The Spiritglass Charade (3 page)

“Not at all,” our hostess replied with a tinkling laugh. “You know how terribly unpunctual I am! Now, please. I feel certain I've met this young lady when she was presented at Court. Evaline Stoker. You're a Grantworth as well, if I recall. And you must be the Holmes girl. Mina, is it? Your father has been instrumental in assisting the Home Office with a variety
of situations. And your uncle! Miraculous in his solving of crimes, if I do say so. Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. This is an informal meeting. But who are you, young man?”

Evaline and I had taken our turns curtsying during Princess Alexandra's breathless speech, but now that the princess's attention had fallen on Dylan, Miss Adler gestured for us to sit as she introduced him. “He is helping me with a variety of tasks at the Museum, but Mr. Eckhert was also instrumental in assisting Miss Holmes and Miss Stoker in their last assignment.”

“Well, then I must include Mr. Eckhert along with you two young ladies in my gratitude for investigating the business with the clockwork scarabs and discovering who was killing those poor girls. Thank you, most sincerely, from the bottom of my heart for stopping the Ankh before she hurt anyone else.”

While I flushed with pleasure under her open regard and appreciation, it also made me slightly nauseated. For while Princess Alexandra was correct that Evaline and I had foiled the androgynous character known as the Ankh, I alone remained unconvinced that the female body that had been recovered and identified as the murderer's was in fact the villainous person we'd been chasing. Everyone else—including Scotland Yard—believed the case was closed.

I, on the other hand, had nearly accused Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt, wife of the Parliamentary leader, of being the Ankh.

That had not been my finest hour. Particularly since it had been witnessed by one Inspector Ambrose Grayling of Scotland Yard.

“Thank you for giving us the opportunity to serve you and our country.” Miss Stoker inclined her head in graceful acceptance of the princess's gratitude. “I speak for both Mina and myself when I say we are looking forward to our next assignment.”

“Indeed.” I was irritated for not having responded before Evaline did so.

“Excellent. Then I shall tell you why I have called you to attend me. But whilst I do so, if you don't mind, Irene, would you make certain your companions sample the truffles? As you know, they are not to be missed.” The princess smiled, and a charming dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.

“Most assuredly,” Miss Adler replied, picking up the tray on the small table next to her. “Her Highness does not exaggerate. The chocolate truffles made by her Danish pastry chef are so delicious, even the Queen makes excuses to visit in order to have one.”

Dylan and I exchanged covert glances and he waggled his eyebrows. I merely smiled and shook my head. It was simply inconceivable he'd meet the Queen any time soon.

Miss Stoker was already examining the tray of chocolates. They were each the size of a large cherry, and in a variety of unusual colors: pastel pink, robin's egg, daffodil, mint, and iced orange. Each was enclosed in a loose, springy swirl of
spun sugar that glittered in the light, giving the truffle the appearance of being in motion. I could not conceive how the chef had placed the spheric chocolates inside each delicate coil without fracturing them.

“Now,” said our royal hostess. “On to the matter I wish you to investigate. There is a young woman by the name of Willa Ashton. Her mother, Marta, and I were very close friends until Marta died, for she was one of the few ladies who came from Denmark with me. She married Ferdinand Ashton, the son of Baron Fruntmire. When I was ill with the rheumatic fever—goodness, twenty years ago that was—Marta sat with me nearly every day, and I came to love her dearly. Willa is just as charming and empathetic as her mother was, and I have summoned you today because I am greatly concerned for her mental and physical well-being.”

When the princess paused to take a sip from the tea in her delicate china cup, I took the opportunity to slip one of the bite-sized truffles into my mouth. The sugary coil melted on my tongue, and the tinted exterior turned out to be a thin shell with an essence of citrus (I had selected one of the yellow ones). But inside. . . . It was nearly impossible for me to hold back a sigh of delight, for the interior of the sweet was like nothing I'd ever tasted. Light and fluffy, chocolaty without being too rich, buttery and decadent with a hint of crunch.

“Do you not agree they are the best chocolates you've ever tasted?” asked the princess, obviously noticing my reaction.

