The Zeppelin Deception Page 8

  Why was my mother in a photograph with Hiram Bartholomew, Emmett Oligary, and Pix?

  It wasn’t entirely shocking that she was with Sir Emmett, for I knew that she, Miss Adler, and Lady Isabella had all been friends in Paris many years ago—and that Emmett Oligary had occasionally spent time with them. But this was a recent photograph—before Bartholomew died, but after Edison Smith had come to London.

  And, of course, before my mother disappeared—which was now nearly two years ago.

  But exactly when had the photograph been taken? I had scrutinized it for clues to the date—or at least the season—but there were no convenient calendar pages or newspapers to offer a clue. The window in the background offered little information; the rectangle showed only a medium gray color which could be any day or evening in London.

  I thought about everything I knew in relation to Edison Smith—who was the most surprising occupant (aside from my mother) of the photograph: he was American, he was the nephew of Mr. Thomas Edison, and he’d been in London acting as a business representative of the Edison family. The Edisons and the Oligary-Bartholomew partnership had been about to execute a contract to manufacture electrical current equipment.

  Obviously, the photograph had been taken before the business arrangement between Bartholomew, Oligary, and the Edisons had gone sour—but what was my mother doing in the picture? And who was the other person? Try as I might, I couldn’t see his face well enough to identify him.

  Despite the comfortable bed in the underground lair, I hardly slept that night, tossing and turning as I conjectured and mulled and, eventually, dreamt badly.

  The image of the photograph was imprinted on my mind, and in my dream, the figures within came alive: Sir Emmett, Mr. Bartholomew, Edison Smith, and my mother, along with the fifth individual who simply faded into the background.

  In both the photograph and in my dreams, the group of people were in a location that was vaguely familiar to me—a chamber with high ceilings and an open space. It wasn’t until I was submerged in nocturnal ratiocination (under the guise of slumber) that I realized where I’d seen that place before: it was in a photograph in the file Grayling kept on the murder of Bartholomew.

  It was the very room where he’d died, in his office in the Oligary Building.

  In the dream, my mother, Bartholomew, Sir Emmett, and Edison Smith, along with the fifth person, a man, were looking at a large mechanical conglomeration. They talked about it (although in my dream, I couldn’t understand what they were saying) and gestured to it. My mother mostly observed, but I noticed she stood near Sir Emmett most of the time.

  The large machine was in the background of the photograph, but in my dream, the figures moved about casually, thus allowing it to come into view so I could see it fully. I expect that was because in the photographs of Hiram Bartholomew’s murder scene, the complicated machinery was unobstructed by people standing in front of it, so my dreaming mind knew what it looked like.

  In the file photographs, Bartholomew’s dead body lay crumpled on the floor in the shadow of the electric device—which had ultimately killed him when he was allegedly pushed by Edison Smith into the bare wires of the electrical device during an altercation.

  Emmett Oligary had heard his partner being electrofied (as I myself had witnessed a young lady being electrofied, I was well aware of how horrible the sound was: like a large, tortured fish, flopping about helplessly), and had attempted to save him. In the process, Sir Emmett had become burned by a bare wire—an injury that left him with a pronounced limp.

  At last, I had no choice but to drag myself out of bed, for the day was nigh, and despite this new and shocking information, I had other problems to which I must attend. Namely, taking the steps to prove my innocence of murder.

  As I had the opportunity, I took advantage of the very large bathing tub filled with steaming water. I’d never enjoyed such a luxurious interval, and I confess I was in no hurry to vacate. Who would have thought the criminal lair of a pickpocket would have hot, running water and a tub the size of a divan? Not to mention a special kind of liquid soap that created frothy white bubbles of pink, blue, and lavender. It smelled divine.

  Of course, Edison Smith was an American, after all, and it’s well known that theirs is a nation of excesses. Still, I couldn’t fault him for this one.

  To my surprise and delight, I’d discovered that the tub was continuously heated by the metal pipes that ran beneath it. Thus, the water stayed warm even after an hour. It was only the insistent scraping of my stomach’s insides that urged me out of the water.

