The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

Unfortunately, I found myself distracted by the events of the prior evening; in particular, the brazen actions of my partner. Miss Stoker's impulsiveness had endangered not only our persons, but our mission. I had no inclination to continue to partner with such a capricious person. And much as I wanted to speak with Miss Adler about the situation, the lady wouldn't arrive at her offices at the museum until two o'clock. Thus I had to wait until then to travel across town and apprise her of the events of last night.

I was about to set flame to a dish of geranium-scented Danish facial powder when I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I extinguished the flame and set the finger-size steam-thrower aside. "Come in," I called, raising my protective goggles.

Mrs. Raskill had learned early on not to heedlessly follow these instructions, but to enter the laboratory with care. Her hesitation stemmed from an incident several years ago when she'd walked in during an experiment with bees. I was properly protected, but she, alas, was not. The multitude of stings she acquired was one of the reasons she wasn't a particularly attentive chaperone. I could be in the laboratory for days, and she wouldn't notice, for she only bothered me if necessary.

"A parcel has arrived for you," she said, poking her head around the door as her eyes scanned the chamber for reasons to retreat.

A package? I was immediately suspicious and on guard. I had been expecting some sort of reaction or response from the Ankh-an abduction attempt or even a threatening letter. Possibly a package. After all, both my father and uncle regularly received such articles, and my uncle had been in perilous situations more than once.

"How did it come to be delivered?" I asked, eyeing it in speculation.

"It's from the Met," Mrs. Raskill told me.

My concerns dissipated in a rush of disappointment. It would have been interesting to determine how to open a package without setting off the bomb that might be inside. However, as the Met was a reference to the Metropolitan Police, my concerns were alleviated. There was no reason the police would send me a bomb. But nor could I fathom a reason they would send me a package of any type.

Apparently deciding it was safe to breach my inner sanctum, Mrs. Raskill entered. As always, her gray-streaked black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the back of her head. Not one tendril dared escape, even during her most active days. I often wondered whether she used some sort of shellac to keep it in place.

Although our housekeeper barely reached my chin, she managed to convey a sense of disapproval as she handed me a package about the size of a small book. I wasn't certain if today's disapproval was due to the disarray of my lab or the implication that I was involved with the police.

I took the parcel, examining it closely.

Atop: my name written neatly, but with many splotches and streaks of ink-a bad pen, or someone in great haste. Left-handed.

No other markings, and the wrappings were yesterday's newspaper; little clue as to the sender. I began to pull the paper off and the object slipped out and clattered to the table.

"What in land's end is that?" Mrs. Raskill exclaimed, moving closer to gawk at the sleek metal object.

"It's nothing of import," I said. But my fingers tingled as I picked up the device that had lately been in the possession of Mr. Dylan Eckhert. Why would he send this back to me after stealing it from my bedchamber?

Or had someone else sent it?

"I ain't seen nothing like that before," Mrs. Raskill said. Her tiny, rabbit-like nose was fairly wriggling with curiosity. "Is it a fancy mirror? What does it do?"

"It could be an explosive," I suggested, hefting it in my palm and attempting to appear concerned.

She edged away. "I'd best get back to the kitchen. The bloomin' Gussy-Maker's not workin' right again. I'll be havin' Ben comin' by to take a look at it later. Maybe you'll invite him to dinner."

Ben was Mrs. Raskill's cloud-headed nephew, and although he was quite competent when it came to fixing mechanical devices, he was not at all the sort of company I preferred for dinner. I didn't actually prefer any company for dinner-or any other meal, for that required me to relinquish whatever book I was reading or experiment I was conducting in favor of inane conversation on topics such as whether it had been foggy, drizzling, or foggy and drizzling today.

"Thank you, Mrs. Raskill," I said, still staring down at the device. Mr. Eckhert had said it was a type of telephone, but once again, I couldn't see how.

As the housekeeper took herself off, I picked up the newspaper wrapping to see if anything else was enclosed. Inside, I found a further message. It was short and simple: Please come. I'm in jail.

I considered whether I wanted to have further involvement with the young man who sneaked out of my house without so much as leaving a note in gratitude for my hospitality, and who sneaked into my bedchamber and stole this device from me.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I also appreciated the distraction from my aggravation toward Miss Stoker.

I made certain I wasn't followed during my journey across town, and no more than thirty minutes later, I was alighting from a street-lift at the lowest level of Northumberland-avenue. The police commissioner and his men entered the offices at Lower Whitehall No. 4, but the public came in through the rear entrance off Great Scotland Yard, which was how the police headquarters got its familiar name.

For all my uncle's complaints about the Met and the incompetency of its Criminal Investigation Division, the individuals I met inside were quite efficient in assisting me to find Mr. Eckhert. I'm certain my surname was an incentive.

Moments after my initial inquiry, I was escorted down a curving, dark staircase to a subterranean cell-lined hall. We passed several chambers, dark and dingy, scented with sweat, blood, and other unpleasant aromas, until at last we reached Mr. Eckhert's cell.

"Mina!" he said when he saw me. He clambered to his feet from where he'd been slumped on the floor in a shadowy, dismal space. Rushing over, he grabbed the bars with both hands. "Thank God you came!"

I concealed my surprise at his informal use of my given name as well as his language. Instead, I turned to the constable. "Thank you," I said, dismissing him. "I shall see myself out."

"What are you doing in here?" I said, turning back to Mr. Eckhert. "Did you come upon another murder scene?" I noted he'd stolen clothes from my father's closet.

The trousers were the correct length, and the shoes seemed to fit. But the coat and shirtwaist were too rumpled and loose, for, despite being slender elsewhere, my father has a healthy paunch. The prisoner had either lost his gloves and neckcloth or hadn't seen fit to obtain either from my father's wardrobe.