The Clockwork Scarab

Miss Holmes Miss Holmes Has an Unexpected Visitor

I was exhausted when I climbed into the horseless cab outside the museum. Miss Stoker had somehow excused herself from being escorted home and disappeared on foot into the shadow of the colonnaded building. I had given my official statement to Luckworth, leaving out the minor detail of the museum intruder. I felt certain I’d see the foreigner again soon.

The cab had traveled a mere block from the museum when my suspicions were proved right.

A black shape across from me in the vehicle shifted and became a face, followed by two hands shining pale in the gray light of near dawn.

I froze, realizing that what I’d assumed was a pile of cushions and blankets—granted, not the usual accoutrements of a hackney cab in London—had been the foreign intruder, hiding in the darkest corner of the carriage. I’d been too tired and distracted to look closely.

I fumbled the Steam-Stream gun out and into my grip. It took me longer than it should have, yet the intruder held up his hands and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Of course you aren’t,” I said, juggling the gun into position, pointing at him from my seat. My fingers were a trifle shaky, but in the dark, he wouldn’t be able to tell. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” It occurred to me that I could have screamed and drawn the cabbie’s attention, but I’m by nature a curious person, and after all, I was the one who was armed.

“My name is Dylan Eckhert. And I . . . uh . . . I wanted to talk to you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be waxing the museum floors?” I asked.

“I didn’t really expect you to believe me.” He gave a little laugh. “Um . . . could I put my hands down now? I promise I’m not going to do anything but talk to you.”

“Very well. I want to talk to you too. But any movements on your part, and I pull the trigger and you’ll be blasted with steam.”

His first question surprised me. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes’s niece?”

“Of course I am.” I realized he must have been hovering about listening to the conversations with Grayling and Luckworth.

“But I thought Sherlock Holmes was a fictitious character,” Mr. Eckhert said. His expression was bewildered and perhaps a little frightened. “Am I in London? What year is this?”

Clearly, the stranger was suffering from a case of amnesia. Or he was utterly mad. And here I was, closed up in a carriage with him. I gripped the Steam-Stream gun more tightly. “My uncle is as real as you and I. And yes, you’re in London. The year is 1889. Who are you and where are you from? I want some answers.”

“I’d like some too, to be honest,” he said. “Actually, what I really want is my—that thing back. You picked it up off the floor.”

I pulled the device from my pocket. It looked like a small, dark mirror, but its window or face was black and shiny and reflected a bit of light and no clear image. About as big as my hand, it was slender and elegant, made of glass and encased in silver metal. I turned it over and noticed the faint image of an apple with a bite out of it. “This? I thought you’d given it to us. After all, you threw it across the room.”

“Yeah, right. You’re too smart to believe that.”

I couldn’t disagree, so I changed tactics. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . a . . . phone. A telephone,” he said hesitantly. “A special kind of telephone.”

It didn’t look like any sort of telephone I’d ever seen. There was nowhere to listen, and nowhere to speak. And it had no wires. I smoothed my fingers over the device, amazed at how light and sleek it was. I must have activated it somehow, because all at once, it lit up and there were multicolored little pictures on its face. At least it didn’t start screeching. “I might give it back to you if you answer my questions.”

“What do you want to know? And by the way, why didn’t you tell those detectives about me?”

As I wasn’t certain of the answer to that myself, I declined to reply. There was something about this young man that I found compelling. I sensed there was more to him than met the eye. Instead of answering his question, I asked one of my own. “Did you see or hear anyone before you saw the girl’s body?”

“I might have heard a door opening and closing, but I’m not familiar with all the sounds in the museum, so I can’t be sure. Probably. Then I heard a scuffle, like someone’s shoe on the floor. I was . . . um . . . walking through the museum, trying to find my way . . . out, and I almost tripped over her. I only got there a few seconds before you.”

From Miss Adler’s office, we’d heard the rumbling sound of a steam-powered door, but it had taken us a minute or two to get to where we’d found Miss Hodgeworth and Mr. Eckhert.

“Where was the knife when you got there? Was she holding it?”

“No. It was on the floor next to her. I think . . . I think I might have interrupted someone. It looked as if the knife was lying next to her, as if it had been dropped.”

“Why are you living in the museum?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I’m not living in the museum. I just got there tonight. A few hours before I saw you.”

“That’s impossible. Your shoes are clean.” I shifted the gun in warning. “How about the truth, now, Mr. Eckhert?”

“It’s complicated. But I guess if there’s any chance of me getting home, I’m going to have to trust someone.” He looked out the window and a gaslight streetlamp cast a brief golden glow over his sober face and the tousled hair that brushed his neck and covered his ears and forehead. I felt my chest tighten and looked away. He was one of the most handsome young men I’d ever seen.

At last he turned and looked at me once more. “So . . . I’m . . . uh . . . from a long way away. And I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m really not sure how I’m going to get back home. It was freaky. I was in the museum, back in a far corner all alone. It was dark and empty, and it was—well, okay, I’ll be honest. On a dare, I sneaked into one of the back rooms in the basement, and I found this door in the middle of nowhere. It was, like, locked, but the lock was old and rusty, and I got it to open. Inside, I found an old Egyptian statue, totally covered with dust. I don’t think anyone had touched it for years. It was a person with the head of a lion. I looked it up. I think it was—”

“Sekhmet.” I spoke the name in a whisper. A chill washed over me. There are no coincidences.

