Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  Then I knew.

  I went on, still trying to buy time, “I think I know why. Shall I tell you?”

  Ming stared, still silent. Kai-chen looked down.

  “Those people in your audience. They know that Lady Lynley and Mrs. Slade will be bitterly disappointed. Because whatever cure you’re pretending to give, it really isn’t a cure. It’s just opium or laudanum or morphine, only in a more concentrated form. It’s just enough to create hope, and then betray that hope. And I was watching your audience while they were listening to the two English ladies. You said they were here to find a cure for their friends and relatives who are addicts. But it wasn’t hope and empathy that I saw on their faces.

  “At first, I couldn’t quite identify their expression, but now I think it was satisfaction. Self-centered, vindictive, satisfaction. They’re going to buy those pastilles from you and take them home, but not because they want to cure anyone. They’re going to sell the drugs, aren’t they? They may even give the drugs away to people who are their enemies. They’ve come here to see how your new drugs will enslave their customers, and make their enemies suffer.”

  Ming said nothing.

  “Both those two ladies looked very anxious for their next dose. Maybe you took them somewhere where your audience could watch them wait, and grow more and more desperate, and beg, harder and harder and harder. A demonstration.”

  Across the room from us, Alice was curled up in a ball, sobbing.

  “Have you already done that with Alice here? Put her on display?”

  Still silence.

  “You are as hideous on the inside as you are on the outside, Mr. Ming,” I said.

  No reply. Not even defiance in Ming’s eyes. Just a dry, patient glitter, like a snake.

  I went on, determined to provoke a reaction if I possibly could. “Kai-chen, how can you look at your own reflection in the mirror, knowing you are working for a man like this? Is this truly who you want to be?”

  Kai-chen was about to speak, but Ming silenced him with a warning glance. Then he turned to me.

  68. A DESPERATE MOVE

  BECKY

  Becky didn’t recognize the dry, raspy voice. It came from down the hall, in some other room, but not too far away. It said, “You need not speak, Kai-chen. Miss James, the subtlety of your mind is quite astonishing, for a barbarian.”

  The voice made Becky’s skin crawl, all the way from the base of her neck to the soles of her feet.

  “We have to do something!” she hissed.

  She and Flynn were crouched in the shadows of the service staircase they’d used to get down into the cellar.

  The Grand Hotel’s basement covered the footprint of the entire sprawling structure and was laid out like a maze: dark narrow hallways and windowless rooms.

  They’d blundered around a bit in the dark and found a room that looked like a bigger version of the chemistry laboratory Mr. Holmes had in his Baker Street rooms—beakers and burners and test tubes, all laid out on tables. The air smelled like a chemistry experiment, too, harsh and sour. It was beginning to give Becky a headache.

  But all she cared about now was that she’d also heard Lucy’s voice, coming from behind the closed door she could see off to their left and at the end of another narrow hallway.

  Panic was pulling tight under Becky’s ribcage. “Whoever’s in there is going to kill Lucy and Dr. Watson, too, unless we can stop them!”

  Flynn frowned. Then he picked up a stray half of a broken brick that lay on the floor, weighed it in his hand, and threw it down the hall.

  It landed with a crash.

  Becky stared at him, opened mouthed. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Flynn shrugged. “They can’t kill Miss Lucy if they’re trying to find out where the noise came from. We can stand ’ere arguing about it, or we can run, so that we’re not ’ere when they do come.”

  69. A NEW ARRIVAL

  WATSON

  When the crash came, I was tied in a chair, by hand and foot, with a gag stuffed into my mouth.

  Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all, not to mention having my neck pricked by the tip of a hypodermic needle.

  But not hopeless, either. I had given hundreds of injections to hundreds of patients, using a syringe just like the one Ming held. I knew I was not helpless. Far from it.

  To begin with, there was Ming himself. He was holding the syringe with his good hand. The other was tight against his chest, as always, as if it were held in some sort of sling. That meant he could feel the syringe, but he could not feel my body movements, the subtle tensions I would be going through, as my muscles prepared to make some kind of movement.

  If I were preparing to move.

  Which I was.

  The second point in my favor was that to inflict real damage the syringe would require two moves on Ming’s part. First, he would have to penetrate the skin of my neck, and second, he would have to depress the plunger, delivering the contents of the syringe into my system. Without the second movement, the first would be no more than a scratch, or an inconvenient insect bite. A small prick of pain, but not any permanent damage. Nothing to incapacitate me.

  The third point in my favor was Lucy James. I knew what she could do.

  The problem was Kai-chen, of course. The big strong Chinaman had his revolver jammed into the small of Lucy’s back. If I moved, Lucy would be fully occupied with him—possibly fatally—before I could have any effect on Ming.

  But then the crash had come from outside the room, and my spirits soared.

