The Clockwork Scarab

Miss Holmes In Which Miss Holmes Gives a History Lesson

I looked up at the tall, spare man around whom the others had crowded. As always, he was clean-shaven and his dark hair neatly combed. He held a hat in long, slender fingers. His coat was brushed, and his trousers were without a speck of mud.

I tried not to think about the fact that he’d just announced my abomination of a name to the entire Metropolitan Police force.

“Greetings, Dr. Watson,” I added. My uncle’s cohort was shorter than he and of a stocky frame, but by no means chubby. He wore a close-trimmed mustache of chestnut brown and professional, yet out-of-fashion, clothing. Small round spectacles perched on his nose.

I avoided looking at Grayling, for I could only imagine the expression on his face.

My uncle had turned his regard upon Mr. Eckhert, who was staring unabashedly at him. My newly liberated friend exclaimed, “Sherlock Holmes! I can’t believe it’s really you!”

“You’re living at my brother’s house, I perceive,” said my uncle. “Since arriving in London, you’ve been a vagrant and homeless. But my niece has taken you in and now has had to bail you out on a charge of breaking and entering. The British Museum, if I’m not mistaken.”

Mr. Eckhert’s expression turned to one of shock and bald admiration—both of which were common to people upon experiencing Sherlock Holmes for the first time. I wondered if I would ever have that sort of effect on people.

“How did you know that?” my friend asked.

“It’s information there for anyone to see,” began my relative in his aggrieved way. “One must observe—”

“Never mind,” I interrupted. I was one of the only people in London besides my father who would dare do so. Even the shorter, less elegant but more approachable Watson was intimidated by his friend at times. “Uncle Sherlock, I’ll be by Baker-street soon to return the item you—erm—loaned me. You must be on an important case, or you wouldn’t be here at Scotland Yard. I shan’t keep you any longer.”

And then, as if it had been I who’d accosted him instead of the reverse, I excused myself to the rest of the group. In doing so, I caught Grayling’s gaze before turning away. His eyes were narrow with wariness and aggravation, flickering from me to Mr. Eckhert and back again.

“I can’t believe that was Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes,” Mr. Eckhert said in an undertone as he walked in step with me. “He really is as brilliant as in the stories.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t suppose it was that difficult for him to make those deductions. You’re wearing my father’s clothing—that, along with the ill fit, would indicate your vagrant state and the fact that I took you in. And as for the details about your bail, well”—I gestured with the paper I held—“I suspect my uncle read the details on your release document. He’s notorious for reading upside down and backward, and he would recognize the type of document used for bail.”

“Wow,” Mr. Eckhert said, pausing to glance over his shoulder as if to catch one more glimpse of my famed relative. “And Dr. Watson too. They both look just as I imagined them.”

“Mr. Eckhert, do you think you could cease fawning over them and hurry along? There’s someone back there I would prefer to avoid. And we’re going to the museum now.”

I picked up my pace, and my companion fell into step with me. Although he was in need of freshening up, I decided it would be best to get to Miss Adler as soon as possible. There would be a place for him to wash up at the museum.

“London,” said Mr. Eckhert as we walked outside of the building, “is so different than I remem—imagined. It’s so . . . close. And tight, and dark. There’s no grass or trees, and it smells. The buildings are on top of each other and so tall. Walking down the street isn’t like being outside, it’s like being inside a really massive building—like a huge shopping ma—uh. I mean, all of the bridges and walkways and everything. And those open elevators—what do you call them? Lifts? It’s always so dark and foggy and gray. And what are those things up there? They look like huge balloons at the tops of the buildings.” He pointed to the sky-anchors. A half dozen of them swayed high above our heads.

Before I could respond, I heard a familiar purring rumble. We both turned to see a steamcycle roar around the building and down the street. Gliding at knee height above the ground, smooth and sleek and fast, it blasted past us in a blur of copper and a tail of white steam. The long, flapping black coat of its driver fluttered in its wake, and he was bent over the handlebars, eyes protected by large goggles, hands by brown gloves. On his head was an aviator hat that I suspected covered ginger-colored hair.

