The name, though familiar, did not produce the image of a face or personality. In many ways, London Society was a foreign environment to me. The thought of dressing up and lining the walls at a party waiting to be asked to dance by some eligible young man terrified me. I knew I’d be standing against the wall alone all night, watching everyone else spin about the dance floor. And even if I was asked to dance, I’d either smash the poor man’s foot or trip and fall on my face. Which was why I preferred not to waste my time with such nonsense as balls and the theater and shopping.
“I’ve met Miss Corteville,” said my companion. “She’s Viscount Fauntley’s daughter, and she’s engaged to Sir Rodney Greebles.”
“Indeed,” Miss Adler said. “She’s gone missing since the twenty-fifth of April, three weeks ago.”
“Could she have eloped? Run away? Been abducted?” Miss Stoker’s eyes glinted with the same interest that bubbled inside me, although my fascination was tempered by concern. I wasn’t convinced one could say the same for the other young woman. “We must conduct a search for her!”
“Of course the search has been ongoing.” Miss Adler smiled, and Miss Stoker settled back into her chair looking disappointed. “The facts are Miss Corteville left no note or other message. It appears she absconded in the middle of the night, and there was no evidence of struggle.”
“Perhaps she didn’t wish to marry Sir Rodney and eloped with someone else. He’s not at all attractive, and he’s more than twice her age,” suggested Miss Stoker.
“It’s possible. Yet, according to her maid, Miss Corteville didn’t appear to have packed any personal items to take with her as she’d do if she were going away permanently—eloping, for example.”
“Unless she didn’t plan to be gone for more than a brief time,” I interjected.
“Indeed. However, there was one other thing. We found this slipped down behind her dressing table and the wall.” Our hostess laid an object on the table for both of us to see.
“An Egyptian scarab,” I said. There were countless examples of the beetle-shaped medallions here in the British Museum. Miss Adler handed the item to me for closer perusal. “No . . . something modern that’s made to look like one. This amulet isn’t thousands of years old.”
The object was made from soft metal, unlike an original Egyptian artifact (which would have been crafted of stone), and it was in the shape of a very large beetle that would fit comfortably in the center of my palm. Twice as large as a coin, and a bit heavier.
“Scarabs were like talismans,” I mused, turning it over in my fingers, noting the coolness of the metal, its smooth edges, and the intricate embossing on it. “They were put in Egyptian tombs or used as jewelry or even a token of affection.”
“They could also be employed as a sort of identification,” Miss Adler said, “among a connected society.”
The scarab’s bottom was flat, and the top rounded like an insect with two wings folded tightly over its dome-like body. It was made of verdigris metal, and the ridged carvings were filled in with black and green paint. I pressed on the wings, the head, and even the edges to see if it might open like the Royal Medallions. When I squeezed the tiny pincers at the head, at last something clicked and whirred, bringing the scarab to mechanized life. I watched in fascination as the shiny wings opened to reveal clock-like inner workings of tiny cogs and gears.
I turned it over. On the reverse were carvings, and I identified the image of a half beast, half man. “A cartouche? Of a lion-headed pharaoh? No . . . it’s not a pharaoh. It’s a god.” I frowned at Miss Adler. “A goddess. It’s Sekhmet.”
She nodded as Miss Stoker spoke up, her voice peremptory: “If you don’t mind.”
I handed her the object, seizing the opportunity to educate her as she examined it. “Sekhmet is the Egyptian goddess of war and destruction. She has the head of a lion because she’s known as a great warrior and ferocious fighter. She’s also been known as the Lady of Flame and the Lady of Slaughter.”
“Legend has it that her breath was so hot and powerful it created the desert,” Miss Adler said. “She is also the goddess of immortality and the underworld.”
“You believe this has something to do with Miss Corteville’s disappearance?” Miss Stoker smoothed her finger over the round top of the beetle.
“We wouldn’t have thought so if there hadn’t been another, similar object among the belongings of Miss Allison Martindale.”
My new partner’s face sobered. “Miss Martindale? Didn’t she hang herself?”
“Yes. It was a most tragic and horrifying discovery. She was found dangling from a tree in Hyde Park. The family tried to hush it up, but news does travel.”
“Do you mean to say Miss Martindale had a scarab as well?” I asked.
“It was found among her personal effects. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t believe so. Two young women of the same age, within the same month. One took her own life, and the other disappeared.”
“There must be a connection. Uncle Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences.”
“Why is Princess Alexandra taking such an interest in something like this?” asked Miss Stoker. A crease had appeared between her brows.
“Because—” Miss Adler hesitated and looked down at the scarab that had just been handed back to her. “Because she is very fond of Lady Fauntley, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and wishes to help find her daughter.”
“Is there anything more?” I prompted.
“If these two events are connected, the only clues we have are the scarabs. The two girls were acquainted, but they weren’t particular friends. Neither was known to have a deep interest in Egyptology, although they both visited the museum at least once.”
Just then, I heard a sound in the distance beyond the door inside a vast museum that should have been empty. The rumbling of a heavy door closing.
Miss Adler stood abruptly as Miss Stoker bolted to her feet. I did likewise. “Hurry,” our hostess said, moving toward a door through which we hadn’t entered.
The soft hiss of steam and a quiet squeak heralded an opening into a small square alcove. Our hostess hurried us through a silent, shadowy corridor that smelled of lemon wood polish. Mahogany floors shone unevenly in the moonlight, filtering through glass cases and over the paneled walls and mechanized cabinets that rotated slowly, even here at night.
I strained, listening for sounds of an intruder as we rushed through a back room of shelves, tables, and crates of antiquities.
“This way,” Miss Adler said.
We followed her through a little transept approaching the long, narrow Egyptian gallery where the famous Rosetta Stone was displayed. We all stopped beneath the ornate arch. I caught my breath at the sight before us.
A young man knelt in the center of the gallery, bathed in the moonlight. A large knife glinted in his hand, and he was looking down at a lump that even an untrained observer would recognize as the dead body of a woman.
Miss Holmes
Of Mudless Shoes and Murder
“Don’t move.” Miss Adler was the first to speak, and she took charge instantly. I’m certain her bravery was helped in no small part by the gun that shone in her hand.
“Step away,” she said. “Place the knife on the floor, then raise your hands.” She stood so the man had no opportunity to slip behind a sarcophagus or the statue of Ramesses II that loomed to his left.
“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