  Not that I was soaking for an hour. Fifty minutes was long enough. (We British are much more restrained than our American friends.)

  Since I wasn’t about to eat anything prepared in or near Fenman’s End, and the totality of my meals for the last twenty-four hours had included yesterday’s sad, burned-toast breakfast, two cups of Darjeeling (which I’d had to reheat), and the few things I’d snatched while in flight from Mrs. Raskill’s kitchen (an apple, a heel of bread, and half a tin of slightly stale lemon-thyme biscuits), I had no choice but to leave the lair.

  Though I’d poked around, Pix had only a very limited number of foodstuffs stashed away—one being a completely green hunk of cheese (I considered bringing it to Dylan, thinking perhaps he could use the mold for his “antibiotics,” and then immediately rejected the idea. Dylan and I weren’t exactly…speaking) and something that might have been bread at one point but certainly no longer resembled anything edible.

  Of course, I’d been correct in my surmise that Pix/Smith had an abundance of theatrical supplies that he used for disguises. By the time I was ready to leave, no one—even Uncle Sherlock—would have recognized me. Between the slight darkening of my complexion, along with the skillful application of stage makeup to subtly change the appearance of the contours of my face and an extremely high-quality false mustache that hid the shape of my upper lip, I looked like a completely different person. Even my brows were different (bushier and longer), and I wore the same pair of gray-tinted spectacles I’d donned the day before.

  Naturally, I remembered to darken the skin of my hands to match my face and throat, but that was just a precaution, because I’d discovered a cunning pair of gloves that made my fingers and wrists look thicker and larger. I had to admit, Pix was rather a genius when it came to disguises.

  Of course, I didn’t leave his hideaway by the way I’d entered. As I’ve previously mentioned, there are at least two other exits from the place, and I elected to use one of them. Before I did so, however, I remembered to open the door through which I’d come last night. I’d become so absorbed in reviewing the documents Pix had hidden that I’d forgotten to look for clues as to who had tried to get in.

  Footprints in the dust indicated a shoe size much larger than my own, and likely of the male persuasion—unless the individual was wearing a disguise. Nothing else was obviously disturbed, but in the dim light and closeness, I confess even I couldn’t discern any other identifying factors.

  I went back inside and locked the door, then after making a number of other arrangements in the apartment, I donned a large greatcoat (thankful that it was winter and I could bundle up to hide my figure) and placed a brushed-wool bowler on my head.

  Fortunately, the weather was not as ill-tempered as it had been yesterday. Of course, that meant there were more people on the streets of Whitechapel. However, as it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, most of the residents of this decrepit area had not yet risen to see the light of day.

  I hadn’t expected to find a hackney in the borough, and I was required to walk far too many blocks before I reached an Underground station. I’m not terribly fond of the subterranean transportation tube for obvious reasons, but I hadn’t brought an unlimited amount of money with me, so I had to conserve until I could safely replenish. Yesterday’s lengthy hackney ride had depleted far too much of my funds.

  After navigating between several trains and
omnibuses, I reached the busy streets of Haymarket. The first thing I did was purchase a meat and cheddar pie and cup of tea. The pie had an unusual, spicy sauce on it that I’d never had before, but it immediately became a favorite. The tea was strong, hot, and sweetened with honey. Very bracing. Once I’d finished my small meal, I felt far more clearheaded and went in search of a paper and a hack—in that order.

  While in the cab, I perused the Times, News, and Daily Cog, searching for a mention of Frederick Boggs. When I found it, a little prickle skittered over my shoulders. Coincidentally, Mr. Boggs lived on a street not far from my own house. There were no photographs or drawings in the articles to give any clue to the crime scene or the victim.

  The hack stopped at the address I’d given to the driver, and I alighted and paid. Then, confident in my disguise, I walked across the street.