“Sweet!” Mr. Eckhert exclaimed, stopping to gawk after the cycle. “What was that? A motorcycle?”

“It’s called a steamcycle. Usually, they aren’t quite so fast. Or loud. Or . . .” Sleek. Cognogged. “It’s probably an illegal vehicle, at any rate.” I made no effort to hide my exasperation. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some electrical mechanism beneath that steam engine.”

Mr. Eckhert had a strange expression on his face as I started in the direction of the museum, but then he paused and sniffed. Something delicious was in the air, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

“Something smells good,” he said. “The food they gave me in jail was disgusting.”

“The best street vendors are on the middle and upper levels,” I said. Since one had to pay to ascend in the lift, the better vendors knew where the most profitable customers were.

The enticing scents wafting down from the carts selling items like roasted apple puffs, vanilla-stick coffees, and flaming carrots were all the urging I needed to dig out five pence for our entrance to the street-lift. I had a particular fondness for the soft, sweet carrots on a stick.

Moments later, we stepped off the street-lift and heard the ornate brass door clang shut behind us. Mr. Eckhert led the way to a small cart of the flaming carrots, and I selected the largest of the offerings. I purchased two, as well as an egg biscuit for my companion, who claimed he was starving.

He said something about egg mick-muffins and ate the biscuit in three large bites as I held the two carrots on their sticks, waiting for the flames to burn out. I showed him where to throw the wrapping from his food into the sewer-chute and handed him his carrot with a warning: inside, beneath a thin sugary crust, the carrot would be soft, sweet, and steaming hot.

“What did you mean earlier about electrical mechanisms being illegal?” Mr. Eckhert asked, then was distracted by the sight of a Refuse-Agitator. The self-propelled vehicle was doing its duty far below at ground level by rolling through one of the small sewer canals, likely pulverizing the trash he’d just discarded. Little clouds of black smoke puffed from a duo of pipes as it chugged along.

“ ‘The generation, utilization, and storage of electrical or electro-magnetic power is prohibited,’ ” I said, quoting directly from the Moseley-Haft Act.

Mr. Eckhert stopped there on the sidewalk and nearly got himself run over by a knife-sharpener and his motorized cart. “Are you saying that electricity is illegal?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a widespread safety threat.”

“That’s crazy! Haven’t you people ever heard of Thomas Edison?”

“Yes, of course I’ve heard of Thomas Edison. Everyone’s heard of him. It’s because of him and his unsavory activities that the law was passed.”

Mr. Eckhert gaped at me. “What year did you say this was?”

“It’s 1889,” I said, finishing the last bite of my sweet, warm carrot. “Victoria is Queen. Lord Salisbury is the prime minister. Lord Cosgrove-Pitt is the leader of Parliament. Now, shall we walk? I don’t wish to dawdle any longer, and, Mr. Eckhert, the sooner you get to a washroom, the—er—less attention you’ll be drawing to yourself. Which I deduce was the reason you borrowed my father’s clothing—so that you could blend in with other Londoners. Incidentally, a gentleman never goes about without gloves.”

“Okay, I’m walking,” he said, looking at his hands as if to see whether gloves had magically appeared. “Tell me about this law. I don’t remember learning anything in school about a law making electricity illegal.”

At his cryptic words, a funny shiver went through my insides. Despite the fact that I’d been immersed in the problem of Miss Hodgeworth’s death and the Sekhmet mystery, questions about Mr. Eckhert and his origins had never been far from my mind. I’d analyzed the facts over and over and had only come to one conclusion.

An unbelievable conclusion.

