Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery Read online

  I would love to know how long amnesia can be expected to last.

  Unless possibly it is irreversible?

  The thought of spending the rest of my life this way, wandering blindly around London, makes me feel as though a noose is tightening about my throat.

  I force down a deep, steadying breath.

  It could be worse. I could actually be Eleanor Ferrars, shackled by marriage to the young man who called himself Frances.

  I shudder.

  The reflection of another face appears in the glass window beside mine. I note it mechanically—then, with a jolt of pure horror in the pit of my stomach, with recognition.

  It is the old man. The white-bearded ancient who sat down next to me at The British Museum and babbled about the weather.

  Panic catapults me into motion, acting before I’ve even had time to fully register the shock.

  Lashing out, I kick one of the old man’s legs from under him, following the blow with a strike to the chest that knocks him back by a foot or two.

  For a second, his startled eyes meet mine. His lips shape a word.

  But I’m already running—as blindly and without thought for direction as before. My feet slap the pavement, fear hammering inside me like a steam piston.

  If the old man somehow found me—and it absolutely, positively cannot be a coincidence that he appeared behind me when he did—then who else may be able to track and find me?

  I dart down an alleyway filled with cans of ashes and barrels of reeking trash, emerge into another street, and keep going—barely drawing up in time to keep from being run over by a hansom cab.

  “Bloomin’ imbecile!” The driver shakes his fist at me. “Yer got eyes in yer head—why not use ’em?”

  I press my hand to my ribcage in an effort to stop the hectic pounding of my heart.

  Come to think of it, it was probably the old man who dropped Dr. Everett’s card—just as I assumed in the first place.

  Except that now it would appear that he dropped it on purpose—in an effort to deliberately drive me into visiting Harley Street and the doctor’s practice.

  A large, solid form dressed in blue appears directly in front of me—but I’m going too fast to stop. I plow straight into a broad, uniformed chest.

  Strong hands seize me by the shoulders—probably just an effort to prevent me from falling. But I’m so panicked that I lash out instinctively.

  My fist connects solidly with the police constable’s nose before I realize that I’ve just added assault of a police officer to my list of other possible crimes.

  This is obviously not my day.

  The policeman clamps one hand over the lower part of his face—though he keeps firm hold of me with the other.

  Looking up, my eyes meet his—which are very dark brown, set under slightly tilted dark brows.

  No.

  Even as realization jolts through me, another sudden fragment of memory flashes through my mind’s eye.

  This time, it’s an odd recollection of sitting in what I think must be a music hall.

  A man in a green bowler hat and green checked trousers was on the stage—and every time he said something humorous, the accompanying musicians would play a particular rhythm on the cymbals and drums: two syncopated taps on the drums, then a smash on the cymbals.

  Ba-dump-crash.

  The constable takes his hand away from his face and stands, scowling down at me.

  Yes, just as I suspected, some divine hand ought at this very moment to be playing out its own ba-dump-crash rhythm. The better to emphasize the extremely nasty sense of humor with which fate is treating me.

  “You again,” he says.

  It’s the same man. The same young detective constable who found me unconscious in the street this morning.

  He is back in uniform, though he still looks tired, with faint shadows beneath his eyes.

  Understandably, I suppose. If he is on duty again already, he can’t have had very many hours of rest.

  He raises one eyebrow at me. “Committed any more murders you’d like to tell me about?”

  I grind my teeth together, cutting off a most impolite retort. But then, happening to glance past the constable’s shoulder, my gaze lights on something that turns my veins to ice.

  The white-haired old man is limping determinedly towards us like an avenging fury. He’s still perhaps half a block away, but I recognize him instantly.

  I catch hold of the constable’s arm. “That man is following me!”

  The detective constable looks at me. “Murder and now persecution. Anything else you’d like to share? Maybe a plot to steal the crown jewels?”

  I gnash my teeth harder, stamping my foot. “Constable—” I stop. “What is your name?”

  The young man gives me a flat look. “My name?”

  I resist the urge to stamp my foot again. “I have just punched you in the face. Surely that puts us on a familiar enough basis that I ought to know your name.”

  The constable’s mouth twitches just briefly in what might be a hint of a smile. “I’m not entirely sure I follow your line of reasoning. But the name’s Kelly. D.C. John Kelly.”

  “Very well, then, Constable Kelly, I am not making any part of this up!”

  The old man is nearer, now—near enough for me to see the monstrous scowl that twists his features.

  I’m not a coward—or am I? I suppose I don’t really know the answer to that.

  But I have a difficult time in keeping my voice from trembling as I go on.

  “Unless you think that I enjoy being assaulted, nearly drugged and kidnapped—and almost persuaded that I am married to a man who looks like a grown-up version of Little Lord Fauntleroy!”

  The detective constable just looks at me, his face completely blank of expression.

  For the brief space of silence between us, I can hear the echo of my own words—and how utterly insane they sound.

  I can’t even remember reading Little Lord Fauntleroy. The name of the character just appeared in my mind.

