The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

Miss Adler continued, "I am certain you understand why the princess and I chose the two of you for this . . . well, shall we call it a secret society? But let me be clear-your invitation is not only due to your families' loyalty and service to the Crown. It's also because of who you are, and the talents and skills you have."

"Of course," I said. "As young members of 'the weaker sex,' we would be dismissed as flighty and unintelligent. Never mind that males our age go to war and fight for our country. Women haven't even the right to vote. Our brains are hardly acknowledged-let alone our brawn."

I glanced at Miss Stoker. According to The Venators, the vampire hunters of her family were endowed with superior physical strength and unnatural speed. I wondered if it was true. She certainly didn't appear dangerous. "Thus we two would be considered incapable of doing anything important, of being any sort of threat. In addition, I am an excellent candidate for secretive undertakings because I am fairly independent and"-I hesitated, then forged on-"somewhat reclusive."

I saw wariness in Miss Stoker's expression and a twinkle of humor in Miss Adler's, so I finished my thoughts. "In other words, we're both relatively solitary individuals who haven't many other obligations of family or friends who might ask questions or be potential recipients of our secrets. We're eccentric wallflowers."

"It might be true for you, Miss Holmes," Miss Stoker said, "that your social obligations are few and far between, but that's not the case for me. I have a stack of notecards and invitations overflowing the platter in the front hall of Grantworth House."

My chest felt tight, for I had just enumerated my shortcomings and pointed out my shameful lack of social invitations, and Miss Stoker had done just the opposite. It was difficult to make me feel inadequate, but her pointed comment bruised my feelings more than I cared to admit. Things might have been different if Mother were here to usher me through the intricacies of Society, but she was not.

Despite my discomfiture, I continued, "The number of invitations and obligations aside, Miss Stoker, I suspect you'd rather be doing something other than attending parties or dances. You might have obligations, but perhaps you would prefer not to have to accept them."

She closed her mouth rather sharply, and I recognized her tacit agreement. It was obvious through her demeanor and tones that she had an underlying need to prove herself worthy of her family legacy.

Perhaps we had more in common than I realized.

"You are quite correct, Mina," Miss Adler said. "Now, shall we move on? Are either of you acquainted with Miss Lilly Corteville?"

The name, though familiar, did not produce the image of a face or personality. In many ways, London Society was a foreign environment to me. The thought of dressing up and lining the walls at a party waiting to be asked to dance by some eligible young man terrified me. I knew I'd be standing against the wall alone all night, watching everyone else spin about the dance floor. And even if I was asked to dance, I'd either smash the poor man's foot or trip and fall on my face. Which was why I preferred not to waste my time with such nonsense as balls and the theater and shopping.

"I've met Miss Corteville," said my companion. "She's Viscount Fauntley's daughter, and she's engaged to Sir Rodney Greebles."

"Indeed," Miss Adler said. "She's gone missing since the twenty-fifth of April, three weeks ago."

"Could she have eloped? Run away? Been abducted?" Miss Stoker's eyes glinted with the same interest that bubbled inside me, although my fascination was tempered by concern. I wasn't convinced one could say the same for the other young woman. "We must conduct a search for her!"

"Of course the search has been ongoing." Miss Adler smiled, and Miss Stoker settled back into her chair looking disappointed. "The facts are Miss Corteville left no note or other message. It appears she absconded in the middle of the night, and there was no evidence of struggle."

"Perhaps she didn't wish to marry Sir Rodney and eloped with someone else. He's not at all attractive, and he's more than twice her age," suggested Miss Stoker.

"It's possible. Yet, according to her maid, Miss Corteville didn't appear to have packed any personal items to take with her as she'd do if she were going away permanently-eloping, for example."

"Unless she didn't plan to be gone for more than a brief time," I interjected.

"Indeed. However, there was one other thing. We found this slipped down behind her dressing table and the wall." Our hostess laid an object on the table for both of us to see.

"An Egyptian scarab," I said. There were countless examples of the beetle-shaped medallions here in the British Museum. Miss Adler handed the item to me for closer perusal. "No . . . something modern that's made to look like one. This amulet isn't thousands of years old."

The object was made from soft metal, unlike an original Egyptian artifact (which would have been crafted of stone), and it was in the shape of a very large beetle that would fit comfortably in the center of my palm. Twice as large as a coin, and a bit heavier.

"Scarabs were like talismans," I mused, turning it over in my fingers, noting the coolness of the metal, its smooth edges, and the intricate embossing on it. "They were put in Egyptian tombs or used as jewelry or even a token of affection."

"They could also be employed as a sort of identification," Miss Adler said, "among a connected society."

The scarab's bottom was flat, and the top rounded like an insect with two wings folded tightly over its dome-like body. It was made of verdigris metal, and the ridged carvings were filled in with black and green paint. I pressed on the wings, the head, and even the edges to see if it might open like the Royal Medallions. When I squeezed the tiny pincers at the head, at last something clicked and whirred, bringing the scarab to mechanized life. I watched in fascination as the shiny wings opened to reveal clock-like inner workings of tiny cogs and gears.

I turned it over. On the reverse were carvings, and I identified the image of a half beast, half man. "A cartouche? Of a lion-headed pharaoh? No . . . it's not a pharaoh. It's a god." I frowned at Miss Adler. "A goddess. It's Sekhmet."

She nodded as Miss Stoker spoke up, her voice peremptory: "If you don't mind."

I handed her the object, seizing the opportunity to educate her as she examined it. "Sekhmet is the Egyptian goddess of war and destruction. She has the head of a lion because she's known as a great warrior and ferocious fighter. She's also been known as the Lady of Flame and the Lady of Slaughter."