The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

“Oh, well, then. You can tell me if it’s only a minor one. I shan’t think quite so poorly of you since it’s only a minor mistake.”

I pursed my lips and considered being obstinate and keeping my realization to myself. But that sort of circumspection is simply not in my nature. I have the compelling need to prove myself and educate others on the errors of their ways. So I succumbed.

“I thought the mark was the initials C and B. But it’s a very detailed design, with many serifs and descenders and even some decorative colophons around it, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Blooming fish, Mina, get to the point. If it wasn’t a C and B, what was it?”

“An O and a B.”

“O and a B . . . ah! Olympia Babbage?”

I smiled benignly. “Miss Stoker, there is indeed hope for you.”

Just then, we rolled up in front of the Babbage residence. Instead of a grand estate, it was a single-family house about the size of mine. However, the lot on which it sat was large enough that it could have contained two other buildings of comparable size. A barn sat near the back of the property.

Miss Stoker strode boldly toward the wrought iron railing that enclosed the yard. The gate swung open, its mechanism purring softly. The opening clicked closed behind us, and no sooner were we climbing the steps than we heard a distant chime inside the house.

No one answered our knock, but I already knew what to do next. “The barn. It would be a perfect workroom. I wager we’ll find Miss Babbage inside.”

We picked our way across the grass, which was clipped short but damp from the ever-present fog and drizzle. The building had several windows as well as random pipes that stuck out from the roof like fingers. As we approached I heard sounds coming from inside. Machinery—rumbling and growling, vibrating and rattling.

I peered through one of the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Babbage.

While I didn’t see her, it was clear the stable had been turned into a vast, cluttered workspace—even more vast and more cluttered than my laboratory. There were many lights strung up throughout the area and I was shocked to note that most of them were the clear electric bulbs that had been illegal for the past five years.

Half-built contraptions littered every surface—pieces of machinery and complicated inventions. Springs, coils, cogs, bolts, sheets of copper, aluminum, steel, wires, ropes, twine . . . and tools: metal snips, wrenches, pin-tuckers, and an ominous-looking metal pipe with a blue-orange flame dancing at one end. It sat in a metal holder attached to a large metal pole.

And there was no sign of Miss Babbage.

“Mina.”

Miss Stoker’s tense voice had me hurrying from the window. “What—”

I didn’t need to finish the question. The door was splintered as if someone had broken through it—into the barn, rather than out of it.

“I can sense them,” Evaline said. “Even now. I don’t know how recently.”

“Sense what?”

“Vampires. UnDead. They were here. And I’d guess they got what they came for.”

Olympia Babbage.

Miss Holmes

Miss Holmes Takes a Drive

“Why would the UnDead want to take Olympia Babbage?” Miss Stoker said as we rode off in her carriage. “I have no blooming idea. But I’m certain they were there in her workroom. I might be new at this, but I have instincts. They leave a light, deathlike odor behind. The UnDead were there for certain, and recently. Likely just before dawn.”

“Right.” I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and knit and think. There were so many pieces to this puzzle, I needed one of those wallboards like Grayling had to keep them all straight.

And now there was a connection between the Willa Ashton case and the UnDead: Olympia Babbage.

Coincidence? My uncle claimed that was impossible, but for once, I wasn’t certain. What could the UnDead have to do with someone trying to murder a young woman?

“What is it?” Miss Stoker demanded, for I’d sat upright.

A shiver went down my spine and prickles needled the bottoms of my feet. No. That’s absurd. The Ankh . . . is out of the picture.

But the Ankh wasn’t dead. I was sure of it. And that was why I’d collected and kept all my notes about her.

The vampire Gadreau had a mortal woman who served him. Not that I could imagine the Ankh serving anyone . . . but La société seemed like the sort of thing in which that villainous woman would be involved. And many members of La société hoped to gain immortality through their connection to the UnDead. Immortality was certainly something to which the Ankh, who tried to harness the powers of a goddess, would aspire.

Then I deflated. No. It didn’t seem quite right. The Ankh was a leader, not a servant. Still . . . I would review my casebook on the Ankh.

I refused to discuss my theories with Evaline, and she pouted the rest of the way back to the Museum. I was glad to quit her presence, for she was grating on my nerves. However aggravating she might be, I was nevertheless disappointed that Evaline was unable to assist me for the remainder of the day.

“I have to attend that dratted Opening Night Ball at the Lyceum tonight or Florence will draw and quarter me. And she’s got the seamstress coming for last-minute adjustments to my gown, and a special woman doing our hair . . . I’m already late. I was supposed to be home by two!”

Her miserable expression was the only reason I forgave her for shirking her duty. “Very well then. I’ll be with Miss Ashton today and tonight, but you shall have to relieve me first thing tomorrow. It’s imperative she’s not left alone any longer, but I have investigations to conduct. I am on my way there as soon as I speak with Miss Adler—if she’s arrived yet.” I alighted from the carriage and started up the steps to the Museum.

But according to the guard, Miss Adler hadn’t been in her office for two days. A zap of uncertainty wriggled up my spine, but I had to put worry over my mentor aside for now.

Willa Ashton’s life was in grave danger and that must be my focus.

Less than an hour later, I arrived once more at the Ashton residence.

I was immediately struck by a sense of disquiet, and it was with great foreboding that I employed the knocker at the front door.

The butler, Rightingham, answered, and I knew immediately something was wrong. His eyes were rimmed red and the tip of his nose pink.

“Miss Ashton!” I said it in more of a demand than a request, but I already knew the answer.

“She’s gone. They come and took her away.”