Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

There are a limited number of excuses for a young, intelligent woman of seventeen to be traversing the fog-shrouded streets of London at midnight. A matter of protecting ones life or preventing anothers death are two obvious ones.

But as far as I knew, I was neither in danger for my life, nor was I about to forestall the death of another.

Being a Holmes, I had my theories and suspicions as to who had summoned me and why.

The handwritten message had told me that its author was not only female, but a person of high intellect, excellent taste, and measurable wealth. Its content had been straightforward:

Your assistance is requested in a most pressing matter. If you are willing to follow in the footsteps of your family, please present yourself at the British Museum tonight at midnight. Further direction will be provided at that time.

As I looked at the letter, I saw so much more than those simple yet mysterious words.

Lack of name and address, no seal or watermarkthe anonymous sender hand delivered the message.

Heavy crme paper, neat feminine handwriting lacking embellishment and free of ink blots and errorsan intelligent, pragmatic woman of considerable wealth.

Faint perfume scentexpensive but in excellent taste; from the incomparable Mrs. Sofrits on Upper Bond.

Traces of rice powder and a smudge of silver glittersender is involved with the theater, likely La Thtre du Monde in Paris.

Big Ben tolled as I walked along the middle level of New Oxford-street, the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp cutting into the ever-present fog. I heard a soft scuttling sound followed by a low, dull clank and slowed to listen, my hand covering the weapon at my waist as I peered into the dim light.

I had borrowed from Uncle Sherlock the Steam-Stream gun that hung in my unfeminine belt over loose gabardine trousers. One pull of the trigger would release a puff of searing air, a concentration of burning steam. Enough to incapacitate a grown man or slice through his skin, my uncle had assured me. The beauty of this steam-powered gadget was that it never needed to be reloaded.

Not only was I armed, but I was suitably attiredfor bustles, crinolines, and tight sleeves are cumbersome and impractical for a pedestrian on shadowy streetwalks. Between the weight of the layers of my normal ensemble and its incessant rustling (not to mention the length of the dratted skirts), I would have been a walking target for anyone, from whore-mongers looking to find a new girl, to the footpads who lurked in the shadowsor to any threats that existed for a tall, gawky, yet intelligent young woman whod been cursed with the beak-like Holmes nose.

I felt confident I was prepared for whatever dangers I might encounter.

One of the self-propelled Night-Illuminators trundled below on its four wheels. I looked down from the raised walkway on which I stood and watched its welcome glow putter through the shadowy night. The cool air stirred, bringing with it the familiar scents of dampness, dry ether, burning coal, and sewage. Below, at the ground level, I heard other common sounds of night: the clip-clop of hooves, the rattle of various wheeled conveyances, shouts and laughter and, threaded through it all, the constant hiss of steam.

Steam: the lifeblood of London.

I paid two pence to take a street-lift to the middle level of the block, where it was ostensibly safer to walk alone. But at midnight in London, I wasnt certain that any street level was safe.

The entire day had been rainy and dark clouded. Trapped inside, I read three books from cover to cover (including the amusing, fanciful, American novel A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthurs Court), worked on two different projects in the lab, and managed to annoy Mrs. Raskill enough that she refused to cook me dinner before she retired for the evening. I hadnt meant to knock over the flask of silver polish, but my elbows and arms always seem to get in the way.

I didnt clean it up well enough for her (I confess, I found conducting my lab work a better use of time than getting on my knees and scrubbing), so instead of cooking, she mopped, then emptied the bucket of dirty water from Tufferences Super-Strength-Mop-Wringer. All the while, she complained. Why couldnt Mr. Tufference invent a way to make the device empty the mop water afterward as well? To punctuate her foul mood, Mrs. Raskill turned off the mechanized levers on the stove and fairly slammed a plate of cold meat and cheese onto the counter for my dinner.

It was a shame, for what she lacked in competence in the way of chaperonage, Mrs. Raskill more than made up for in the kitchen. I counted both as benefits. Her skill with the culinary arts was the reason those layers of crinolines over the torture chamber of my corset had become a tad more difficult to fasten around my waist as of late. Before Mother left, our meals hadnt been quite as fancy and overloaded with gravies, sauces, and butter because shed been the one planning the menus.

I thrust away the pang of grief and emptiness. Mother had been gone for more than a year, and other than a few brief letters from Paris, Id heard nothing from her. Id taken to wandering into her empty bedchamber just to remind myself that she had, indeed, existed.

The Night-Illuminator had rumbled off as I walked over an arching fly-bridge to cross the air-canal half a block from Russell-street. Just a few steps away were the hallowed halls of the British Museum, one of the few buildings left in London that had grounds. Real grass and even trees surrounded it.

Above me, the buildings rose so tall they seemed to meet, blocking the sky. Great dark sky-anchors soared above the cornices of the tallest structures. They floated like eerie gray clouds chained to the roofs, keeping the uppermost parts of the buildings stable.

To the south were the spires of Westminster, barely visible in the drassy moonlight. Or perhaps I just inherently knew their location, as I did the steeple of St. Pauls Cathedral, Big Bens glowing face, and the more recent landmark of the turrets at Oligarys. Uncle Sherlock boasted he knew every level of every block of every street, alley, and mews in all of Londonand so did I.

At last I approached the stately columns of the museum, and for the first time since leaving my house, I paused. My palms were damp beneath my lacy, fingerless gloves. Was I to boldly climb the steps to the front entrance and present myself? Would the doors be open? Or

Pssst.

I turned to see a cloaked figure, one of the female race, beckoning to me from a clump of bushes along the west wing of the museum. After a moment of hesitation, I edged toward her, fingers curling over the hilt of my Steam-Stream gun. As I approached, I noticed a patch of yellow glowing from beneath the wall of the museum. A door.

I expect youve been summoned just as I have, said the figure. She peered at me from beneath a heavy hood, holding what appeared to be a wooden dagger. A remarkably incompetent weapon in comparison to my own more lethal one.

Perhaps youd be so kind to show me proof of that summons, I said, retrieving the folded note from my coat pocket as she did the same. In the dim light, I saw her message was identical to mine, and with that, I deduced her identity.

Follow in the footsteps of your familyinfamous relatives.

Wooden stakevampire hunter.

I suspected I was one of a small number of people who were aware of the existence of the legendary family of vampire hunters. Its a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stoker. It appears you have the same dearth of information about this meeting as I. Have you any idea how or where we should gain entrance or find our hostess?