Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery Page 2

  I manage to keep up the act of determined confidence until I’ve turned the first corner I come to.

  Then I duck into a covered doorway of a shop that’s not yet opened, lean against the cold brick wall and shut my eyes.

  I have no idea who I am, where I am going, how I came by the headache that at this moment is rattling the inside of my skull … or what crimes I may have committed.

  I blow out a breath. Being a lady of the evening would have been so much simpler.

  2. AN EXPERT DIAGNOSIS

  I open my eyes, staring up at the lowering gray sky. Sadly, though, no answers appear written in the clouds. No clue falls conveniently out of the heavens.

  I need to think about my situation logically. I slow down my breathing, trying to quell the rising panic inside my chest.

  For a start, I can take stock of everything I know about myself, and try to deduce what I can. If my powers of deduction worked on the constable, they surely ought to work on me.

  The headache appears to be concentrated in the back of my head, a few inches behind my ear.

  Gingerly, I put up a hand to touch the area. Yes, there’s a definite swollen lump there that throbs fiercely at even a slight brush of my fingertips.

  Either I fell and hit my head—which seems unlikely, given the lump’s placement—or else someone attacked me.

  Excellent.

  My situation seems to get better and better all the time. Now not only may I have shot someone, it appears that some nameless enemy wants me incapacitated or dead.

  Well, better to keep going.

  My clothes are of good quality. My high-button black leather boots are a little worn at the soles, but highly polished and still quite serviceable.

  It would appear that I do not make a habit of sleeping on street corners. Therefore, presumably, I must have a home somewhere. Perhaps even a family who are missing me?

  No.

  I’m not even sure how, but again something inside me seems to reject that idea—just the same way that I rejected the possibility of being drunk before.

  Whoever I am—wherever I come from—I have a bone-deep certainty that I’m not part of any jolly, loving family who are even now frantic at my absence.

  My memory is still a blank, black wall—but at the same time, some small, inner gauge inside me is certain that I’m very, very accustomed to being on my own.

  I open the purse that the constable pointed out to me. In addition to the gloves—good quality white kidskin, I notice mechanically, and fairly new—the purse appears to contain nothing but a handful of coins and a torn scrap of newspaper.

  I blow out a breath. I was not really expecting the purse to contain anything helpful like a calling card with my own name and address on it. But it would certainly have been a pleasant surprise if it had.

  I carefully unfold the newspaper—but it’s only an advertisement for tooth powder. Rollo’s Best Tooth Cleansing Agent.

  I stare at the words blankly for several seconds, trying to decide whether they conjure up anything in the way of memory.

  Assuming that this purse is mine, I must have placed the scrap of paper in here for a reason. But I don’t feel even a flicker of a hint of recognition.

  There’s nothing else inside the purse, either—nor in any of the pockets of my coat. I search carefully once and then again, but find nothing at all to give me a clue as to who I am and how I came to be here—wherever exactly I am.

  But wherever this is, I cannot stay here all day. If nothing else, the owners of the shop will eventually be arriving to open the doors.

  I push myself off from the wall behind me.

  At least the handsome constable is nowhere in sight when I return to the bustle of the street.

  At the end of the street is a huge stone building, fronted by a white marble colonnade.

  My mind slowly puts the sight together with the constable’s remark. The museum will be opening soon.

  That building up ahead must be the museum he spoke of.

  I cannot remember having ever seen it before. But maybe this was where I was coming, when I—

  What?

  When I was assaulted?

  When I shot someone?

  Even exhausted, with a vile taste in the back of my mouth and a blinding headache, I can hear how absurd that sounds. I was on my way to visit the new display at the museum when I happened to commit a murder.

  Certainly. That is undoubtedly what occurred.

  Still, the museum at least gives me a starting point, a possible objective. At the very least, it might be somewhere for me to take shelter, out of the cold.

  From what I can see of my surroundings, it must presently be sometime in autumn. The air feels damp, raw and chill, though not yet cold enough for it to be winter. The occasional scraggly trees that grace the fenced-in gardens I’ve passed are still clinging to brown and yellow leaves.

  A glance down at my own attire, though, puts an end to the thought of taking shelter in the museum. I only vaguely processed the state of my clothes when I was taking stock of myself a moment ago—I was more focused on trying to decide whether I recognized the gray walking suit with black braid on the sleeves and the hem.

  But now in the growing morning light I can see that my skirt is fairly plastered with mud—and doubtless other noxious substances, too. My hair is straggling down into my face, and there’s a long tear in the bodice of my jacket.

  In short, I look as though I’ve either been the victim of a carriage accident or highway robbery. I suppose either of those is possible.

  It is also possible that despite my disheveled appearance, the museum officials would take pity on me and allow me inside. But it seems equally likely that they will make the same assumptions about my virtue that the constable did.

  If I do seek shelter there—or anywhere—covered in horse dung, I will be remembered.

  I cannot afford to be memorable. Not when whoever struck me on the head is presumably out there, still searching for me.

  I rub my forehead, trying my hardest to conjure up some other fragment of recollection—anything.

