The Zeppelin Deception Page 7
“What are you doing here, Evaline?”
Cold. So cold. His tones sliced through me more harshly than the sleet had done.
“I’m…” I searched the darkness. I could only see his eyes and a hint of nose.
“Not here to see me, I know. An unhappy accident, isn’t it, that you should’ve come this way? Well, no need to worry about it, luv. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
Luv.
The loathing in that single syllable shocked me breathless.
“Go away, Evaline. Your secret’s safe with me.”
He closed his eyes and melted into the shadows.
“Pix.” I shook the bars experimentally. They actually moved.
One eye opened. It glittered with malice. “My name is Smith. Go away.”
Miss Stoker
~ In Which the Airship At Last Makes an Appearance ~
Miss Stoker! What are you doing down here?”
At the sound of a familiar Scottish brogue, I turned. I had to blink rapidly in order to clear the angry tears that were obscuring my vision.
“Inspector Grayling, you’re just the man I was looking for.” I pitched my voice toward the open doorway through which I’d just passed, leaving behind the hall of cells and the wild madness of their occupants. I hoped that blasted Mr. Smith heard the blithe pleasure in my voice.
“Och, well, isn’t that a fine thing,” Grayling replied gallantly. If he noticed the furious color in my cheeks or the glistening in my eyes, he was too much of a gentleman to mention it. He offered me his arm. “You’re—er—here alone, then?”
To his credit, he didn’t actually look around to see whether my usual companion was with me. I felt a little pang of sympathy for the man.
“I am, Inspector. And that’s part of the reason. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”
If he was surprised or taken aback by my informal request, again, he didn’t show it. I suppose that, being a police inspector, very little surprised him.
He brought me to the office he shared with Inspector Luckworth, who was as opposite from Grayling as possible (except that they were both men). Where the younger Grayling was a cog-noggin of the first degree and was always trying newfangled gadgets, Luckworth was very set in his ways—which meant he was more of a medieveler like me. He was also older and slightly stouter than his partner, so his mechanized leg creaked a little when he walked. He usually wore clothing that was years out of date, and because he had a young child at home, his trousers sometimes had jelly stains below the knee. He was greatly skeptical about Grayling’s penchant for fancy devices and modern crime-solving techniques, and they often argued about such things.
Fortunately, Luckworth wasn’t in the office. However, Grayling’s three-legged beagle Angus was. He was feasting on the crumbs scattered on Luckworth’s chair, which implied that the other man had only recently left. The overturned rubbish bin told even someone with my lack of observation skills that Angus had found something to nibble on therein before moving on to the chair and its crumbs.
“What can I help you with, Miss Stoker?” Grayling asked, gesturing for me to take the seat at his desk as he turned it around.
I sat, glancing at the wall where he kept all of the information about the cases he was working on. Mina said it was his Case-Wall. There were photographs and drawings of crime scenes, as well as sketches with measurements and notations. There were pictures of people—possibly suspects, or even victims—scattered about.
I gave it only a cursory glance; the investigation of crimes wasn’t really my idea of fun. If there weren’t any UnDead to slay, I preferred the apprehension and fighting part. Not the thinking.
“There’s an arrest warrant for Mina. For the murder of someone named Frederick Boggs. I was hoping—”
“What?” Grayling’s face went white. And since he had fairly pale skin to begin with—though it was covered liberally with freckles—the fact that it was noticeable says a lot about how much color he lost. “Pardon me. I must have misunderstood, Miss Stoker. What did you say?”
“They—some constables—are trying to arrest Mina for the murder of someone named Frederick Boggs.”
Grayling stared at me for so long that I thought he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. After a moment, he said, “Who told you this? How did you find out about this?”
“There’s a Constable Riddle lurking about at Mina’s house, waiting for her to come home so he can arrest her. Apparently, they tried to do so earlier, but she escaped by wearing a disguise. She walked out right under their noses. Or so he told me.”
Grayling’s mouth twitched. “I see.” He seemed to relax a little. “Miss Holmes isn’t at home, then.”
“Not unless she sneaked back in and is hiding. Which, I suppose, is a possibility.” I frowned. Maybe I should have gone inside to make certain.
“She’s safe, then. For the moment. Riddle, did you say?” He frowned. “I don’t believe I know a constable by that name.”
“There was also the mention of a Sergeant Blaketon. Apparently he was the man in charge.”
Grayling’s brow furrowed more deeply. “Blaketon? Hm.” He stared at his Case-Wall for a long moment, but I had the impression he wasn’t really looking at it. “Frederick Boggs? It’s not my case, but I should be able to find out more about it.”
“And why Mina’s a suspect,” I added.
“Yes.”
He frowned. “But surely Sir Mycroft or Mr. Holmes would be informed of this— Och, then. I’d forgotten. Sir Mycroft is…away. Out of the country, on some Home Office business. It’s been kept out of the papers, but we were given notification of that earlier this week.” His frown deepened. “But Mr. Holmes—”
Angus barked sharply, startling both of us. He was looking up at me with hopeful brown eyes, his too-long black and brown ears trailing on the ground. I supposed he was remembering the fact that the last time I’d seen him, I’d been carrying a snack in my reticule. I’d shared it with him as a way to distract Grayling so I could snatch something off his desk. (I put it back.)
