The Chess Queen Enigma (13 page)

I gritted my teeth. I'd hoped the old man would be an easy solution to the problem of who was Pix. Bilbo turned away to serve another patron, giving me the opportunity to think about my next question.

He didn't have to make his way back to my end of the bar counter, but he did. Which told me Bilbo was either just as curious about me as I was about Pix, or he'd been told to keep an eye on me if I came into the pub.

“If I wanted to place an order with Pix, how would I go about doing that?” I asked casually.

The bartender lifted one bushy eyebrow and wiped his nose with the back of a hand . . . then with the front, for good measure. When I saw the shiny streak left on his skin, I decided never again to allow him to serve me anything to eat or drink. “An order? An' wot would ye be orderin' then, girl?”

“Er . . . one of those little gadgets.” I smiled innocently. “I don't know what they're called, but they're just this big”—I showed him with my hands—“and have some wires curling out from them. I could use one.”

“An' wot would the likes o' ye be doin' wi' something that could land yer pretty self in th' clapper?”

I kept my smile in place. “I'm willing to take the risk. After all, you've seen me in action. You know I'm no easy mark.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, his eye lighting with appreciation at my use of slang. “Well, now, oy can't argue wi' that, Molly-Sue. Anyone 'oo can take Big Marv ain' gonna go easy.”

“So, if I wanted to place an order, then, how would I do it? In order to keep my identity secret.” I leaned closer, caught a whiff of the pungent tobacco and sweat scents that clung
to him, and eased back a little. “Pix refuses to sell to me, so I don't want him to know it's me who wants it.”

Bilbo considered me for a moment as he toyed with the ripe pimple on his chin. I braced myself, ready to dodge if it should burst. “Pix don' wanna sell t'ye? Woy not? I ain' never knowed the boy t'pass up a bit o' flimp.”

I shrugged. “He won't say. So tell me . . . how do I get one?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I could get in th' black wi' him if'n 'e finds out.”

“How will he find out? I'm not going to tell him. No one else in here is paying any attention to me. All they want is ale from you.” I made my smile as innocent as a baby's.

“Awright. There's a place. Bridge & Stokes is wot it's callt. On St. Albans, way over t'Pall Mall where all them dandies be. An' inside summere, there be a book in a case. Ye ask t'see th' book an' when ye put th' book back, ye've got yer order slipped inside. Ye granny all 'at, Molly-Sue?”

“Right. Bridge & Stokes on St. Albans-street. Ask to see the book in the case, put the order inside.”

“Aye. In the back o' the book, it's hollered out wi' a spot fer the paper where it's writ.”

“And then . . . what? How do I pay? How do I get it?”

“Questions. Allus questions.” He paused and shouted at a customer near the other end of the counter. “Shut yer trap. Oy'll be wi' ye when I'm wi' ye! I gots busy-ness 'ere.” He was
shaking his head when he leaned on his elbows, bringing his aromatic self a little too close for my taste. “Ye tell in th' order where ye wan' the communi—communicay—th' messages t'go. And ye get d'rections fer the rest then.”

I nodded. That seemed reasonable. I eased back on my stool as Bilbo left me to tend to the cluster of patrons that had gathered while we talked.

Pix wouldn't tell me what the little device was. He also wouldn't give me any information about his mysterious customer. So I would become a customer myself.

There was more than one way to cut a cogwheel.

I was ready to make my way home. No vampires tonight, but at least I'd made some progress in another direction. I'd better leave before Pix arrived and saw me talking to Bilbo. It would be best if he didn't know I had been there.

I gave the bartender what I hoped was a masculine farewell wave—in case anyone was watching. I'd taken three steps toward the exit when I caught a movement from the corner of my eye.

Turning, I saw that the door leading to the tunnel for Pix's underground hideaway was sliding open. Blast! He'd see me in an instant, and I had no doubt he'd recognize me. My only hope was to blend in.

I ducked toward a crowded table in the corner and slid onto an empty seat that angled away from the secret door.

“Ay! Wot ye think ye're doin'?” one of my tablemates exclaimed.

