The Chess Queen Enigma (22 page)

I hovered in the corner as several members of Scotland Yard, along with one of the butlers, and a gentleman who I deduced was the club manager, came into the chamber. Presumably none of them were UnDead, but none of them were Inspector Grayling either.

Drat!

The one time I wanted to encounter the infuriating man, and he didn't have the decency to make an appearance. I fumed and worried and tried to hide in the corner, in hopes no one would notice me and I could somehow slip away with Lurelia.

And then he strode in.

I felt almost faint with relief. I'd never been so happy to encounter the arrogantly tall, broad-shouldered, ginger-haired man. He was speaking in low, insistent tones to the club manager, who was gesticulating urgently as he responded.

Then without warning, Grayling nodded, then turned and left the chamber. I strained to hear his last words as he walked through the door, “. . . speak with Sir Mycroft.”

Drat
.

But the time of waiting and planning was past. I needed to take action, for the other inspectors were beginning to cull the gentlemen away for individual interviews.

I went to Lurelia and said, “Act sick. Now.”

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't for her to stand up and begin to cough violently, so hard she nearly doubled over.

I put my arm around her waist, and she staggered awkwardly against me. People were looking at us. “My friend needs to find a . . .” What did men call it? “He's going to be ill! Um . . . too much whiskey. Where is the nearest—er—”

One of the footmen sprang to action. Perhaps he was afraid Lurelia was going to stain the lush rugs on the floor, or be ill in some gentleman's lap. The result was precisely what I had hoped: he led us out of the chamber and down a hall. Lurelia was now making convincingly disgusting gagging sounds, and I began to worry she really was about to lose the contents of her stomach.

Apparently, the footman was too, for he simply pointed to a door, then fled back down the hall.

We didn't even bother to go inside the—whatever it was called. Although Uncle Sherlock claims every new experience is an invaluable part of detecting, I decided I could live without entering a men's retiring lounge.

“Now what shall we do?” asked the princess.

Leave
.

We could just walk down the hall, navigate to the main entrance, and make our escape. But of course there must be men stationed at the exits to ensure no one left. If I were in charge of a murder investigation—not knowing the perpetrator
was an UnDead—I would stake guards at every doorway in order to keep all suspects intact. (Knowing the perpetrator was, in all likelihood an UnDead, if I were in charge of the investigation, I would be
evacuating
everyone from the building.)

Regardless, the decision was made for me, for suddenly a policeman appeared in the corridor. Unfortunately, I recognized him from my visits to the Met. I certainly hoped Officer Thornbush didn't look too closely at me.

“What are you two doing out of the chambers? Everyone is to remain in the rooms until all of the statements have been taken.”

“Yes, of course,” I said in my deep voice. “We have pertinent information for Inspector Grayling. I was told he went to speak with Sir Mycroft at the scene of the crime, and that we should find him to give him our statements directly.”

“Who told you—oh, never mind. The Inspector can deal with you. Come with me. I'm going there now.”

As we walked with Officer Thornbush, I kept my face averted and conversation to a minimum except to ask, “How was the victim murdered?”

“Thought you knew something about the murder,” Thornbush said suspiciously.

“I have information for Inspector Grayling. I didn't say it was about the murder precisely.”

I heard my father's voice, and—oh
drat!
—Uncle Sherlock's too as we approached a chamber whose door stood open.
I gestured for Lurelia to wait and, drawing in a deep breath, I followed Thornbush into the chamber.

I scanned the space, my attention skipping quickly over my father, my uncle, and the Lord Regent—along with the two other gentlemen present—and toward the lumpy cloth on the floor. Presumably the body. Blood was already seeping through what had once been a curtain. I was rather relieved the mess had been concealed; my stomach was still queasy.

“Inspector, this bloke here's got something to tell you. Says it isn't
precisely
about Wexfeld here, but he claims it's about something important.”

