The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

"Lilly," I said again, looking at her cut, bruised face. The poor thing. What had she lived through? "You're away from that horrible man. Whatever happened, you're safe." I found one of her hands and closed my fingers around it. Her digits were cold and stiff.

Her lips moved, and I couldn't tell what words they formed, but I understood. "Water, and something to eat," I ordered over my shoulder. "Hurry. And . . . something warm. She's like to freeze to death."

I'd hardly spoken the words when a soft blanket was thrust into my hands. I tucked it around the poor girl, but not before I noticed her torn, filthy clothing. It had once been fine and expensive, but now it told the tale of her experience: blood and dirt stained, lacking ruffles, lace, and other embellishments that could be stolen and sold.

She'd been missing for weeks. She'd obviously been wearing the same clothing all that time. Had she removed the lace and ruffles to raise money, or had they been stolen right off her by Bad Louie or someone else? I burned to ask questions, of her and of Pix, but I knew the time wasn't right. The girl was in shock, and she needed to rest.

And as for Pix . . . He'd saved her from a terrible situation. And in spite of everything I knew or suspected about his criminal habits, I had to thank him for that.

After dabbing her face clean with warm water and a bit of soft soap I hadn't thought to ask for, I helped Lilly Corteville drink some thin broth. Her gaze skittered about, and she didn't release my hand until her eyes closed. At last she slipped into a restless slumber.

Extricating myself, I stood and found Pix watching me. The other two of our companions were sitting across the room, playing dice at a table. My host sat in a chair, lounging in his deceptively relaxed manner. But I sensed tension and an air of something I couldn't define emanating from him.

"You'll take good care o' 'er, now, won't ye, luv?"

"Right after I find Bad Louie," I replied. Now that I had seen Lilly and her condition, I understood just how bad that man had been.

"No need f'that," he replied. "Bad Louie won' be stealin' no more pretty girls."

"You killed him?" I had a moment of shock competing with disappointment. I'd wanted to have a hand in the man's punishment.

"Oh, 'e ain't dead. 'E jus' wishes 'e were." There was no humor in his words.

"Thank you for helping her . . . and me. But now I must get her home."

"Aye, I've made the arrangements. Now, will ye sit and take a sip o' tea wi' me?"

I took the cup he offered and settled in a chair between Lilly and Pix. The tea was fragrant and sweetened, without milk. Just the way I liked it. How did he know?

And how, I wondered not for the first time, had he known my name? My vocation?

"Better'n th'ale?" he asked, watching as I sipped.

"I think I could get used to the ale."

His lips curved. "Aye, I'd expect nawt less from ye. An' now I've a question for ye, luv," he said as, all of a sudden, I realized how exhausted I was. My eyelids grew heavy, and weariness rushed through my limbs. It had been busy night.

"What's that?" I replied, taking another drink of the soothing brew.

"Why did ye let me win?"

I smiled at the hint of aggravation in his voice.

"Because I could."

I set the teacup down, and despite the fogginess that had begun to swim over me, I added, "And so now you owe me one."

He chuckled in that low, rumbly way of his. "And so it is. Now, close yer eyes. I'll see ye and yer friend 'ome safely."

Blast him! "You drugged my tea!" I struggled to sit upright. But my muscles were loose and my brain was foggy.

"Now, luv, a bit o' laudanum ne'er 'urt anyone-so long's it's jus' a bit. An' I can't 'ave ye leavin' 'ere, and rememberin' where my crib is, can I? I'm not one for unexpected guests."

His dark gaze, focused on me from beneath the ever-present cap, was the last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me.

Chapter 9

Miss Holmes

An Unsettling Interrogation

The next morning, I received a cryptic message from Miss Stoker. Written on paper from Fergus & Fenrick's, it said

Lilly Corteville home and in ill health. Discovered in Whitechapel. Come as soon as able.

Aside from the fact that she didn't seem capable of using proper subject/predicate grammar, Miss Stoker's girlish penmanship was bothersome with its distracting flourishes. As it was hardly dawn when I received the note, I felt a detour home to freshen up was a good use of time and would keep me from arriving on the Cortevilles' doorstep at an unreasonable hour.

I had attempted to convince Dylan to accompany me, but he elected to remain in the small dark chamber with his so-called telephone.

"I'm going to have to figure out a way to recharge it soon," he said, looking at me with haunted blue eyes in the glow of the device. "I only turn it on when I'm in this room. But it's still getting low."

"Very well," I said, unsure of his precise meaning, but unable to take the time to further investigate.

I was worried about the young man. On the one hand, I understood his need to return home, to remain in the spot where he'd been shunted through time, in hopes that a miracle would happen and he'd get shunted back. But on the other hand, I suspected that keeping himself cloistered was only causing him more anguish. Before I left him in his dank dungeon-like chamber, I shared this opinion in rather passionate tones. He didn't seem to care; instead, he continued to stare down at his illuminated device.

I had no choice but to leave him there. Having been locked away in the British Museum on a self-imposed exile for five days, I found the change of scenery refreshing. The sun had chosen to show herself today, and I felt the welcome warmth of her rays seeping through my clothing. For a wild moment, I thought of removing my gloves or tipping back the brim of my hat, just to feel the sun on my skin. I'd already allowed my parasol to rest on a shoulder instead of fulfilling its purpose of providing shade.

Now, as I waited on the porch of the Corteville residence-an imposing, grand mansion in the elite area of St. James, not more than two blocks from Cosgrove Terrace and Miss Stoker's own Grantworth House-I became even more determined to help Dylan. Not just to return to his time, but to help him accept his current situation until we could get him home.

The door lurched open and instead of the butler I was expecting, I found myself face-to-face with Inspector Luckworth.

Drat.

"Miss Holmes," he said in an unwelcoming voice. "Why should I not be surprised to see you here." It was clearly not a question.