  “Dr. Watson,” I said, entering that gentleman’s office. He glanced up at me, lifting a finger as he continued to pound on the mechanical typing machine in front of him. As he was quite likely writing an account of another of Uncle Sherlock’s cases, I took a seat to wait.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” he said at last, whipping a paper from the machine with a flourish. “Didn’t want to lose my thoughts. Are you here for the doctor, or for the writer?” he asked with a grin that displayed two pleasant dimples parenthetical to his mustache.

  As there was no one else here but the two of us—and I’d ascertained that no one was loitering outside as if in wait for me—I came to sit directly in front of him at the desk. “I need to speak to Uncle Sherlock,” I said in a low voice, removing my spectacles so he could see my eyes.

  “Good gad!” he exclaimed, his own eyes flying wide open behind his own spectacles. “Is that really you, Alver—I mean, Mina?” He squinted closely at me, his dimples reappearing as he scrunched up his face in an apparent attempt to recognize me. “Good gad!”

  I resisted the urge to preen over the stunning effects of my disguise. After all, dear John Watson hadn’t recognized his closest friend and colleague numerous times during the course of their partnership. Thanks in part to the tiny inserts that changed the shape of my nostrils, my voice came out slightly more nasally than usual. “Thank you, Doctor. I apologize for startling you, and I won’t go into the details about the reasons for my current visible characterization. I do need to speak with my uncle as soon as possible. Could you send word to him?”

  But Dr. Watson was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mina, but Sherlock’s not in the city. He’s not even in the country.”

  Drat.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back? Is there a way to contact him?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s on some sort of case about that Professor Moriarty. Last I heard, he was on the scoundrel’s trail to somewhere in Germany. Reichenbach, I believe it was.”

  “Very well.” I rose, my mind already making adjustments. So I couldn’t count on the two male members of my family to help. And when had I ever, really?

  I’d have to rely on myself—something I was fully capable of doing. In fact, I’d anticipated such a conclusion and was already prepared.

  “Mina, is there something I can do?” Dr. Watson pulled himself up out of the chair. Quite frankly, there was nothing he could do for me that I couldn’t do myself. I was far more resourceful than the good doctor in every way—except perhaps medical surgery. Although, as I’d recently spent a good amount of time dissecting a human hand, I anticipated soon being able to surpass him in that skill as well.

  “No thank you, Dr. Watson. I have things well in hand.” I gathered up the stack of newspapers I’d carried in with me and took my leave, belatedly realizing I should have asked if he’d loan me some money. That would have saved me the time and effort of having to obtain it myself.

  But by then, I was several blocks from his office, riding in the steam-powered omnibus toward the residence of Mr. Frederick Boggs—the scene of the murder I had purportedly committed.

  The papers had been quite helpful in this regard, and I knew the basics of what had happened. Mr. Boggs had been found very early yesterday morning, dead in his kitchen. The article didn’t give the cause of death; however, it did indicate that he’d been deceased since the night before. He lived alone, and had recently moved back to London after being abroad for more than a year.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t been mentioned in the papers relative to being a suspect—at least so far. But I couldn’t count on that being the case for much longer. What a journalistic scoop it would be to report that Sir Mycroft’s daughter and Mr. Holmes’s niece was to be arrested for murder!

  I ground my teeth as I pushed my way off the crowded omnibus and onto the street. As previously mentioned, Mr. Boggs lived in a residential area not far from my own home. In fact, I’d been on his very street only last week.

  My steps slowed as I looked around, an unpleasant feeling settling over me. I had been here. There’d been a letter that had accidentally been delivered to our house last week. It had been marked URGENT, and as the courier had already left on his bicycle, I’d taken it upon myself to deliver it to the correct address.

  Which turned out to be that of Frederick Boggs, despite the fact that his name wasn’t the addressee listed on the envelope.

  How curious.

  How coincidental.

  I didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did my uncle.

  Feeling as though I were walking through a heavy, unpleasant bog (the pun is certainly intentional), I nonetheless continued along the very walkway I’d traversed only a week ago. Brandishing my walking stick, I approached a pair of men who were standing in front of Boggs’s address.

