The Chess Queen Enigma (17 page)

Creating a foolproof disguise meant a visit to the Lyceum Theater. Fortunately, Bram never minded when I raided the costume and makeup rooms under his roof, as long as I returned them.

My brother was typing madly in his office, working on the book he called
Count Dracula
, when Mina and I knocked on the open door. He looked up and I nearly laughed, for his hair was standing up in wild waves every which way.

“How do you kill a vampire?” he asked as we walked in.

“You stab him in the heart with a wooden stake,” I replied. “Preferably one made of ash wood. And then he poofs into dust. Which smells disgusting, by the by.”

He frowned and glared at me. “That doesn't work.”

I shrugged. “I'm sorry. I didn't make the rules. We're going to borrow some things from the men's wardrobe, all right, Bram?”

“I'm going to have to change that,” he muttered, still frowning and glaring. “It's not
interesting
enough. It can't be that simple. Stab an UnDead in the heart, and suddenly he's gone. It doesn't even work that way for mortals! We at least have a body afterward. And blood. What about the vampire's clothing?”

“You could always behead the UnDead. One stroke with a sword works just as well as a wooden stake, and it's a little more exciting.”

He looked interested. “And what happens afterward? Does the head roll away and the body slump to the ground? Is there blood splattering everywhere?”

“My word, you're blood-thirsty,” I told him affectionately. “I do hope that doesn't put off your readers.”

“No, indeed. People love to hear about gruesome and horrific things—as long as they aren't happening to them. To whit—think of all the terrible things that happen in Shakespeare!”

“Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the same thing happens when you behead an UnDead as when you stake him: he explodes into ash. Which is messy, you know. It gets everywhere, and it smells like a dead body.”

“Perhaps a more complicated, more—er—ceremonial approach?” Mina asked. I could tell she was only half serious. “Sneaking up on the creature when he is unaware, and . . . oh, perhaps, binding him down? Shoving a head of garlic into his mouth—they don't particularly care for garlic, do they?
Maybe a pike that affixes the creature to whatever he is sitting or lying on? It would be rather gruesome to imagine, but it would certainly be more
interesting
than the simple thrust of a stake to the heart. Why, anyone could do that.” She cast me a look.

I rolled my eyes. I hadn't seen her stake a dozen wild-eyed, sharp-fanged, out-for-blood UnDead when the opportunity presented itself. In fact, I hadn't seen her stake one. “Right.” I turned back to Bram. “Do you mind if we dig through the wardrobes?”

“No.” He was looking at Mina consideringly. “A pike that holds the creature down. And what if it went through each arm? No, no . . . too Christ-like. Ah. His
head
. Perhaps through his head?”

Mina shuddered. “I shall leave that to you, Mr. Stoker. Incidentally, we met Mr. Oligary recently. Apparently you know him quite well.”

“Aye, yes, one could say that. He's a great lover of the theater, and a patron as well.”

“Are you going to get a new steam-machine for the lighting? He indicated the one you have is too loud and a bit outdated.”

“Frank—Mr. Oligary—has been trying to convince me to trade up to a better machine for a year. I wanted to install electric lights four years ago, but then Moseley-Haft came along and now that's impossible.” Bram glanced longingly at his typing machine.

“So you aren't afraid of the evils or danger of electric lighting?” Mina asked.

“No, indeed. Not at all. Why, they have begun to install electric lighting at the Broadway Theater in New York, and there hasn't been one hint of problem. And they certainly don't have to account for the constant smell from the coal burner . . . or that incessant
hiss
. In our last performance of
The Merchant of Venice
, it nearly drowned out Shylock's best speech!”

“Fascinating. And did you know Mr. Oligary's business partner, Edgar Bartholomew?”

“Yes, yes, of course. He was a fine gentleman. Tragic.” Bram's sentences were getting briefer, which meant he was becoming distracted. “Wasn't fond of Moseley, though.”

“No? Are you saying Mr. Bartholomew wasn't a supporter of the Moseley-Haft Act? That he would have wanted electrical power to remain legal?”