I had barely enough time to register the five faces goggling at me—one of them vaguely familiar—before I looked over at Pix's door.

“If'n yer gonna sit 'ere, yer gonna entertain us blokes.” Someone's hand slammed on the table hard enough to make it lurch.

“Patience, gentlemen.” I made a sharp gesture at them. “And I use that term loosely. I'll be gone in a moment. I just needed to rest my feet.”

I was glad I'd moved quickly, for it was Pix who stepped through the opening door.

And he wasn't alone.

“Ye ain' gonna sit 'ere! 'At's
Pete's
seat! 'E don' like it when no blokes sit in 'is
seat
!” The table jerked, punctuating each sentence.

“Hey! That ain' no bloke! 'At's the slavey wot broke Big Marv's fingers!”

“I don' care if'n it's the Queen o' England—har, har—no one's gonna set in Pete's seat wif'out his say!”

“I ain' mollyin' wi'
her
, ye fool. I was th'ere. I saw it. She can sit 'ere if'n she wonts.”

I hardly heard the exchange, for my attention was completely focused on the pretty blond woman with Pix. In her clean and fashionable clothing, she stood out in the rough and dingy bar like the sun breaking through a cloudy day.

He had offered her his arm and he guided her through the pub—fortunately, without glancing in my direction. Pix
appeared to be enjoying himself, smiling and chatting with her in that charming way of his . . . and she was responding in kind.

And then, with an unpleasant jolt, I recognized the woman.

Her name was Olympia Babbage, and she was the grand-daughter of some famous inventor. Mina had dragged me to the Oligary building to look at a display of the grandfather's work a few weeks ago.

That also happened to be the day I'd staked my first vampire—a vampire who'd been trying to feed on Olympia. So I'd saved her life—although the air-brained woman hardly seemed to notice. She was more interested in writing down mathematical calculations than thanking me.

But more importantly, and more unsettling to me, at least, was the fact that this young woman seemed to have inherited her grandfather's talent for inventions—a talent someone like Pix would appreciate.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen Pix and Olympia together. When everything came to a head during the spirit-glass case, they both happened to be there—and it was obvious they were already acquainted.

There was a strange curdling in my belly. Suddenly, I felt a great jolt at the back of my neck, and something tightened around my throat. The next thing I knew, I was airborne.

“I tol' ye 'at was
Pete's
seat!”

The words rang in my ears as I crashed into the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.

I remembered to clap a hand over my cap, which had gone askew, and gingerly opened my eyes.

No one seemed to be looking at me, except the man who was presumably Pete—for he was sitting in my chair. He gave me a dark look, and I pretended to cower.

I could best him in a fight, of course, but not tonight.

When I looked around the pub, Pix and Miss Babbage were gone. I scrambled to my feet and dashed to the door, faking a limp as part of my disguise.

But when I got outside in the fog-shrouded night air, the couple was nowhere to be found.

A
fter Miss Stoker brought me home from our meeting with Miss Adler, I spent the rest of the day, and well into the night, closeted in my laboratory.

It was either that or sulk in my bedchamber, and a Holmes doesn't sulk.

Even when she gets terminated from a case.

Even when she shames herself in front of a member of the Royal Family.

Even when she realizes both of her parents prefer to be anywhere but in her vicinity.

But I wasn't the only one with failures.

So when I woke up the next morning slumped over my desk in the laboratory, surrounded by samples of coffee grounds, it was with new resolve.

I might no longer be wanted or needed by the Crown, but there were other puzzles and unsolved crimes to which
I could turn my attention—such as the case of Mr. Oligary's partner's death. And in the meantime, no one could keep me from building a case against Lady Cosgrove-Pitt as the Ankh.

I dashed off a note to Uncle Sherlock asking for his assistance, as well as a copy to Dr. Watson, in the event my relative was otherwise occupied.