  “Good avternoon, there, sirs,” I said, adopting the accent I’d used when in disguise as a princess of Vovinga, but in a much lower register, of course. “Perhaps you can be ahv assistance. I am looking vor the residence ahv Mr. Vederick Boggs.”

  One of them gestured casually. “Right there, sir. But you’re bound to be disappointed if you came to see him. Bloke was killed two days ago.”

  “Killed?” I widened my eyes. “Und how vahz that?”

  “Hit over the head.”

  Hit over the head?

  I barely controlled my reaction.

  How could anyone think I would kill someone in such a vulgar, haphazard manner—let alone be strong enough to fell a man with a single blow? I scoffed deep inside, but kept my expression neutral.

  “Fehrry well, zhen. I zahnk you for zee warningk. But I shall knock on zee dohr none-zee-less.” I tipped my hat and started up the walkway.

  Feeling far more optimistic (not that I had ever worried I’d ultimately be able to prove my innocence), I walked toward the door with manly strides. Having relatively long legs assists in such subterfuge.

  I was nearly through the small gate that led to the steps when my walking stick landed on a small patch of ice and slipped. Fortunately, I wasn’t leaning much of my weight on it, so I didn’t actually tumble to the ground, but it was a near thing.

  I managed to maintain a relatively vertical position despite a flurry of long, awkward limbs that knocked into a bush and caused clumps of snow to rain down on me, followed by a heel that landed on another patch of ice and nearly sent me to the ground that time.

  Just then, the door to the house opened.

  Gripping the small gate to help my balance, I looked up as Inspector Ambrose Grayling strode out, carrying a large attaché case that contained his crime-solving devices.

  Drat.

  Of course, he saw me immediately and stopped on the path next to me. I was thankful my foggy, gray-tinted glasses were still in place, as well as the other accoutrements of my disguise.

  “May I help you, sir?” Grayling asked. He’d paused on the walkway in such a position that I could move in neither direction.

  “Ah, no, zahnk you sir,” I said quickly, adjusting my hat so its brim was low over my forehead. Drat, drat, drat. “I vahz loogingk for Meester Boggs.
And zohse men helped me.”

  “I regret to inform you that Mr. Boggs—Mr. Frederick Boggs—is deceased.”

  “Ah, yes, zoh zhey haff said.” I knew I was fumbling the accent, mixing a Betrovian affect with the Vovingan one I’d adopted before—along with Providence knew what else was in my nervous mishmash. I only hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Boggs’s home is a crime scene, sir, and I cannot allow you to go any further.” He gestured in the direction from which I’d come. I would be only too happy to turn around and be on my way, but his case was jutting into the path in that direction. The space between it and the heavy gate was too narrow for me to walk, especially, as I’d discovered, it was patchy with ice. “The Met is investigating his death as suspicious.”

  “Yes, sir, uff course,” I said, keeping my head slightly downturned to obstruct his view of my face. Since he was so dratted tall, and I was wearing a hat with a decent brim, it was a sound strategy.

  “But if you have a message, I can see that it is delivered to Mr. Boggs’s next of kin,” Grayling continued. He seemed to be waiting for me to turn and leave, which I was more than happy to do if he’d just scoot a little more to the side or turn his case. His large feet were also taking up too much space on the dry walkway.

  I didn’t really want to risk trying to slip past him between the gate, the case, and his feet, knowing how prone I was to losing my balance or mis-stepping—even when not in skirts.

  “I’ll be on my vay, zhen,” I said, and, having no choice, thwacked him in the shin with my walking stick. Grayling muffled a yelp and stepped back, and that was all I needed to skirt past him and start down the walk.

  “Ach, no, und I am zho zhorry! Zhe apologies I must make,” I cried as I walked away, trying not to hurry. “It is many pardons for injuring you, sir.”

  I kept waiting to hear a shout, or for the sound of running feet behind me, but nothing happened.

  As I turned the corner at the end of the block, I glanced back covertly.