  Part of me is afraid to make the effort. What if I remember that I really did commit a murder?

  But the larger part of me is convinced that nothing could be worse than this awful uncertainty. Slowly, something does rise to the surface of my mind. Not a memory, exactly, nor even an image.

  It’s a smell: a muddy, fish smell. Though what that means, I have no idea.

  Without really being aware, I’ve been continuing to walk down the street facing the museum. Now I come to a corner and stop, glancing around me.

  I have come to the corner of Montague Street, according to the sign. I wait, trying to decide whether I feel any spark of recognition.

  But no. Nothing at all.

  “You vile, unspeakable little brat, be off with you!”

  The shrill voice pierces my ears, even above the rumble of traffic and the tramping and noise made by the other pedestrians.

  I glance up and see that there is some sort of altercation taking place on the pavement just outside one of the houses on Montague Street—a tall, red-brick town home with something staid and stuffy-looking about its heavily curtained windows and immaculately polished brass railings.

  The woman doing the shrieking is every bit as stuffy-looking as the house. Short and extremely plump, she’s swathed in a thick fur-collared cape, and wears a bonnet trimmed with jet-black beads.

  In between the fur collar and the bonnet, her face is red, bad-tempered, hook-nosed—and with a truly astonishing number of double chins that wobble with outraged dignity when she goes on, speaking in no less piercing tones.

  “Be off this instant, or I shall call the police!”

  The object of her ire is a small and extremely dirty boy who’s cringing before her, looking miserable and cold and thoroughly cowed.

  “But ma’am, I only asked if I could polish yer shoes.”

  The lady gives a
sniff that rattles all the beads on her bonnet. “Polish my shoes? As though I would entrust such an important task to the likes of you! Now be gone!”

  Pointing dramatically with one finger, she dismisses the child. Then turning, she takes the hand of a footman, who I now see is standing ready to assist her into a carriage waiting at the curb.

  She does not thank the footman. But she does lean out of the carriage window and snap, “Oh, and Jenkins, tell Sarah that the state of the front stoop was absolutely disgraceful this morning. If she wishes to remain in my employ, she will have to scrub it again.”

  The footman—Jenkins, presumably—mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The red-faced lady’s head withdraws and the carriage rattles off.

  The small boy is still standing dejectedly on the pavement a short distance away. He’s really incredibly dirty. By comparison, my own attire looks almost clean. His face is smeared black with soot, and the rest of him is in scarcely better condition. Despite the cold, he wears only a pair of ragged trousers and a thin cotton shirt at least two sizes two small.

  His bony wrists and hands stick out from the cuffs, the skin red and chapped-looking.

  “Excuse me.”

  He whirls around at my addressing him, his face instantly set in a look of narrow-eyed suspicion and his whole body tensing. He’s ready to run in an instant, should I appear as any threat.

  But he evidently decides that I’m not dangerous, because his gaze travels over me, and then his eyes widen.

  His face, like the rest of him, is bony and much too thin. But his eyes are a clear hazel-brown.

  “Whatcha want?” After the first second, he drops his gaze, muttering the words at my shoes.

  “Do you live around here?”

  The boy’s head snaps up and he gives a snort that rivals the disagreeable woman’s.

  “If I did, would I be beggin’ for the job of polishing that old bat’s shoes for ’er?” He gives me a scornful glance—followed by a harder stare.

  “Whatsa matter with you?”

  I was counting my small store of coins as one of the very, very few advantages to my present situation.

  But now, with a sigh, I dig into the purse and hand over nearly the whole handful, keeping back only the half-shilling piece.

  The boy looks as though he hasn’t had a decent meal in his entire life. And if I really did shoot someone in the early hours of this morning, I presumably have enough on my conscience without adding cruelty to children to the list of my sins.

  “Here. For you,” I add, as the boy gives me a blank, wide-eyed stare.

  “Now, can you tell me whether—” I stop, and start over. “Have you ever seen me going into one of these houses before?”

  The street may not feel familiar—but it is as likely that I live somewhere around here as anywhere else.

  The boy gapes at me for another second. “What? No, of course not.”

  I suppress a sigh. “What about this house here?” I gesture to the home of the disagreeable woman. “Do you know who lives here?”

  The beginning glimmers of a plan are just starting to take shape in my mind, but I need to know more.

  The boy shrugs. “Besides the old bat? No idea.”

  I rub my forehead. This is turning out to be a waste of good money. At least the boy should be able to buy a decent meal for himself today.

  His hand has closed over the coins, and he regards me with an odd intensity. “I’d see the doctor if I were you, miss.”

  It’s my turn to be startled.

  The child’s wide, hazel-brown gaze is thoughtful, filled with a look of almost adult appraisal. “You should see the doctor, miss.”

  He enunciates the words clearly, lending them an odd kind of emphasis. “You really, really should.”

  3. A BIT OF THEATER

  The back of the plump woman’s house is every bit as stolid and officiously respectable as the front. Even the steps leading down to the coal cellar look as though they’ve been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives.