  Constable Kelly opens his mouth. He’s going to tell me that I’m a candidate for a madhouse. Or prison. I tense, ready to run if he tries to arrest me or drag me off to the asylum.

  “Which man?”

  I’ve been so absolutely certain he won’t believe me that for a second I can’t even take in the meaning of his words. “What?”

  “Which man is it that’s following you?”

  “That one.” I point over Constable Kelly’s shoulder.

  “The old timer?” I can hear the surprise in the constable’s voice. I suppose it does rather strain credulity that the limping, white-haired old gentleman moving towards us might be a threat to anyone.

  “Yes.”

  Constable Kelly seems to struggle with my assertion for a moment. But then he raises one hand and strides a few paces nearer towards the old man—who has come to an abrupt halt maybe a dozen yards away.

  “You there,” the constable calls out. “Stop.”

  The old man’s gaze flashes rapidly from me to Constable Kelly and then back again.

  Then he whirls around and bolts, racing away down the street with the speed of a much younger man.

  Constable Kelly gives chase for a few strides. But then the old man—who has suddenly also developed the grace of a trained acrobat—leaps onto the back of a coach that is rumbling by.

  For a second, I am certain that he’s going to fall. His hat slips off, rolling into the street. But the old man grips tightly onto the coach’s boot, and the coach itself rolls obliviously on, the driver no doubt completely unaware that he has taken on another passenger.

  In another moment, they have vanished around the corner and are out of sight.

  Constable Kelly gives up what is obviously a futile pursuit and stands staring after them. Then, slowly, he turns around.

  His brows are drawn so tightly together that they form an almost perfect V over the bridge of his nose. But I have no idea what he’s go
ing to say—whether he’s going to denounce me for a liar or ask me again whether I’ve been drinking.

  Instead, though, he comes straight up to me to stand staring down into my face for another long moment.

  The earlier rain has given way to a weak and watery glimpse of sun. Constable Kelly’s face is focused, sharp and slightly grim in the pale light.

  I tense, ready to run—or possibly punch him again—if the words hysterical, drunken, or imaginary cross his lips.

  But he finally exhales a long breath. “I think you’d better tell me everything from the beginning.”

  9. TEA

  Detective Constable Kelly leads the way to what appears to be a small restaurant on the opposite side of the road. I start to follow—then stop short as we reach the doors.

  “Is something wrong?” Constable Kelly is frowning again.

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Ladies Own Tea Association?” I ask, reading the name of the establishment, as it appears printed in gold letters over the door. “Is this a favorite of yours?”

  Constable Kelly gives me a quelling look. “I was trying to find a place where you’d feel at ease. But if you’d rather go to the beer hall in the next street over—”

  “No, no,” I assure him. “The Tea Association will be perfectly acceptable.”

  Acceptable to me, at least; Constable Kelly’s entrance causes quite a stir among the rest of the patrons as we push through the doorway.

  The tea room is filled with ladies taking a refreshing cup of tea after their morning shopping—and at sight of the constable’s broad-shouldered and uniformed figure, they startle and murmur amongst themselves like a flock of birds at sight of a hawk.

  A middle-aged hostess with quantities of fluffy blond hair hurries over to us—her eyes wide with alarm.

  “May I help you … that is … would you like …” Her hands flutter as she trails off ineffectually.

  Her manner rather suggests that Constable Kelly is the first male patron to grace the shop since its opening.

  Constable Kelly doesn’t look in the slightest bit embarrassed or out of place. Even after our brief acquaintance, I’m already certain that the constable has enough self-assurance to make himself at home anywhere.

  He’s taken off his helmet, holding it under one arm. “A table,” he says. “And a pot of tea, please.”

  “Certainly, step right this way.”

  It probably doesn’t hurt his case that he has such dark good looks or such melting brown eyes.

  With much fluttering and twittering, the hostess escorts us to a table towards the back of the tea room. The other customers stare—but as the constable does nothing but follow behind the hostess, they by and large return to their tea and gossip and cucumber sandwiches.

  “I will be back directly with your tea,” the hostess promises us, with a final flutter of her hands.

  The chairs and table are not made for someone of Constable Kelly’s height—any more than the tea room is designed for masculine clientele.

  I have to stifle a smile as—grimacing slightly—he folds himself into the delicate Queen-Anne style chair and tucks his long legs under the lacy tablecloth.

  Then he looks across the table at me. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

  “Verdict?”

  “You’ve been making up your mind on whether or not you can trust me. You’re trying to decide right now just how much of the true story you’re going to give me.”

  That is what I was thinking—exactly what I was thinking. But I’m a little surprised that Constable Kelly was able to guess it so accurately.

  “You’re not the only one who can read people, you know.” He stops, looking at me. “How about you start there—tell me how you knew everything you said about me this morning.”

  That feels like a lifetime ago, but I nod. “All right. But there isn’t really so much to explain. Let’s see, what did I tell you?”

