The Chess Queen Enigma (6 page)

“But why?”

“Why would the Ankh leave a message? It's a calling card, Miss Stoker. How can you not see that? It's a message, a taunt, a tease. She knew we would see it. She's sending us a message. It's a
challenge
.”

I had no doubt about this last statement, and I had even less doubt about to whom the Ankh was issuing her challenge: Holmes & Stoker. (Or, at least, Holmes. After all, it was I who had outsmarted her in the end, and I who had seen through her disguise.)

“Do you think the Ankh stole the letter? What would she want with an old message?” Miss Stoker wandered through my small, book-cluttered bedchamber, brushing past the Easy Un-Lacer I was obligated to use to extricate myself from corsets when Mrs. Raskill had retired for the evening, and peered into my wardrobe.

I followed my companion's progress in the mirror as I struggled with my dratted coiffure. It was hard enough
to do my hair when I was alone, but while carrying on a conversation—especially one fraught with unnecessary and banal questions—while monitoring a guest's nosiness made it even more frustrating.

“I've been attempting to tell you precisely
why
the letter is important for two days now, Evaline,” I snapped, bending awkwardly to pick up another hairpin. “It's from Queen Elizabeth—over three hundred years old—and in the letter it explains where she's hidden the Theophanine Chess Queen.”

The bored look in her hazel eyes told me all I needed to know. “You don't understand the importance of the Theophanine Chess Set, do you? What
did
you learn in school, Evaline?”

“I got my education in other ways . . . from other
people
. And though I may not have as much book-learning as you, I've been taught other, more useful skills.” Her eyes moved deliberately to the photograph of my mother, which I had recently moved into my chamber.

My cheeks warmed and I looked away. I still hadn't been able to come to terms with the realization that my mother, the beautiful, social, graceful Desirée Holmes, had secretly been a vampire-hunter trainer. (Less than a month ago, I hadn't even fully believed in the existence of the UnDead creatures, but recent events had proven otherwise.)

The knowledge that Evaline Stoker had known my mother—Siri, as she'd called her—in a way I couldn't comprehend, couldn't share or even imagine, caused an ugly combination of emotions to surge inside me every time I looked at her picture. I couldn't name the emotions; I didn't want to
try. The very thought of the woman who'd birthed me caused my insides to twist and churn. And then left me feeling empty.

Mother had disappeared, leaving Father and me more than a year ago, with no explanation and very little communication since. The last I'd heard, she was in Paris—or so the letters and their postmarks had indicated. Three notes, the last of which had arrived more than ten months ago, and none of them gave a real clue as to her location or motive for leaving.

My eyes stung. I blinked rapidly, keeping my face averted as I pretended to search through my small jewel box for more hair adornments.

“Why don't you tell me why the Theoph—whatever—chess set is so important, and I'll finish the back of your hair. Otherwise we'll be here forever.”

I sat rigid as Evaline moved in behind, taking up the heavy hanks of my chestnut brown hair and deftly pinning them into place. “What is known as the Theophanine Chess Set was created and designed for the Byzantine King Otto II, and his wife, Theophano. Scholars believe it was one of the first instances of the game in which the chess queen piece makes an appearance.”

“Do you mean the queen wasn't always part of it? But chess is a very old game, isn't it?”

“Yes, indeed.” I relaxed slightly and launched into my lecture; Miss Stoker seemed surprisingly well-versed in playing lady's maid. “The game we know of as chess was first played
in India and Persia in the fifth century, although it resembled more of a war strategy exercise rather than a game of entertainment. Along with the king and his men, there were chariots and elephants as well as horses as pieces—all of which were common to Arabian armies.

“The earliest versions of the game that came West from the Far East included a piece that was called a vizier, which as surely you know, is the king's most trusted advisor and confidante. And that piece began to be replaced by a queen around the year 1000, or more specifically, in the 1030s . . . when King Otto was married to Theophano. The particular chess set of which I am speaking was commissioned with a chess queen replacing the vizier—for the white player only. Not only is it a unique set because of the mismatched pieces, but it could be the first one ever with a queen.” I eyed Miss Stoker's work critically, but could generate no complaints. If anything, she made my hair look softer and more feminine than usual, which was fortunate, considering the size of my proboscis.

