by Anna Elliott
I remembered my father once observing that most humans are, at the core, social animals, taking their emotional cues from the other humans around them. Put a man in the audience at a theater and he will likely laugh when the rest of the audience does, even if he doesn’t fully appreciate the joke.
Put a man next to someone who is clearly terrified, and he’ll be likely to believe that he, too, has a reason for fear.
Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Davies’s throat work as he swallowed, and he tugged again at the ties around his wrists.
I ignored him, crossing to the door of the examination room and knocking twice. The door opened instantly, and Jack strode in. His expression was grimly set, which I doubted was requiring any particular acting ability on his part.
“Our friend here needs another course of motivation to help us,” I said.
Without a word, without even glancing at Davies, Jack hauled Watson out of his chair and dragged him out of the room.
“No!” Watson struggled ineffectually, the flickering lamp light showing up to full effect the bruised and battered appearance of his face. “No, please …”
The door slammed behind them, and a moment later I heard Uncle John’s voice break on an agonized scream. If this had been an actual theater production and I was giving notes on his performance, I would have cautioned him not to overdo it.
But Davies was looking visibly shaken. Another constant of human nature is that we tend to fear what we cannot see.
At the moment, the screams and occasional thumps coming from the outer room were creating far more terrifying images in Benjamin Davies’s imagination than anything he could have witnessed with his own eyes.
With, of course, the added benefit that Uncle John wasn’t actually being hurt. Another crash echoed from the other room, and then silence fell. Davies’s throat contracted as he swallowed again, and I could almost see him silently rifling through his options, trying to decide on what approach to take with me: angry, defiant, conciliatory …
I obviously didn’t know Davies, but my own money would be on—
“Look ’ere.” Davies’s mouth stretched in an attempt at a smile. “I think there’s been some kind o’ mistake.”
His smile and his tone of voice were so thick with ingratiating charm you could have spread them on toast.
At least I’d guessed rightly on his reaction. I was female; therefore, Benjamin Davies’s habitual response would be an attempt to charm me.
I kept my face completely blank of expression. “I assure you, Mr. Davies, the only mistakes here are the ones that you have made.”
Davies startled just a little, and I nodded. “Yes, I know your name—and quite a bit more about you, besides.”
Behind me, the door opened and Jack stepped back into the room. He didn’t speak, just came to stand against the wall beside the door, his arms folded across his chest.
A week ago, when Abelard Shirley’s letter had first arrived, I’d been afraid of what Jack might do. Now he exuded angry menace, but also still-muscled control. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t let his temper snap and endanger the success of the plan.
Davies still flinched, instinctively trying to retreat although the fact that his ankles were tied to the chair legs ensured he had nowhere to go. His gaze flicked from me to Jack, and he licked his lips.
“Who are you people?”
I needed his focus on me; that was what we had agreed on: that I would do most of the talking. “I am someone who wants to talk to you.” Without turning, I nodded towards Jack. “Whereas he is someone who wants to break both your legs. I suggest you answer my questions.”
Davies’s expression verged on panicked, but his face still twisted in an ugly sneer. “You think you can scare me? I’m—”
Without giving him a chance to finish, I stepped forward and kicked Davies’s leg just below the kneecap, calculating the blow to be hard enough for pain but not quite so hard as to do lasting damage.
Davies yelped, smacking the back of his skull against the chair rail as his head snapped back.
I kept my voice level. “I said that breaking both your legs wasn’t my highest priority, Mr. Davies, not that I couldn’t accomplish it if I so chose.”
56. SQUEEZING A SCOUNDREL
LUCY
Benjamin Davies blinked and stared up at me, seemingly at a loss for words.
“What do you want?” he finally asked.
“The name of the individual who controls the opium smuggling in the town of Shellingford.”
Davies’s expression tightened fractionally in surprise. Then a calculating gleam came into his eyes. “What’s in it for me if I tell you?”
“What’s in it for you is your continued ability to walk and use the fingers on both your hands,” I snapped. I nodded towards the outer room. “Do you really want to find out what will happen if you continue to make this as difficult as our other guest chose to do?”
Davies’s throat bobbed, and he changed tack, trying again for a conciliatory tone. “Look ’ere, there’s no need for that. No reason we can’t all be friends ’ere.”
It would take all the pages of the phone directory to list the number of reasons why we couldn’t. But I kept silent, and Davies went on.
“I don’t even know who the man on top is. I only ever dealt with the toff.”
“Lord Lynley?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Davies gave a disgusted snort. “Bloody gentry.”
“You didn’t like him?” I asked.
“Like him?” Davies eyes narrowed as though remembering an insult. “Thought ’e was too good for the likes of me, didn’t ’e? Until he gets a fit of the morbs just because that mutton shunter’s brother came sniffing around. Then ’is ’igh and mighty-ness starts up talking like I’m ’is brickiest chum.”
This was where it might have been smarter to have Jack doing the questioning, because I’d understood only about half of what Davies had just said.