  I frown in an effort to recall. “Oh yes—that you were about to go off duty. Anyone might have surmised that you had already finished with your nightly patrols—the layers of mud caked on your boots, for one thing, attested to the number of miles you had walked. You had also loosened the top button on your tunic, suggesting that you were on your way home for a well-earned rest. I could tell furthermore that you are not married. The state of the handkerchief that you lent me suggested that much.”

  Constable Kelly’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t speak.

  The hostess returns with our tea, and I go on, “No wife would allow her husband to go out with a handkerchief that had been so clumsily and inexpertly hemmed. Though the fact that you were carrying it at all might mean that you are too poor to afford a better one. But clearly you are not so destitute as that, judging by the good quality and state of repair of your boots. The other option—the only logical option—is that you must have a sentimental attachment to the person who hemmed it for you. A father might carry such a token from his daughter—but you are young to have a daughter of sewing age, and as I say not married. So, I thought it more likely that you had a much younger sister at home.”

  The bemused, slightly quizzical look is back in the constable’s expression as he looks at me.

  I pick up my teacup to take a sip. “What else did I say? Oh—your misspent youth, that’s right. Well, the scar in your eyebrow is clearly several years old—obviously predating the time of your service to the police. The scar is also clearly the result of a knife wound. You are by your own statement from Cheapside, so I would hypothesize you came by the scar in some sort of a street fight. You also have an obvious predisposition to assume the worst about someone—which speaks to having lived among those who have done nothing to foster your faith in human nature. However, you have applied yourself diligently to your chosen career—hence the promotion from PC to DC. As I said before, I would think it likely that your joining the force had to do with the younger sister I mentioned. Perhaps your parents died or were killed, leaving you with the sole responsibility of caring and providing for her?” I raise my shoulders again. “But as I admitted earlier, that last is really only guesswork.”

  There is a long moment’s pause while Constable Kelly looks at me across the table.

  “All right,” he finally says. “So, does all of that tell you whether or not you want to trust me?”

  I look across the table at him. I want to be able to trust him. I would love to be able to trust anyone right now. I would love to have an ally.

  But the fragment of memory explodes through my head again: my hands on the trigger of a gun. Blood spattering onto paving stones.

  Excellent reminders of why it would be insane for me to trust an officer of the London police force.

  “Where did you learn to read people?” I ask.

  “Let’s just say you learn a lot, begging for handouts—or sizing up your next mark—on the streets of Cheapside.” He stops.

  It’s rather remarkable, really, that he doesn’t add anything more: a demand that I give him an answer, in exchange for his. Or even an assurance that I can safely trust him with my story.

  He just sits, still-muscled and watchful, waiting for me to make up my own mind.

  I finally come to a decision. “All right.”

  Maybe it’s reckless. But in the absence of even my own memories, I have nothing but instinct to go on. Instinct led me to trust the young maidservant Sarah—and in the same way it warned me right from the start that I could not trust Dr. Everett.

  That was why I did not drink the doctor’s tea, even before Frances Ferrars put in an appearance.

  Now, I do not entirely relax in Constable Kelly’s presence—but neither do I feel the back-of-the-neck warning prickle of imminent, intangible danger that I did in Harley Street.

  “I’m going to tell you everything—at least, everything that I know.”

  The pot of tea has nearly gone stone cold by the time I finish speaking and sit back.

  Constable Kelly is silent, watching
me—as he has been through the whole of the time I was talking. Then he says, “I think I’d like to speak to this Dr. Everett of yours.”

  My breath goes out in a rush.

  “Dr. Everett is not mine, I assure you. But I would love for you to question him.”

  In the entire snarled, knotted tangle of whatever business I am mixed up in, I can see at the moment only one thread to pull on: that of the not-so-good doctor.

  Whether the clue will lead me any further to discovering my own identity remains to be seen—but it is at least a place to begin.

  I would also love to see the young man who called himself Frances Ferrars try to charm his way out of an arrest warrant.

  “Can you give me his address?” Constable Kelly asks.

  “I can do better than that.” Fishing in my handbag, I find Dr. Everett’s business card and hand it over.

  The constable stares at it for a long second. His lips move silently. “Harley Street. That’s outside my regular beat. I’ll have to get permission from my sergeant to go and take a look. If you’d like to wait here—”

  I hesitate. Part of me would be delighted never to encounter Dr. Everett and his smooth, cheese-white hands again. But that is the cowardly choice.

  “No. You might need me to identify him and the other man. I shall come along with you.”

  10. THE BIRDS ARE FLOWN

  Even if I had my memories back, I do not believe that I could recall disliking anyone so instantly as I do Constable Kelly’s sergeant.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” Sergeant Mallows grunts.

  I accompanied Constable Kelly to his station house—a grim and cheerless building on a grim and cheerless street.

  Somewhat to my surprise, the sergeant on duty not only gave his permission for the venture to Harley Street—he also insisted on coming along. Which is why he is currently stamping along at Constable Kelly’s side.

  Sergeant Mallows is a big, heavyset man of forty or forty-five, with a face that is almost precisely the color of a slab of undercooked beef.

  Or maybe I am just prejudiced against him, since he has yet to acknowledge my presence in any way, from the time we left the station house until this moment now.