Now was my chance. I walked briskly toward Grayling, who, thankfully, had turned from the conversation at the sound of his name. As I strode past a small table to meet him, I flung out my hand and brushed an empty cigar-ash bowl off the table, directly into Grayling's path.

The metal bowl crashed onto the floor, bounced twice, then rolled to a halt right at his feet.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered and crouched automatically to retrieve it.

I lunged to the floor at the same time and we both reached for the bowl. I'd removed my glove, so it was my bare hand he saw when our fingers closed over the dish.

As I'd hoped, he looked up at me in surprise, clearly noticing my hand was not that of a man. I met his gaze head-on, widening my eyes with entreaty.

Shock blossomed over his face, turning it a pleasantly ruddy shade under the freckles scattered over his high cheekbones. His eyes fairly bugged out for a moment and I thought he might be in danger of exploding right there. Then his expression turned to exasperation and, finally, unmistakable anger.

We rose in tandem, my heart thudding as I waited to learn whether he would divulge my identity or do as I'd mutely begged.

“I'll take your statement out here, er, sir,” he said, even as his eyes bored furiously into mine. “Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Holmes. Sir Mycroft. My lord.”

Nearly giddy with relief at his acquiescence, I preceded him out of the chamber and into the hall. He rounded on me the moment we were out of sight of the others.

He made little effort to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. “What in the bloody—”

“Inspector Grayling,” I hissed, interrupting what was certain to be a diatribe by sending a pointed gesture toward Lurelia. “Please. If you would just attend to one thing for me, then you may lecture me and rail at me all you wish.”

He ground his teeth, his face turning a dark red, but he snapped his mouth closed and turned to face my companion. It took him only a moment to discern the problem—a fact I had counted on—and when he spun back to me, his eyes were bugging out even more prominently and his face had colored almost purple.

“Are you
mad
?” He sounded as if he was being strangled.

As I had no logical response, I merely lifted my chin and glared back at him.

“Thornbush!” Grayling shouted in a much louder tone than was strictly necessary, considering the man was only halfway across a small room.

The other officer snapped to attention and approached.

“These two gentlemen have provided me with their statements, and they are free to go. Please escort them out of the building and
put them in a cab
, pay for the fare, and give the directions to the driver that he is to take them to their—homes—and
no where else
.” He jammed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a collection of bills and coins, which he slapped into the hand of a bewildered Thornbush.

“Um . . . right, then, Inspector.”

Lurelia made no hesitation, and began to walk with Thornbush down the corridor, but I wasn't quite ready to leave.

“
Miss Holmes
,” Grayling said from between clenched teeth, after looking about to ensure that no one was within earshot, “if you don't leave this very minute, I will tear that bloody ridiculous hat and wig from your head and march you into—”

“Miss Stoker is here,” I said in a low voice. “Somewhere.”

To this day, I cannot describe the expression that covered his face. I almost felt sympathy for the man; the whole situation was like a rather horrific Shakespearean comedy, at least from his perspective.

“I will find her,” he managed, although how he did so without moving any part of his jaw, I cannot say.

I realized Thornbush had paused and was now waiting for me, and I had only one more moment to give Grayling the information I'd promised. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the jagged wooden umbrella handle and, giving him a meaningful look, handed it to him. “You may find yourself in need of this.”

I had no idea whether he would understand, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances. Thornbush was waiting, Lurelia was in danger of discovery, and my father and uncle's voices were drawing near.

So I did what any intelligent person would do: I took the opportunity to flee.

I
t was more shock than pain that had me reeling from the thrust of Mr. Dancy's fangs.

Yet this wasn't the first time I'd been taken by surprise by an UnDead, and I also had my own advantage. He had no concept who I really was.

But as his mouth settled over my sensitive neck, I had to fight the sensations . . . the soft, sweet lull of my blood surging free . . . the smooth
kuh-kuh-kuh
of him gulping away my life in a breath-like rhythm.

It would be so easy to succumb . . . to just relax . . .

Remember who you are
.

I marshaled my strength and gave Dancy a great shove.

