Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery Page 11

  18. 221B

  Our journey through the crowded London Streets seems to last an eternity. With every hansom cab that rattles past, I more and more bitterly regret having handed the entirety of my money over to the street urchin in Montague Street.

  Those coins could have purchased a ride that would have cut our transit time in half.

  But finally, we turn onto the correct street—and I head straight towards a nondescript, black painted door.

  Becky stops short, staring at the address.

  She has been sulking slightly over my determination to keep her out of danger and has barely said a word to me throughout the journey.

  Now, though, she stammers, “But—but he’s dead. I mean, I read about it. He went over the falls with Professor—”

  “I know. I mean, I know what you read. But it wasn’t true. And no, I’ve not gone completely mad, I swear,” I add, in answer to Becky’s suddenly narrowed eyes. “Though I realize that it may look that way.”

  I reach up to rap firmly with the knocker on the door, still speaking.

  “Sooner or later, maybe the rest of the world will know that he actually survived the Reichenbach—”

  I cut off in mid sentence as the door opens from inside to reveal a slightly portly man with a mustache and a kindly, weathered face.

  That’s right. Another block of memory lurches into place. Mrs. Hudson is away for a few days, visiting her sister.

  “Lucy!” The mustached man lets out an explosive breath at the sight of me, relief etched in every line of his expression. “Good heavens, where on earth have you been? We got your message about the Harley Street doctor. But then you disappeared from The British Museum. Then Wiggins spotted you in Montague Street, but he said you were acting most peculiarly. He thought perhaps you were being watched, and dared not communicate freely or acknowledge that he recognized you, for fear of giving away your true identity. But you’ve missed three performances at the Savoy.”

  I close my eyes briefly as the realization sinks in. Poor Mr. Harris, our stage manager. I’ve probably given him an apoplexy. And I’m about to give him another. There’s no chance that I’ll be there tonight, either.

  “Holmes has been combing the city for you, dressed in the most extraordinary disguises.”

  “I know,” I interrupt him. “I know, Uncle John, and I’m so sorry to have worried you. But there isn’t time for me to tell you everything that’s happened. Do you know where Holmes is now?”

  Uncle John opens his mouth—but before he can answer, Becky opens her mouth for the first time.

  “Holmes?” she says—squeaks, rather. She stares at the man before us, her eyes rounded. “Do you mean that you’re—”

  “Yes, Becky,” I say. “Let me introduce you. This is Dr. John Watson, whose storied accounts of Sherlock Holmes you have so much enjoyed.” I smile at him. “Otherwise known as my honorary Uncle John.”

  Uncle John still looks both slightly worried and puzzled. But he beams at Becky.

  Uncle John has what is arguably the kindest and most generous heart in all of England—and he adores children.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady.” He bows over Becky’s hand.

  The back of my neck still prickles with the urgency of the situation. All of this is taking far too much time.

  “Becky’s brother is a detective constable on the police force,” I tell Uncle John quickly. “Constable John Kelly, of the Holborn Station in Lamb’s Conduit Street.”

  Thank heavens that I went there with Constable Kelly yesterday and remember the address.

  “You need to call in the Irregulars at once and have them find him. Tell him to come here as quickly as he possibly can—and make sure that they tell him that his sister is perfectly safe, waiting for him.”

  “Gladly, of course.” Uncle John blinks. “But Lucy—”

  It’s strange—both good and strange—to be called by my own, true name.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle John,” I repeat. “There isn’t time. I need to get down to the docks. Do you know where … where Holmes is now?”

  With the rest of my returning memories comes the recollection that I’m never entirely sure of how to refer to Sherlock Holmes—whether in his presence or out of it.

  “No, I don’t.” Uncle John’s face creases in a worried frown. “He said that he would be back as soon as he was able, but—”

  “Listen, Uncle John. Holmes may not be terribly happy with me when he comes back here.”

  With good reason. The recollection of the past twenty-four hours makes me wince inwardly.

  “Tell him that I’m dreadfully sorry and I shall explain everything when I see him—but that he needs to meet me at the docks. There is another shipment expected in this evening. If we are lucky, we can catch them while they’re still unloading.”

  If we are very lucky, we may be able to learn what exactly is being shipped that the organization we have been tracking is so very anxious to hide.

  “Gladly, Lucy.” Besides kindness, Uncle John’s other chief character trait is his utter, solid dependability. There is a reason that Sherlock Holmes has relied on him for years. “I shall enlist the help of the Irregulars in tracking down Holmes, as well. But to which docks shall I send him?”

  “The—” I stop as my newly returned memory stalls for a moment.

  I only glimpsed the name on a scrap of torn shipping label. Shortly before I was knocked unconscious and left for dead on the street outside The British Museum.

  “The Victoria Docks,” I say finally.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” At least I hope that I am sure.

  Becky has been following our conversation, her gaze moving from me to Uncle John and back again as though watching a tennis match.

  Now she stops me before I can turn to leave. “Wait. If you call him Uncle John”—she nods towards Watson—“then who does that make you?”

  “My name is Lucy James.”

