The Spiritglass Charade (30 page)

The blood spots on the underside of Dylan's shirtsleeve. The pasty, gray tinge of his skin. The circles under his eyes.

No. Surely that wasn't possible
.

Don't be ridiculous. How would Dylan find a vampire anyway?

I pushed the absurd thought from my mind. I could consider it and its implications later.

Miss Stoker was still glaring at me, but I lifted my nose and proceeded to inform her about the events from the night before—everything from the glowing spiritglass to the green amorphous cloud.

“How did Willa come to have the spiritglass anyway? Surely if we knew who gave it to her, we'd know who is behind all of this.”

“I have asked her, and she simply doesn't recall where it came from, nor does she remember anyone particularly drawing her attention to it. One day she noticed it sitting on the table in the front hallway. On her first visit to Willa's house, Mrs. Yingling was the one who told her that it was an spiritglass to be used for communing with the spirits. If we only knew who'd set Mrs. Yingling up to do so . . .”

“Miss Norton! She was the one who introduced Willa to Mrs. Yingling.”

“I'm pleased you recall that bit of information, Evaline. Yes, that's true. But it doesn't mean Miss Norton was the one who engaged the medium for the nefarious scheme. That could just as easily have come about after the introduction was made and the relationship between Willa and Mrs. Yingling was established. And so, for now, we must be on our way to visit Olympia Babbage. Surely she can shed some light on the spiritglass, for her grandfather's mark is on the bottom. If we can find out who commissioned it to light up via its timer-mechanism, I suspect we'll find our perpetrator.”

A short time later, we were trundling through London traffic in Miss Stoker's carriage. It really was very convenient to have a partner with a vehicle at her disposal. It nearly made up for her impetuousness.

“So you think Charles Babbage designed the spiritglass?” Miss Stoker seemed doubtful. “Hasn't he been dead for . . . a while?”

“Did you not observe such a marking on all of the notes and journal pages on display at the Oligary Building? Perhaps he left his—wait.” I went still, my brain whirring into action.
Oh
. “I've made a mistake. It's—”

“Wha—
huh
? You've made a mistake?
You?
Wait.” Evaline yanked open the window and stuck her head out, looked around, then drew herself back in. “The world isn't ending. Big Ben's Infinity Day Clock hasn't stopped.
You
can't have made a mistake. It's simply not . . . possible. It's a day just like any other day.”

I was not amused by her antics. “Fine.” I lifted my chin. “Then I suppose I shan't tell you what I just realized. And it's not a huge, great mistake. Just a minor one.”

“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.

“W
hy 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 soci
é
t
é
seemed like the sort of thing in which that villainous woman would be involved. And many members of
La soci
é
t
é
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.”

“No!” Uncaring of my rudeness, I pushed past him. “Where did they take her? Do you know? When?
Who
?”

“It was two men in a curtained carriage. They had the papers. Miss Geraldine, she cried and screamed and tried to fight them off, but there was nothing for it. He showed her the papers. Mr. Ashton, he wasn't here, and there was no one else. No one else to stop them.”

“Where is Miss Geraldine now?”

“She went after Mr. Ashton, or to find someone—a magistrate or someone to help. I don't know when she'll be back.”

Ill at my stomach and cold with fear, I was already running up the stairs to Willa's bedchamber. I didn't know why—perhaps it was to take one last chance to look for clues, to examine the spiritglass for anything that could betray the villain.

I had a suspicion, yes, I was fairly certain I at last knew who the perpetrator was . . . but I wanted to make certain. I grabbed the spiritglass and the sheaf of papers next to it, startling the cat from his perch on the chair. He hissed and thumped to the floor, his tail twitching in warning.

I ignored him, casting about the chamber. Nothing seemed to be out of place from earlier this morning. Then I smelled something pungent and unusual. I'd noticed it before, but now I sniffed again, lifting the papers to my nose for a better whiff.

Ah.

Crickets. Pickpockets. UnDead. Smithfield. A floating key
.

My eyes widened and all at once, everything fell into place.

I rushed from Willa's chamber, pounding down the stairs like an army just as the front door knocker clacked. Rightingham and I got there at the same time, opening the door to an earnest-looking Mr. Treadwell.

“Is . . . erm . . . Miss Ashton at home?” the handsome young man asked the butler.

Oh,
no
. The poor man!

I hesitated, wanting to assure him I'd do everything in my power to save Willa, but time was of the essence. Instead, I thrust the papers, which I'd wrapped around the spiritglass, at him and said, “Whatever you do, keep these safe. I will send you further instructions. Do it
for Willa
.”

Bewildered, he nevertheless took the objects and stuffed them in his coat pocket. Meanwhile, the butler struggled to control his grief whilst explaining that Miss Willa Ashton was not at home, and would not be for the foreseeable future.

To my great annoyance, the cab I'd engaged to bring me here had left, against my specific direction. Thus I was forced to walk out to the street and three blocks down in an effort to find another one.
Drat and blast!
Where was a taxi when you needed one? I needed my own dratted carriage.

Chafing at the delay, my stomach still upset and in knots—for I knew the clock was ticking—I hurried all the way back to the Ashtons', hoping Mr. Treadwell might still be there. I could beg a ride from him.

To my relief, a Two-Seat Charley was parked out front, presumably brought around for Mr. Treadwell now that he learned Willa wasn't there.

Puffing from my rapid walk, I approached the front steps just as the door flew open. Instead of Mr. Treadwell, however, I found myself confronted by Aunt Geraldine.