But my uncle’s favorite maxim had been pounded into my head from a young age. When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I turned to answering his question. “Seven years ago, there was a time when it seemed as if the civilized world would adopt the use of electricity to power everything mechanical. But it became clear how dangerous it is when fifteen people were electrocuted by a wire in New Jersey during a rainstorm. Mr. Edison tried to cover up the incident, but Mr. Emmet Oligary, one of the foremost businessmen in London, made certain it was written about in the papers. The scandal was exposed, and it became obvious that widespread use of electricity was a real danger to society. Mr. Oligary led the charge to make certain all of England was aware of the insidious dangers of electrical power. His brother-in-law, Lord Moseley, consulted with Parliament to craft and pass the law in 1884.”

“Let me guess,” said Mr. Eckhert as we approached the wide flight of steps to the British Museum. “Mr. Oligary had a bunch of factories running on steam engines.” His expression was grim. “Probably manufacturing the parts to them, even.”

“Of course he did. The steam engine was just becoming popular at that time. And now we use that technology for everything. Good afternoon, sir,” I said to the guard at the door of the museum.

He looked with suspicion at the disheveled Mr. Eckhert, but when I glared at him with a level gaze of my own, the guard gestured us through. The heavy glass doors, framed in brass, clicked and whirred as they folded open. I led the way through the Banksian Room to Miss Adler’s office. It was nearly quarter past two.

“Good afternoon, Mina,” said Miss Adler when we were given entrance to her office. She was sitting at her desk, with a small mechanical device poised over an open book. It appeared to be a magnifyer of some sort and was clicking in a pleasant rhythm. “And . . .” She looked at my companion, then back at me and rose to her feet.

“Miss Adler, I have an abundance of information to share with you in regard to the events of last night, but first I’d like you to meet Mr. Dylan Eckhert. You might recognize him from our previous encounter, over Miss Hodgeworth’s body. I’ve learned he came to London in an unlikely fashion. I am going to help him find a way to return home.”

“Mr. Eckhert, I’m pleased to officially meet you.” It was to the gentlelady’s credit that she showed no reaction to his disheveled and aromatic appearance—which was such a contrast to her own neat, fashionable self.

“Hello, Miss Adler. Irene Adler. Wow,” he said, his voice hushed. “This is so weird.”

My heart was pounding, for I was about to take a great chance. I would either be correct, or I’d humiliate myself. But of course that was impossible. My conclusions were never wrong. They simply couldn’t be. “Mr. Eckhert, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell Miss Adler where you’re from. Specifically, from what year you’ve traveled.”

The others looked at me—Miss Adler with unrestrained shock and Mr. Eckhert with something like relief.

“So you’ve figured it out . . . and you believe me,” he said, looking at me with those blue eyes again. This time, they were filled with gratitude and enough warmth to make my insides go awhirl. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and then opened them. Exhaling a deep breath, he said, “I’m from the future. The year 2016.”

For a moment I was stunned. Not because my conclusion had been confirmed, but because he’d come from so far—more than a hundred years ahead. Countless questions popped into my head. Where did one begin?

“What’s it like?” I asked. “There, in 2016?”

“It’s very different . . . and not so different. For one thing, it’s not so . . . dim and dark all the time. And electricity isn’t illegal,” he added. “It’s never been illegal. It’s not a threat to society any more than—than steam. Or horse-drawn carriages.”

More and more questions poured into my mind like sand funneling down through an old-fashioned timekeeper, but I ruthlessly shoved them away. I could interrogate him later—and I fully intended to do so. But now was not the time.

Miss Adler had been staring at my companion. And now she said, “Truly—2016?”

“Yes, for real. And, like, could you just call me Dylan? Or Eckhert, as my friends do? I can’t deal with this Mr. Eckhert stuff.”

“Of course, Dylan,” Miss Adler said, seeming to recover herself. “If it will make you feel more comfortable.”

“Mr. Eckhert traveled here with the help of an illuminated scarab on a statue of Sekhmet. At just about the same time Miss Hodgeworth was being murdered. It cannot be coincidence that those two events happened concurrently.”