“What? Oh no, I don't know about that.” Bram's fingers strayed to the keys of his typer. “He didn't care for Lord Moseley himself. There was rumor the man wanted to buy out Bartholomew and partner with Mr. Oligary.”

I had no idea why Mina was wasting our time with this, but I was bored, and Bram clearly wanted to return to his work before the actors and actresses arrived for the evening performance. “Let's leave my brother to his make-believe vampire killing,” I said, pulling her out of the office.

“Well, that was enlightening,” she said, yanking her arm out of my grip. “I wonder if Grayling knows about that.”

“How so? And what's this nonsense about
anyone
could stake a vampire?” I glared at her as we pushed into the dimly lit men's wardrobe chamber.

It smelled faintly like tobacco and mothballs. In the drassy light, the ten rows of clothing looked like an eerie lineup of gentlemen.

“I was simply speaking theoretically,” Mina replied. “And it is possible—anyone could stake an UnDead. If they knew what to do. It's not as if one needs special skills or knowledge.”

“Right. Especially since vampires are stronger than the strongest of mortal men, not to mention much faster, and they can't be killed or injured any other way—unless you could get them to walk into the sunlight and stay there until they burned. No, it would be as simple as a walk in the park, staking a vampire.”

And there would be no regrets about taking a life that had once been that of a normal person. No “
You killed my brother!
” accusations living in one's nightmares.

No. It would be as unnerving as swatting a fly.

Mina sniffed and turned to a mechanical box on the wall. She pushed a button, and lights—gas lamps, of course—popped on one by one with their familiar yellow glow. Then she turned a dial and one of the costumes began to rise toward
the high ceiling, revealing another one behind it. Then it too lifted, showing another, then another, in one tall circuit. The rotating mechanism creaked and hissed and rattled.

“What I meant to say was it was fascinating to hear about Mr. Bartholomew, Mr. Oligary, and Lord Moseley,” Mina said as she turned the dial back. The circling costumes came to a halt and she made a sound of satisfaction as she reached for the simple black suit hanging in front of us. I thought it looked like something a funeral director would wear.

“Excellent. This looks as if it will do nicely.” She turned to me with a cool smile. “I shall be masquerading as the Ankh this evening, Evaline. What about you?”

U
nlike in the past, when Mina insisted we don our disguises separately and meet up later, this time we prepared for our visit to Bridge & Stokes at the Holmes house. My home, the spacious Grantworth House, would have been closer and more convenient. My bedchamber was larger, and there was the benefit of my maid, Pepper. But there was the problem of leaving the house unnoticed by my sister-in-law, Florence, or the rest of the staff while dressed as men.

We were in Mina's bedchamber again—which felt surprisingly familiar to me. Of course, I'd been here only a few days earlier preparing for the Midnight Palace.

“Why are you dressing as the Ankh?” I asked as my partner smoothed a thick, shiny substance over her hair to keep it from kinking up.

“Because I suspect she has been to Bridge & Stokes—if indeed she is the one who is Mr. Pix's mysterious customer.
And if she has been there, then others might remember her. And if they believe I am she, who knows what we might learn about her.”

“And . . . what if she is there tonight too?” I confess, I had a spike of thrill when I thought about that possibility.

“Then it will be very interesting,” Mina replied with a small smile.

I helped brush her hair back in a smooth, sleek cap and then pinned it in several large flat pin curls to her head. Not as perfectly as Pepper would have done, but well enough that they would stay.

“I'm not certain you look that much like her,” I said.

“As you recall, Miss Stoker, the Ankh has never looked the same every time we encountered her. Yes, she favors male attire—a simple, stark, black suit with a white shirtwaist. And she alters her height, color of her hair, facial hair—and lack thereof—and even the shape of her nose and brows. But there are two things that do not change. First, her eyes. They cannot be altered in any way other than by makeup or obstruction. When one looks into the eyes of another, one sees the unchanging iris—and the essence, the very
life
, of that person—regardless of how dark the lashes or liner is, how much hair is falling into them, or how slightly elongated the shape of the eye has become due to the application of a bit of spirit-gum at the corners.”

