The Clockwork Scarab (15 page)

“Miss Holmes,” he repeated, “I am investigating the murders of two young women, along with the disappearance of a third—likely also murdered. Everything related to them is my concern. Particularly since you attended a ball last evening in the place of one of the victims, using her invitation.”

My mouth opened and then closed, and I could feel my cheeks heat. He must have learned from the Hodgeworths how I’d obtained the invitation. Not that I’d done anything illegal; Mrs. Hodgeworth had given Miss Adler and myself permission to take the card.

“I believe I’ve misjudged you, Miss Holmes.” Grayling’s Scottish burr had become more evident, and his eyes were as cold as the sea in December. “I supposed you were merely playing at detective, trying to be like your uncle. But when you returned from the Star Terrace last night after an extended period of time in the dark gardens—and not alone, I wager—I can only assume you have placed yourself in untenable situations. What is your intention?”

By now I had drawn myself up straight and was bristling. “My intentions are none of your affair.”

His cheeks had gone ruddier, and his mouth was a thin, flat line. “Miss Holmes, when you returned to the ball after your lengthy disappearance, it was quite obvious in what sort of activities you’d been engaged. Your hair was mussed, your skirts were rumpled, and one of your gloves was missing. And now I find you here, at the Met, posting bail to release a prisoner. You are obviously fraternizing with the wrong sorts of young men.”

Incensed by his accusations and assumptions, I could hardly keep from gasping in outrage. How
dare
he? I would have berated him in return, except that he was standing very
close to me. So close I might brush against him if I should express my deep anger as passionately as I felt it.

“Does your father know of your nocturnal activities, Miss Holmes? And what of your uncle? If he were aware, I wager he’d put an immediate end to them.”

His statements were absurd. My father cared little for how I spent my time. And Uncle Sherlock was only slightly more interested in me, simply because he knew I was a loyal audience for his lectures and that, unlike Dr. Watson, I actually learned from him.

“If you please, Inspector Grayling.” My voice was clipped with fury. “I have more important things to attend to than continuing this offensive exchange. And I’m certain you do as well. Good day.”

His eyes bored into me as I edged away. I could feel his angry stare between my shoulder blades as if he held the barrel of a Steam-Stream gun there. And of course, the moment I was out of his presence, I thought of all sorts of cool, smart things I could have said to put him in his place.

I was so discombobulated I went in the wrong direction, and it took me some time to relocate the constable who could release Mr. Eckhert. However, a short time later, the newly released prisoner and I retraced those steps on our way to the outside. We obtained his meager belongings—a small sack which I deduced contained his foreign clothing.

I decided to take Mr. Eckhert with me to the British Museum when I went to speak with Miss Adler, and as it was
approaching two o’clock, I felt the necessity to make haste. But that was not to be, for as we rounded the corner, passing several policemen dressed in their blue uniforms and sturdy hats, we came upon a small cluster of people blocking the corridor.

In the center of the group rose two heads that made my stomach plummet. One of them was that of a tall Scot with a high forehead and curling, rust-colored hair.

The other
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
oh,
blast
.

“Alvermina! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Hello, Uncle Sherlock.”

I
looked up at the tall, spare man around whom the others had crowded. As always, he was clean-shaven and his dark hair neatly combed. He held a hat in long, slender fingers. His coat was brushed, and his trousers were without a speck of mud.

I tried not to think about the fact that he’d just announced my abomination of a name to the entire Metropolitan Police force.

“Greetings, Dr. Watson,” I added. My uncle’s cohort was shorter than he and of a stocky frame, but by no means chubby. He wore a close-trimmed mustache of chestnut brown and professional, yet out-of-fashion, clothing. Small round spectacles perched on his nose.

I avoided looking at Grayling, for I could only imagine the expression on his face.

My uncle had turned his regard upon Mr. Eckhert, who was staring unabashedly at him. My newly liberated friend exclaimed, “Sherlock Holmes! I can’t believe it’s really you!”