“Your hair is such a pretty color,” Miss Stoker said as she jabbed—none-too-gently—a glittering sapphire and jet pin into the top of my coiffure. “It's brown, but looks auburn in some light. And it's got threads of gold in it, and even a little copper.”

“Thank you,” I replied, surprised by her compliment. But there was more to tell her. “The Theophanine Chess Table, as you have seen, is currently housed in the British Museum,
but for centuries it was in the custody of the Betrovians until it was brought to London fifty years ago during the last State Visit. However, the chess pieces themselves have been in the possession of the English since Eleanor of Aquitaine, the mother of Richard the Lionheart. The entire chess set, with the exception of the queen, has been on display in the museum since the return of the chess table. The queen has been missing for centuries, and the last person known to have had it was Queen Elizabeth.”

“Right. So this letter—which has been stolen—supposedly tells where she hid the chess queen. I do not understand all this fuss about an old chess piece.” She sounded bored.

“It's not just an old chess piece, Evaline.” I rose impatiently from my chair. “It's part of a combination-like key that opens the bottom of the Theophanine Chess Table. Surely even you noticed it yesterday, and you can see how massive the base is. Legend claims a cache of Byzantine jewels, as well as some ancient writings, are hidden inside.”

The mention of jewels seemed to perk up my companion. “Well, that's something. So if the chess queen is located, then the treasure is found.”

“Naturally. And the Ankh is clearly after the treasure. Why else would she want the letter? Although,” I mused, “I would suspect the Ankh's interest would lie more heavily toward the writings than jewels. Who knows what ancient secrets might be in those papers.”

“Speaking of the Ankh.” Evaline began pacing the chamber again. Her vehement steps made the glass jars on my dressing table clink. “What have you learned from the note Pix gave me? And don't tell me you haven't had time to look at it.”

She was correct, of course. “I subjected the item to a number of vigorous tests and examinations. The penmanship has similarities to the two previous communications I received from the Ankh during your short-lived captivity at her hands. But I cannot be certain whether it—or any of the messages, for that matter—were actually scribed by the villainess in question. It is extremely likely, but not yet utterly provable, that all three were written by the same person. However, I did note several important factors about the origins of the scrap provided by Mr. Pix. I detected a scant bit of facial powder dusting the corner of the paper, which supports the supposition that it was a female correspondent. The brand of facial powder is lightly scented with vanilla and has a minute amount of gold dust mixed in, making it extremely unusual and expensive. Nevertheless, the ink is commonplace, and the paper easily obtained by anyone who frequents Mrs. Sofrit's Stationery.”

“That hardly helps us at all! Wasn't there anything else? You're a Holmes, aren't you? If it were your uncle,
he'd
be able to tell me everything about who wrote it just by looking at it!” Miss Stoker's frustration was not the least bit becoming to a genteel young lady. I hoped she didn't demonstrate this sort of behavior while with Princess Lurelia.

The internal reminder of the Betrovian princess had me checking the small clock on my bureau. “Drat! It's nearly eight. You've put me off my toilette, Evaline, and now I am going to be late. The princess's carriage should be here any time.”

“Right, then. I suppose I shall just have to continue this investigation on my own.” Apparently Miss Stoker wasn't quite ready to give up her overt frustrations; but I had no energy or attention to spare her sensibilities.

She flounced out of the room. A moment later, I heard her carriage drive off, and I wondered if she would actually direct Middy to take her to the ball or whether she would indeed take investigative matters into her own hands. That could be quite entertaining, watching Miss Stoker attempt to observe and deduce and follow a trail of clues.

However, I would be greatly irked if she was absent from the ball and I was relegated to playing nursemaid to the drab, uninteresting Lurelia. We'd had very little interaction with the princess due to the events last evening, but Miss Adler had made it clear Evaline and I were to begin our chaperonage of the young woman tonight.

