Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

Mr. Eckhert stopped there on the sidewalk and nearly got himself run over by a knife-sharpener and his motorized cart. “Are you saying that electricity is illegal?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a widespread safety threat.”

“That’s crazy! Haven’t you people ever heard of Thomas Edison?”

“Yes, of course I’ve heard of Thomas Edison. Everyone’s heard of him. It’s because of him and his unsavory activities that the law was passed.”

Mr. Eckhert gaped at me. “What year did you say this was?”

“It’s 1889,” I said, finishing the last bite of my sweet, warm carrot. “Victoria is Queen. Lord Salisbury is the prime minister. Lord Cosgrove-Pitt is the leader of Parliament. Now, shall we walk? I don’t wish to dawdle any longer, and, Mr. Eckhert, the sooner you get to a washroom, the—er—less attention you’ll be drawing to yourself. Which I deduce was the reason you borrowed my father’s clothing—so that you could blend in with other Londoners. Incidentally, a gentleman never goes about without gloves.”

“Okay, I’m walking,” he said, looking at his hands as if to see whether gloves had magically appeared. “Tell me about this law. I don’t remember learning anything in school about a law making electricity illegal.”

At his cryptic words, a funny shiver went through my insides. Despite the fact that I’d been immersed in the problem of Miss Hodgeworth’s death and the Sekhmet mystery, questions about Mr. Eckhert and his origins had never been far from my mind. I’d analyzed the facts over and over and had only come to one conclusion.

An unbelievable conclusion.

But my uncle’s favorite maxim had been pounded into my head from a young age. When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I turned to answering his question. “Seven years ago, there was a time when it seemed as if the civilized world would adopt the use of electricity to power everything mechanical. But it became clear how dangerous it is when fifteen people were electrocuted by a wire in New Jersey during a rainstorm. Mr. Edison tried to cover up the incident, but Mr. Emmet Oligary, one of the foremost businessmen in London, made certain it was written about in the papers. The scandal was exposed, and it became obvious that widespread use of electricity was a real danger to society. Mr. Oligary led the charge to make certain all of England was aware of the insidious dangers of electrical power. His brother-in-law, Lord Moseley, consulted with Parliament to craft and pass the law in 1884.”

“Let me guess,” said Mr. Eckhert as we approached the wide flight of steps to the British Museum. “Mr. Oligary had a bunch of factories running on steam engines.” His expression was grim. “Probably manufacturing the parts to them, even.”

“Of course he did. The steam engine was just becoming popular at that time. And now we use that technology for everything. Good afternoon, sir,” I said to the guard at the door of the museum.

He looked with suspicion at the disheveled Mr. Eckhert, but when I glared at him with a level gaze of my own, the guard gestured us through. The heavy glass doors, framed in brass, clicked and whirred as they folded open. I led the way through the Banksian Room to Miss Adler’s office. It was nearly quarter past two.

“Good afternoon, Mina,” said Miss Adler when we were given entrance to her office. She was sitting at her desk, with a small mechanical device poised over an open book. It appeared to be a magnifyer of some sort and was clicking in a pleasant rhythm. “And . . .” She looked at my companion, then back at me and rose to her feet.

“Miss Adler, I have an abundance of information to share with you in regard to the events of last night, but first I’d like you to meet Mr. Dylan Eckhert. You might recognize him from our previous encounter, over Miss Hodgeworth’s body. I’ve learned he came to London in an unlikely fashion. I am going to help him find a way to return home.”

“Mr. Eckhert, I’m pleased to officially meet you.” It was to the gentlelady’s credit that she showed no reaction to his disheveled and aromatic appearance—which was such a contrast to her own neat, fashionable self.

“Hello, Miss Adler. Irene Adler. Wow,” he said, his voice hushed. “This is so weird.”

My heart was pounding, for I was about to take a great chance. I would either be correct, or I’d humiliate myself. But of course that was impossible. My conclusions were never wrong. They simply couldn’t be. “Mr. Eckhert, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell Miss Adler where you’re from. Specifically, from what year you’ve traveled.”

The others looked at me—Miss Adler with unrestrained shock and Mr. Eckhert with something like relief.

“So you’ve figured it out . . . and you believe me,” he said, looking at me with those blue eyes again. This time, they were filled with gratitude and enough warmth to make my insides go awhirl. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and then opened them. Exhaling a deep breath, he said, “I’m from the future. The year 2016.”

For a moment I was stunned. Not because my conclusion had been confirmed, but because he’d come from so far—more than a hundred years ahead. Countless questions popped into my head. Where did one begin?

“What’s it like?” I asked. “There, in 2016?”

“It’s very different . . . and not so different. For one thing, it’s not so . . . dim and dark all the time. And electricity isn’t illegal,” he added. “It’s never been illegal. It’s not a threat to society any more than—than steam. Or horse-drawn carriages.”

More and more questions poured into my mind like sand funneling down through an old-fashioned timekeeper, but I ruthlessly shoved them away. I could interrogate him later—and I fully intended to do so. But now was not the time.

Miss Adler had been staring at my companion. And now she said, “Truly—2016?”

“Yes, for real. And, like, could you just call me Dylan? Or Eckhert, as my friends do? I can’t deal with this Mr. Eckhert stuff.”

“Of course, Dylan,” Miss Adler said, seeming to recover herself. “If it will make you feel more comfortable.”

“Mr. Eckhert traveled here with the help of an illuminated scarab on a statue of Sekhmet. At just about the same time Miss Hodgeworth was being murdered. It cannot be coincidence that those two events happened concurrently.”

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“He was arrested trying to break into the museum last night, presumably to try and find the Sekhmet statue so he could determine how to return home. I was able to get him released on bail, and we’ve come directly from the jail.”

“I did hear about the attempted break-in. And what a traumatic experience you’ve had.” Miss Adler still wore an expression of shock, and I couldn’t blame her. After all, I’d had more than a day to come to the conclusion . . . and yet, I still couldn’t fathom the concept. Time travel? “Perhaps you’d like to—er—wash up a bit, Dylan?” she suggested. “I’m certain we could obtain some clean clothing for you as well.”

When our guest accepted the offer with alacrity, Miss Adler added, “Mina, perhaps you’d take a moment to read this passage while I show Dylan to a washroom.” She gestured to the open book on her desk. “I suspect you’ll find it enlightening.”

As they left, I settled myself in her position at the desk and took note of the large book. The pages were old and yellow, held together not by the stitched leather binding we find on current publications but by large, looping leather thongs. The text was cramped and faint, and simple sketches broke up the blocks of prose. The words were handwritten rather than typeset and in a variety of colors and styles. The mechanical device on which Miss Adler had mounted the tome not only provided light, it also magnified the text and held the book open to the proper page.