“Well, since you don't have her eyes . . .”

Mina gave me an exasperated look. “Of course not. And hers are a chameleon-like gray hue that appear to change
color according to what she is wearing. But the other thing—and really, Evaline, I cannot believe with all of the encounters we've had with that villainess—including the time you were in close proximity to her—”

“Do you mean the time she tried to electrofy me? Oh, yes, right, of course. I was observing her very closely as I dragged her to the floor while a massive statue tumbled on top of us.”

Mina gave one of those sniffs of hers. “The Ankh always wears gloves, Miss Stoker—for the simple reason, as I know I've previously informed you—that one's hands cannot be disguised. Additionally, one cannot often remember to suppress one's natural habits, like the movements of a hand or the way one nods one's head . . . In the game of poker—with which you must become familiar before tonight—those personal quirks are called ‘tells.' But, as I was saying, not only does the Ankh always wear gloves, she also always sports a small but noticeable—if one is looking, of course—diamond stud on her right ear. I believe it must be held in place with a minuscule magnet placed at the back of the earlobe.”

I blinked. “So you will wear gloves and a tiny diamond earbob and dress like a man, and the people at Bridge & Stokes will believe you're the Ankh.”

Mina smiled. “That is my intent and my belief. Now, shall we attend to your disguise, Mr. Kevin Newman, distant cousin of Sir Mycroft Holmes—who shall, incidentally, be our sponsor this evening? Yes, of course my father is a member of Bridge & Stokes. He is a member of most of the clubs in London, regardless of whether he visits them.”

I took her place in the chair in front of the mirror. As she battled my thick, curling hair into a smooth braid that could be tucked under the blond wig we'd selected, my attention strayed to the photograph of Desirée Holmes.

While Mina was definitely a Holmes—she had the prominent nose and tall, slender figure—I did see a resemblance between her and her mother. She had Desirée's—Siri's—green-brown eyes and chestnut hair. The shape of her mouth was similar as well. But while Mina was passably attractive, her mother was quite lovely.

And she was an excellent fighting mentor. She'd demonstrated spins and kicks and moves I could only hope to copy some day.

“What was she like?” I asked suddenly.

Mina's hands stilled on my scalp, then began to move again. Perhaps a trifle more firmly. She didn't respond, and I avoided her gaze in the mirror. We both knew who I was talking about.

It felt odd, knowing that a person I had known in such a familiar—yet unusual—way was also the mother of one of my friends. And that neither of us had known of the other's existence because of Desirée's secret life.

“She was nothing like me, or my father,” Mina said finally. She too refrained from looking at me. “She liked to go to parties and balls. She liked to dress and shop and be around people. She was often quite amusing. She found my work in
the laboratory . . . tedious. Claimed she had no patience for that sort of thing.”

Mina was speaking of Siri as if she were dead. And for all we knew, she was. But we'd never talked about it. I didn't know what Mina knew . . . and she didn't know what I knew.

I'd never told her about my experiences as a vampire hunter, but, I realized, now was the time. “The first night I attempted to stake a vampire, I . . . I must have fainted. I remember Siri being there with me, and I remember pulling my stake out, and getting ready to use it. But there was
so much blood
. Everywhere. It wasn't like the two bites you had on your neck. The UnDead had torn open the belly of Mr. O'Galleghy and his . . . insides . . . were spilling out.” I swallowed hard as my stomach lurched. I still dreamt about that night. “I don't remember what happened after that. I woke up in an alley. Alone. I haven't heard from her—from Siri—since.”

I didn't know whether she had killed the vampire herself, or whether I had somehow done it . . . or whether something else much worse happened. Although she was an excellent trainer and advisor, Siri wasn't a Venator. She didn't have the superior strength and speed that had been bestowed upon me and the others of my family legacy. As Mina had pointed out, anyone could feasibly slay a vampire if one knew how to do it—but that didn't mean she had been able to get beyond the power of the UnDead.

Siri could be dead. Because of me. Because I had failed to kill the vampire. If that were the case, I wondered if I could ever look Mina in the eye again.