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“He was arrested trying to break into the museum last night, presumably to try and find the Sekhmet statue so he could determine how to return home. I was able to get him released on bail, and we’ve come directly from the jail.”

“I did hear about the attempted break-in. And what a traumatic experience you’ve had.” Miss Adler still wore an expression of shock, and I couldn’t blame her. After all, I’d had more than a day to come to the conclusion . . . and yet, I still couldn’t fathom the concept. Time travel? “Perhaps you’d like to—er—wash up a bit, Dylan?” she suggested. “I’m certain we could obtain some clean clothing for you as well.”

When our guest accepted the offer with alacrity, Miss Adler added, “Mina, perhaps you’d take a moment to read this passage while I show Dylan to a washroom.” She gestured to the open book on her desk. “I suspect you’ll find it enlightening.”

As they left, I settled myself in her position at the desk and took note of the large book. The pages were old and yellow, held together not by the stitched leather binding we find on current publications but by large, looping leather thongs. The text was cramped and faint, and simple sketches broke up the blocks of prose. The words were handwritten rather than typeset and in a variety of colors and styles. The mechanical device on which Miss Adler had mounted the tome not only provided light, it also magnified the text and held the book open to the proper page.

The line drawing of a lion-headed woman drew my attention. Beneath it, in flowing, fading text, was a poem or song. It took me a moment to decipher the cramped, ornate entry, and even then, I passed over some words and phrases when they were blotched or unreadable.

Sekhmet, the Goddess of Death, shall be called back to life.

Shall endow Her strength and power upon those deserving.

Gather Her Instruments, meld them whole ——

With the purest of sacrifices shall find the — power.

For the Power of Sekhmet shall rise in vengeance

For the weak and restrained.

A little shiver went down my spine. Last night, the Ankh had referred to “the Power of Sekhmet.”

The day is nigh, the Ankh had said.

What were the instruments?

Gather Her Instruments, meld them whole . . .

I examined the pages, trying to find further reference to the instruments or to the Power of Sekhmet. From what I was able to glean from the book, it seemed to be a collection of Egyptian and Sumerian legends and writings.

After carefully turning one more crisp, browned page, I found an entire leaf devoted to them: The Instruments of Sekhmet: Her Scepter. Her Diadem. Her Cuff. Her Sistrum.

There were drawings of them all. First, the tall scepter with a lion’s head. A detail in the drawing indicated a green gem for the feral feline’s eye, and its long, smooth, mane running the entire length of the staff.

Sekhmet’s diadem appeared to be a delicate, filigreed object—not at all Egyptian in appearance. It looked as if it were made from slender golden curves and twists, but upon closer examination, I realized it too depicted a lion. A feminine snout at the front of the diadem was combined with the leonine mane that curled and curved in an ethereal shape that would hug the crown of the head.

The cuff was a smooth, flat, metal band that enclosed the wrist. The drawing was faded and mottled, making it difficult to see much detail. With the help of the magnifyer and a bit of patience, I was able to discern that the fastener which held the bracelet closed was made of two almond-shaped feline eyes.

The sistrum, a small musical instrument, resembled an ankh in the drawings: it was cross-shaped and had a loop in place of the top, upright bar.

The door to the office opened, and in walked Miss Adler, accompanied by Dylan. He was clean, shaved, and dressed in proper English clothing, with the exception of gloves. I didn’t bother to ask how she had arranged it; there was no sense wasting time on such trivial details.

He looked very British, yet he still seemed . . . different. With his long hair flipping up gently in random places and the slender, blue rubber bracelet he wore, along with the manner in which he stood and moved, he exuded foreignness. He reminded me of a cat reluctantly dressed up in child’s clothing—subdued for the moment, but not in his natural habitat. Not terribly different from how I’d felt at Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s ball, dolled up and thrust into an unfamiliar environment.

Shifting under my regard, Dylan gave me a sort of lopsided smile and tucked a finger inside the collar of his shirtwaist, tugging sheepishly at the neckcloth.

