The Chess Queen Enigma (31 page)

“I guess it can't make matters any worse,” he said to himself. “Here goes. Have the backup ready, Mina.” Then he looked at Grayling. “Go.
Now
.”

The Inspector hesitated a mere moment, then, face tight and wet with perspiration, he pushed a button.

I
felt
the surge of power as it jolted through to Pix, who arched up and then fell back to the ground with an ugly, dead-sounding thud. Evaline made a sound of distress, but Dylan was already turning to me. “The other one.
Now
.”

He yanked away the device and snatched the other one from me. Grayling assisted this time, jamming one of the wires into skin while Dylan did the other.

“This is it,” Dylan said. “Give me all you've got.
Now
.”

Grayling moved the switch and the same fierce jolt blasted through, shocking Pix so hard his body lurched off the ground even higher this time.

Dylan dropped his ear to the other man's chest once more and we all held our breaths . . . waiting.

Waiting.

Then a smile curved on his handsome face and his eyes lit. He remained in position for another minute, then rose slowly. His breath was shaky as he whispered, “We did it.”

Just as he spoke, Pix drew in a deep, shuddering, violent breath. Then he began to cough and tremble, but his heart was beating and he was breathing.

He opened his eyes and looked around. Blankly for a moment; then, somehow, he focused on me, then Grayling, Dylan . . . and finally Evaline.

“Blast . . . ,” he murmured. “I told Bilbo not to send the messages . . . until . . . tomorrow.”

“Never mind that . . . you're alive, you fool!” said Evaline. Her voice sounded odd to my ears. Tight and high.

“Where . . . is . . . 
she
?” he managed to whisper.

“She's gone,” I told him. “That way.” I pointed toward the doorway that was now blocked by a heavy stone door. “They all got away.”

I pulled to my feet. I wasn't angry that I'd helped with Pix, of course, while the Ankh and her assistants escaped . . . but blast and blots! I'd nearly had her in my grasp, and she was gone.

Again.

“Let's take a look around,” said Grayling. “They might come back.”

I turned to agree, then really looked at him for the first time.

“Good gad, Inspector. You look as if you're about to fall over at any moment. And from my observations, it's not from a new injury.” His face was bone-white, nearly gray, and an unhealthy amount of perspiration trickled down his temples and jaw. He trembled faintly as he stood, and he kept his arm clutched to his side. He was panting for no discernible reason.

He winced, then tried to cover it up. “I'm just fi—”

“Don't be ridiculous. Do you know how many people have died from vampire gouges? What will happen to—to Angus if you do? And what about your unsolved cases? What then?” I glared at him. “And who on
earth
would want that dratted steamcycle of yours?”

My voice echoed in the cavernous chamber, and I realized everyone was staring at me. Even the newly resurrected Mr. Pix. Was he
laughing
?

“Gad knows
you
wouldn't want it,” Grayling said. “But now is not the time. I want to look around some before we leave.”

I considered stamping my foot at the imbecility of the male gender—sometimes they could be so stubborn—but that would have been such a female action that I resisted the urge to do so. “Very well. But—”

“Do be silent, Miss Holmes.”

I had no choice but to chalk up his rudeness to the immense pain and discomfort he appeared to be under.

The others and I joined him in poking around the large chamber. There was little to see other than a number of Mr. Pix's mysterious devices, as well as the tools and equipment that had been scattered during the melee: wires, levers, cog-wheels, and the like.

“Do you know what she is doing here?” Grayling swung around to ask Mr. Pix. “What all this is?” Then he stopped and looked closely at him. “Do I know you?”

The pickpocket met his eyes boldly, his demeanor languid and calm. Perhaps too calm. “I don't know who ye know, Inspector, but I can't say as I recall the pleasure of meeting ye.” Surely I wasn't the only one who noticed his Cockney accent was almost non-existent.

Grayling stared at him for a moment, then made a thoughtful noise. Without another word, he pivoted back to a wall he was examining. “I believe there is a . . . yes. Here we go.” With a grunt of exertion, he shifted something heavy,
and the wall moved with a dull, grating slide. When he stepped back, he was breathing heavily and his complexion appeared even more gray. I noticed, too, that something ugly and dark was oozing from beneath his sleeve—for his coat was long gone during the battle.

However, he'd made his opinion clear and I decided the sooner we vacated this place, the sooner he would consent to having Dylan examine him. I squelched the sudden fear that nothing could be done, that the injury was too far gone, and followed Grayling into the adjoining chamber.

I didn't know the first thing about taking care of dogs, anyway.

“
Mina!
”

Dylan's excited shout had me spinning out of my thoughts and toward him. He pointed at a display on the wall in the room Grayling had revealed. It appeared to be a shrine to Sekhmet, the goddess the Ankh had tried to resurrect—or at least, resurrect her powers—only a few months ago.

In the center of the ornate display was an image of Sekhmet hanging on the wall. Embedded in her chest was a real Egyptian scarab about the length of my thumb, and twice the width.

“Could that be what I think it is?” Dylan whispered. “It looks . . . it looks just like it!”

I reached for it, and managed to free it easily from its moorings. I flipped it around in my fingers, certain he was
correct. I even felt a buzz of energy from it . . . something inherent in the tiny object that bespoke of its power.

It was the same beetle—it had to be; I'd seen the place for it in the base of the Sekhmet statue—that had yanked Dylan unwittingly through time to land in my world. I was certain of it. Why else would the Ankh still have it—and on display in such a manner? She must know its power.

I looked up at him. Something inside me shifted unpleasantly, painfully . . . but at the same time, I was flooded with hope for him. “It appears to be.”

“Then maybe I can go home now.” His beautiful blue eyes filled with tears of joy, and the next thing I knew, I was in his arms, enveloped in a strong embrace.

