Not only was I armed, but I was suitably attired-for bustles, crinolines, and tight sleeves are cumbersome and impractical for a pedestrian on shadowy streetwalks.

The beauty of this steam-powered gadget was that it never needed to be reloaded. Enough to incapacitate a grown man or slice through his skin, my uncle had assured me. One pull of the trigger would release a puff of searing air, a concentration of burning steam.

I had borrowed from Uncle Sherlock the Steam-Stream gun that hung in my unfeminine belt over loose gabardine trousers. I heard a soft scuttling sound followed by a low, dull clank and slowed to listen, my hand covering the weapon at my waist as I peered into the dim light. Big Ben tolled as I walked along the middle level of New Oxford-street, the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp cutting into the ever-present fog. Traces of rice powder and a smudge of silver glitter-sender is involved with the theater, likely La Theatre du Monde in Paris. Faint perfume scent-expensive but in excellent taste from the incomparable Mrs. Heavy creme paper, neat feminine handwriting lacking embellishment and free of ink blots and errors-an intelligent, pragmatic woman of considerable wealth. Lack of name and address, no seal or watermark-the anonymous sender hand delivered the message. As I looked at the letter, I saw so much more than those simple yet mysterious words.

Further direction will be provided at that time. If you are willing to follow in the footsteps of your family, please present yourself at the British Museum tonight at midnight. Its content had been straightforward: Your assistance is requested in a most pressing matter. The handwritten message had told me that its author was not only female, but a person of high intellect, excellent taste, and measurable wealth. Being a Holmes, I had my theories and suspicions as to who had summoned me and why. But as far as I knew, I was neither in danger for my life, nor was I about to forestall the death of another. A matter of protecting one's life or preventing another's death are two obvious ones. London, 1889 Miss Holmes A Summons at Midnight There are a limited number of excuses for a young, intelligent woman of seventeen to be traversing the fog-shrouded streets of London at midnight.

The clockwork scarab by colleen gleason