  To Uncle John, I’m sure that statement is nothing out of the ordinary. He’s heard me introduce myself dozens of times. But to me it feels almost miraculous. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I know who I am.

  And then I stop. I know it is ridiculous—but a sudden superstitious fear squeezes my chest.

  I remember, now, what was only a vague, buried impression before: that I have spent nearly the whole of my twenty-one years on this earth wishing that I could have a family to whom I belong.

  Now—astonishingly—I do.

  But I am suddenly afraid that if I say it out loud, it will all turn out to be some sort of hallucination. A side effect of the head trauma, and not real after all.

  “Uncle John will explain the rest,” I finish quickly. “And now I really must be gone.”

  19. SHOES AND SHIPS AND SEALING WAX

  I overlooked one crucial factor in my directions to Uncle John: When I told him to send help to the Victoria Docks, I had no idea just how immense they would be.

  Some of the harbors I’ve passed on my way here looked familiar, but I have never gone this far into the docklands before. I think. No, I am certain that I have not.

  Crouching in the shadows of a large brick building, I squeeze my eyes shut. My memory still seems to have a few grayish, hazy patches, wisps of cloud drifting across the sun.

  I am tired and I’ve eaten next to nothing all day, which does not help.

  The sun is setting in a fiery blaze, daylight bleeding away into the dusky purple shadows of evening.

  Huge shipping vessels bob at their moorings in the river behind me. The tide is out and mudlarks—children who make a miserable living by scavenging for nails or any other small items dropped off the ships during unloading—are out in force. Despite the cold, they are wading barefoot in the muddy river water that comes nearly to their waists.

  The Royal Victoria Dock consists of a main dock and a basin that provides an entrance to the Thames on the western side of the complex.r />
  The dock itself has four solid piers, each with a two-story warehouse—and surrounding the dock are other warehouses, granaries, sheds and storage buildings.

  Including the warehouse behind which I am currently hiding.

  My heart is beating too hard and too fast, and my skin crawls. I have absolutely no idea where in this sprawling complex I need to go—but neither can I stay where I am.

  There are guards—a special division of the metropolitan police—patrolling the docks in order to prevent thievery. I’ve seen them; it is astonishing that I have managed to evade them so far.

  Then there are the dockworkers: the porters and navies and others who unload the ships’ imported cargoes.

  There is no chance I can hope to blend in amongst them. For one thing, the majority of them seem to be going home for the day. For another, all the dockworkers I have seen are huge, barrel-chested men with bull-like shoulders and hands like hams.

  I would stand out like a cat in a kennel full of bulldogs.

  I lean against the brick wall at my back. Think.

  No, not just think. I need to remember.

  I’ve been shying away from recollecting the details surrounding my attack, but now I keep my eyes closed, trying to recall every detail of the night in question.

  I had persuaded the guard at the Museum—Higgins; my memory supplies his name—to allow me to stay after hours.

  I knew that more artifacts were to be arriving for the new exhibit in the Fourth Egyptian Room, and—

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  I jolt upright at the sound of the voice—and find myself staring at the blond curls and too-handsome face of none other than Frances Ferrars. Or whatever his name may really be.

  My only slight advantage is that he looks every bit as astonished to see me as I am to see him. But that evaporates after the first half second as he takes a quick step forwards, seizing me by the arm.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I cannot believe that I was stupid enough to be so easily captured.

  I force myself to draw in a steadying breath, willing the rising tide of panic down. I got away from this man once before. I can again. Though it most assuredly will not be so easy this time to catch him off his guard.

  The gathering darkness hollows Ferrars’s eyes with shadow, making him look less like a soapbox model and more like a grinning skull. His teeth are bared in an expression that’s somewhere between a snarl and a leer.

  “You just can’t stop poking yer nose in where it doesn’t belong, can you?” His fingers are biting painfully into the skin above my elbow, and he shakes me, hard.

  I hold still, trying to make my muscles relax. If he is going to let down his guard enough for me to make a move, he needs to believe that I am defeated, too paralyzed with despair to fight.

  Difficult, since my fingers are twitching with the urge to smack the smug smile off his face.

  I force down another lungful of air.

  I have stood on a stage before royalty. I can surely act thoroughly cowed before a not-terribly-intelligent audience of one.

  Ferrars’s smile broadens. “We’re going to have to do something about this unfortunate ’abit of yours.” He drags me towards him—forcing me to exercise every scrap of my will not to recoil.

  His breath is hot and sour against my face. “As yer lawfully wedded ’usband—or close enough, anyway—I have some ideas—”

  Now!

  I bend sharply forward, smashing my forehead into his nose. The impact explodes through my skull—but I barely notice.

  Howling with surprise and pain, Ferrars releases his grip on my arm. Blood is spurting from both his nostrils, and his eyes are alight with an almost crazed fury as he dives forwards, making a wild grab at me.

  I leap sideways, out of his reach, my mind frantically making a catalog of my options.

  I doubt that I can outrun him—not dressed in my slender-heeled, high-button boots, at least, and on unfamiliar ground.