I was just pulling on fingerless gloves of midnight blue lace, which reached halfway up my forearms and matched my sparkling, diaphanous over-gown, when Mrs. Raskill appeared in the doorway. She wore an expression somewhere between astonishment and irritation (she hated being interrupted
during her work). “There is a person here who claims he is to deliver you to a ball?” Her tone ended on a definite upswing, as if posing an inconceivable question to either me or herself.

I snatched up my wrap (also of delicate dark blue lace, but decorated with swashes of tiny copper- and topaz-colored gems) along with a small handbag and hurried from the room.

When I caught sight of the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing in the small vestibule, I jolted to a halt. “Inspector Grayling?”

At first I thought he must have come to discuss the case of the missing letter, but then I realized he was dressed formally in black coattails and a crisp white shirt. As if to attend a ball. He even held a top hat in one hand. And he was wearing spotless white
gloves
.

All thoughts seemed to leak from my brain and I could do nothing but stand there gaping. He looked rather . . . imposing, and . . . well, gentlemanly. One might even use the term “handsome.”

“Miss Holmes.” He folded his tall self into a brief, stilted bow.

“Inspector Grayling, what on earth are you doing here?” I was acutely aware of Mrs. Raskill hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor, close enough that she could see and hear the exchange happening in the foyer.

His freckled, pleasantly ruddy cheeks darkened slightly. He'd done an excellent job shaving this evening, except for
a tiny nick near the left corner of his square jaw. “I am to be your escort to the Welcome Ball this evening. I thought . . . I was under the impression you had been informed.”

“Right, then. Of course,” I managed to say. My cheeks were warm. “Shall we proceed?”

“Indeed.” He seemed as much at a loss for words as I.

But he did remember to offer me his arm, which I took after preceding him through the door. Grayling led me down the short walkway to a waiting carriage, which bore the crest of Her Royal Highness.

I walked gingerly, taking great care not to catch my slender heels on any layers of skirt, petticoat, or lace flounces. It seemed as if every time I encountered Inspector Grayling, I was either tripping, falling, or dripping wet from an unexpected swim. I was determined not to repeat any such mortifying activities tonight.

Especially if he was to be my escort.

Heavens. Did that mean we must stay in each other's presence
all evening
?

“What, no steamcycle tonight?” I attempted a jest as we approached our transportation.

Before Grayling could respond, the driver flung open the door.
Please don't let me trip
.

I clambered as gracefully as possible into the depths of the carriage, firmly gathering up my skirts to keep wayward hems away from spiky heels and clumsy toes.

Thanks in part to my corset's unyielding embrace, I was out of breath by the time I arranged my petticoats, skirt, bustle, wrap, and posterior on the plush velvet bench inside the carriage. Inspector Grayling, being a male and thus unencumbered by the travails of fashion, slipped in and settled himself with enviable ease.

The door closed and we were alone. The inside of the vehicle seemed to shrink. I could smell the faint scent of something lemony, tinged with peppermint and bergamot, wafting from the man across from me.

“It would have mussed up your hair and skirts,” he said as the carriage rolled smoothly into action. Apparently, having a royal driver eliminated the sharp lurching and jolting of a less lofty vocation.

“I beg your pardon?”

Grayling shifted, and I noticed one of his arms rested along the back of the bench on which he sat, while the fingertips of the other hand curled around the brim of his hat. He appeared much more at ease than I felt. Light filtered through the carriage window and made his dark coppery curls gleam like the sunset, or a roaring fire. “The steamcycle. I feared it would be an impractical mode of transport dressed as you are. It would be a shame—er—right. Miss Holmes, that's a very nice dress. You look very—er—that is to say, one would hate to be the cause of it obtaining a streak of grease, or to become torn. Or—or wrinkled.”

I was thankful for the uneven light of the carriage, knowing it would help disguise the sudden flush heating my cheeks. “Indeed. And—er—thank you.”