“You’re living at my brother’s house, I perceive,” said my uncle. “Since arriving in London, you’ve been a vagrant and homeless. But my niece has taken you in and now has had to bail you out on a charge of breaking and entering. The British Museum, if I’m not mistaken.”

Mr. Eckhert’s expression turned to one of shock and bald admiration—both of which were common to people upon experiencing Sherlock Holmes for the first time. I wondered if I would ever have that sort of effect on people.

“How did you know that?” my friend asked.

“It’s information there for anyone to see,” began my relative in his aggrieved way. “One must observe—”

“Never mind,” I interrupted. I was one of the only people in London besides my father who would dare do so. Even the shorter, less elegant but more approachable Watson was intimidated by his friend at times. “Uncle Sherlock, I’ll be by Baker-street soon to return the item you—erm—loaned me. You must be on an important case, or you wouldn’t be here at Scotland Yard. I shan’t keep you any longer.”

And then, as if it had been I who’d accosted him instead of the reverse, I excused myself to the rest of the group. In doing so, I caught Grayling’s gaze before turning away. His
eyes were narrow with wariness and aggravation, flickering from me to Mr. Eckhert and back again.

“I can’t believe that was Sherlock Holmes.
The
Sherlock Holmes,” Mr. Eckhert said in an undertone as he walked in step with me. “He really
is
as brilliant as in the stories.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t suppose it was that difficult for him to make those deductions. You’re wearing my father’s clothing—that, along with the ill fit, would indicate your vagrant state and the fact that I took you in. And as for the details about your bail, well”—I gestured with the paper I held—“I suspect my uncle read the details on your release document. He’s notorious for reading upside down and backward, and he would recognize the type of document used for bail.”

“Wow,” Mr. Eckhert said, pausing to glance over his shoulder as if to catch one more glimpse of my famed relative. “And Dr. Watson too. They both look just as I imagined them.”

“Mr. Eckhert, do you think you could cease fawning over them and hurry along? There’s someone back there I would prefer to avoid. And we’re going to the museum now.”

I picked up my pace, and my companion fell into step with me. Although he was in need of freshening up, I decided it would be best to get to Miss Adler as soon as possible. There would be a place for him to wash up at the museum.

“London,” said Mr. Eckhert as we walked outside of the building, “is so different than I remem—imagined. It’s so
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
close. And tight, and dark. There’s no grass or trees,
and it smells. The buildings are on top of each other and so tall. Walking down the street isn’t like being outside, it’s like being
inside
a really massive building—like a huge shopping ma—uh. I mean, all of the bridges and walkways and everything. And those open elevators—what do you call them? Lifts? It’s always so dark and foggy and gray. And what are those things up there? They look like huge balloons at the tops of the buildings.” He pointed to the sky-anchors. A half dozen of them swayed high above our heads.

Before I could respond, I heard a familiar purring rumble. We both turned to see a steamcycle roar around the building and down the street. Gliding at knee height above the ground, smooth and sleek and fast, it blasted past us in a blur of copper and a tail of white steam. The long, flapping black coat of its driver fluttered in its wake, and he was bent over the handlebars, eyes protected by large goggles, hands by brown gloves. On his head was an aviator hat that I suspected covered ginger-colored hair.

“Sweet!” Mr. Eckhert exclaimed, stopping to gawk after the cycle. “What was that? A motorcycle?”

“It’s called a steamcycle. Usually, they aren’t quite so fast. Or loud. Or
 
.
 
.
 
.” Sleek. Cognogged. “It’s probably an illegal vehicle, at any rate.” I made no effort to hide my exasperation. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some electrical mechanism beneath that steam engine.”

Mr. Eckhert had a strange expression on his face as I started in the direction of the museum, but then he paused
and sniffed. Something delicious was in the air, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

“Something smells good,” he said. “The food they gave me in jail was disgusting.”

“The best street vendors are on the middle and upper levels,” I said. Since one had to pay to ascend in the lift, the better vendors knew where the most profitable customers were.

The enticing scents wafting down from the carts selling items like roasted apple puffs, vanilla-stick coffees, and flaming carrots were all the urging I needed to dig out five pence for our entrance to the street-lift. I had a particular fondness for the soft, sweet carrots on a stick.