As I pushed his face up and away, I slammed a heel down on his foot then twisted from his grip in one swift sequence of movements. He stumbled backward and nearly fell, his red eyes blazing with shock and excitement.

“Evaline Stoker,” he panted as we circled each other warily. “You continue to fascinate me. You're the most attractive, surprising, delightful woman I've ever met.” At least he didn't call my lips crushed rose petals.

He lunged before I was quite ready, almost catching me off guard. I dodged in the nick of time and came up beneath his arm. I caught him there, and with a quick twist, sent him stumbling off toward one of the potted trees.

I needed a weapon! My walking stick was somewhere on the floor, hard to see in the drassy light . . . Was that it?

I dove to the ground in a smooth somersault. My hand landed on something smooth and round—the stick!—but I rolled right over it and my face thudded into the stone tile. I grappled blindly for the stick. Miraculously, my fingers closed around it, and I slammed my foot down as I yanked up one end—
crack!
It splintered . . . just as a strong hand dragged me to my feet. He was there: all red eyes and sharp fangs, panting blood-scented breath in my face.

Then all at once, he was Mr. Dancy again. Handsome, smiling, coaxing. The red eyes and fangs were gone. “I so enjoyed waltzing with you, Miss Stoker. I do believe I could do so
forever
.” He closed his hands tightly around me in the dance position—now, stronger than before, forcing me close to his body in an ugly rendition of the waltz. My free hand, which should have rested at the back of his waist, clutched what I hoped was enough of a jagged bit of wooden walking stick to do the job.

We stepped and swirled to a melody only he could hear. Mr. Dancy looked the same, sounded the same, even acted the same as the attractive young bachelor I'd flirted with many times. But there was no warmth emanating from his body, and at this close proximity, I could smell the faint aroma of death.

He smiled down at me, and I felt the soft tug of attraction. He was handsome. And charming. And funny. My limbs became heavier and I felt lighter on my feet. My fingers loosened and the piece of stick threatened to fall . . .

No
.

I pulled my gaze away with effort and tightened my fingers around the weapon. I had to pick the right time . . .

He laughed quietly. “Tell me, now, Miss Stoker . . . why
did
you spill lemonade on yourself in order to keep from dancing with me all those months ago? Of course, back then, I was only a simple
mortal
boy. Now . . .”

“And now you're a simple,
immortal
boy. Too fresh as an UnDead—what, a day? Two at the most?—to know much about being one.” With one sleek movement, I had the jagged walking stick pressed against his back. Right at heart-level.

One good thrust, and he was ash.

“What's this?” A flicker of concern marred his features, then smoothed away. “Sweet Evaline . . . you do know I am now impervious to firearm bullets or knife blades or any other weapon you might attempt to use.”

“Then you won't mind if I shove this wooden stake in a little farther?” I asked.

His eyes widened, then blazed red. His fangs shot out, long and white and lethal. The sudden change startled me, and I inhaled a breath of UnDead. With a sharp movement, he twisted away, sending me spinning. I nearly stumbled to the floor, catching myself at the last minute.

Blast!
Why hadn't I staked him?

I whirled back, makeshift weapon in hand, to find him bearing down on me. He was wild-eyed and furious, and his claw-like hands tore at me. I dodged and ducked, but he sliced at my face and arm with nails like blades.

“How dare you!” he cried. “I would have made you like me!”

“What? Foolish? I don't
want
to be immortal! Don't you know you smell like a grave?” I flung droplets of blood from my face and tried to ignore the pain lancing through my arm.

We circled around, facing each other like two boxers waiting to take the first jab.

“I liked you better when you were weak and mortal,” I taunted. “At least then you didn't stink.”

He made a sound of fury and lunged—just as I'd hoped. I grabbed him by the shirt to hold him off me as he dug his fingers into my arms and tried to pull me close. We twisted and struggled, locked together in an ugly dance. I tried to angle my arm up to stab him and he tried to tear into me with his fangs as we staggered around the terrace.