She swallowed audibly. “Yes, I believe that’s one of the Ho—”
Whatever she was about to say was cut off by a loud, strange sound. It was perhaps a sort of music, but it was like nothing I’d ever heard before. I spun on my haunches and saw a small silver object sliding across the floor. A colorful light shone from its flat top and the sound—loud, screeching, vibrating—seemed to be coming from it. Miss Stoker jumped out of the way just as one of the large stone statues at the edge of the gallery teetered and began to fall.
“Look out!” I shouted as the bristly-haired stone satyr crashed to the floor.
“Stop there!” ordered a commanding voice as two men and Miss Adler came rushing around the corner from the Roman Gallery.
“He’s gone!” hissed Miss Stoker, who still held Miss Adler’s gun and was now next to me. She was pointing to where the young man had been moments ago.
Ignoring the shouts from the new arrivals, we dashed over to where the intruder had been standing. Having either taken advantage of or manufactured the distraction, he had slipped into the dark shadows.
“I’ll go after him,” said Miss Stoker, starting off, but a voice ordered, “You! Miss! Stop there!”
“Drat,” I muttered, snatching up the silver object that had presumably belonged to the intruder. Clever to use it as a distraction for us, and convenient that he’d left it behind.
The smooth, flat device had gone silent and dark by now. I shoved it in my trouser pocket to examine later, hoping it wouldn’t start screeching again. I turned at last to greet Miss Adler and the two gentlemen: Scotland Yard inspectors. They were out of breath from running along the gallery.
“Ladies, this is Inspector Luckworth.” Miss Adler gestured to the older of the two men.
About forty, Luckworth was a man of average height and a spare amount of hair, except for the neat beard and mustache that hid his lips. I gave him a brief examination.
Misbuttoned jacket, shirt half untucked, mismatched boots—dressed hurriedly in dark, likely to keep from waking wife.
Tarnished wedding ring, tight but removable—married at least three years; enjoying wife’s home cooking.
Small fingerprints just above the knee and a swipe of dried milk on the front of his trousers—toddler in the household.
The faint shift of gears and quiet rumble—mechanized left leg, overdue for oiling.
“Miss Adler.” Luckworth’s voice was less friendly than hers had been. “Who are these girls? And what are they doing here at this time of night? What are you doing here at this hour? And how did that happen?” He gestured to the rubble that had once been the stone satyr.
Miss Stoker and I exchanged glances at his remark, which made it sound as if we were schoolchildren.
“I’ve been engaged by the museum to catalog its unorganized antiquities acquired over the last three decades, Inspector,” Miss Adler replied. “I’m certain you are aware of that.”
“Yes, and I still find it inconceivable that the director selected you to do so.”
“Unfortunately, that opinion is not relevant to our current tragedy,” Miss Adler pointed out with a cool smile.
The younger inspector, who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than I, rose from his examination of the girl’s body. “Right. Regardless, madam, that doesn’t explain your presence here at”—he paused to flip open an elaborate pocket watch that had four small folding doors and, once open, rose into a complicated three-dimensional timepiece arrayed with buttons—“twelve forty-three in the morning.” He pushed a button and the clock folded back into place with soft, pleasant clicks.
Miss Adler’s smile turned gentle. “But of course it does. There is no limitation on my work schedule. Sir Franks has given me access to the museum at any and all hours of the day. You of all people, Inspector . . . ?”
“Grayling,” the young man replied. “Ambrose Grayling.”
“Inspector Grayling, you and your colleague should well understand that there are certain occupations which are not regimented. One works whenever one must. Even in the dead of night.” She made a smooth gesture with her hand. “Perhaps we could quibble about my employment restrictions later. I rang Scotland Yard because we have a crime to investigate, and I’m certain the two of you would like to get to work before more time has passed.”
“We have a crime to investigate?” said Luckworth. He laughed. “Miss Adler, there is no ‘we’ about it. You and your companions will give your statements and leave the investigation to us.”
“But I beg to differ, Inspector—with all due respect,” Miss Adler added in a sugar-coated voice, “we have already begun the investigation.”
I took this as my cue to step forward. “I have already begun a preliminary examination of the body. If you wish, I shall enlighten you with my conclusion—”
“Pardon me,” said Inspector Grayling in a flat voice that carried a bit of the Scottish. It was no surprise, for it matched the dark copper color of his thick, curling hair.
I turned my full attention on him, aware that he was a rather attractive young man. He had a freckled complexion over tanned skin; however, the freckles did nothing to make him look boyish or innocent. Instead they gave a pleasantly ruddy cast to his square jaw and prominent nose.
Unevenly stubbled chin and tiny cut near left ear—needs to sharpen his razor and is impatient in character.
Cuts and scrapes as well as a large blister adorned his left, pencil-holding digit—doesn’t wear gloves, works hard but not without haste and clumsiness.
No wedding ring and one button dangling from jacket cuff—unmarried and lives in a household without females.
Jacket cuffs frayed, short for his elegant wrists, two years out of style—handed down clothing, not of upper class.
Ornate, complicated pocket watch but wears used clothing—an utter cognoggin; more concerned with his gadgets and devices than personal appearance.
Grayling was saying, “This is no concern for a civilian. Now, if you—”
“Inspector Luckworth and Inspector Grayling,” interrupted Miss Adler, “may I introduce Miss Mina Holmes?”
Both of the gentlemen turned to me, and if I weren’t so shocked at being back in the spotlight, I might have found their expressions comical. Luckworth looked as if he’d swallowed a biscuit whole, and Grayling lifted his Scottish nose as if he smelled haggis gone bad. (Incidentally, I am of the opinion that haggis is always bad.)
“I daresay—” Luckworth began, but his younger colleague interrupted, “Holmes? You don’t expect us to believe—”
“I am the niece of Sherlock and the daughter of Sir Mycroft. Ponderous appellations and high powers of deductive reasoning run as rampant in my family as the pox does in Haymarket.” I wasn’t certain from where I dredged up such confidence, but the words tripped from my tongue.
“I can’t imagine how a young lady such as yourself would be familiar with the curse of Haymarket.” Grayling cast me a cool gray-green look that threatened to bring a warm flush to my cheeks. “But regardless of your name, Miss Holmes, which I will accept as proof of your relation to the esteemed Misters Holmes, your assistance is unnecessary. Inspector Luckworth and I are well trained and able to do our jobs without interference by a fe—civilian.”
“Very well,” I said, lifting my nose. “Carry on.” At that moment, I wished I had a skirt hem to snatch up for a bit of feminine emphasis in my vexation. His expression made me prickle: supercilious yet polite.
But my new mentor wasn’t about to be cowed. “We won’t be leaving until we’ve completed our own investigation.” Miss Adler gave me an affirming nod that meant I should continue with my work. I sidled away from the cluster of people.