Colleen Gleason: The Clockwork Scarab

“I didn’t—I was trying to help,” said the man caught in shadow. “I think she’s dead.” I couldn’t place his accent.

“Evaline,” Miss Adler said without taking her eyes from him. “On the wall next to the fist of Ptah. Find the lever. We need light.” As she spoke, she moved away from the body on the ground, all the while keeping the gun trained on the man, edging him away from the center of the chamber.

Moments later, a glow illuminated the space. The looming seven-ton statue of Ramesses II and massive pieces of frescoes and hieroglyphs were no longer casting long, dark shadows that hampered my observations. The gaslights now shone on the intruder. He was hardly any older than I and wore a style of clothing I’d never seen before.

“Is she dead?” asked Miss Adler, glancing at Miss Stoker, who had refrained from approaching the body. The question was clearly meant to spur my counterpart into action.

“Er . . .” Miss Stoker began. She moved forward with reluctant, robotic movements. She looked ill.

Impatient, I went to the unmoving figure and crouched next to the rumpled mass of skirts and limbs. I’d never come across a body, or a fresh crime scene like this before. I had certainly seen corpses, even studied them under my uncle’s tutelage. But not like this. Not so . . . raw.

I forced myself to actually look at her, then to touch the pulse point on the girl’s throat. Even before I did that, I knew she was dead. But her chill skin and lack of pulse confirmed it. “There’s no hope for her.”

“I’ll ring for the authorities. They must be notified. Evaline, if you please.” Miss Adler gestured for my companion to take her place with the pistol.

I returned my attention to the victim. The poor thing could have been no older than seventeen or eighteen, a peer of my very own age. The fact that a short time earlier we had been talking about the disappearances and death of other young women was not lost on me. Could Miss Adler have anticipated such an event might happen here, tonight? Had she meant for us to prevent it?

I drew in a deep breath, smelled the sharp iron of blood and other bodily excretions, and pushed away my uncertainties. Only minutes ago, I had pledged my loyalty and self to the Crown. The moment of truth had come sooner than we could have realized.

Who was she? How had she come here? Why would someone do this to her and how? I forced myself to observe. Coldly. Objectively.

She lay on her side, curled up, eyes open—fallen or dumped here.

Her hair still pinned in place—she hadn’t struggled.

Not enough blood on the floor—she hadn’t been killed here.

Which meant . . . I looked at the intruder, who, still under the control of Miss Stoker, had nevertheless edged closer to the sarcophagus at the side of the gallery.

No bloodstains on his odd clothing—he had not moved the body. He wasn’t the murderer.

Grateful for an excuse to edge away from the girl, I approached the young man. “Did you touch her or change her position?”

“No, I didn’t move her.” His accent sounded American, but not like any other American accent I’d ever heard. “I was checking to see if she was alive when you showed up. I just touched her . . . for a pulse.” His voice was tense, and his eyes darted from me to Miss Stoker and back again.

I believe even the most objective of persons would agree he was a handsome man, with his golden-tan complexion and startling blue eyes. His jaw was square, and his chin firm. He looked as if he were not even twenty, and as he stood there, his hands raised in surrender, I admired his mussed, too-long dark blond hair plastered around the ears and neck.

He wore a red shirt with no opening down the front. Its material made it cling to his chest as if it were wet, even though it wasn’t. Strangely, there were large letters painted or sewn on the front of it. I could see enough to make out AEROPOSTA—a French word, which added to my suspicions that he was a foreigner. If there were more letters, they were hidden by an unbuttoned plaid shirt. I’d never seen a man wear a shirt like that, open and unbuttoned. I found it scandalous.

Over the unbuttoned shirt, the intruder wore a jacket of black leather that was much shorter than any other coat I’d seen, ending just at his waist instead of halfway to the knees. The hem of the plaid shirt hung below it. His trousers were just as unfamiliar—made of dark blue denim, like the Levi Strauss pants worn by American laborers. They were frayed a little at the hems and worn in the knees.

And his shoes! I wanted to crouch and examine them, for I couldn’t identify the material from which they were made. They laced up the front like a woman’s shoe, but without the tiny little buttons that took forever to hook. (My mechanized Shoe-Fastener had broken three weeks ago.) Gray with age, yet decorated with an odd swoop-like design on the sides, they looked as if they were made of rubber.

Despite being worn, his footwear was not blood- or mud-splattered, which was curious because it had been raining today—as was usual for London. It would have been impossible to avoid the muck outside, even on the upper streetwalk levels.

He’d not been outside today.

Curious.

Had he been hiding in the museum since before it had begun to rain at dawn? My eyes narrowed in thought and I exchanged glances with Miss Stoker. I didn’t expect her to have followed my train of thought—after all, one must be a trained observer, my uncle always said—but nevertheless, I saw intelligent question in her gaze.

“You claim you didn’t move her, that you were trying to help her. But what are you doing here in the museum, in the middle of the night?” I asked.

“I’m—uh—I’m part of the custodial staff,” he said. “We were going to wax the floors.” His smile was forced, yet I couldn’t help but appreciate the attempt at an explanation, regardless of how implausible it was.

“That’s absurd,” said Miss Stoker. The gun wavered in her hand.

“What? The waxing? Hey, it needs to be done—” He must have noticed my severe expression, for he changed his tack. “Look, I swear I didn’t touch her. I just found her lying here. I know I shouldn’t be here at night, but it wasn’t exactly my fault. Circumstances beyond my control. Really freaking odd circumstances.”

“You can explain all of these—erm—odd circumstances to the authorities when they arrive,” I said. “But you needn’t worry about being arrested for murder. I can attest to the fact that you’re innocent of that, at least.”

“Well, thank goodness you figured that out,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity.

With a little sniff, I returned to the victim, leaving Miss Stoker to deal with the intruder. It was imperative that I finish my examination before the authorities arrived and disturbed everything.

Face, jaw, and fingers beginning to stiffen—rigor mortis in early stages; dead at least three hours, possibly four or five.

Steeling myself for my first good look at her, I turned the girl onto her back. I couldn’t hold back a little shudder. Her sightless eyes stared up into the high ceiling of the gallery. With a catch of breath, I closed them with two fingers, hoping she’d found peace without too much pain first.

Blood stained the front of her shirtwaist and her left sleeve, but only a bit on her right. Slender burn-like marks around her arms, as if a thin cord or wire had been wrapped around them. And a terrible slash along her left wrist. I sniffed her hair. Opium. Faint but unmistakable.

Too little blood on the left sleeve—no splashes of blood on the arm that made the cut? Impossible to be self-inflicted.

“Miss Stoker. Do you recognize this young woman?”