  But there is a stack of empty wooden packing crates leaning against the side of the house, and it’s affording me enough cover to watch the kitchen entrance.

  My head still spins occasionally, and my thoughts feel disturbingly sluggish and slow. It may be that the street urchin was not entirely wrong about my need for medical attention—but I am not thinking about that for now.

  So far, the fishmonger’s boy has been to deliver a parcel of fish—which afforded me a modicum of information about the household.

  The door was answered by a young maidservant in a black uniform and starched white apron, who handed over a few coins to the boy and took the parcel of fish.

  Through the briefly opened doorway, I could catch a glimpse of a kitchen—a huge, old-fashioned black iron cooking range, and a stout woman who must surely be the cook stirring something in a large pot.

  So, a cook, a young maid, and the manservant, Jenkins, who handed his mistress into the carriage a short while ago.

  Are they the only servants in the house? More to the point, does the disagreeable lady reside here with any other family members?

  My memory of how the world works seems to be patchy: sharp and bright in the case of some details, and hazy on others.

  Unfortunately, one of those patches of haziness appears to cover the question of how many servants a household like this would be likely to employ.

  I had the vague impression that the lady of the house was a widow—and she is certainly well past the age when one would expect her to have small children at home.

  But there could always be a companion, a widowed sister—even an adult daughter living here with her. And I’m so far coming up with disturbingly little basis for logic that would lead me to favor one conclusion over another.

  I blink, as a fragment flashes through my mind. It doesn’t feel like an entirely new thought—more like something I’ve heard before:

  Well, faint heart never won fair lady.

  But when I try to catch hold of the memory, it slithers through my fingers and vanishes.

  I stiffen, pressing myself further into the shadows as the gate of the yard creaks again. Footsteps on the cobblestones announce another delivery.

  This time, it’s the baker’s boy—delivering two loaves of bread.

  I step forward, plastering my most winning smile on my face. “Hello. I was sent out here to pay you for today’s loaves.”

  The boy is perhaps fourteen years old, with bright, carrot-orange hair, a snub nose.

  He gives me a narrow-eyed look. “Never seen you here before.”

  I keep my smile firmly fixed in place. “I’m new, aren’t I?”

  Some instinct makes my voice slide into an approximation of the boy’s accent.

  It happens so naturally that I know I must have done this before: made my voice sound other than American.

  “I was just’ired on yesterday.” I wish I’d been able to hear the disagreeable woman’s name. That would probably lend artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.

  Now those words sound familiar, too. I blink, trying to bat the impression away. No time for chasing down errant memories now.

  The boy looks me up and down, his green eyes keen. “Dirty, aren’t you?”

  Drat. Anyone would think that after the morning I’ve had, I would be owed at least one measly stroke of luck.

  But apparently the fates couldn’t do me the favor of providing me with a dullard of a baker’s boy.

  I laugh. “Don’t I know it. It was supposed to be my half-day out—but since I’m new, guess who gets the job of cleaning out the facilities?”

  I point towards the odoriferous little out-building at the back of the yard. Even the lady of the house’s rampant cleanliness hasn’t extended there.

  The baker’s boy barks a laugh.

  Uneasiness prickles across my skin, my stomach tightening with a renewed sense of dread. If anyone question
s him, he’ll almost certainly remember me.

  It can’t be helped.

  I hold out the half-shilling piece that comprises my sole remaining fortune. “’ere’s the money. Jenkins”—at least I know his name—“said to keep the change today.”

  The boy’s eyebrows go up. “’e did, did’e? That’s gotter be a first, the stingy old bugger.”

  He pockets the coin with a shrug, hands me the loaves, and turns away.

  I do my best not to sink to the ground with sheer relief as he slouches his way out of the yard and back towards the alleyway outside. Step one of my plan is accomplished—but that is only step one.

  Clutching the loaves of bread, I walk as quietly as I can up the path towards the kitchen entrance.

  When I’m about ten feet away from the door, I deposit both loaves on the ground. Not without a pang. The smell of freshly-baked bread has made me suddenly realize that I am incredibly hungry.

  But I leave the bread, dart up to the door, knock soundly—and then step to the side, flattening myself against the side of the house, where I’ll be concealed by the opening door.

  There is a pause that seems to last a small eternity—and then finally I hear the sound of the latch lifting from the inside.

  The door swings open. I can’t see, of course, but the mutter of, “blasted boy gets more lazy every day” sounds like the stout, elderly cook rather than the young maid.

  Perfect.

  I hold my breath, wishing that I could convince my pulse to remain silent as she stumps forwards to retrieve the bread. The blood is hammering so loudly in my temples and my fingertips that it seems as though it must be overheard.

  The cook—it is the cook—waddles ponderously down the path, still muttering imprecations against the baker’s boy.

  I don’t wait. Darting around the edge of the door, I plunge into the kitchen.

  It’s empty.

  Perhaps luck is with me after all. There’s no sign of the younger maidservant or anyone else. Just a pot of something that smells strongly of cabbage bubbling on the stove.