I glared, and she continued, “The hieroglyphs clearly represented Sekhmet and her instruments, which gives credence to the writings we found in scrolls and papers that simply couldn’t have existed—or at least survived—for the thousands of years since Sekhmet was worshipped as the favored goddess. Thus, we believe the instruments do, or did, exist. But other than that, we haven’t found any further information about where the instruments were, where they might be now, and what they could be used for if collected together—which is the crux of the text that originally sent us off in this direction.” Exhaustion showed in her face. “We could be completely wrong about this, and meanwhile, more girls could die.”
“Wait,” I said, my eyes widening. “A scepter?”
“A scepter, a diadem, a—”
“Some men were taking a large, heavy crate from the museum on the night Miss Hodgeworth was killed, and one of them also had a long, slender object.”
“A large crate? Large enough for the statue of Sekhmet to fit in? Who was it?”
“How the blooming fish should I know? Someone who didn’t want to be seen. Or someone involved with the Society of Sekhmet.”
Did that mean Pix was involved? If so, why would he tell me about it? Was it possible he was aware of the Society of Sekhmet too?
“I don’t know anything more, but I can try to find out while you continue to research more information.” I didn’t try to hide my delight. At least I could be doing something instead of poring over page after page of cramped, faded, archaic writing.
“Did you see the thieves? Do you remember anything—”
“No, I didn’t see them. He said they went off southwise, though,” I added to myself.
“He? Whom do you mean?”
“Some con artist who goes by the name of Pix. I found him lurking around the outside of the museum after you left that night, and he told me.” I stood with enthusiasm. “I’ll track down Pix and get as much information as I can.”
I was nearly to the door when Miss Holmes spoke again. “There is one other situation of which you might like to be apprised, Miss Stoker. If you can bear to be detained long enough for me to do so.”
“Carry on.” The sooner I was out of the room and on the streets, the better.
“Mr. Dylan Eckhert is the young foreigner we found with Miss Hodgeworth’s body,” she said. “He’s been staying here at the museum because he has an unusual problem.”
“Why? Is he partial to hieroglyphs?” I couldn’t help but ask. Miss Adler’s lips twitched, but she remained silent.
“No,” Miss Holmes said in a cool, affronted voice. “He’s traveled more than a hundred years through time, back from the future.”
Right. I blinked. And let the concept settle.
The rest of London would never believe it of their staid, gear-ridden, mechanized world. Vampires. Demons. Supernatural instruments supposedly belonging to an Egyptian goddess . . . and now time travel?
Fascinating and intriguing.
Because of this, Miss Holmes probably expected more from me than a nod of comprehension. But being a vampire hunter, I wasn’t easily surprised by supernatural things. I simply asked, “Does he know how it happened?”
“He isn’t precisely certain, but he believes it had something to do with a man-size statue of Sekhmet. He was near it, and there was an illuminated scarab in its base. When he touched it, something happened and he was transported back in time. When Mr. Eckhert became aware of his surroundings, he realized the statue was gone and he was in a different place and time. I have no theories as yet what caused such an event, but I continue to consider a variety of possibilities. In the meantime, Mr. Eckhert has been assisting us with our research. However, he prefers to spend an inordinate amount of time in the empty chamber belowstairs where he arrived so suddenly. I believe he’s hoping something will happen to reconnect him with his world.”
“Thank you for telling me.” I was sincere. The poor sod. He’d been shuttled back in time to a strange place with no way of returning home? “I’ll look forward to meeting Mr. Eckhert again at the first opportunity. But now I’m going to locate Pix and see if he can give me any more information.”
“He’s likely our only hope, for any footprints or clues outside of the museum would have been obliterated in the last week. If you had seen fit to tell me about this sooner, I would have been able to examine the scene.”
I nodded, gritting my teeth. “You’re staying here at the museum?”
“For now. It’s more efficient than traveling back and forth, and I’ve had clothing sent over.”
“Then I’ll contact you here once I have news.”
As I rode in a ground-level horse-drawn hackney back to Grantworth House, I mulled over the best way to locate a shadowy thief in the dangerous London stews. Pix told me if I needed to find him, to ask for . . . Old Cap Anglo? Mango? No, Mago. Old Cap Mago. Who or what was that?
I went home to dress and arm myself for a visit to Whitechapel. Once home, I learned that Florence didn’t have any evening plans. Blast it! She’d be in all night, making it difficult for me to sneak out . . . and she would also want to ask about my visit to the museum with Miss Bane. She would also be filled with gossip about Miss Hodgeworth’s death. Even though it had been a week since the girl was killed, the tragedy was still a topic of conversation and worry.
I resigned myself to eating dinner with my family.
Naturally, Bram was at the Lyceum Theatre. But Noel, who was ten, ate with Florence and me. In fact, he managed to steal the last piece of apple bread right out from under my hand. He gave me a big, satisfied grin as my fingers closed over an empty plate. I glowered at him, but at the same time, I wanted to tousle his thick, dark hair.
“How was your visit to the museum, Evvie?” Florence asked, adding sugar to her after-supper tea. The Sweet-Loader whirred softly as its wheel turned and three lumps plopped into the cup. “Mrs. Yarmouth made a point of saying how much she missed you today. And last week as well.” She raised an elegant brow meaningfully. “And your appetite seems to have returned.”
“The museum was crowded. And Miss Banes didn’t make it after all.” I realized I’d eaten two beef short ribs, a large pile of roasted parsnips and potatoes, a generous serving of greens . . . and a piece of apple bread. I was going to have to loosen my corset before going out tonight. I eyed a plate of slivered pears.
“Mrs. Dancy asked after you as well,” Florence said, hand-stirring her tea with small, neat circles. “She mentioned her son Richard. Apparently, there was a mishap with lemonade? At the Cosgrove-Pitts’.” Her spoon clinked sharply against the side of the cup.
Drat! I forgot about the pears. “Uhm . . .”
“That’s not a particularly polite or ladylike sound,” my surrogate mother said. She speared me with her gaze. “I was under the impression you hadn’t received an invitation to the Roses Ball, Evaline. You knew how much I was hoping to attend with you.” Along with the displeasure in her eyes was a note of regret.
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Florence,” I said, trying to think of an excuse . . . and a way to remove that disappointment. She loved parties and gowns and frothy things. “I . . .” The problem was, I never spoke a direct falsehood to her. That was why I’d hidden the invitation in the first place so I could tell her I didn’t see it—because I hadn’t actually opened and read it.
Being a vampire hunter who didn’t lie was impossible.
“I know you don’t care for those formal occasions,” she said in a milder voice. “But it’s a necessity, dear Evvie. Bram and I promised your parents we’d make sure you were taken care of, that you’d be married off well to a nice young man from a good family. One that could take care of you.”
I could take care of myself. But Florence—and the rest of the world—would never understand that. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I’m utterly confused as to why you attended the ball anyway, but without a chaperone. What if you had met someone completely inappropriate? What if something had happened to put you in a compromising position with him? Then what would I tell your parents—and Bram?”
An image of Pix rose in my mind. Could there have been anyone more inappropriate at the ball? Or a more compromising position than hiding behind a heavy curtain with a thief?
Thank St. Pete that Florence hadn’t chaperoned me.
