Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

Instead he said, “A seat in the park would be most welcome. I’ve been inside all day with this business.”

And that was how we came to be walking down the street together. He offered me his arm, which was proper and meant nothing but that he did have some habits of a gentleman. I took it, because there was always the chance that one might have to dodge a pile of something unpleasant while walking along the edge of the street, and being in heavy full skirts with hourglass-heeled shoes could make that difficult.

I didn’t want a repeat of my tripping incident at the ball.

He seemed willing to be candid with me, and as we approached the park, he said, “Word came to Scotland Yard at one o’clock today. Miss Corteville was found in her bedchamber at approximately noon, no longer breathing. She couldn’t be roused, and there was a bluish cast around her mouth and nose.”

“Poison or asphyxiation,” I said immediately, then cast a covert glance at him.

“It appears to be poison,” he said in a mild tone as we approached the park. “Evidence suggests that’s the case, but we haven’t finished the investigation.”

The park was hardly more than a mechanized bench beneath a large tree with a neat garden of flowers planted around it. I’d occasionally seen a child or two playing ball on the small plot of grass, but they’d been toddlers, with a short range and didn’t seem to need much space.

“What sort of evidence?” I asked, forcing myself to sound casual as I released his arm. I was still shocked at the unhappy news and cognizant that Grayling had decided I should be informed of it. Was he beginning to accept my involvement in the investigation?

Grayling gestured to the bench, which was currently motionless. But just as I moved to take a seat, he sprang into action, holding up a hand to stop me. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted off the surface, then stepped back as I settled myself and my bustle onto the bench. This was no easy feat on a seat with a back (there’s nowhere for the bustle to go, so one is generally required to lean forward). However, I tend to wear smaller, more practical bustles, and as today was no exception, I was able to sit with relative comfort.

“Next to her bed was a small vial, uncapped, and empty. I smelled the essence of bitter almond,” he continued as if there’d been no interruption in our conversation.

“Cyanide.”

Grayling nodded, then after a brief hesitation, took a seat next to me. There was a good space between us, I at one end, he at the other. But, still, it seemed odd to be sitting on a park bench, speaking casually with Inspector Grayling instead of competing with him.

“Yes, I suspect it was arsenic. There was enough residue left in the vial to test it, so we shall know in short order. There was a note and another item that will likely interest you.”

“An Egyptian scarab.”

The expression that flashed on his face was gone as quickly as it came, but it was testament to the fact that I had surprised him once again. “Aye, you are correct. There was a scarab with a Sedmet, er, Sethmet—”

“Sekhmet.”

“Right,” he said. “An image of Sekhmet was visible inside, once the object opened. The scarab was on the bed next to the vial and the note.”

“She wrote the note to make it appear as if she took her own life.”

“All indications are that she did take her own life,” Grayling said. But his voice wasn’t argumentative. It was filled with the same suspicion that echoed my own thoughts.

And what about the scarab? Did Lilly have another besides the one that had been found in her room, or had someone—the poisoner?—left another as a warning or as some sort of message? There had been a scarab found with Mayellen Hodgeworth’s body too.

All at once, one of those thoughts crystallized, and I actually started. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there, at Lilly Corteville’s house, today.

“What is it, Miss Holmes? You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”

“I . . .” I realized I couldn’t voice my suspicions. Not to him, and certainly not without more proof. But the fact that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there was somehow relevant. It had to be. There were no coincidences.

I was even more determined to go to Witcherell’s tonight and see the Ankh. And, if possible, to unmask it.

Her.

“I . . . erm . . . suspect the note said something about not wanting to hurt her mother?”

Grayling fixed his eyes on me. At the moment, they appeared more green than gray, and their steady regard made me feel jittery. “Is that what you suspect?” he said in a mildly derisive voice.

“What did it say?”

“It did say something of that nature, in fact,” he said, still watching me. From his inside pocket, he pulled out the journal and the self-inking pen with the bulbous reservoir on top. After flipping through the pages, he stopped at one, paused, and then read, “ ‘I’m sorry, Mother and Father. I love you. But I can no longer live with this burden. Lilly.’ ”

I blinked rapidly, feeling the sting of unfamiliar wetness at the inside corner of my eyes. What burden had been so heavy that she couldn’t bear it and had chosen death over life?

She made the choice to leave her parents. For whatever reason, she took the poison. She left.

My throat burned and my eyes stung, and I could feel the inside of my nose dampening. Why was I so upset? I hardly knew the girl. Yet, I must have felt something akin to rage—as well as grief—toward the poor wretch. For she’d made the choice to leave her parents. To leave them behind, to leave them wondering what they’d done to deserve being abandoned.

I knew what it felt like, being abandoned. Left behind with no warning, no chance to right whatever was wrong. It was I who’d been left by one of my parents.

In fact, for all intents and purposes, I’d been left by both of them.

Grayling thrust something into my hand, and I looked down to see his handkerchief wadded in my palm. I dabbed sharply at my eyes, mortified that I’d revealed this range of emotion.

“It’s been confirmed,” I asked, aware that my voice was rough and unsteady, “that the note is in her handwriting?”

“Aye,” said Grayling. And even in that simple syllable, I could hear the thickness of his Scots burr. He wasn’t as unmoved as he appeared.

I wiped my nose and then, instead of giving him back the soiled handkerchief, I stuffed it inside the hidden pocket of my skirt. Never allow any form of emotion to color your investigation, observation, or deduction. It was that excess of emotion, Uncle Sherlock claimed, that made the female gender unable to make rational decisions and deductions. Which I’d spent my entire seventeen years of life attempting to disprove. At least, in my case.

I forced myself to thrust away any influence of my emotions and review the facts. I knew there were others Grayling either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t provided, but I could draw three theories:

Lilly Corteville had written the note and taken the poison.

Or she’d been forced to write the note, and then the poison had been forced upon her.

Or she’d written the note under some other circumstances, and it had been used at the scene of her murder in order to imply suicide.

If it truly was a suicide, where had she obtained the poison?

After a long moment of silence, Grayling spoke. “I suspect Miss Corteville obtained the poison from whoever murdered Allison Martindale and Mayellen Hodgeworth.”

“I would suspect the same,” I agreed, wondering if I should mention the Society of Sekhmet. “In which case, this is likely murder. Or accessory to murder.”

“I would concur.”

I opened my mouth to tell him what Miss Stoker and I had learned about the Ankh . . . and then closed it. Through Miss Adler’s direction, Princess Alexandra had insisted on utter secrecy about our work. She must have her reasons, and I dared not compromise them without permission.