As my mouth was still filled with the ambrosia, I could only nod vehemently.

“Marta died five years ago,” continued our hostess. “Before that, she and Willa often accompanied me on my visits to London Hospital. Willa has continued to do so, and she's grown into such a sweet, lovely young woman. She spends much of her time in the children's ward, telling them stories. The boys in particular ask for her every day, or so the nurses tell me.

“But then her younger brother, Robby, disappeared, a little less than two months ago. It's believed he fell into a canal and drowned, but his body was never recovered. Willa isn't convinced he's dead, and has become obsessed with finding him. She's become enamored with Spiritualism, and believes it can help her solve the puzzle.”

“Spiritualism? Do you mean to say Miss Ashton attends s
é
ances—or that she is acting as a medium herself?” I asked, firmly redirecting my attention from the tray of truffles, which, thanks to Dylan and Evaline, had been pared down to a meager trio of chocolates.

“She is attending them—quite regularly, in fact. And, I suspect, is paying quite a bit of money to the mediums she uses. Willa insists her mother is speaking to her from beyond—and although that may very well be true,” the princess added hastily, surely thinking of her own mother-in-law's attraction to spirit-talking with the Queen's dead husband, Albert, “I
fear there is some other unpleasant purpose at work here. For I am concerned . . . well, I suspect either someone is attempting to fleece her fortune out from under her, or—worse—that someone is attempting to drive her mad.”

I
had taken the last of the chocolates—right beneath Mina Holmes's bladelike nose—when Princess Alexandra made her announcement about Willa Ashton.

“Fleece her fortune? Drive her mad?” I repeated, my enthusiasm deflating. That sounded beyond boring. No abductions? No chases through the streets? No visits to opium dens? I popped the chocolate in my mouth and tried not to appear uninterested.

Mina, on the other hand, looked as if she'd been given a jeweled cuff on a golden platter. No surprise there, for this was the type of problem she was good at: putting pieces of a puzzle together.

Me? Give me a dark street to patrol. A disreputable neighborhood in which to look for trouble—or at least a vampire to slay. I surreptitiously felt inside my pocket. Dylan's
sleek telephone-device was still there, waiting for me to take it to a particular seedy pub in Whitechapel.

At least I'd have
something
interesting to do tonight.

“What sorts of things have been happening to make you believe Miss Ashton is the target of some villainy?” my so-called partner asked.

“It's Willa's insistence that her brother is still alive. It's . . . unnatural. She claims her mother has been visiting her and sending her messages from beyond. Poor Willa is filled with grief, distracted and utterly moddle-headed—I'm simply concerned she's being taken advantage of.”

“Visits from her dead mother?” There was skepticism in Mina's voice.

The princess shook her head. “I believe it would be best if you met Willa, and perhaps attended a s
é
ance with her. Then you can experience it—”

An urgent knock at the door had us all turning.

“Yes?”

The door opened and a wide-eyed butler appeared. “The
Queen
. Is
here
, Your Highness.”

“The
Queen
? How unexpected.” The princess's brows rose up into the fringe of black curls on her forehead. “Well, don't keep her wait—”

But she didn't finish, for the butler's face turned pink, then white, and he yanked the door open to reveal none other than Queen Victoria.

We all leapt to our feet, curtsying and, in Dylan's case, bowing, as she rolled—literally—into the chamber. At seventy years of age, the Queen was large, gray-haired, and stately. She was wearing a plain, simple gown of taffeta in several shades of gray, along with a lacy white veil. Her only jewels glinted at the cuffs of her dress and in a brooch pinned to its collar. Accompanying her was a retinue of footmen, ladies, and a small copper-colored dog.

The Queen was riding upon a small platform with two dinner-plate-sized wheels, one on each side. Her veil and the hem of her skirt fluttered as she trundled across the floor, using something similar to bicycle handlebars to navigate. The small dog sat in a bucket attached to the side.

“Madam,” said the princess as she rose from her brief curtsy. “What a pleasant surprise. You've arrived just in time to join us for some of the chocolate truffles you enjoy so much.” She gestured to the gaping butler, who fled the chamber.