“Lord Lynley was worried about Inspector Swafford’s brother coming to Shellingford?” I was reasonably sure I could infer that much.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Davies jerked his head in a nod. “Pigeon-livered meater. Didn’t ’ave the stomach to do what ’ad to be done. ’Ad to leave it to me, didn’t ’e?”
My heart sped up, but I kept all trace of expression from showing on my face. “By which you mean, taking care of Tom Swafford?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Davies shrugged indifferently. “Wanted me to bring ’im in to the estate for a little chat. Wanted to find out who he’d talked to.”
“You mean, find out else knew about the opium.”
“Yeah, but he weren’t in a mood for conversation. Nearly did for me instead. So I snuffed ’im out on the fens and dumped the body in an irrigation ditch. Old Lynley had a fit when I told ’im. Wait a tick—”
A light seemed to go on in Davies’s eyes as a sudden disturbing thought occurred—more disturbing, apparently, than the memory of having committed cold-blooded murder. He sat up straighter, looking from me to Jack. “Is this some kind o’ setup?”
“We’re nothing to do with the police, if that’s what you mean,” I said. It was becoming progressively more of a challenge to keep the revulsion out of my voice, but I pitched my voice to sound calm, even pleasant. “And we don’t care about Tom Swafford’s murder. All we want to know about is the opium smuggling. You never found out who Lord Lynley was working for?”
I had my own theories, but it would be nice to get confirmation.
“Nah.” Davies settled back in his chair, shaking his head.
“That’s not particularly helpful.” I still kept my voice level, but I sank just a bit of menace into the words. “And your being unhelpful gives me significantly less motivation to allow you to walk out of here alive.”
Davies’s breathing hitched and he muttered, “The Red Lantern Room!”
“What is that?”
“That’s where the dope goes
out.” Davies spoke quickly, the words almost tumbling over one another. “I never been there, but it’s in some hotel along the beach.”
I let out a slow breath. I’d been right. It might not make Holmes’s odds of survival any greater, but at least we wouldn’t be returning to Shellingford completely blind.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
Davies’s gaze shifted, his expression turning cagey. “What else do you want t’ know?”
I stepped forward, took hold of Davies’s right index finger, and bent it backwards, just hard enough to let him know that I could dislocate the joint if I wanted to.
The thought of the man in front of me taking Becky away gave me all the motivation needed to speak with icy menace.
“You seem to think that you’re in a position to negotiate, Mr. Davies. Let me assure you again that you are not. Tell me everything you know. Now.”
Standing this close, I could smell the sharp, cold-sweat odor of Davies’s fear.
“Fine! Fine!” He drew a ragged gulp of air. “It weren’t much, anyway. Just something I overheard Lynley say once, when ’e was on the telephone. ‘The Duchess.’”
“‘The Duchess?’ What does that mean?”
“I don’t know!” Davies’s eyes were wide with the effort to make me believe him. “I swear, it was just something I ’eard. Maybe it’s the name of the ship the stuff comes in on?”
I supposed that was possible. We would have to consult shipping manifests to be sure.
The silence dragged on long enough for Davies to shift in his chair and ask, with a thread of anxiety in the words, “What happens now?”
I recollected myself and glanced at Jack, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Now, Mr. Davies, you will remain right here until we can send a telegram to the Lincolnshire police. Then I expect you’ll be arrested for the murder of Tom Swafford.”
Davies stared at me, a disbelieving expression on his face, as though he were expecting at any moment to hear me say that I was only joking.
When that didn’t come, he stammered, “But … you said …”
“I lied.” I turned to the door. “Good day, Mr. Davies. You’ll forgive me for saying I hope we never meet again.”
57. A PLAN, AND A SHOCK
LUCY
“Did you hear all of that, Uncle John?” We were in the larger outer room of the surgery, where patients could sit and wait for their appointments. “And I appreciate the sacrifice of your furniture, by the way.”
A small chair with a cane seat lay broken on the ground—the source of the crashes that Davies and I had heard.
Watson waved that aside. “It was nothing. And yes, I believe I caught all of Mr. Davies’s confession perfectly,” he said.
“He killed Tom Swafford.” I glanced at Jack but he didn’t say anything. “That gives us much more reason for him to be sent back to jail than I’d even hoped for.”
“As long as we can make the charges stick,” Uncle John said. “And to that end—” He took out a handkerchief and began to scrub the greasepaint from his face. “I had best be in touch with Lestrade, so that he can telegraph the police in Shellingford.”
I thought of Chief Constable Slade’s careworn face and hollow, worried eyes. Maybe this nightmare would soon be over for him, too.
“He’ll need backup before he can investigate,” I said. “Chief Constable Slade, I mean. He’s almost certainly being watched.”
Watson nodded. “All the more reason for us to move quickly. We now have a place to begin to look in Shellingford, as well. The Red Lantern Room.”
“We may have more than that,” I told him. “But I’ll wait to tell you until we’re actually on the train.”
Uncle John stood up. “Indeed. I will contact Lestrade at once, but that means that the two of you had best depart.” He nodded to Jack and me. “Shall we reconvene at the train station in, say, an hour and a half?”
“That will be fine.” I turned to the examination room, where Benjamin Davies was still captive. “Will you be all right, Uncle John? Kidnapping is still a crime, and Lestrade is still an officer of the law.”
