The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

"A crate? How big?"

He'd stopped, and although I had only an impression of where he was, I stared into the darkness. Why couldn't I see him? I had excellent night vision.

"Bigger'n me. 'Eavy, from the looks o' it," Pix called from the shadows. "Put it in th'back o' a wagon. One of 'em 'ad another thin' too-long and slender. Like a cane. Went off southwise."

"When? When did you see this? And what were you doing here?"

Silence. Drat. "Pix?"

There was no response from the darkness but a faint chuckle and the rustle of leaves.

In the distance, St. Paul's tolled four, and I gave in to the urge to rub his kiss from my skin.

I hoped he was watching from the bushes.

Chapter 4

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-"