“I’m sorry, old boy, but I don’t have a bit of anything with me. I ate most of the teacakes at Cosgrove Terrace, and—”
“Cosgrove Terrace?” Grayling looked sharply at me.
“Yes. Uhm…Lady Isabella invited me to tea today.” I tried to sound casual. I was fairly certain Grayling didn’t know that the woman who was his distant relative was also the Ankh.
“She did?” He frowned again. “In this weather? While she is in mourning?”
“Yes.”
He began to rub his chin. “What did Miss Holmes say about this incident with Frederick Boggs?”
I bit my lip. This was where things became a little uncomfortable. “I haven’t spoken to her. About it.”
“Aye, I see. Well, I trust she’s…er…doing well.” He seemed to be staring at the Case-Wall with great interest.
I heaved a sigh. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to her since—since that night at The Carnelian Crow.”
“Ye haven’t?” His brogue had gone thick, even with those few words. “Nae at all?”
“No.”
Why did I feel so guilty? She hadn’t contacted me either. And I was the one who was getting married. Whose life was going to radically change in a month.
“Did… Well, blast it, Miss Stoker, the two of you have been underfoot and meddling in murder investigations and robbery cases for nearly a year now.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two freckled fingers. “Och, well, I suppose I ken who—er—what’s keeping her busy, then.”
“You do?” I’d known for a long time that Grayling had a penchant for Mina. It was very obvious. But for being such a brilliant detective (her words, not mine), however, she didn’t seem to have the faintest idea about his admiration.
But now that Dylan Eckhert had returned from the future, poor Grayling obviously felt discarded. He
likely assumed Mina had been keeping company with Dylan. That might be the case; I honestly didn’t know. I grimaced inside.
You should know, a nasty little voice said in my head.
“I’ll look into the Frederick Boggs situation right away, Miss Stoker,” he said. “May I call you a carriage home? The weather is ferocious. That’s part of the reason I haven’t left yet, and why no one else is here.” He gave a rueful smile.
“No, thank you. I have Middy waiting for me.” I started for the door of his office, then paused. “About Pi—Edison Smith.”
“Yes, Miss Stoker?” His expression was studiously blank.
“Oh…nothing.”
“Very well, then.” He offered me his arm and escorted me back to the front entrance. This time, we avoided going down the corridor with the jail cells. “Erm…Miss Stoker, I know that you haven’t spoken to Miss Holmes. But where do you think she would be—er—hiding out while—erm—evading arrest?”
I’d given that some thought myself, to be honest. “Nowhere obvious.”
“Of course not.” He hesitated as we reached the front door. “If you do happen to have contact with Miss Holmes, please tell her that if she is in need of help, she can come to me… I mean to say, of course, that while I must abide by the law, I am also well versed in it, and if there is anything I can do…” He grimaced. “Right, then. Miss Holmes is quite able to take care of herself, isn’t she?”
“Of course I’ll tell her, Inspector. If I see her. That’s exactly why I came to you here.” I smiled at him and patted his arm. I could see the worry in his eyes. “I knew you would help.”
I took my leave then. Since Mina wasn’t available, Grayling was, in my mind, the next best person to approach with a problem.
The scoundrel named Pix didn’t even come to mind.
I settled back into the carriage, pleased with myself. I’d managed to squander nearly the entire day away from Grantworth House. Big Ben was striking half-eight as Middy eased the carriage into the street. Due to the weather, the throughway was relatively empty. Most everyone was huddled in at home, out of the sleet and whipping wind.
That was probably why I saw it.
I caught my breath, craning my neck to look up and over. Through the freezing rain and dark, dreary evening, I saw it in the distance, sliding silently through the sky like a creeping figure: a long, slender black airship.
I blinked, then opened my eyes. It was still there, hidden among the steam clouds and the snowy fog, above the leaning rooftops and sky-anchors where no one would look up during such ugly weather. This was the first time I’d spotted it when it wasn’t very late at night.
Pix had pulled me into the shadows each time we’d seen the sleek zeppelin. It was as if he was afraid it would notice him—as if it were a living being that threatened him. Or us.
Although I didn’t know why, I found myself moving away from the carriage window, out of sight.
Miss Holmes
~ In Which “Excessive Cleverness” Proves Valuable ~
I was momentarily paralyzed by indecision. Should I attempt to hide from whomever was attempting to gain access to Pix’s (now my) hideaway, or should I announce my presence and demand to know what the individual wanted while being prepared to fight and defend myself?
The door’s more insistent rattle jolted me to life. I was no Evaline Stoker, and therefore I was in no way equipped to defend myself (especially if it was an UnDead who was on the threshold) except with the mini-steam-stream gun…which was in the depths of my market bag on the other side of the chamber and would be useless against a vampire.
The obvious choice was for me to hide and watch. Thus I could determine who else was attempting to use the underground lair—or whatever purpose they had in coming inside.