“I trust you found the reading relevant?” Miss Adler said, redirecting my attention.

“Indeed. I have much to tell you, for this makes what I learned last night clearer.” I launched into an explanation of the events surrounding the Roses Ball and our unexpected adventure. It was with great effort that I managed to keep an accusatory tone from my voice as I described Miss Stoker’s foolhardy actions—from leaving me behind at the top of that long, dark, subterranean flight of stairs, to her bold accusation of the Ankh.

“Fortunately we were able to escape, thanks in part to Miss Stoker’s physical capabilities,” I said, keeping the begrudging tone from my voice with effort.

“The leader’s name was the Ankh?” Miss Adler said.

“Yes. Clearly nothing more than a symbolic name. Ankh, of course, means ‘life’ and is a common icon in Egyptian culture.” I could have lectured further, but Miss Stoker wasn’t present, and surely Miss Adler was already familiar with the symbol.

“And you weren’t certain of the individual’s gender?” she asked.

“Even employing my powers of observation, I could draw no clear conclusion. There were moments when she seemed feminine, and others when I was certain he had to be a male. But aside from that, the most important thing we’ve learned is that there is indeed a society related to Sekhmet. I neither saw nor felt anything that indicated danger to me or anyone else, with the exception of when Miss Stoker drew attention to herself and they attempted to detain us.”

What had also occurred to me, but I chose not to mention, was that the Ankh had seemed to easily make the connection of me to Miss Stoker—simply because we were standing next to each other.

“Thus, if I’m to revisit the Society of Sekhmet, which I intend to do, I must do so clandestinely.” I went on to repeat—verbatim—what the genderless speaker had said during the meeting. “The Ankh promoted female independence, but not once did she speak of the right to vote.”

“So it isn’t merely a suffragette group,” said Miss Adler. “But something more . . . and something that is endangering young women. I will report to Her Royal Highness this evening.”

“The Ankh spoke of Sekhmet helping the young women. She said ‘I, along with the Power of Sekhmet, will help you gain control of your lives in a manner such that women have never done.’ The Power of Sekhmet. That same phrase is notated here in the book. And the Ankh spoke of women being repressed and controlled . . . and in the book, there is reference to the goddess’s power rising up in vengeance for the weak and restrained.”

“I believe,” Miss Adler said, picking up her spectacles, “we have quite a lot of research to do. We must find out more about the Instruments of Sekhmet as well as this implication that she can be called back to life.”

A week ago, I might have found such a conversation ludicrous. Calling a goddess back to life? Absurd. But the young man standing across the chamber from me had opened my eyes to the impossible becoming probable.

I turned to Dylan. “It would be helpful if you showed us where you woke and where the statue of Sekhmet was when you originally discovered it. Your journey and its disappearance—and perhaps this entire case—must be connected.”

My new friend agreed, and we left the chamber. Miss Adler elected to remain behind, explaining, “I have a variety of resources that could assist us—papers, books, scrolls, and other antiquities. I’ll begin to gather them.”

Despite the fact that he’d traveled more than a century back in time, Dylan seemed to know his way through the museum. It was just after closing, so the exhibit halls were empty and silent except for the low rumble of distant cogworks and a sibilant hiss of steam. The lamps had been turned off and a smattering of external light filtered in through high windows.

As we approached the trio of Graeco-Roman salons, I observed the way a sliver of sun made a triangular highlight over the breast of the Ostian Venus. We walked through the first salon, past elegant statues of the Muses, Mercury, and the goat-eared Satyr.

Our footsteps made soft padding sounds as we passed through a little transept approaching the long, narrow Egyptian Gallery. This was where the famous Rosetta Stone, among other antiquities, was displayed. The stone itself was on a circular dais, and a revolving glass enclosure had been erected around it for safekeeping.

“They’ve placed an entire glass case around it now—er, in my time,” Dylan commented as we walked past.

