The Zeppelin Deception Read online

  One might find it troubling that Grayling had turned around and arrested the very man who had risked his life and assisted us to escape from the vampires. However, I thought I understood his perspective, for Ambrose Grayling is a man of high integrity and principle. He would never allow a criminal to walk away freely.

  Which brought my thoughts around to the situation at hand. Had Pix—Edison Smith—murdered Hiram Bartholomew?

  Was there any doubt?

  While he certainly wasn’t a Holmes, Inspector Grayling was considerably accomplished in criminal investigations. Not only did he have an array of fascinating and useful devices that assisted him in the process, but he was nearly as quick-witted as I. The two of us had worked remarkably well in tandem the few times our responsibilities and cases had converged. In fact, I’d almost thought we might have become friends. Perhaps even more than friends.

  Especially after a particular…erm…intimate interlude when we were at The Crow.

  Apparently I had misread the—er—activity that had occurred during that event, for I’d not seen nor been contacted by the inspector since that night.

  Yet another reason we of the Holmes family tend to avoid personal engagements with others and familiarity with the opposite gender.

  I was shocked when I realized my eyes were stinging, and I blinked rapidly.

  Bloody fool, I told myself quite harshly. I had no reason to dwell on the events of that evening. Instead, I would focus on the mystery of what I was supposed to be retrieving from this hideaway.

  There were two obvious answers. One, perhaps Pix meant for me to take away something that was dangerous, that he wanted no one else—such as the Ankh—to possess. Perhaps I was to obtain one of those devices called a “battery” that the villainess had been using to try to control the UnDead, as well as people like her husband.

  The other possibility was even more obvious: perhaps Pix meant for me to retrieve something that would prove his innocence—or at least cast doubt on his guilt. If, in fact, he was innocent.

  Innocent was not a word I would ever have attributed to the scoundrel, but I must confess that over the course of the last nine months, I had come to appreciate some of his qualities. He was rather helpful in tenuous, dangerous situations. He knew quite a lot of what was going on in London in relation to the criminal activity. He’d even saved my life on one occasion, carrying me out of a burning building over his shoulder.

  And he had cared for Evaline, at least in some fashion.

  And, just as inconceivably, she’d seemed to care for him.

  I blinked rapidly again. Why were my eyes stinging? Was there something here in this dusty underground place that was making them tear up?

  Whatever affections might have been between Evaline and Pix didn’t matter in the least. He was in jail, Evaline was getting married, and I hadn’t spoken to either of them for months.

  I sighed and ignored the heavy weight that sank inside my belly, focusing my attention on the matter at hand: what had I been meant to retrieve from this place?

  During my musings, I’d wandered along the perimeter of the chamber, absently fingering the upholstery on the chairs and divan, brushing over the smooth wood of the eating table and desk. It was the desk to which I gave my attention now.

  The obvious place an individual would store something of importance would be in his desk. At least, that was where most people would hide such a thing.

  But Pix was canny and sly, and surprisingly intelligent. He rarely did the expected—which was perhaps why I didn’t find him as attractive as Evaline obviously did. She much preferred a life of impetuosity and excitement.

  I wondered how she would do, being married to the very proper and conventional Ned Oligary.

  Why oh why had she ever agreed to it?

  I gritted my teeth. I had much more pressing concerns—concerns that directly affected me and my own well-being. I didn’t have time to worry over Evaline, who would soon be living in the lap of luxury.

  I stepped back from the desk without having given it more than a cursory look. As it would be the first place anyone would look for something important, I conjectured that Pix wouldn’t have hidden it—whatever it was—there.

  So I looked around the apartment with fresh eyes. His living quarters showed no indication that he’d left in a hurry, and clear evidence that he’d expected to return.

  I studied the row of bookshelves. The last time I’d retrieved a message from him, it had been hidden inside an obvious (to me) tome. Would the same be true in this case?

  Now that I knew Pix was really Edison Smith, I no longer found it quite as shocking that he—a pickpocket and criminal—would be well read. The same was true of my uncle’s greatest adversary, Professor Moriarty.

  I was still staring at the shelves, my eyes running over titles by Poe, Twain, Verne, when I heard a faint rattle.

  At the door.

  Someone was coming in.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ A Startling and Unexpected Encounter ~

  No one was home at Mina’s house. Not even the housekeeper Mrs. Raskill. I rang the bell three times.

  Maybe Mina was caught up in one of her experiments in the laboratory. She was just as likely to ignore the bell as not even hear it.

  I could go around to the back of the house and look. My hat was dripping and my shoes were soaked. My fingers were freezing inside their fine gloves. I didn’t care. It was a far better option than returning to Grantworth House and all of the wedding talk.

  Which brought my thoughts around to…

  What had Mr. Oligary been doing at Lady Isabella’s?

  Just as I launched myself over the courtyard fence (why simply walk through a gate when you can have a little fun?), I remembered something Lady Isabella had told me during the funeral for Richard Dancy.

  She and Mr. Oligary had known each other years ago, back when she and Miss Adler and Siri—the woman who was my mentor and who was also known as Desirée Holmes, Mina’s mother—had lived in Paris.