Though I hadn't slept well or long enough for the last two nights, I managed to put myself to rights, dark circles under my eyes notwithstanding. Though my attire was not as uniquely fashionable as the ensemble I wore to the Midnight Palace, it was nevertheless neat and smart, and befitted a young female detective. My spring green day dress attempted to lift my spirits with its bright hue, and though it was trimmed with a subdued navy bric-a-brac and grosgrain ribbons that gathered at the bustle, I donned robin's egg gloves and pinned a matching saucer-hat over the thick coils of my hair. I surveyed myself in the mirror and thought the dancing yellow, blue, and green feathers quite enchanting.

My large reticule in hand, I accepted a piece of toast from Mrs. Raskill and swept from the house. I had three destinations on my agenda: Charing Cross Hospital, 221-B Baker-street, and, finally, the Met—better known as Scotland Yard.

As expected, I found Dylan doing what he called “making rounds.” Apparently that was a futuristic term that meant he was checking in on all the patients he had been treating.

His weary face lit with pleasure the moment he saw me, and a good portion of my own megrims faded. Dylan never
failed to make me feel worthy and interesting—and even, occasionally and surprisingly, attractive.

“Mina!” He strode down the hospital ward, the white coat he insisted on wearing flapping with alacrity. Since a white jacket was utterly unfashionable in London—or anywhere else as far as I knew—he'd had to have it made specially for him.

Affixed to the lapel of his coat winked Prince Albert's pin, which had been given to Dylan by the Queen herself. She was so appreciative of his service to her that she'd bestowed upon him one of her precious husband's diamond and onyx cufflinks. Just beneath it he wore a small sign that read “Dr. Eckhert.”

“Good morning, Dylan. I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” I examined his countenance. He was one of the most handsome young men I'd ever met, and now that he'd gotten his thick blond hair cut so that it no longer fell into his eyes, he looked even more appealing.

However, he appeared peaked, and he was due for a shave. I narrowed my eyes and looked more closely to assure myself he wasn't as worn down as he'd been during the spirit-glass debacle.

Shoes stained with dried clumps of mud—
he hadn't left the hospital, nor changed his shoes since Friday, when it had last rained; it had poured early this morning, but fresh mud would still be damp
.

Shirt collar pressed straight and upright, and smelling faintly of cedar—
a fresh shirt, taken from its closet within the last several hours
.

Deep diamond-shaped creases on the side of his face—
he'd recently awakened from a nap in the upholstered chair in his office
.

Crumbs nestled in a fold in his collar, accompanied by a pale brown stain, and a faint vinegary scent wafted from his person—
he'd recently eaten a sandwich—likely ham—with mustard and pickles
.

Dylan moved toward me in such a way that I thought he was about to embrace me, but seemed to collect himself at the last minute. “I'm so glad to see you! I know I haven't been around much lately, but there's so much work to be done here.”

He was correct. I'd hardly seen him in the last three weeks, and even when he brought me here two nights ago to look at the vampire victims, I was too tired to stay for long.

In fact, I'd hardly spent any time with Dylan since the night he'd kissed me in a carriage. The very thought made my cheeks bloom hot and my attention slip to his mouth.

And then I couldn't help but wonder if that was
why
I hadn't seen very much of him . . . because the kiss had been unskilled? After all, it had been the first (and only) time I've ever been kissed. Perhaps I'd done something wrong. Perhaps he hadn't liked it . . . as much as I had.

Had that been yet another failure on my part? A sudden lump formed in my throat and I sharply redirected my thoughts. “Have there been any more vampire victims?”

Dylan's gaze lost some of its pleasure at seeing me and turned grave. “Two more. Just came in last night—well, early this morning.” He gritted his teeth; I saw his jaw move. “I can
stem the loss of blood, Mina, and even replace it, but it's the infected wounds that are killing them.”

I rested my hand on his arm—something I would never have done to any other gentleman, certainly not Inspector Grayling. “I know you're doing everything you can do.”

A familiar expression of frustration washed over his face. “But I should be able to do
more
. In my time, in 2016, it would be a piece of cake to save them! We just need antibiotics—and then I could save a whole
lot
of people from a whole lot of things. Not just vampire bites.”