Pix—Edison Smith, I mean—was in jail because he was the major suspect in the murder of Hiram Bartholomew, who’d been the business partner of Mr.—now Sir—Emmett Oligary.

  Inspector Grayling had been the one to arrest him, and I’m certain I wasn’t the only person present to be stunned by his announcement after the end of the wild melee with the Ankh, Princess Lurelia of Betrovia, and the UnDead that had occurred at The Carnelian Crow.

  Nor had Pix—drat it, Smith—seemed surprised by the turn of events. He almost seemed to have been expecting it. I pursed my lips, remembering something odd that had happened during the Affair of the Chess Queen. Upon seeing Pix—who’d just been resurrected (quite literally) with the help of Dylan Eckhert—Grayling had looked at him and asked whether they’d met previously. He thought he recognized him.

  At the time, I assumed Grayling had perhaps seen the sly pickpocket on the periphery of one of our activities or events—but upon further contemplation, I realized that might not have been the case. Pix (I suppose I shall succumb to the ease of writing the shorter name herein) had a tendency to remain in shadow whenever possible, and he was always wearing some sort of disguise. The first and only time Grayling would have seen him without either of those obstructions was that evening in the old monastery below Fleet Street, where the Ankh had set up her experimental laboratory and had killed Pix.

  Thus, Grayling might very well have recognized him because he knew of Edison Smith, the American businessman wanted for Mr. Bartholomew’s murder. After all, the death was one of the inspector’s unsolved cases. And it wasn’t until we were fighting off UnDead at The Carnelian Crow that Grayling saw Pix once more—sans disguise—and was able to apprehend him (even as the Ankh and Princess Lurelia made their escape).