  I was standing there in the slippery, cold courtyard behind Mina’s house thinking about this when a shadow emerged from the overhang by the back door.

  Before I could react (attack), I recognized the figure as a Scotland Yard constable. The upside-down bucket-shaped hat made it obvious.

  The constable shined a light in my face. “Who’s there?”

  “Turn that away.” I squinted and held up my hand. “You’re blinding me.”

  The light lowered a little. “Who are you?”

  “I am Miss Evaline Stoker. Who are you, and what are you doing skulking around here?” It occurred to me that anything could have happened to Mina over the last two months. Maybe she wasn’t even living here anymore—although I was certain I would have heard something about it in the papers. (Not that I actually read the papers.)

  “I’m waitin’.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  Was it “who” or “whom”?

  Mina’s voice nattered in my head, so it was probably “whom.” Not that I cared.

  “Whom are you waiting for?” I demanded. (That didn’t sound right.)

  He came forward, and I had a moment of pity for the man. He was drenched. His hat dripped. He wasn’t wearing gloves. And I swore there was a fringe of icicles on his mustache. “I’ve an arrest warrant for one Miss Alvermina Holmes. Do you know where she is?”

  “A what?”

  “An arrest warrant.”

  “For what?” I jolted back in surprise so sharply that I nearly slipped backward.

  “The murder of Frederick Boggs.”

  I gaped at him. What on earth had Mina been up to in the last two months? And who was Frederick Boggs?

  “D’ye know where she is? It’s your head too if’n yer helpin’ a criminal escape.” He leaned forward menacingly. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to this pronouncement.

  “What is your name?” I demande
d. I stepped closer to him. He moved backward, eyeing me warily as he realized I wasn’t easily cowed.

  “Constable Riddle,” he replied in a sullen tone.

  “Well, then, Constable Riddle, you’d best take care about throwing around accusations and threatening people.”

  He hmphed, then peered at me from beneath his dripping hat. But he didn’t say anything. He just stood there and shivered. I wondered how long he had to stay here, waiting for Mina. (Which, if I knew her, would be a very long time.)

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Coupla hours. Told me to wait for when she gets home. Was walking round to see if she was sneaking in the back way. That’s how she got out, first time. Walked out—right in front of Sergeant Blaketon—all dressed up as an old lady.” His mustache twitched as he suppressed a smile.

  I didn’t bother. I laughed outright. That sounded exactly like Mina Holmes.

  Then I sobered. I was sorry for any of Mina’s troubles, but I had important things to talk to her about and I needed to find her. Still. Murder?

  I left Constable Riddle huddled under the overhang of the roof. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

  Arresting Mina Holmes for murder—or, rather, trying to—was one of the most ridiculous things I’d ever heard.

  And who was Frederick Boggs, anyway?

  I settled back in the carriage, wishing I had taken the one Ned had given us to use. It had a little mechanism that warmed the seats. There was also a small, ovenlike container beneath each bench that likewise was heated and contained a blanket. Right now, I would have liked a warm wrap to put over my icy feet.

  Instead, I trundled along in a carriage that had a tiny leak at the left window. The sleet dripped down the inside, making me think fancifully of tears.

  I’d already told Middy where I wanted to go. It was late, and the sun—not that we could see it today—was setting soon. I didn’t know whether Inspector Grayling would be in his office, but he was the person I needed to speak to.

  As we drove down Old Bailey-street, approaching Newgate Prison, I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to look over there.

  Newgate was an evil-looking structure, made completely from bricks blackened by soot and age. A sheer, ominous wall enclosed the building. This barrier was topped by a long, slowly revolving horizontal cylinder that boasted huge spikes. As if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, at each corner was a tall tower bursting with flames at the top.

  The prison building itself was barely one story tall. That was because the cells were all underground in many levels. There were no windows to be seen except on the central tower, which jutted several feet above the dark, forbidding building. The British flag flew atop the tower. Today, it whipped in the ferocious wind. Its Union Jack was dull in the gray light.

  Newgate was notorious for being dark, dirty, and horribly dangerous. It was often said that once a man—or woman—was put inside, they never saw the light of day again. Often prisoners died from disease or malnutrition, or were killed by other prisoners even before they went to trial.

  Pix was in there, somewhere.

  My throat burned. I tried to ignore the way my stomach tightened unpleasantly. I tried not to imagine what he was living through in there.

  Of course I hadn’t gone to see him after his arrest. How could I? I felt betrayed by the secret identity he’d kept from me. And besides, the day after his arrest, all of the wedding announcements had been published.

  Everyone knew I was engaged to Ned Oligary. And Pix—Edison Smith, I thought with a sneer—was an accused murderer. It would have been a scandal had I been seen visiting Newgate. And as the fiancée of one of the wealthiest men in the city, I would certainly have been noticed. Even if I’d tried to keep a visit a secret. I knew this for a fact, for there had been many on dits in the papers about me, my shopping, and other social activities since. Sometimes there were even people following me from place to place in the hopes of seeing some sort of gossipy event.

