The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

“Yes.” Goodness, my voice sounded rusty. I was forced to clear my throat as well. “Despite its foolhardiness, it was very . . . athletic.”

“Aye. Right.” His Scottish brogue was evident now. “Well, then. Thank you for capturing Angus for me. I’ll tighten his collar to make certain he doesn’t slip off again. Won’t I, boy?” He attached a leash to the collar in question.

When Grayling stood, I realized for the first time he was wearing a coat with a badge pinned to it. (How had I not noticed earlier? Drat!) “You must not be here for pleasure, then, Inspector.” I gestured to the metal shield.

“Ah, well. As it happens, Mr. Oligary suggested the Met might provide a bit of extra manpower for security tonight.” He shrugged, once again seeming sheepish. “He was paying well, and Angus and I thought it would be an opportunity to see the inside of the New Gardens and get paid at the nonce.”

Before I could respond to that enlightening comment, Grayling’s attention wandered to Mr. Treadwell, then returned to me. “But Angus and I have interrupted your party, Miss Holmes. We should get on with our business. Come along, you scoundrel.” He tugged firmly at the leash.

Angus didn’t seem to like that idea, but after a moment, he succumbed to the inevitable and began to bound off happily once more—this time, attempting to pull Grayling along with him. It was a losing battle, for of course the pup was hardly a match for the tall, broad-shouldered detective. Nevertheless, he allowed his canine friend to lead him off.

It wasn’t until they’d gone back into the bushes and, presumably, back to wherever the inspector was stationed, that I realized I’d forgotten to obtain an update from Grayling regarding Mrs. Yingling’s murder. Where on earth had my brains gone?

“We should attempt to find the rest of our party.” Mr. Treadwell offered his arm.

As we strolled along, I brought my mind back to the matter at hand and contemplated a possible motive for Mr. Treadwell. He had the means and opportunity to be behind the nefarious scheme, but I could conceive no reason he would want to ruin Miss Ashton. Love was as good a motivation as anything—as I’d recently learned during the Affair with the Clockwork Scarab. But as she seemed to reciprocate his affections, I could fathom no reason he’d want to turn her mad. Every indication was that he truly cared for her.

Where on earth had Miss Stoker gone off to? I needed to find out if she’d learned anything from Mr. Ashton.

The scent of water was in the air, and I knew we were approaching the eponymously titled River Walk. Voices carried on the breeze, and I even discerned the distant calls of some wild creatures likely from the Animal Curiosities exhibit. An interesting duo of peacocks—one living, and one mechanized—strutted across the path. The gear-ridden bird’s tail was a magnificent display of glittering jewels: sapphires, emeralds, jet beads, and aquamarines set in a bronzed fan. Fortunately, the discordant violin had ceased to play and now I could hear the tinny sound of an organ grinder and, beyond, the rumble of some mechanized vehicles or machinery.

To the northeast, I noticed the top of a massive cogwheel turning above the trees. It was lit with small lights and appeared to have gondolas hanging from it, large enough to hold two or four persons. Oligary’s Observation Cogwheel, I presumed. What a view one would have, sitting in a gondola at the top. Sitting beside a handsome young man . . .

Suddenly, there was a loud pop-pop-popping. A spray of red, blue, and yellow lights burst into the dark sky, coloring everything below. Mr. Treadwell and I, along with every other person on the pathway, stopped to observe the fireworks exploding above.

I watched in delight as a new round of dancing lights blazed above. Although everyone in the crowd was gazing up as well, I doubted they were calculating the trajectory of the discharged explosives, counting the seconds between launch and the resounding flare, and measuring how the different colors of illumination lasted for different lengths of time before they faded.

Uncle Sherlock had given Dr. Watson and me a lecture on his experimentation with explosives of this nature. I was attempting to confirm his theories regarding the angle of trajectory versus the span of the explosion, as well as using the smell that lingered in the air to identify the particular accelerant employed. If I had the opportunity to return in the daytime, I’d also examine the area for the detritus that would be left behind from the explosives.

Then someone screamed.

Perhaps everyone else thought it was part of the reaction of the crowd, or perhaps the sound was drowned out by the pop-pop-popping . . . but I heard it and immediately determined from whither it was coming.

No one else seemed to notice, but I didn’t care.

I started toward the sound, and then heard another scream, followed by more urgent voices. Gathering up my long overskirt, I ran as fast as I could down a side path toward the noise. I might not be an inhumanly strong vampire hunter, but I wasn’t about to stand around and do nothing if someone was in distress.

“Thief! Stop, thief!” someone shouted.

I tripped over a rock but caught my balance and kept going despite the strain of my lungs fighting against the tight lacing of my corset. My petticoats and skirts whipped around my legs, and I could feel the unfamiliar sensation of my bustle jouncing over my posterior.

A figure burst out of the darkness, nearly bowling me over. He had something in his hand like a reticule or pocketbook. I stuck out my foot in his path.

The boy tripped, but kept going, and I started after him. “Stop! Thief!”

Unfortunately, I doubt anyone could have heard me. I was using what little breath I could drag in to propel me after the pickpocket. The stones were uneven beneath my speedy feet and the items I’d secreted beneath my bustle and in the hidden pockets of my skirt—a Steam-Stream gun, an Ocular-Magnifyer, and even a wooden stake in case Evaline forgot hers—bounced alarmingly.

I don’t know how I managed to stay with the thief, but I kept him in sight as he followed the narrow footpath along the River Walk. Providence offered me a hand by providing a stick or stone along the way, and the lanky, fleet-footed pickpocket tripped, nearly tumbling into the river. But he careened upright after, giving me a few precious moments to catch up to him.

I threw myself at his person as he stumbled back to his feet. Grappling with his coat, I held on, trying to wrestle him to the ground. This was a losing proposition, for though he was probably only fourteen or fifteen, he was tall and strong, nor was he hampered by corsets and skirts. He flung me aside and I staggered, almost taking a header into the bushes . . . but still I held on to his lapels.