He led me through a darker salon and then to a small stairwell. This area of the museum was cluttered and dusty, with crates and boxes stacked in haphazard fashion. Presumably, it was one of Miss Adler’s duties to unpack, arrange, and catalog the contents.

I have an excellent sense of direction, and even after several turns and descents, I still knew our whereabouts in the museum. So when Dylan paused outside a small, dingy room, I recognized that we were on the west side, two levels below the Assyrian Basement.

“In here,” he said.

I pulled the slender illuminator from my reticule and flipped its switch. The beam of light created a large yellow circle that danced on dark gray walls and a low ceiling. A collection of small objects—a knee-high statue of Bastet, a vase missing a large chunk, a piece of rock, and other pieces of rubble and dirt—littered the floor. Some long-tailed rodent moved in the shadows, darting into the corner.

I spun the dial to set the illuminator on its brightest level and walked into the chamber.

“The statue was there.” Dylan pointed to the far corner.

Bringing the light down with me, I hunkered on my hands and knees as I’d seen my uncle do at various crime scenes. This is much more difficult when you are a female, dressed in layers of crinolines and skirts, along with a restrictive corset. Nevertheless, I managed to do so with a modicum of modesty and commenced to examining the floor.

Faint scrapes on the stones—something heavy had been moved.

Clean, no dust or dirt—it had been moved recently.

Suddenly, a strange noise blared into the silence. It sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. A sharp, high, screeching sound that might have been attempting to be music.

Dylan, who’d been standing off to the side watching in fascination, jolted to attention. His eyes wide, he began to fumble through his waistcoat and then his outer coat and in his agitation and excitement, the sleek “telephone” erupted from the depths of a pocket and tumbled onto the ground.

He ducked to the floor and snatched it up, but by then, the noise had stopped. “Oh my God,” he said, staring at the object as if he’d never seen it before.

The device had come to life—it was illuminated and I was close enough to where he was kneeling that I could see tiny words on the front of it.

BenBo text (3)

Jillian text (5)

Flapper missed call

“I’ve got two bars,” he exclaimed, looking around the small, dark space, then down at the shiny telephone. “How can I have bars? One bar. Now I only have one. How the hell can I have b—they’re gone!” He stared at the device, shaking it, jabbing at it with his finger, bolting to his feet to point it in different directions. “They were there a minute ago. Did you see that? There’s no way. No way.”

“What is it? What happened?” Leaving the illuminator on the floor, I gathered up my skirts and pulled to my feet.

I understood little of what he was talking about, but his emotions—excitement, disbelief, and hopefulness—were obvious. And then they gave way to despair. I’d never seen anyone with such an expression of bewilderment, hope, and sorrow.

“For a minute,” he said, “for just a minute I was . . . somehow . . . connected with the future. My future.”

Silence reigned as we both stared at the device.

I heard him swallow hard, and he looked away. His knuckles were white and his jaw moved, shifting from side to side. “I have to figure out how to get home,” he whispered. “My mom and dad must be going crazy.”

“Dylan,” I said, groping for words I didn’t have. Trying to manage emotions I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to act, to even be a friend. But at that moment, I wanted that connection. It wasn’t just curiosity about who he was and from where he’d come. It was empathy: a feeling that was just as foreign to me as he was.

I’d spent much of my life feeling lost and out of place. An overly educated, brilliant young woman in a world owned and managed by men. Dylan seemed nearly as misplaced, and I wanted to help him.

“I’ll do anything I can, Dylan. Whatever I can.”

He nodded, his handsome face grim and his eyes bleak.

Then I did something I’d never done before, never even imagined doing. I opened my arms and pulled him into an embrace.

There was no awkwardness, no fumbling of words, no mortifying flush burning my cheeks. He was warm and alive, and I could feel grief and despair emanating from his body.

“Thanks, Mina,” he said, his chin moving against my shoulder.

And inside me, something shuddered and cracked, like a door opening.