“Kidnapping?” Uncle John’s smile was grimmer than any I had ever seen from him. “I have yet to hear any mention of kidnapping. Benjamin Davies accompanied me here for a friendly chat, during which he happened to let slip that he had been responsible for a man’s death. When he became violent, I naturally sought to restrain him in self-defense so that he might be handed over to the law.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you think Lestrade will believe that?”
“The stakes are higher than we thought before. The charge brought against Davies will be murder, rather than simply smuggling. I do not think Lestrade will work particularly hard not to believe it,” Watson said. “Especially in light of—”
His mouth twisted, a quick spasm of pain crossing his face.
Holmes’s death, he had been about to say. I was as certain of it as though he’d actually spoken the words out loud—and equally certain that neither of us wanted to acknowledge it.
“We’ll go, then,” I said. “I’ll meet you at King’s Cross Station.”
The temperature had dropped since the early morning, and a biting January wind buffeted us as soon as we stepped from Uncle John’s surgery back out into the street. It was just past noon, but the dark skies overhead and the shadows clinging to the doorways felt more like early evening. Carriages rattled across the cobblestones, the drivers wrapped in scarves that were white and stiff with their frozen breath. Pedestrians hurried past, every single one of them probably wishing that they were at home in front of a roaring fire.
The only figure who seemed content to remain in place was a bearded street doctor who had set up camp on the pavement two doors down. He might have been hoping to appeal to those who either couldn’t afford to visit one of the doctors’ offices on this street—or to whom modern medicine offered no hope of a cure. He had a suitcase open on a stand beside him stocked with bottles that promised themselves as a cough preventative.
I wondered fleetingly whether the mixture in the bottles contained opium. More than likely, it did.
I hailed a cab, giving the driver the Baker Street address, and Jack and I climbed in.
As the cab started to roll, I studied Jack’s expression. It was rare that I didn’t know what he was thinking, but at the moment I could only guess.
“He didn’t recognize you,” I finally said.
For safety’s sake, we had agreed in advance to make no mention of Becky. I had every hope that Davies’s next abode would be inside a jail cell. But even if we failed to get him sent back to prison, we did not want to give Benjamin Davies cause to use Becky for an instrument of revenge.
Jack had been looking out the cab window and at that seemed to come back from a long way off. Then he shrugged. “I was seven the last time he saw me.”
I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I wanted to murder him in there, practically every time he opened his mouth. I can’t imagine how it must have been for you. He’s the whole reason you grew up alone.”
Jack raised one shoulder again. “And I’d have been better off if I’d had to live with him? I don’t see that I have any grounds to complain.”
I shook my head. “You’re a much better person than I would be.”
“Sometime I’ll remind you that you said that.” He smiled briefly but then sobered. “I wouldn’t change anything that’s happened to me—because then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up where I am now.”
“A police sergeant with Scotland Yard?”
“That part’s nice, but I meant that maybe I wouldn’t have ended up here, married to you.” He threaded his fingers with mine. “That’s all I really care about.”
I started to smile up at him, then froze, ice running down my spine. The cab had drawn up in front of 221 Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson’s familiar figure was standing on the front steps. She was wringing her apron.
“
Oh, Miss Lucy! Sergeant Kelly!” Mrs. Hudson didn’t even wait for us to climb down from the carriage, but hurried to meet us at the curb, her usually plump, motherly face a mask of frightened agitation. “Thank the good Lord that you’re back, I didn’t know what to do!”
“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?” I caught hold of her hands, trying to speak with more calm assurance than I felt. “Everything will be all right, just tell us what’s happened.”
Mrs. Hudson took a shuddering breath. Tears stood in her eyes and on her cheeks. “It’s young Becky, Miss Lucy. She’s gone!”
PART FOUR
BATTLE STATIONS
58. CAUGHT
BECKY
The lockpicks slipped in Becky’s fingers, almost falling onto the muddy ground. Lucy would have had the door open five minutes ago. But then, Lucy could do practically anything.
Beside her, Flynn shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Are you trying to make this take for-bleeding-ever?”
Becky ignored him. “Here, hold this.”
She slipped Prince’s leash off her wrist and held it out to Flynn. Prince was usually good about waiting patiently, but maybe Flynn’s twitchiness was getting to him, too, because he kept whining and tugging on the leash. Which wasn’t helping her pick the lock.
Flynn gave her a disbelieving look. “You want me to get near that thing?”
“No, I want you to learn how to walk through doors the way they do in magic shows,” Becky snapped. “But I’ll settle for you holding onto his leash. And he is not a thing!”
Flynn scowled at her, but took hold of Prince’s leash gingerly. “Sooner or later one of the rozzers is going to come by on patrol, and then we’ll be for it.”
Flynn had the annoying habit of being right—maybe not always but a lot of the time—and now he had a point. Beat constables patrolled this neighborhood regularly, and if one of them spotted the pair of them trying to pick a lock on a door, he’d be blowing his whistle and calling for them to stop in the name of the law before Becky could blink twice.
