The Chess Queen Enigma (14 page)

There was little I could say. I'd heard this speech—and variations on it—before, and I thought I understood his helplessness. But at the same time, I knew the prospective dangers of time travel, and suspected changing history wouldn't bode well for the future. I wasn't altogether certain it would be a good thing if Dylan had access to more futuristic medical treatments—even if it meant saving more lives.

If we ever found a way to send him back to his time, what if things were different for him? What if he altered things so that he was never born?

“Could you take leave for a bit? I'm going to visit Uncle Sherlock. Perhaps you'd like to come with me.” The first time he'd met my famous relative, Dylan had been dumbstruck. I knew he'd enjoy speaking with him again, and it would get him away from the hospital and his frustrations for a while.

His brilliant blue eyes—fringed with abnormally thick, sandy-brown lashes—lit for a moment. Then the interest faded,
and he shook his head. “I can't, Mina. I can't leave here. There's just too much to do.”

I squelched a rush of disappointment. “Very well, then,” I said briskly. “I hope you shall endeavor to get more sleep than you apparently have been getting, and perhaps empty the pockets of your coat occasionally. And you might eat something other than a moldy crust of bread.” He looked at me and I lifted an eyebrow. “There is one sticking out of your pocket.”

He jammed a hand into his pocket, then sheepishly removed said crust of bread. “There's no mold on this,” he said, grinning. “You were wrong, for once!” It was ridiculous how much I appreciated the way his eyes sparkled when he was happy.

“Quite. At least for today. But if you'd left it any longer in your pocket, it's sure to grow mold. One wouldn't want those tiny green spores growing all over the inside of your coat!”

“No, that's for su—” His eyes widened. His mouth opened. He goggled at me for a moment. “Mina! That's it! Oh, Mina, you are
brilliant
. You are so brilliant, I could—I could kiss you!”

My cheeks flooded with warmth. “Er . . . right, then.”

“Really! You just gave me the absolute best idea ever! I don't know why I didn't think of it!”

“Erm . . . quite. I'm very pleased to be of assistance. What idea precisely did I . . . er . . . ?”

“This! This is it!” He was shaking the crust of bread at me. “Moldy bread! That's how he started it! Dr. Flemming! I wonder how long it will take to grow? And then how will I administer it?”

He descended into a soliloquy of muttering and mumbling to himself as if I were no longer present—rather like that female inventor Olympia Babbage tended to do when she got caught up in the plans for one of her inventions. I confess, I found it only mildly less annoying when Dylan fell into the habit than Miss Babbage.

I realized he no longer remembered I was present, and reluctantly, I decided to take my leave. I had other things to attend to, and despite my disappointment that he wouldn't join me, at least I was feeling slightly less morbid than I had earlier.

“I could kiss you!”

Despite his words, I wondered if he would ever do so again.

“I am very grateful for your assistance, Uncle Sherlock.”

We had left 221-B Baker-street, where he kept his apartments, and were traveling in his carriage to Scotland Yard. Not incurring the expense of another cab was an additional benefit to having visited him in person rather than merely sending a message.

Aside from that, Mrs. Hudson, Uncle Sherlock's landlady and sometime housekeeper, made a delicious, filling snack she called Stuff'n Muffins. They were, she informed me, like a stuffed turkey but in the form of small, bite-sized muffins made of seasoned bread chunks—stuffing with chopped cranberries, and pieces of turkey. She always pressed several of them upon me when I visited.

“As it happens,” said my uncle, “I intended to make an appearance at the Met today anyway. Inspector Lestrade has been bumbling through another investigation, and I decided it would be best to offer my assistance before he travels too far down an incorrect deductive path—and note that I use the term ‘deductive' liberally. I don't believe Lestrade could deduce in which direction a horse crossed the street even if he came upon a pile of its dung!”

“What sort of investigation?” I was genuinely interested, for listening to my uncle describe not only a case, but also the errors and detours made by other less-skilled investigators, had been my earliest form of education. I had long since graduated from listening to Uncle Sherlock lecture on such topics as explosive detritus and its makeup, the science of bloodspatters, and, most recently, how to determine the height and weight of an individual by measuring the depth and surface displacement of his footprint.

“I haven't been apprised of the details yet. My attention was absorbed in another puzzle involving a mathematician
named Dr. Moriarty. He is a worthy challenger, and I look forward to exercising my powers of observation and deductive reasoning in competition with his robust intellect. I am given to understand, however, that Lestrade's latest debacle of a case involves the location of an abandoned underground Carmelite abbey off Fleet-street. There seems to have been an unusual number of deaths in the vicinity—mostly the toshermen who scavenge in the sewers, and some of the less fortunate who live in the area as well. It's an unpleasant fact of life that those who subsist at the lowest levels of society will, in fact, meet their demise more quickly and at a younger age than those of us who do not . . . but still, it is a tragedy. Death—regardless of whom it touches—is
always
a tragedy, Alvermina. Never forget that.”

“Of course not, Uncle Sherlock.”

“Apparently the number of deaths is sufficiently noticeable even in that poverty-stricken area to have caught the attention of the Met. And so Lestrade is attempting to put an end to it. And here we are.” He gestured with his walking stick as the carriage rolled to a halt.

As we alighted—my uncle forgetting, as usual, that it was a generally accepted societal nicety to assist a skirt-attired person down from a vehicle—he nevertheless turned to me and said, “You are quite clear where to go? I shall do my part, of course, but you shall have to move quickly in order to accomplish your task.”

“Yes, Uncle. And thank you once more,” I replied as I carefully navigated onto the ground.