“Yes . . . surely you can,” I whispered into his shoulder.

W
hen we at last vacated the Ankh's lair, it was just before dawn. We'd found nothing else of interest, and weren't able to determine how to open the doorway through which she and her minions had escaped.

As we slogged our way out, we passed several toshermen just beginning their day's work in the tunnels. At first, they seemed threatened by our presence—for we certainly looked as if we'd been digging around in the sewage—but once I explained we had no interest in “poaching” on their territory, they went back to their work and ignored us.

I wondered, as we passed the dead body we'd seen on our way in, whether Mr. Pix would have been discovered in the same position if we—if
Dylan
—had not been there. The thought sent a sharp twinge through my chest. Whatever would we do without him?

But I couldn't dwell on what-might-have-beens, or what-might-bes—there were more pressing matters to which we must attend.

“Dylan, you must first attend to the inspector's injury, if you will,” I said briskly in an attempt to keep my tones nonchalant and businesslike. “And we must send word immediately to Miss Babbage that there's no need to raise the alarm.”

“I'll see to that,” said Mr. Pix.

Evaline didn't appear to appreciate his offer, but she said nothing as she climbed onto Grayling's steamcycle. Without even being invited. Her face was grim as she yanked the aviator cap down over her face.

“I'll meet you at Charing Cross Hospital,” Dylan said over the rumble of the cycle. “I believe time is of the essence, Inspector. Do not delay.”

When the infernally stubborn ginger-haired detective opened his mouth to argue, I glared at him. “I will be there as well. If you do not appear in a timely manner, I will be forced to take extreme measures, Inspector Grayling. I have no desire to see Angus trundling about on his own again.”

He muttered something that was lost beneath the sound of the engine. Then, with a sharp nod of acquiescence, he and Evaline roared off in a great puff of steam.

“You're going to put
moldy bread
on his injuries?” I exclaimed, eyeing the blue-green fungus that had long taken over a piece of bread.

Grayling looked even less pleased with Dylan's preparations than I. Maybe it had been a mistake insisting as I had done. Perhaps a real doctor would be better suited to treating the situation.

But when I looked at the inspector, I realized the situation had become desperate. His color was as dingy as his name suggested, and his skin shone with a thin layer of perspiration. Except for a spark of shock when he realized Dylan's intent, his eyes were dull and unfocused. And his movements were clumsy and slow.

And then there were the injuries themselves: four long marks on the back of his forearm. They were open, revealing shiny red insides, and the crusty skin was peeling back at the edges. An unpleasant stench had emanated from the wounds when Dylan unwrapped the bandages, and ugly green pus oozed from each opening.

Even after Dylan had carefully cleaned the area, as Grayling gritted his teeth against the obvious discomfort, it was clear the injuries were beyond the help of normal medical assistance. He would die if something wasn't done. But
bread mold
? It seemed so strange.

But I had seen Dylan do miracles.

“Not the bread, Mina. Just the mold. It's called penicillin, and although it won't be discovered for more than twenty
years from now, there is a chance we can use it today. I don't have everything I'd need to completely isolate it from any other bacterium that might be growing with it, but I did the best I could, keeping things sterile and using some rudimentary methods. At this point,” he said, his face grim, “nothing will make things worse. But this could make it better.”

Grayling, who'd succumbed to the need to lie prone, made a sound of irritation and possibly protest, but we ignored him.

“What about—what about adding some of this?” Evaline pushed her way closer. “It's good for vampire bites, but maybe it will help vampire scratches too.” She offered a small vial of what I assumed was salted holy water. “I gave him some the other day—did you use it, Inspector? I told you to try it.”

Grayling nodded. “Helped . . . a little.” But clearly not enough.

“Perhaps it will help more, in conjunction with the—er—mold,” I suggested, looking at Dylan.

“Again. It cannot hurt. Nothing can hurt. Inspector, you're going to die of sepsis if we don't do something. Do I have your permission to try?” Dylan spoke calmly and quietly.

Grayling's eyes slid to me, and then back to Dylan. There was a flare of determination in his expression. “Yes.”

We watched as Dylan—after washing everything thoroughly and wearing gloves made of some thin, rubbery material—applied the bright blue-green mold to the ugly wounds. When he was finished, he sprinkled the salted holy water over it for
good measure. While loosely bandaging the injuries, he instructed his patient to return late in the day to be checked and for a reapplication.

There was nothing else to do but wait and see whether it worked.

Since everything that could be done had been, it was time to take my leave.

“I have several things to attend to,” I said briskly, “but I shall see you all in three days' time.” I looked pointedly at Inspector Grayling to let him know I would accept no excuses. I desperately hoped he would not need one.

“Where and why?” asked Evaline.

“I shall inform you of the specifics shortly, for I have solved the puzzle of where the chess queen is hidden. I suspect there are a number of people who will be interested in seeing it revealed—including our friend the Ankh.”

A
s planned, three days after our emergence from the Ankh's monastery-lair, a group was gathered at my behest at the Tower of London.

Included among the attendees were Princess Alix and Princess Lurelia, of course, as well as the Lord Regent of Betrovia and Sir Mycroft. Also in attendance were Sir Franks (the manager of the British Museum), Miss Adler, Dylan, Evaline, Inspector Grayling (who appeared to have regained his color and full movement of his arm, thanks to Dylan's bread-mold treatment), the Cosgrove-Pitts, the Bentley-Hugheses, and several other important and powerful members of Society. Mr. Oligary was also present, and our group just barely fit inside one of the bedchambers inside the Tower. In fact, it was the bedchamber in which Queen Elizabeth had slept when she was imprisoned in the Tower.