Die Again, Mr Holmes Page 5

  9. A NEW ALLIANCE

  BECKY

  “Psssst! Psssst!”

  Becky sat up in bed, which made Prince sit up, too, and start to bark.

  “Shhhh!” She clamped both her hands around Prince’s jaws. “Don’t make noise, it’s only Flynn.”

  Normal people knocked on front doors when they wanted to talk to you. Flynn only ever climbed up the drainpipe next to her window and tapped. He also never cared whether it was the middle of the night for most people. But then again, Becky didn’t care, either, right now.

  She got up, opened the curtains, and pushed up the sash of the window. A blast of cold air rushed in, but Flynn stayed where he was, half perched on the window ledge with his arms and legs wrapped around the drainpipe for balance.

  Maybe it was because he was used to living on the streets, but Flynn didn’t like being inside. He hadn’t ever admitted it to her, but Becky could tell that any time he was under a roof with four walls around him—at Baker Street or anywhere else—it made him jittery.

  He was the same age as Becky—ten—and skinny, with blond hair that hung down into his eyes. His face was always streaked with grime and soot, and his clothes were always so dirty you practically couldn’t tell what color they had been to start with.

  “What’s happened?” Becky asked. “Did you find anything out?”

  She kept her voice down to a whisper, just in case Lucy and Jack were still awake. They wouldn’t mind Flynn coming here; Flynn was one of Mr. Holmes’s Irregulars. They might not even object to the secret line of investigation she and Flynn had been carrying out for the past weeks. But they probably would say it could be dangerous, and what they didn’t know, they couldn’t worry about.

  “You got anything to eat?” Flynn whispered back.

  Flynn was always hungry. Becky reached for the tin of biscuits she kept in the top drawer of her dresser and handed him one.

  Flynn took it one-handed, somehow managing to still cling onto the drain pipe. “There’s nothing much to report,” he said around a mouthful of the biscuit. “I’ve been askin’ around, but no one’s ’eard anything about a new gang dealing in sparks.”

  Sparks meant diamonds, which was what the people who had kidnapped Lucy and tried to kill Mr. Holmes had been smuggling.

  “You’ve been watching Mr. Holmes, though?” Becky asked.

  Anyone who’d wanted to kill Mr. Holmes badly enough to shoot him was bound to try again. So that was part of their plan: to make sure they were watching in case someone did make a move.

  Flynn reached for another biscuit. “Yeah, but ’e’s been quiet, too. Only time ’e went out this week without Dr. Watson was to see an estate agent.”

  Becky tilted her head. “An estate agent? Why would he do that?”

  Flynn shrugged. “What do I know? Maybe ’e’s thinking about buying a new ’ouse.”

  That wasn’t very likely. Mr. Holmes wasn’t the sort of person to care about buying new houses, and Becky couldn’t imagine him living anywhere but Baker Street.

  She couldn’t see that an estate agent had anything to do with smuggled diamonds, either. Well, that wasn’t true. On an ordinary night, she could probably think up a dozen possible ways that an estate agent could be a secret villain, and some of them might even be plausible, as Mr. Holmes would say.

  But right now she couldn’t seem to make herself take an interest in coming up with theories.

  She realized she’d just missed something Flynn had said, too. “What’s that?”

  “I just said I should be getting back.” Flynn frowned at her. “Something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe.” Becky hadn’t made up her mind whether she wanted to talk about it yet.

  “Well, that narrows it down.” Flynn took another bite of the biscuit. “Come on, spill. What’s ’appened?”

  Becky sighed. “Fine. But you have to come in, I’m not telling you through an open window.” One of the neighbors would see them if Flynn stayed here long enough, and besides, her feet were turning into frozen blocks of ice.

  “So, your father’s out of the clink,” Flynn said. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and there were biscuit crumbs scattered all around him.

  Prince snuffled, trying to lick some of them up, and Flynn almost jumped out of his skin.

  Flynn wasn’t afraid of much, but Becky suspected that dogs were on the list. Not that he would ever admit it to her.

  Becky nodded. “Lucy and Jack are going to talk to me about it in the morning.”

  That was one of the many good things about them, they didn’t keep secrets. She really hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Except for when she wanted to stop them from worrying about her, she didn’t keep secrets from Jack and Lucy, either. But then she’d heard Jack say her father’s name, and she hadn’t been able to move or keep from listening to the rest.

  She felt a little less guilty about having listened, since they were going to let her know anyway.

  “What’s ’e like?” Flynn asked. “Do you remember ’im?”

  Lucy, who’d been brought up in fancy finishing schools, would say that it wasn’t good manners to ask prying questions like that—unless, of course, you were doing it for an investigation, in which case being polite didn’t count. But Flynn wouldn’t know good manners if some of them walked up, curtsied, and invited him to waltz. And to be fair, Becky was the one who’d started this conversation.

  “Some.”

  “Well then?” Flynn prompted.

  “I don’t know.” She picked at a loose thread on her dressing gown. The cold, sick feeling she’d had ever since she’d heard Jack and Lucy talking was getting worse.

  Lucy also sometimes said that the best defense was a good offense. Which was really just a fancy way of saying that when in doubt, you should try to turn the tables on whoever was giving you trouble.