The decision made, my mind snapped back into its normal lightning-quick agility. I ducked behind the partition door that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the apartments. I could slip into the wardrobe and hide deep amongst Pix’s extensive clothing collection (which likely held a variety of disguise elements—a possibility that I would investigate at my earliest convenience). But first, I wanted to see who was here.
The door rattled once more, violently. And then it stopped. Something slammed against it—to my trained ear, it sounded like an angry fist—and I was certain I heard a muffled exclamation of frustration.
I cautiously eased from my hiding place. Whoever it was obviously didn’t know how to get through the locks. I smiled to myself and hurried to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever it was. Presumably, Pix had some sort of visual mechanism that would allow him to see if anyone— Ah, yes. There was a small opening in the wall next to the door.
When I looked inside, I could see that a clever arrangement of angled mirrors in an irregular tube projected an image from the top of the door’s exterior. I dismissed the fact that I hadn’t noticed it myself during this or previous visits; I’d had no reason to look around for such an apparatus at the time.
But by now, whoever was there had disappeared back into the tunnel that led to Fenman’s End. I caught only the glimpse of a retreating shadow, which gave no indication of even the gender of the person who’d been pummeling at the door.
I would wait for a short time to ensure they had gone, then open the door and examine the area. Perhaps he or she had left some clue as to their identity.
Now that my heart rate had returned to normal and my palms were no longer damp (I am no coward, but the thought of facing an UnDead—or a few of them—alone had turned my blood cold), I turned my attention back to the matter at hand: what was in here that was important to Pix?
I turned slowly in a circle from the center of the room, hoping something would strike me visually. If nothing did, I’d have to do a painstaking, hands-and-knees examination of the entire place—something that is far more difficult for a woman in petticoats and a corset than a man in trousers.
And then I saw it. How clever.
One had to be standing in front of the mirror he had so carefully positioned so as to see not only oneself, but the entirety of the chamber behind, and it was only by looking in the mirror and seeing an image in reverse that one could discover the obvious—yet not so obvious—hiding place.
There was, now noticeable, a short verse that could only be discerned if one were looking at it through the mirror’s reflection and seeing it in reverse. Otherwise, the writing had been cleverly disguised to look like part of the pattern of the black and brown wallpaper.
The words read: Nihil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.
Of course, not only can I comprehend Latin, but I was also immediately aware of the most famous use of that verse: in the epigraph of Edgar Allan Poe’s brilliant story “The Purloined Letter.”
(For those who aren’t well versed in Latin, I translate herewith: Nothing is more hateful to wisdom than excessive cleverness.)
Pix’s clue was therefore telling me—for who else would he expect to enter his hideaway and find whatever it was he wanted to be found?—that the information was hidden just as it was in the Poe story: somewhere slightly disguised, but nonetheless in plain sight.
Indeed—I had suspected something of a well-crafted hiding place; Pix is not the sort to secret important papers behind wallcoverings or inside cushions, and certainly not behind paintings or portraits. And false drawers and secret partitions are far too obvious for someone as cunning as that particular knave.
And thus armed with this clue, it took me only a moment to find what he’d hidden.
On his bookshelf, he had a slender, bound copy of “The Purloined Letter.” But did I pull that out and extricate his secrets from therein, as I had done only months ago when Miss Adler used the very same book for a hiding place?
No, I did not—for only a few short spaces down on the shelf from that seemingly obvious book was the actual hiding place: inside a bound leather tome titled The Gift, which is, of course, the volume in which “The Purl
oined Letter” first appeared. How obvious could one be? And yet…clever as a whip, for how many people would recall that the story was previously published in a collection?
He had removed many of the pages of the original matter and inserted his own information, binding it as if part of the book. One would have had to look very closely to realize that the pages were Pix’s own story, if you will, rather than that of Poe and the other readings in that particular volume.
I assumed that he would expect me to remove those inserted papers for further inspection, and so I carefully cut them free from their bindings.
I spread all of it out on the eating table and decided to make tea to have whilst examining it. (Had I been with Evaline, she would have demanded sustenance much earlier on. As it was, I had just realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a burned piece of toast because the Flippers Fryer & Toaster had malfunctioned again.)
With a cup of bracing Darjeeling in hand (which always reminded me of Miss Adler), I settled at the table to peruse the secrets of Edison Smith.
There were newspaper clippings, correspondence, a few photographs, and even a contract. This last item drew my attention immediately, and as I read through it, I forgot my tea.
By the time I finished my examination, I had a much better understanding of Mr. Edison Smith, what he was doing here in London, why he’d been hiding out in Whitechapel, and how he was involved in the murder of Hiram Bartholomew.
It wasn’t until I was prepared to slip the documents back inside the book that I noticed a photograph that had been tucked inside much farther back. I withdrew it, and as I looked down, my breath caught. I goggled at the five people captured on the sepia-toned image.
They were Emmett Oligary, Hiram Bartholomew, Edison Smith, a male individual whose face was partly obscured and whom I didn’t recognize…and my mother.
Miss Holmes
~ Dr. Watson is Taken Aback By Another Holmes ~