“I am always willing to be of assistance when it comes to the pursuit of justice. It is imperative we Holmeses do our part by contributing our skills and abilities to the authorities—even when they do not realize they require them.”

And with that, we walked into the offices of the Metropolitan Police, better known as Scotland Yard.

As usually happened, the moment Sherlock Holmes made an appearance at the station, everyone in the vicinity became interested. Policemen, detective inspectors, clerks, and every manner of employee gathered in the corridor to speak to him—or, more accurately, to hear him speak.

This was the opportunity I needed, and the one I'd created by asking him to accompany me today. I trusted my uncle would have no difficulty finding topics on which to discourse while I sneaked off to search the files of unsolved cases.

If Inspector Grayling wouldn't tell me about the Bartholomew case, I would find out on my own. The unsolved case—especially since it was one of Grayling's, and tied to the most famous businessman in England—was a temptation I could not resist, particularly in light of my most recent failure.

I hurried down the corridor, following the instructions Uncle Sherlock had given me about where to find the files. I'd had to listen to him complain about the disorganization of the administrative process at the Met—secretaries had to
laboriously hand-copy each paper report, and they were arranged haphazardly in boxes by date rather than alphabetically by name—but it had been worth it to learn where to go.

As it happened, the route took me past the office Inspector Grayling shared with his partner, Inspector Luckworth. The two were as unalike as Holmes and Watson, and, truth be told, Holmes and Stoker. Grayling was a devout cognoggin, possessing gadgets and devices that stirred my envy and fascination, while Luckworth was more dedicated to plodding about on his large feet and blustering at—er, I mean interviewing—people.

I couldn't help but peek in as I approached. I told myself it was because I didn't want Grayling to take me by surprise, or to see me rushing down the corridor. But I was also desirous to take another look at what the ginger-haired detective called his “case board.”

To my relief, the office was devoid of homicide investigators and any other two-legged beings. There was evidence of Luckworth's recent departure—a trail of crumbs currently being devoured by a flop-eared beagle with a mechanical leg—and no sign of Grayling. No coat, no hat . . . good. That meant he wasn't lurking about.

Angus, Grayling's beagle, gave me a baleful glance, but he was more interested in his midday snack than greeting me. I had no complaints about this, for the last few times the black, brown, and white canine had attempted to converse
with me, I ended up with pawprints on my skirt and vigorous licking on the part of my wrist bared by my glove.

“Hush,” I told him when he looked as if he might vocally interact with me. The crumbs were gone, and apparently there was nothing edible in the waste can beneath Luckworth's desk. There was nothing
in
the waste can, as far as I could tell, but instead crumpled papers were piled around it. “There's no need for you to bark, Angus. I'm just going to look at your master's board over here.”

The last time I was in this office, I'd noticed the pin-board on the wall above Grayling's desk. It held photographs, drawings, maps, notes, and other items pertaining to the cases he was investigating. I intended to create a board of my own, dedicated to my investigation of the Ankh, and I wanted to examine his more closely.

I'd been looking at it for only a moment when it occurred to me Grayling's files would be in the very desk on which my palms were placed. Surely he would have a copy of the Bartholomew case in one of the drawers . . .

With a glance at the door, then a stern order to Angus to keep quiet, I pulled open the drawers. The first one held writing implements and small notebooks. The second one contained personal grooming accoutrements—such as a comb, hair pomade, tooth polish, and a fascinating device I realized was a nail clipper. I found this surprising; not that Grayling wasn't well-groomed—he certainly was—but that he would
think to have such accessories on hand. There was even something I'd never seen before called “chewing gum.” I sniffed it. Ah. That explained why he often smelled of peppermint.

The third drawer was locked with a dual-gear, brass-plated device that appeared to require two keys. I struggled with it for a moment, then moved on to the fourth and final drawer.

It was here that I found success. My sound of delight caused Angus to lumber to his feet on short, stubby legs—one of which clicked dully. He appeared to be waiting for me to reward him for my success, for he looked up at me with big brown eyes and barked.

“Hush!” I hissed, looking about for something with which to bribe him. Grayling's desk was utterly devoid of anything except gadgetry, pencils, and neat papers. Not a single photograph or tidbit of food.

Angus barked again, this time more forcefully, and I considered fleeing the office and going about my original plan. But I had seen the words “Oligary” and “Bartholomew” on a collection of loosely bound papers, and I didn't wish to lose the opportunity to investigate further.

Angus barked and whined, and he put his brown paws on my pretty spring green dress, batting at me as if to elicit a response. Then, with a jolt of delight, I remembered the Stuff'n Muffins. Mrs. Hudson had insisted I take several for later, and I had two of them tucked inside my bag.

“Here you go, doggie,” I said, breaking off half of one muffin. I let him smell it, then tossed it over toward Luckworth's desk—he'd never notice another crumb or stain—and turned back to my perusal of the documents. One thing I had to admit: Grayling's reports were impeccably organized. Bound together with sturdy wire rings, his notes consisted of handwritten information, photographs, and envelopes with more tactile items slipped inside.

I skimmed the details of the Bartholomew case as quickly as possible. Hmm. There was a suspect in the not-so-accidental death of Hiram Bartholomew, but the individual had yet to be apprehended for questioning. I regretted I couldn't take the file with me as I'd intended to do. Surely Grayling would notice it missing.

Angus barked again, and clattered back over. Goodness, the beast had eaten quickly. He panted up at me hopefully, and I tossed the other half of the muffin. I was just about to put the report back into the drawer when something caught my eye on a second collection of papers below it.