  “What about your father? What’s he like?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Flynn himself didn’t sound particularly sorry about it, but Becky still felt as though she ought to apologize.

  “Died before I was born,” Flynn said. “And my mum died when I was a baby. Never knew either of ’em.”

  “So who looked after you, then?”

  “Nobody.”

  That couldn’t be the real answer, but from the way Flynn’s mouth had gone all pinched around the edges, Becky knew it was the only one she was going to get. She’d known Flynn for months now, and she knew he didn’t like to talk about his past any more than she wanted to talk about her father.

  Flynn shot a glance at the window, the way he always did when he was stuck indoors, checking to see whether he had an easy way to escape. Becky had left it cracked open a little bit, just for that reason.

  “Tell me ’is name and I could ask around a bit for you. See whether anyone around town knows anything about ’im.”

  “What good would that do?”

  Flynn shrugged. “You never know.”

  That was true, and the more you knew, the better. Becky scratched Prince behind the ears and tried to think things through.

  Jack and Lucy were going to fight to keep her father from taking her. But they were also smart, both of them, and sooner or later they would realize the same things she had, as soon as she’d heard her father’s name tonight.

  She nodded at Flynn, even though the cold feeling inside her now felt like it was crawling through her veins. “All right. His name is Benjamin Davies. Go ahead and see what you can find.”

  10. A VISIT FROM LUCY

  Sunday, January 9, 1898

  WATSON

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and realized that I had fallen asleep in my chair. I heard Holmes’s voice.

  “Breakfast is on the table,” he said. “Mycroft telephoned. We are wanted at the Royal Exchange at eleven this morning.”

  Still fogged with my lack of sleep, I poured coffee. “Why?”

  “Lestrade’s report included the inscri
ption on the opium chest that was stolen from us last night. Mycroft says the inscription is of particular interest, and that the chest may be part of a larger supply. We shall learn more when we meet him and Chancellor Hicks Beach.”

  I struggled to sort out this news. Sir Michael Hicks Beach was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and we had worked with him on numerous occasions, each involving substantial sums and significant consequences to the British Treasury. The larger supply Holmes had just mentioned must be large indeed.

  “But you got home safely last night,” I said.

  “The thieves stopped about a mile away, where they had a carriage waiting. While they transferred the opium chest to the carriage, I hid in an alleyway. When they had driven off, I drove the police van and followed them to Limehouse.”

  “Near where Swafford was murdered?”

  Holmes nodded. “A police patrol stopped me just before we reached the Red Dragon, and the carriage with our assailants got away. I believe you can deduce the rest, since you took the telephone call last night from Detective Inspector Plank.”

  “Frustrating to lose them after your pursuit.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I believe Plank was equally frustrated. He said that Swafford was a friend of his.”

  “He sounded like a hidebound stickler when he called last night.”

  “I agree. But Plank was cooperative enough to provide the file on Detective Swafford. You can examine it.” He held up a dun-coloured pasteboard binder.

  But before I could inspect the file, we heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice from below. “Why, Lucy! How good to see you!”

  To see Lucy James is for me always a complex emotional experience, and in this instance, it was even more so. She has saved Holmes’s life—and mine—on several occasions. She may be the only person who has had more success than me in getting Holmes to have a care for his own health when he is preoccupied with a case. I feel both fondness and responsibility for her. Yet she has inherited the Holmes trait of bravery to the point of recklessness, particularly when confronting evil. So each time I meet her my feelings of happiness are tinged with worry, for I never know what trouble or danger she may be in at any given time.

  My feelings for Lucy were further complicated by an event that had taken place in our rooms barely two months earlier—her marriage to Detective Constable Jack Kelly, with whom Lucy, Holmes and I have had numerous adventures. Given the recent marriage, I had a shadow of concern that Lucy’s attentions would naturally and properly have drifted to the care of her husband, rather than Holmes. I had no worries that Holmes would feel hurt by Lucy’s shift in attention—if I may call it that—but I wanted her help with my efforts to keep Holmes safe and healthy.

  I was especially concerned now that I knew the current case involved opium. I knew that this drug was far different from cocaine, acting mainly as a depressant rather than a stimulant upon the human brain. But I also feared the adverse effects any drug would have on Holmes’s fine mind, and I knew that opium and its derivatives were powerful substances, not to be trifled with.

  Holmes and I had seen Lucy since her marriage, of course, and we knew she and Jack were prospering. But this was the first time since the wedding that Lucy had come on her own to visit us.

  She entered, dressed in her usual plain black wool winter coat and plain black wool scarf. Her striking, piercing eyes met mine for only a fraction of a second, in the look that I knew meant, “Is Holmes all right?”

  I nodded, and my heart lifted, all at the same moment.

  Now, Lucy’s eyes turned to Holmes.

  She gave him a formal nod of greeting. “I do not wish to trouble you unnecessarily,” she said, “but I have a case. Lady Lynley is the name of the client. She has a maid that has gone missing. In Lincolnshire. Mrs. Charlotte Teal recommended me to her.”

  “The Diogenes Club murder,” Holmes said.

