"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.
Chapter 3
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 trained on the man, edging him away from the center of the chamber.
Moments later, a glow illuminated the space. The looming seven-ton statue of Ramesses II and massive pieces of frescoes and hieroglyphs were no longer casting long, dark shadows that hampered my observations. The gaslights now shone on the intruder. He was hardly any older than I and wore a style of clothing I'd never seen before.
"Is she dead?" asked Miss Adler, glancing at Miss Stoker, who had refrained from approaching the body. The question was clearly meant to spur my counterpart into action.
"Er . . ." Miss Stoker began. She moved forward with reluctant, robotic movements. She looked ill.
Impatient, I went to the unmoving figure and crouched next to the rumpled mass of skirts and limbs. I'd never come across a body, or a fresh crime scene like this before. I had certainly seen corpses, even studied them under my uncle's tutelage. But not like this. Not so . . . raw.
I forced myself to actually look at her, then to touch the pulse point on the girl's throat. Even before I did that, I knew she was dead. But her chill skin and lack of pulse confirmed it. "There's no hope for her."
"I'll ring for the authorities. They must be notified. Evaline, if you please." Miss Adler gestured for my companion to take her place with the pistol.
I returned my attention to the victim. The poor thing could have been no older than seventeen or eighteen, a peer of my very own age. The fact that a short time earlier we had been talking about the disappearances and death of other young women was not lost on me. Could Miss Adler have anticipated such an event might happen here, tonight? Had she meant for us to prevent it?
I drew in a deep breath, smelled the sharp iron of blood and other bodily excretions, and pushed away my uncertainties. Only minutes ago, I had pledged my loyalty and self to the Crown. The moment of truth had come sooner than we could have realized.
Who was she? How had she come here? Why would someone do this to her and how? I forced myself to observe. Coldly. Objectively.
She lay on her side, curled up, eyes open-fallen or dumped here.
Her hair still pinned in place-she hadn't struggled.
Not enough blood on the floor-she hadn't been killed here.
Which meant . . . I looked at the intruder, who, still under the control of Miss Stoker, had nevertheless edged closer to the sarcophagus at the side of the gallery.
No bloodstains on his odd clothing-he had not moved the body. He wasn't the murderer.
Grateful for an excuse to edge away from the girl, I approached the young man. "Did you touch her or change her position?"
"No, I didn't move her." His accent sounded American, but not like any other American accent I'd ever heard. "I was checking to see if she was alive when you showed up. I just touched her . . . for a pulse." His voice was tense, and his eyes darted from me to Miss Stoker and back again.