The Chess Queen Enigma (2 page)

“Evaline.” His voice shook, as if he too were fighting to keep from laughing. “Be still. And I do believe that's the first time ye've ever called me luv.” He ducked closer to me as he spoke, and the last few words wafted over my cheek. His breath was warm and pleasantly scented with tobacco and some other pungent spice that Mina Holmes could probably identify, but I couldn't. Pix's hand—ungloved as usual—brushed against mine, and I wasn't certain whether it was an accident.

“Oh, you needn't read anything into it—that's how I address all the young men I know.”

“Including your Mr. Dancy?”

“Of course,” I responded—even though I'd hardly given a thought to the handsome, charming, and well-dressed Mr. Richard Dancy in weeks. “Now, about that overcoat . . .”

“We can discuss overcoats and sundries later, luv. Righ' now I'm on to more pressin' concerns.” He hesitated, and I got the impression he was steeling himself to make his big request—whatever it was. “I need ye t'find out somethin'.”

My interest faded. “I'm not the one who
finds out
things, Pix. I'm the one who
does
things. I'm sure Mina would be delighted to assist you, after she lectured your ears off—
are
those your real ears, or are you wearing fake ones again?—about her
techniques and observation skills and how she's as brilliant as her Uncle Sherlock, which I think is stretching things quite a bit.”

“I've a new customer,” Pix said. “A partic'larly large and lucrative client, and I need to find out who—”

“Customer? For what?” I had a fairly good idea what he was talking about, despite my question. I still didn't know what that small, palm-sized device was I'd pickpocketed from him a few weeks ago, but I'd come to the conclusion it wasn't the only one of its kind.

Approximately the size of a pound note folded in half, the object had been flat and sleek, with an intricate array of copper, bronze, and silver wheels, cogs, and dials on one slender end. It also had two small, stiff wires protruding from it. I couldn't begin to guess what it was or what it did, and I hadn't had the chance to ask Mina to take a look at it before Pix blackmailed me into giving it back. But I was fairly certain the little machine had something to do with what he called his “affairs.”

“Evaline.” His voice had gone sharp. “I've tol' ye before, there are things ye don' need t'know.”

“Right then. How can I find out who your new customer is—that's what you want from me, isn't it?—if you won't tell me what they are buying.” That was a reasonable question.

Something crinkled softly, and he pressed a paper into my hand. I was bringing it up to examine in the drassy light when he stiffened.

“Hush.” He shoved me into the darkest shadow—and though
I
hadn't heard anything, I closed my mouth and listened.

Nothing. I heard nothing but the normal, mechanical sounds of the city at night, saw nothing but the random golden circles of gas lamp streetlights, felt nothing but the normal shift in the air . . . and the strong, silent power of his grip.

After a moment I started to speak, but Pix lifted a hand sharply.

Then, without a word, he curled his fingers around my arm and tugged me after him. I pulled easily out of his grip, but continued to follow as he darted from the shadows of tree to hedge to alley to fenceline.

“Look.” He pointed abruptly into the sky.

Several blocks away in the narrow space between buildings, brushing past the sky-anchors that floated above a fog-enveloped cluster of roofs, was a slender, elegant vessel, cruising through the sky. Of a long, elliptical shape, it had a bulge at the bottom and batlike wings on the sides.

It was an airship, the likes of which I'd only seen once before: the night I met Pix.

I was aware of a sense of déjà-vu, standing in the darkness with his lean, muscular body brushing against mine, looking up at the eerie object as it made its way silently through the sky.

A beam of light winked on from the airship. The pale stream aimed straight down, riding over the peak of a roof, bumping down the side of the building, and then up the side
of the next building as the ship continued to glide over the city. Another beam flashed out, scoring over more buildings in the same choppy way. The ship was coming closer, and the very sight made all the hair on my body prickle and lift as if I'd been dunked into an icy river.

Pix's breathing had become more shallow. His normal easy stance tensed.