Moments later, we stepped off the street-lift and heard the ornate brass door clang shut behind us. Mr. Eckhert led the way to a small cart of the flaming carrots, and I selected the largest of the offerings. I purchased two, as well as an egg biscuit for my companion, who claimed he was starving.

He said something about egg mick-muffins and ate the biscuit in three large bites as I held the two carrots on their sticks, waiting for the flames to burn out. I showed him where to throw the wrapping from his food into the sewer-chute and handed him his carrot with a warning: inside, beneath a thin sugary crust, the carrot would be soft, sweet, and steaming hot.

“What did you mean earlier about electrical mechanisms being illegal?” Mr. Eckhert asked, then was distracted by the sight of a Refuse-Agitator. The self-propelled vehicle was
doing its duty far below at ground level by rolling through one of the small sewer canals, likely pulverizing the trash he’d just discarded. Little clouds of black smoke puffed from a duo of pipes as it chugged along.

“ ‘The generation, utilization, and storage of electrical or electro-magnetic power is prohibited,’ ” I said, quoting directly from the Moseley-Haft Act.

Mr. Eckhert stopped there on the sidewalk and nearly got himself run over by a knife-sharpener and his motorized cart. “Are you saying that
electricity
is
illegal
?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a widespread safety threat.”

“That’s crazy! Haven’t you people ever heard of Thomas Edison?”

“Yes, of course I’ve heard of Thomas Edison. Everyone’s heard of him. It’s because of him and his unsavory activities that the law was passed.”

Mr. Eckhert gaped at me. “What year did you say this was?”

“It’s 1889,” I said, finishing the last bite of my sweet, warm carrot. “Victoria is Queen. Lord Salisbury is the prime minister. Lord Cosgrove-Pitt is the leader of Parliament. Now, shall we walk? I don’t wish to dawdle any longer, and, Mr. Eckhert, the sooner you get to a washroom, the—er—less attention you’ll be drawing to yourself. Which I deduce was the reason you borrowed my father’s clothing—so that you could blend in with other Londoners. Incidentally, a gentleman never goes about without gloves.”

“Okay, I’m walking,” he said, looking at his hands as if to see whether gloves had magically appeared. “Tell me about this law. I don’t remember learning anything in school about a law making electricity illegal.”

At his cryptic words, a funny shiver went through my insides. Despite the fact that I’d been immersed in the problem of Miss Hodgeworth’s death and the Sekhmet mystery, questions about Mr. Eckhert and his origins had never been far from my mind. I’d analyzed the facts over and over and had only come to one conclusion.

An unbelievable conclusion.

But my uncle’s favorite maxim had been pounded into my head from a young age.
When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth
.

I turned to answering his question. “Seven years ago, there was a time when it seemed as if the civilized world would adopt the use of electricity to power everything mechanical. But it became clear how dangerous it is when fifteen people were electrocuted by a wire in New Jersey during a rainstorm. Mr. Edison tried to cover up the incident, but Mr. Emmet Oligary, one of the foremost businessmen in London, made certain it was written about in the papers. The scandal was exposed, and it became obvious that widespread use of electricity was a real danger to society. Mr. Oligary led the charge to make certain all of England was aware of the insidious dangers of electrical power. His brother-in-law,
Lord Moseley, consulted with Parliament to craft and pass the law in 1884.”

“Let me guess,” said Mr. Eckhert as we approached the wide flight of steps to the British Museum. “Mr. Oligary had a bunch of factories running on steam engines.” His expression was grim. “Probably manufacturing the parts to them, even.”

“Of course he did. The steam engine was just becoming popular at that time. And now we use that technology for everything. Good afternoon, sir,” I said to the guard at the door of the museum.

He looked with suspicion at the disheveled Mr. Eckhert, but when I glared at him with a level gaze of my own, the guard gestured us through. The heavy glass doors, framed in brass, clicked and whirred as they folded open. I led the way through the Banksian Room to Miss Adler’s office. It was nearly quarter past two.