  “Just so. Now, a missing maid seems a trivial matter given the scope of affairs normally attended to by this office. But there may be something of interest.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I met Lady Lynley yesterday afternoon at her club here in London. She was not telling me the entire story. So I would like to gather some information on the Lynley family. I plan to go to Lincolnshire to investigate. I am taking Becky with me. My train leaves this morning.”

  Without being bidden, I stood and took down our volume of Burke’s Peerage from the shelf. I handed it over to Holmes. Then I opened our file drawer and consulted the entries at the end of the “L” section.

  “No Lynley in our files,” I said.

  Holmes put down Burke’s and was looking up from his almanac. “The Lynley estate is indeed in Lincolnshire. The nearest town is the seaside village of Shellingford, which has recently become a popular summer holiday resort. That is concerning.”

  “Concerning?” said Lucy.

  Holmes tapped a finger on the dun-colored binder he had offered me only five minutes earlier. “Shellingford is also the former home of one Detective Swafford, and presumably of his brother, a seaman.”

  “Something bad has happened to them. That’s why you have the folder.”

  “The detective was found murdered last night. The brother is missing. They left behind a most valuable chest of opium, which has since been stolen. The opium may be a part of a larger supply. Worth killing a detective and making a sailor disappear for.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed. “And certainly a maid.”

  “And possibly anyone who tries to investigate.” Holmes’s tone was more serious than Lucy’s. He was always this way when she became involved in a new case. He went on, “I might add that I telephoned the detective’s fiancée last night but got no answer, and I have not yet heard from Lestrade, who sent two constables to the fiancée’s home.”

  Lucy gave Holmes the same flickering, tight smile that I had seen him employ in similar situations.

  “Then Becky and I will have to be careful.”

  11. A PROMISE

  LUCY

  The train whistle blew a sharp, piercing blast that announced there were only five minutes until departure time. Already I could feel the rumble of the steam engine jolting through our carriage.

  Outside the train’s window, King’s Cross railway station was busy with the morning bustle: porters carrying suitcases or pushing whole carts of luggage, vendors selling chocolates and newspapers, mothers herding and hurrying children towards the trains, men in business suits and bowler hats arriving from one of the London suburbs for their day’s work in the city.

  However, our train platform was comparatively quiet. Shellingford was a seaside town on the Lincolnshire coast of the North Sea, roughly one hundred and fifty miles north of London.

  In the summer, it would be a popular vacation spot for those looking for fresh sea air and a respite from the city’s heat. But very few people traveled north to the seaside at the beginning of January.

  The train was so empty that Becky and I even had an entire carriage all to ourselves.

  A vendor selling hot roasted peanuts approached our train window, calling and motioning for me to open the transom window so that I could buy a packet.

  I glanced at Becky. “Would you like some?”

  Becky shook her head. “No thank you.”

  Late last night, I had sent word to Lady Lynley’s club that I thought the best way to move forward with the investigation was for me to travel to Shellingford and begin the search for Alice there.

  Lady Lynley had mentioned that she would be staying in London for another few days, so she wouldn’t be in Shellingford. But her husband would, and I had asked in my message that she telegraph ahead to let him know to expect our arrival.

  Jack had accompanied us to the station. He’d had to report for duty at Scotland Yard, though, so he hadn’t been able to wait with us until the train departed. Becky hadn’t cried at saying goodbye to him, but she’d hugged him so tightly she looked as though she never wanted to let go.

  Now
she was sitting quietly on the seat beside me, her hands folded in her lap, looking as though she were modeling for an illustration of a book on good behavior.

  The skirt of her dark blue sailor dress was smoothed over her knees, her gloves were spotless, her black patent leather boots were crossed at the ankles, and her blonde braids hung in perfect order over the shoulders of her blue wool winter coat.

  Watching her, I wished that Benjamin Davies would appear in our train compartment so that I could punch him in the face.

  Becky was never quiet or well-ordered. It was part of her charm, that she approached life with the tenacious ferocity of a whirlwind. This was her first real train trip too—and, apart from coming to London from Liverpool with her mother three years ago, her first time journeying anywhere outside of the city.

  Ordinarily, she would have been bouncing on the seat, barely able to sit still or contain her excitement.

  Now she turned to me. “Shouldn’t the train be leaving soon?” Her small face looked pale and tense.

  “Any moment now. You heard the whistle. They’re just waiting for any last-minute-comer, and then we’ll be off.”

  Becky nodded, though the set of her shoulders didn’t relax.

  I watched her, debating. Should I bring up her father or not?

  Jack and I had told Becky the full truth about the letter from Benjamin Davies’s attorney. I would have easily given up ten starring roles at the Savoy to avoid doing it, but there was no point in trying to keep it secret.

  Jack and Becky might look absolutely nothing alike, but Becky had every bit of Jack’s quick, logical mind and determination when it came to solving a mystery. She would find out the truth sooner or later, whether we wanted her to or not.

  She’d said very little since then, and I didn’t know whether it would be better for her to talk about it now, or wait until she was the one to raise the subject.

  I reached for the manila file on the seat beside me. “We could look over the materials on Inspector Swafford.”