The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

He dove into the water, a yapping puppy with long ears on his heels. I recognized Inspector Grayling by his height and curling gingery hair. Good. He could be the one to pull Mina out of the water.

That way he’d get her lecture, telling him everything he’d done wrong.

I watched as the thief paddled toward the opposite shore, where I waited in the shadows. When he slogged onto the grass some distance from the bridge, I was waiting for him.

He didn’t have a chance. In a trice, I relieved him of the knife he still gripped, as well as the three drawstring purses and two wallets tucked into his pockets. Then I tossed him back into the river.

Valuables recovered. Thief submerged. And I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Mina and Grayling had been joined by others on the opposite shore and I hurried across the bridge. Skirting the back of the crowd, I placed the stolen items where they’d be found. I didn’t want to rejoin our group, but I needed to make certain Mina wasn’t injured. Since she was lecturing Grayling, I decided it was safe for me to leave.

I turned to go and glimpsed a familiar figure in the crowd. Miss Adler?

Craning my neck, standing as tall as I could, I peered through the throng. But the person I’d noticed was gone, or else I’d been mistaken. If it had been our mentor, wouldn’t she have been assisting Mina?

Then I slid into the shadows to search for Pix and, hopefully, vampires. But by the time dawn broke, I’d found neither Pix nor an UnDead. I had, however, become very familiar with New Vauxhall Gardens. Frustrated, I returned home—for once entering through the front door.

Florence called sleepily from her room near the top of the stairs. “Evaline?”

“Yes, it’s me. I’m exhausted, but it was very fun. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

My sister-in-law had been thrilled about my social engagement with several young people tonight, so she had no complaints about the lateness of my return. As far as she knew, I’d been chaperoned with a large number of friends.

Then I heard her rustling in bed, and the soft, deep murmur of my brother. An unexpected wave of comfort washed over me, taking me by surprise. This was home. Where I lived with two people who loved me and who loved each other. They couldn’t understand my life, but they still loved me.

Which was more than I could say for Mina Holmes.

The unusually strong, comfortable feeling of being loved and cherished remained with me as I climbed the stairs to my room. But as I drifted off to sleep, a different thought lodged in my mind: the memory of the dark, angry eyes of an irritated violinist.

When I woke the next morning, it was well before noon—somewhat unusual for me. But I had plans today, for I was going to Smithfield and Pristin Canal to poke around a bit and check out Herrell Ashton’s story about his boxing club.

Mina Holmes wasn’t the only one who could investigate.

I didn’t send word to my so-called partner about my conversation with Cousin Herrell and Dr. Norton. Surely Mina was recovering from her dunking in the river. She’d probably stay in bed all day. And if I found out anything more about Robby Ashton’s disappearance in Smithfield, I could tell her everything at once.

Pristin Canal was just as Mr. Ashton described it: deep, with its railings in disrepair, and smooth, sheer sides that wouldn’t allow anyone to climb out once in the water. It was sludgy and smelled of rotting fish and gad knew what else. If you fell—or were pushed—you’d best be an excellent swimmer who didn’t have a weak stomach.

I grimaced. I wasn’t certain whether to hope Robby had drowned and was now at peace, or whether he had been somewhere else unpleasant or dangerous for the last month.

In Smithfield, where the meat markets and cattle trading took place, the second street-level buildings hung so far over the roads it was like walking through a tunnel. Little sunlight made it to the ground, and even someone as ungainly as Mina Holmes could jump from one side of the second level street-walk to the other.

Not far from the canal, a small, weatherbeaten sign on the brick wall of a narrow mews caught my attention. nickel’s fighting-club.

Could this be the boxing house Mr. Ashton frequented?

Intrigued, I turned down the passage. Just as I came to the small, black door that said nickel’s, I glanced toward the other end of the alley. A pub faced me and even from where I was, I could read the sign.

the pickled nurse.

That was the place Pix said two drunks had seen a vampire. Robby Ashton had disappeared in this vicinity. And during Willa’s séances, I’d received messages about the UnDead.

There are no coincidences. Mina Holmes’s strident voice rose in my mind.

Intrigued, I pushed open the door to Nickel’s. Of course I didn’t have a plan. I was going to wander in and see what happened. Did I think someone was going to come right out and tell me what I wanted to know? Of course not. But I’d done a good job getting information from Mr. Ashton last night.

Like most proper women, I’d never been in a fighting-club and I wasn’t certain what to expect. The establishment smelled of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke. The place was a large room with low ceilings, two measly windows, and a planked floor covered with dirt. An older model of Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor leaned against one wall, tarnished and with one arm dangling. I had one of the newer devices at home. Florence thought it was to help me learn the waltz, but I used it for training to fight vampires.

My entrance didn’t seem to draw any notice. Other than one sleek, muscular man in the corner, pummeling a bag hanging from the ceiling, the other half-dozen occupants were arranged around a boxing ring, watching a sparring match. The sound of fists thudding against flesh, laced with grunts and groans, was raw and primitive.

I edged closer, my attention drawn to the two fighters. Both had fabric wrapped around their hands and wore only trousers. Even their feet were bare. I found the sight of a man’s unclothed torso both fascinating and unsettling.

At the Ankh’s opium den, I’d seen bare arms and shoulders and a hint of chest—but this was even more risqué. The boxers were riddled with bruises, cuts, and blood mingling with sweat. Men, I discovered, had muscles that rippled—even in their backs. And the sight of broad, uncovered shoulders, gleaming with perspiration, made my face unusually warm.

Blood and spittle flew as the duo circled and sparred, thrusting with strong jabs and ramming shoulders, hips, and even heads into their opponents. I could probably learn something from them—