  Ming pressed the syringe into my neck all the tighter. But he said, “Kai-chen. See to that. Take the revolver. Miss James, stay where you are. Or the syringe in my hand will do its work.”

  I waited until Kai-chen had gone. Then I prepared myself for my move, rehearsing it in my mind. I would crunch my knees up to meet my chest, leaning forward, jerking my body, curling up, which would pull my neck away from Ming. My plan was to hit the floor, then roll into Ming’s legs, chair and all, knocking him off balance. With no Kai-chen to contend with, Lucy could do the rest. I was completely sure of that.

  I made my move. It caught Ming unawares, and my neck came free of the syringe. Knees up, I rocked forward and toppled sideways, still bound to the chair. But my forehead struck the stone floor.

  I saw blackness.

  But I heard scuffling.

  It took me a moment to realize that the blackness had come from the lights in the room going out, and not from the blow to my head. I struggled to get myself upright. I heard Ming call out in anger, and then came the sound of another impact, like a slap.

  Then, in my ear, a familiar voice. A voice that made me gasp.

  “Just a moment, old friend.”

  That voice was that of Sherlock Holmes.

  70. TOUCH AND GO

  WATSON

  A profound feeling of relief surged through me. Holmes was alive! And while we had been searching for him, he had found us!

  I felt relief, but I also felt outrage. How could Holmes have let us believe that he was dead? How could he?

  I felt a tugging at the ropes that bound my wrists, and a moment later my arms were free. In the next moment the lights in the room came on.

  I saw Jack, at the light switch, and Lucy, kneeling, one knee digging into the back of the prostrate Ming. The tip of her Ladysmith revolver was pressed firmly into his ear. Lucy’s flashing green eyes shone with a cold fury.

  My hands freed, I pulled away the gag. Holmes knelt beside me, cutting away the ropes that bound my ankles. He slid the ropes across the floor to Lucy, along with those that had bound my wrists.

  I started to speak, but Holmes put a finger to his lips.

  I very nearly disobeyed his clear instruction and spoke anyway.

  So many questions surged to my angry mind. Why had he allowed us to think he was dead? Had he staged the incident on the Thames? He must have done! Had the commander been in on a charade? If Holmes could trust the commander, why coul
d he not trust us? And it had been four days since that awful event. During that time, why had he not gotten word to us that he was safe? Why had he not somehow explained to us what had occurred? He may have needed the public to believe he was dead. I understood that. But why could we not be trusted?

  As I got unsteadily to my fee, I saw Jack, pocketing a revolver. Holmes was whispering something into Jack’s ear.

  I patted my coat pocket and realized that the revolver Jack had taken was my Webley.

  Jack nodded at Lucy, who nodded back. Then Jack left the room.

  Lucy was still silent. I realized that there must be a reason that she was not talking. She had been just as shaken by Holmes’s disappearance and presumed death as I. She would have had the same questions and pent-up feelings as I.

  Yet she was still silent.

  Looking at her once more, I saw she was binding Ming’s arms behind his back, using the ropes that had bound me. Her eyes still blazed, but she was looking at Ming, and not at Holmes.

  So she was not furious with Holmes.

  She must have understood something I had yet to fathom.

  Holmes tapped me on the shoulder. He whispered, “Can you assist Jack?”

  Then I realized.

  Kai-chen.

  Kai-chen had left the room to see what the disturbance had been. He would return soon—or he had already become aware of Holmes’s presence and was biding his time, waiting to return when our guard was down. Or he was going for reinforcements, possibly to bring back the men who were unloading the ship. We needed to find him and overpower him.

  I nodded, stepping out into the dark hallway. Looking back for a moment I saw Holmes crouched at Lucy’s side, wrapping a length of rope around Ming’s ankles.

  I took a few paces down the hall. Ahead of me I heard a metallic clatter. Then breathing. Intense, short sharp breaths, indicating exertion. I took a few paces more and saw the room to my right. Through the doorway I could see Jack and Kai-chen, circling one another like two tigers. Kai-chen held a knife, outthrust. Jack’s hands were empty. Kai-chen must have kicked the revolver out of Jack’s grasp. Jack was brave and honorable, but I feared for his chances in a hand-to-hand struggle against Kai-chen’s oriental fighting skills. And now Kai-chen had a knife, and he held the knife as though he knew precisely how to use it.

  I waited. The two were circling one another. Kai-chen’s eyes were on his opponent. He did not see me. A few more paces and his back would be to me.

  I waited.

  Three more paces. Two. One.

  I charged, putting all my strength into my run, lowering my head, using my body weight behind my shoulder for maximum impact, hitting the Chinaman with a powerful bull rush, carrying him forward. My fighting instinct had taken over. I would not stop until we both had crashed into the stone wall. I tried to turn Kai-chen so that his head would strike the hard surface with all the force of my body weight behind it. He realized his danger and twisted around to take the force of the impact on his side and shoulder. We crashed into the wall together, falling to the ground.