  The best of my options appears to be to stay out of his clutches long enough for someone else to see us. One of the dock’s official guards might arrive—or even some of the porters. Ferrars won’t dare to attack me before witnesses.

  I snatch up a broken wooden slat—part of a shipping pallet or crate—that lies on the ground and bring it up in front of me, holding it like a club.

  Of course, it’s also possible that whoever happens upon us first will be part of Ferrars’s gang. I already know that he is not working alone.

  That thought makes the scream I am about to utter die on my lips.

  Ferrars’s eyes narrow, even as he dashes blood away from his mouth and chin. His voice is a hoarse growl. “Just wait until I get my ’ands on you, you little—”

  I brace myself, straining my eyes to see through the gathering darkness so that I can be ready for the inevitable moment when he lunges at me again.

  But the attack never comes.

  Instead, Ferrars’s whole body is yanked suddenly and violently backwards—almost as though he has been rigged with the trick wires in a stage performance.

  He flails for a second, his arms wind-milling, his bloodied face a mask of helpless surprise.

  Then the shadowed figure that has a hold on Ferrars’s jacket spins him around and delivers a punch to the jaw that sends Ferrars sprawling. He struggles to rise—but only briefly.

  The second figure delivers a sharp chop to the back of his neck. Ferrars collapses with a faint moan onto the ground and lies still.

  Constable John Kelly steps forward from out of the shadows, shaking his head at me.

  “Becky tells me your name’s Lucy. But I think I’m going to have to go with calling you Trouble.”

  20. SHOTS FIRED

  For the space of perhaps a dozen pounding beats of my own heart, all I can do is stare at Constable Kelly in speechless astonishment.

  I cannot remember—I honestly cannot remember—ever having been more shocked.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally find my voice.

  “I got your message that Becky’d be waiting in Baker Street.” Constable Kelly steps over Ferrars’s unconscious body. “Which she still is, safe and sound. But it seemed to me like you’d maybe need a hand here.”

  Considering my recent confrontation with the man now lying insensible at my feet, there is only one thing that I can say to that.

  “Thank you.”

  Constable Kelly waves that aside. “Let’s get him over to that building there.” He points towards what looks like a small storage shed over to our right. “Less chance that he’ll be seen. And then maybe you can tell me who our friend here is, and what all of this is about.”

  “I can tell you now.”

  My heart is still beating in short, staccato bursts, all the way out to the tips of my fingers. But I spare a brief second to be thankful that I am able to offer an explanation—that I no longer feel as though I am blindfolded and stumbling around in the dark.

  It also occurs to me that Constable Kelly has placed an amazing degree of trust in me. He knows nothing at all about Ferrars—but still struck the man unconscious without hesitation.

  Now Constable Kelly stoops to take hold of the inert Ferrars by the wrists, and I lower my voice.

  “It all started with a rumor—a tip from one of Sherlock Holmes’s most reliable sources for information about international dealings at the highest levels of our government. Spies, in other words.”

  Constable Kelly starts to tow Ferrars towards the outbuilding. Ferrars’s head flops helplessly on his shoulders. He groans again, just faintly, but doesn’t wake.

  “These reports concerned the bribery of customs officials. Shipments were being brought into the country. And the officials at the import and exports offices were being paid to turn a blind eye and allow the shipments into the country without inspection. We didn’t know anything definite about who was behind the operation—either who was sending them or who was rece
iving them inside this country. But rumor had it that there was a link with a recent case of my—of Sherlock Holmes’s that involved the German Kaiser. And the Kaiser would certainly not be at all averse to seeing our current government topple—or our monarch deposed.”

  I look up to check Constable Kelly’s face. This is quite a story to unleash on him, all at once this way.

  He only gives a short nod, though. “All right. With you so far.”

  With a grunt, he heaves Ferrars’s unconscious form into the shed. Ferrars lies still—looking uncomfortable in the extreme, with his head tilted at an awkward angle and his arms and legs tangled. Though I cannot bring myself to be particularly troubled by his lack of comfort.

  “Holmes went to work at the docks—these and others—disguised, of course, as a common day laborer. Eventually, he learned that the shipments being smuggled in were in large part ending up at The British Museum.”

  Constable Kelly straightens. It has grown nearly too dark for me to see his face—but I can see his eyebrows go up.

  “I know. I thought the same. The British Museum? What earthly connection could there be between The British Museum and a ring of German spies?”

  I swing the door to the shed closed, shutting Ferrars inside. “That part I still do not know, to be honest. But that is what brought me to The British Museum. My part of the operation was to position myself at the museum—to spend time there observing the workings of the place and ingratiate myself with the guards—and see whether I could learn anything more. Which I did.”

  My fingertips curl, tightening into fists. “When I was attacked, I had discovered that the smuggled containers—one and all—were shipped on behalf of a Dr. Everett of Twenty-Nine Harley Street, to be delivered as donations to the museum’s new exhibit of Egyptian artifacts.”

  Constable Kelly’s head comes up with a jerk and he frowns at me. “Dr. Everett. But that’s—”

  “I know. I don’t know what his real name is—or if he really is even a doctor. I doubt it. But he must be high up in the spy ring’s chain of command, because he—”