“What is it?” I asked. I'd done so before, several times, with no response—so I had little hope he'd actually answer. “Is it the same one we saw . . . before? At the British Museum?”

His chin brushed my forehead. “Aye. I'd hoped they'd gone, but no.”

“They? Who?” I realized he hadn't dropped the ‘h' in ‘hoped,' but for once I was smart enough not to be distracted. I was more interested in finding out about the airship than calling him on his inconsistent accent.

“They're watching the city. All of us. Stay out of the light, Evaline,” he said, his words warm against my hair. “Mark m'words, luv, things are about to be changin'.” He groped for my hand, and the paper crinkled as he closed my fingers around it. “I gander this might 'elp. Find out what ye can, and let me know. Ye know where t'find me.”

And with that, he melted into the shadows.

T
hough I was certain my colleague, Miss Stoker, spent all her mornings lazing in bed, I had adopted the daily habit of perusing a range of newspapers and other noteworthy publications whilst in Miss Irene Adler's office at the
British Museum.

Happily, this process removed me from underfoot of Mrs. Raskill as she attended to her daily tasks in our household, which more often than not included multiple and varied expressions of her opinions. Most of them were regarding the work I did in the back room, which was outfitted as a laboratory. Her range of emotions—from disgust to irritation to shock and horror and back again—were so common as to be predictable (not to mention loud, as in the time a scorpion scuttled over the counter she was dusting—I had been attempting to collect its poison, for obvious reasons), and thus I seized the opportunity to be absent as much as possible.

Therefore, whether or not Miss Adler was present in her office as the Keeper of Antiquities, and whether or not I had some other reason to be there, by eight o'clock nearly every morning I could be found sitting at a massive desk, drinking her excellent Darjeeling tea, and using the Proffitt's Dandy Paper-Peruser to turn the pages as I scanned the
Times
, the
Voice
, and the
Herald
 . . . as well as numerous publications from the Continent and America.

I was engrossed in this process when the impetuous, bold, and—one must admit—brave Miss Evaline Stoker found me one Wednesday morning precisely twenty-three days after we concluded the Case of the Spiritglass Charade. It had been a dull three weeks, and I was eager to find something of interest to occupy my brain.

My colleague burst in, as was her own habit, in a flurry of skirts, umbrella, and cloak, bringing in a gust of musty museum air tinged with the coal smoke of outdoors. The papers on my desk puffed up and shifted as she slammed the door closed, and the top of Miss Adler's teapot rattled in its brand-new brasswork Pouring Station.

“What can you tell me about who wrote this?” Miss Stoker said without preamble.

I confess I wasn't disappointed to be distracted from the uninteresting article about an imminent State Visit involving representatives from the Kingdom of Betrovia. Political and foreign maneuvering are my father's expertise, not mine.

I accepted the scrap of paper from Miss Stoker, noticing she'd eaten a glazed cherry tart whilst wearing gloves and
had once again neglected to put money in her tiny handbag. Rather than ask for further information, I turned my attention to the note, which read:

Two dozen this week
.

Two dozen next week
.

The usual location
.

Don't be late, or you'll know the consequences
.

Cryptic wording, but there was so much more to be deduced about the sender merely by observation.

Expensive, thick, crème paper . . . yet not exceptional or unique and without monogram—
the individual has wealth and taste but wishes to remain anonymous
.

Very little slant to the penmanship, letters formed nearly upright, with the left margin growing wider as the message went on—
an assertive individual who is logical and practical but deeply invested in some future goal
.

Tall, spiky letters, particularly the “s”—
the individual is intellectual and confident. Most likely a male, and very ambitious
.

Then I looked more closely, frowning. Curious. I lifted the paper to my nose and sniffed.

Faint floral scent, a dusting of powder clung to the edge of the paper—no . . . 
a
woman
wrote this
.

I looked at Evaline. “From where did you obtain this?”

“Pix gave it to me. He wants to know who wrote it.”