“Right. Sekhmet.” He seemed to relax a little bit. “I noticed a sort of emblem, like a button, set into the stone base. It was so tall that I could crouch down and fit my head between its knees. It was glowing. I touched it, and then all of a sudden I felt this really odd vibration, this strange buzzing. It was in my head, my ears, all through my body, just crazy. I felt the emblem sort of move, like it sank in a little more, and the vibration got stronger. And then I felt as if I was falling and falling and falling . . . and then all of a sudden, I realized I was lying on the floor.” His expression was one of misery and shock. “I don’t know how long I was out of it, but when I opened my eyes, I was in the same room, but there were different things there. The statue of Sekhmet was gone. It was like I’d . . .”

I realized my jaw was hanging open, and I snapped it closed. He was telling the truth; I could see it in his eyes. At least, the truth as he understood it. He’d somehow traveled here by touching the emblem on a Sekhmet statue?

My mind was awhirl with questions and theories, but I managed to pluck one topic from the storm. “An emblem? What did it look like? You say it was glowing?”

“It was about this big,” he said, drawing a circle on his palm. “And it was a really bright blue color—I think they call it lapis?”

“Lapis lazuli?”

He nodded. “And it had a picture of a beetle on it.”

I felt as if a basketful of clockwork gears had just tumbled into my lap and I didn’t have any way of knowing how they fit together.

“It looked a little like the one, the scarab—that was by the girl.”

“There was a scarab by the victim?” I said sharply. How could I have missed that? “There was no scarab there.”

“Yeah, there was. It was on the ground next to her.” He shifted in his seat, and I lifted the gun. He stilled. “I took it.”

Ahh. “May I see it, please?”

“How about a trade? I give you the beetle, and you give me back my phone.” He flashed me a charming smile.

“You’re in no position to be bargaining,” I said, and held out my hand for what I was certain would be a clockwork scarab decorated with a Sekhmet cartouche. After a long moment, he sighed and complied, digging into the pocket of his denim trousers.

The item produced was similar in size and design to the scarab Miss Adler had shown us earlier. As I peered down at it in the dim light, unable to hold my illuminator and the gun, a thought struck me. I looked up at Mr. Eckhert. “Do you recall how long it was between the time you opened your eyes and found yourself in the room with the Sekhmet statue missing and when you found Miss Hodgeworth’s body?”

“Like, three hours, maybe four. I was confused because the room had either changed, or I had . . . moved.” His voice cracked with emotion.

Three hours, maybe four.

Miss Hodgeworth had been dead for about that amount of time.

Another coincidence?

As Inspector Luckworth might say, not blooming likely.

The sun was just coloring the rooftops when I stumbled into my chamber. I tore off my trousers, shirtwaist, and coat, thankful that I didn’t need to struggle out of a corset tonight. The Milford Gentlelady’s Easy-Unlacer, whose slender, metal fingers made a nuisance of a clacking sound as it went about its business, not only took too long to loosen the ties of one’s corset, but was loud enough to wake Mrs. Raskill.

The house was dark and silent, except for the distant rumble of the aforementioned lady’s slumberous breathing, and although I had stopped near my father’s chamber, the sounds of his own snoring were not evident. His boots were not in their place, and his walking stick was still missing, thus leading me to conclude he had chosen to once again sleep at his club.

My mother’s chamber adjoined his, and, as was my habit, I cracked open the door to look inside. Everything was as pristine as it had been the day she left, but now, a year later, I could no longer smell the soft lily of the valley scent that had always permeated the space. I closed the door tightly.

When I had realized Mr. Eckhert had no place to sleep, I invited him to stay at our house. As it turned out, my father’s empty bedchamber was a blessing in disguise, and Mr. Eckhert had eagerly flopped onto the made-up bed.

One might wonder why I would do something so far outside the bounds of propriety and invite a single young man—and one who’d come into my life so unusually—to stay in my home, unchaperoned, but it had become obvious he was out of sorts and had no funds. I sensed he meant me no harm and that he needed some sort of help. Besides, he was clearly linked to whatever was happening relative to Sekhmet and her scarabs. It was best I keep Dylan Eckhert under close watch.

Despite my physical exhaustion, the events of the night made me feel energetic and invigorated. I was confident I wouldn’t sleep much at all, but once in bed, I forced myself to close my eyes and relax. I would need a clear mind and rested body for later, when our secret society reconvened.

But just as I slipped into the lulling embrace of Morpheus, a pair of sharp green-gray eyes popped into my memory and ruined it all.

I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t encounter Inspector Grayling any time in the near future.

When I awoke much later that morning, Mr. Eckhert was gone.

Not only did he not leave a note, but he’d also sneaked into my chamber whilst I slumbered and pilfered the sleek, silver device he claimed was a telephone.