  It simply was impossible for me to visit Pix, even if I’d wanted to.

  As luck would have it (and I mean that sarcastically), my carriage was forced to stop next to the tall, black iron gate of the prison. I forced myself to look out the opposite window, where the rain continued to streak down inside. I couldn’t worry about Pix. I couldn’t care about him.

  I’d always known he was a criminal. I’d suspected he’d done unsavory things. He was a pickpocket, he ran an underground business dealing in electrical devices, and he slunk around the city like someone up to no good.

  And blast it, I’d allowed him to kiss me. Multiple times.

  And yes, his kisses had been quite excellent. I even felt a stab of warmth, right then, thinking about them.

  But that was due to the forbidden nature of the kiss. I knew that. Those moments had always been stolen, during times of great emotion or activity. Of course they’d been excellent.

  Ned’s kisses were nice. That was because they were proper. Because he was a gentleman. He wasn’t a thief or a murderer. He wasn’t dangerous. He was going to be my husband.

  Bloody hell. Why wasn’t the carriage moving? Why did we have to sit here in the shadow of Newgate?

  The blasted place loomed over me like the hand of guilt.

  I resolutely stared out the opposite window, willing the vehicle to move again.

  Because if it didn’t, I might just open the door.

  I might just open the door, slip out, and find my way inside Newgate.

  And that, I couldn’t do.

  It seemed like forever, but I finally arrived at Scotland Yard. I vaulted from the carriage as if I’d been sprung from prison myself. Middy, who was used to this unladylike activity, merely adjusted his hat and watched me as I hurried to the building. He hadn’t even bothered to try to climb down from his perch to hand me out.

  I’d only been inside the Met once before. I’d been with Mina, of course. Fortunately, we’d been going to the same place I was going now: to Inspector Grayling’s office.

  However, I wasn’t certain I remembered exactly how to find his office. I got inside and strode past the front desk (which was vacant). No one else was in the vicinity. After a hesitation, I took the right arm at a Y intersection of three corridors. Moments later, I realized I was lost. Blast it.

  I was in a long hallway. It wasn’t lined with the offices I’d expected. Instead, darkened rooms with barred windows faced the hall. There were some lights here, but they gave off only a dim, oozing golden light. I went halfway down the hall before I realized there were people—prisoners—in some of the rooms.

  I discovered this because, as I passed by, a hand snaked out from between the bars. Dirty fingers grabbed my arm and yanked me so hard that I slammed into the metal.

  I stifled a shriek and yanked out of the grip with a decisive, twisting movement. The man howled with surprise and pain (surely not expecting a woman to be so strong) and withdrew his hand as if I’d bitten him.

  “Try that again and I’ll break it,” I told him, managing to keep my voice taut and steady. Inside, my heart was pounding from shock at the sudden attack.

  He glared at me from a few steps back, nursing his arm—which was enclosed in filthy clothing. “Didn’t ’ave to—”

  “He’s mad,” cried someone.

  In the next cell, a man lunged from the shadows, his eyes wide and glistening with fury. “Lemme outta ’ereeeee.” His voice rose in a spiral of madness. “Lemmeeee gooooo.”

  He slammed against the bars, sending a shock of power against iron reverberating down the hall. Ogling me, he shouted profanities and continued to bang on the metal bars of his prison. His eyes rolled and darted, showing a frightening amount of white.

  I’m not easily spooked. But the sudden loud fury and madness had me spinning away. Now the others in the cages had awakened. They came from the dark shadows of their confines, shouting, banging, and making all sorts of animalistic noises. I felt as if I were i
n one of the asylums for the mad. My heart was pounding as the clanging wildness echoed down the corridor.

  Yet I refused to let them see. I even refused to turn around, to let them think they’d gotten to me.

  Adding to the horrific tune of metal clanging and desperate profanity, piercing whistles shrieked down the passage, echoing sharply in my ears. Nevertheless, I continued down the corridor, safely out of arm’s reach. There was a door at the end, and I was certain it led back to the main wing.

  I was near the end of the hall when I glanced inside a cell, simply because it was ominously quiet.

  Two dark eyes stared at me from the depths of darkness.

  I froze.

  As the shouts and clangs continued, I found myself moving to the cage. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. I wrapped my hands around the bars, caught by the cold, dark gaze from within.

  “I thought you were at Newgate,” I blurted out. The iron studs burned cold and hard into my hot cheeks.

  “Don’t tell me ye’ve spent the last two months lookin’ for me there,” Pix replied. His voice was as cold and flat as his eyes. “I know better’n that.”

  He hadn’t lifted himself from the pallet on the floor of his cell. He couldn’t be bothered to rise to speak to me. Yet his words penetrated cleanly, as though the continued horrific cacophony of his prison mates had gone silent. Which they hadn’t.

  “I…” I didn’t know what to say. I felt as if the ground was dissolving beneath my feet—that I was on the edge of some crumbling cliff. I gripped the bars as if they were going to save me from tumbling.

  “Although that could explain why I haven’t received my wedding invitation. Did you send it to Newgate, then?”