“And . . . no, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he doesn't know who it is. When one is dealing in illegal trade, whatever it is, one certainly doesn't want one's identity known.”
I sniffed with disdain for Mr. Pix and his business dealings. “Whomever this individual is, my first inclination is that it's an intelligent, confident, and powerful female, who likely has some sort of objective on which she is focused. A business perhaps. She is clearly determined to remain anonymous, and is attempting to disguise her gender by appearing to be a male—” I stopped abruptly, staring at the partial note. My lungs felt as if mummy wrappings were binding them so tightly I could hardly draw a breath.

“Like . . . the Ankh?” Miss Stoker's voice dropped to an uncharacteristically modulated tone.

I didn't respond. My palms had become damp and my pulse kicked up faster as a thrill of excitement rushed through me, followed by a prickle of apprehension.

Scotland Yard was under the assumption—an exceedingly shortsighted and false assumption—that the individual known as the Ankh was dead. I, however, knew that could not be the case. For the last three months, I had waited for some proof I was correct—which was part of the reason I read every publication I could get my hands on and forced myself to go about in public as much as possible while watching for signs she had returned.

This meant I paid particular attention to the activities of Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt, wife of the esteemed leader of Parliament and distant relative of my nemesis, Scotland Yard Inspector Ambrose Grayling. Though I'd never publicly stated my opinion, I was certain she was the Ankh.

And, in fact, I had once looked directly into the eyes of the Ankh and informed her I was aware of her true identity.

“Everything we know about the Ankh fits the description of the individual who wrote this note.” I spoke slowly and deliberately as I tried to imagine what this development might portend . . . and if I was merely indulging in wishful thinking so as to prove everyone wrong. “How is Mr. Pix involved?”

I couldn't keep a hint of distaste from my tone as I asked about Evaline's particular acquaintance. Aside from having a ridiculous appellation (although having been christened Alvermina, I suppose I should refrain from judgment; one truly has no control over one's parents' decisions), the disreputable young man was doubtless a thief, most certainly involved in illicit and illegal activities, and had no sense of propriety. Every time I recalled the sight of him in the Ankh's opium den sporting an open vest that revealed tanned, muscular arms and a
bare chest
, I felt uncomfortably hot and a little breathless.

No other male I knew would don something so scandalous—not even my friend Dylan Eckhert, who was from the future, where, I understood, things were quite a bit more lax when it came to propriety.

And certainly the very last person I could imagine wearing such clothing—or lack thereof—would be the stiffly proper Inspector Grayling. Surely the swath of freckles that dusted his capable hands didn't extend to the breadth of his shoulders . . . did it?

“Your cheeks are turning pink, Mina. Are you feeling all right?”

“Of course I am.” I lifted my teacup. “I'm merely waiting for you to tell me how your shady acquaintance is involved.”

“He came to me for help.” Miss Stoker sounded supremely pleased with herself. “It seems the person who sent the note is a . . . well, a client of his. An anonymous client.”

“Client?” Warning bells began to jangle in my mind. “One can only imagine what sort of business in which the likes of Mr. Pix is involved. And he wants your
assistance
? Are you addled?”

“Might I remind you, Mina Holmes, that Pix saved your life on at least one occasion—two, if you count him bringing me to find you in the vampire lair at Smithfield, where
I
saved your life. The least we can do is try to repay the favor.”

“I refuse to do anything even remotely illegal.”

Miss Stoker rolled her hazel eyes. “He just wants us to find out who wrote the note. And if it is the Ankh . . .” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

I sighed. “Very well. I shall keep this note and perform a thorough examination. But it would be quite helpful to know what it is this
client
—who does appear rather threatening—wants from Mr. Pix. At one point, you repeated to me his assertion that he deals with information—collecting it and selling it or otherwise using it to his advantage. It's clearly not the case here, for it sounds as if he—she—is ordering a supply of something. And if she doesn't get it, I wonder what the consequences will be.”