“Be seated,” said the Queen to the room as she alighted carefully from her vehicle. She made her way to the largest sofa. Two footmen assisted her in settling her bulky self, yards of skirts and petticoats, and the long lacy veil onto the cushions. The ladies who accompanied her found seats where they could—including in the ones Mina and I had just vacated.

I glanced at my companion, who, for once, had nothing to say. I noticed Dylan was standing very close to Mina, and he seemed to be poking her with his elbow. Was he
laughing
?

“And who is this?” the Queen demanded, and Dylan sobered.

Princess Alix introduced us, but didn't mention the reason for our visit. The Queen didn't ask. Nor did she indicate any reason for her unexpected appearance. Instead, she seemed to be watching the parlor entrance, and we all sat in an awkward silence. The only noise came from Queen Victoria's small, fluffy dog, who was snuffling about on the floor around the hems of everyone's gowns. I hoped he wasn't about to lift his leg.

Then I realized with a start that among the attendants—all of whom were ladies of the realm—was none other than Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I smiled a greeting at her. The wife of our Parliamentary leader was an attractive woman in her early thirties, dressed expensively and in the height of fashion. She was like a bird of paradise next to our drab, pigeonlike monarch.

“Ah,” the Queen said at last when a maid and two footmen appeared. The young men were carrying tiered trays piled high with truffles.

Apparently the Queen really
did
like the chocolates.

“Tressa, have a large box of them packaged up for Her Majesty.” There was a subtle layer of amusement in Princess Alix's voice. As her mother-in-law devoured several truffles almost as quickly as Dylan had, the tension in the chamber eased. Small bits of conversation sprang up.

“Why, Irene Adler. What a pleasure it is to see you . . . and not even onstage,” said Lady Cosgrove-Pitt, inclining her head toward my companion. She didn't rise from her seat.

“Lady Isabella.” Miss Adler adjusted her wrist-clock. Her tones were unusually cool and very polite. “You're looking quite well.”

“As are you,” replied Lady Cosgrove-Pitt after a noticeable pause. “I understand you're working at the British Museum now?” Her tone was pitying. Not surprising, coming from a woman who hadn't worked a day in her life.

At that moment, the princess turned her attention back to Mina and me. “Very well then, ladies. I've told you all I can at this time. I suggest you visit Willa Ashton yourself and—er—get to know her. She'll be expecting your visit.”

This was clearly a dismissal, so the four of us curtsied (and bowed).

“Your Majesty, we beg your leave,” Miss Adler said to the Queen.

“Of course.” The Queen smiled and was reaching for another truffle when she noticed her dog scrabbling at something beneath the settee. “Marco!” she scolded as she slipped the cherry-sized chocolate into her mouth. “You bad boy!”

He poked his head out from beneath the skirt of the settee with a scrap of lace hanging from his mouth like a long, pink mustache. The poor thing looked completely bewildered at being caught out that everyone erupted in raucous laughter, including his mistress.

But Queen Victoria's laugh stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened. She began to clutch at her throat, her mouth open.

“She's choking!” exclaimed one of the footmen.

“Do something!” cried Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.

But no one seemed to know what to do.

It was horrid: a noiseless, gaping Queen, her eyes goggling and terrified, her face turning pale. Not a sound came from her throat, for the round chocolate was fully lodged there.

We all stared—frozen and helpless. Time seemed to stop.

The chamber had gone sickly quiet. We watched in horror as the Queen continued her silent struggle. Her face was turning gray and her hands eased from her throat.

There was nothing that could be done.

We were watching the Queen of England
die
.

“
Do something
! Why is no one doing anything?” Dylan shouted as he looked around frantically.

“Try pounding her on the back,” cried Miss Adler, starting to move to do it herself.

One of the footmen reached the Queen first, and, after a brief hesitation, began pounding on the choking woman's back. But the Queen continued to collapse, horribly silent and still. Grayer. Weaker.

“
Move
.” Dylan rushed over. “Let me.”