  Then Jack was behind us, his boot stamping hard on Kai-chen’s knife hand. I heard the bones crack. Heard Kai-chen’s hiss of pain. I got both hands under his chin and gouged my thumbs and fingertips into his throat. He thrashed and kicked, flailing his arms, driving a knee into my midsection so that I nearly lost my grip on him.

  Then I heard the crunch of metal on bone. Kai-chen’s hands went involuntarily to his cheek, where Jack had hit him with the handle of my revolver. His neck was now exposed. His knife was on the floor at my side. I could have picked it up and cut his throat.

  Instead I shoved it away and slammed my forearm down on his windpipe and his chin, driving the back of his head into the stone wall.

  Kai-chen went limp, although he was still breathing.

  Jack pressed the muzzle of the Webley into Kai-chen’s ear. “I have my handcuffs on my belt. Dr. Watson, would you do the honors?”

  I was about to reply, but then I heard Becky’s voice. “He needs to hold that man’s legs. I’ll do it.”

  And Flynn’s voice. “I’ve got the knife.”

  71. THE STOLEN HOARD

  WATSON

  We cuffed Kai-chen’s wrists behind his back. Then we marched him to the passageway, where Holmes waited with Lucy. I saw Ming on his knees. His hands and ankles were tied.

  “Now, Holmes,” I began. I intended to say that now that Ming and Kai-chen were both secure, Holmes could tell us how he had come to be here and where we would go next with our prisoners.

  But Lucy was looking at me. With a finger to her lips.

  So there was something else that she knew that I did not.

  What was it?

  “Jack, would you please take Ming and Kai-chen to the dock,” Holmes said. “Becky, Flynn, please run ahead of him. You will find Mr. Lansdowne there with the Royal Marines. Tell him that Jack is on his way with two prisoners and that he should order the preparation of two cells in the ship’s brig.”

  “On what charge am I to be jailed?” Ming hissed the question.

  “There is no shortage of charges, and there is an abundance of evidence.”

  We waited as the others left the room.

  “I’m coming with you,” Lucy said to Holmes.

  “You cannot.”

  I could contain myself no longer. “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a reason we could not know the truth,” Lucy said, stepping forward to face Holmes. “I know why you are here, where you are going, and what you are planning to do. You think you have foreseen everything, and that your plan is the only way. But I do not agree. And you cannot stop me from coming with you.”

  “Then I am coming as well,” I said.

  “Neither of you can be part of this,” Holmes said, and started to walk. “It is essential—”

  Lucy cut him off. “On my wedding day, you said that we would do things together.”

  She now was walking ahead of Holmes, down a corridor. Ahead of us was a metal door. It appeared to be watertight, the sort one would find on a naval vessel. It was open. From within I caught the odor of chemicals. The sharp smell of ammonia mingled with the sour scent of vinegar. There were tables with glass containers and Bunsen burners. The room was unoccupied.

  I asked, “What is this place?”

  “This is where Mr. Seewald gets his laudanum, and where Ming’s heroin pastilles come from,” Lucy said.

  Pride and annoyance appeared to war with one another on Holmes’s sharp features as he looked at his daughter. “Quite correct. This is the laboratory where raw opium is converted to morphine.” He gestured to a wall of shelves. “There is the lime and concentrated ammonia used in the process.”

  “I can smell the ammonia quite plainly,” I said.

  Holmes continued, “Then soda ash, acetic anhydride, and chloroform are used to convert the morphine into heroin. The acetic anhydride has a characteristic smell of vinegar. When it combines with water vapor in the air, in fact, it is vinegar.”

  Lucy was at a shelf that contained a number of small bottles and a stack of paper. “These are the bottles and labels for Mr. Seewald’s laudanum. Probably there is a supply of alcohol around here as well.” She turned to Holmes. “That may be useful.”

  “I had something else in mind,” said Holmes.

  He was at the far side of the room, opening another metal door. I heard the sound of the ocean and caught the scent of sea air.

  “A tunnel,” Holmes said. “Products are carried out, and supplies are carried in. They are brought here from the hotel dock—” standing in the tunnel, Holmes flung open another metal door “—and stored in this room.”

  “Along with the opium,” Lucy said.

  “The cargoes of three ships, and possibly more,” Holmes said.

  “Which is why you didn’t want us here,” Lucy said.

  “I still want you to stay out,” Holmes said. “You should be able to say that you ne
ver saw the missing chests of opium. You should be able to testify to that in a court of law. You should be able to swear to it with a clear conscience.”

  “My conscience doesn’t work that way,” Lucy said.

  She stepped around Holmes and threw a light switch. Electric lamps blazed. “Now we can see what a million pounds’ worth of opium looks like,” she said.

  I gazed into the room. A cavern had been dug out, an extension of the basement and hydrotherapy rooms, but one that went on as far as or perhaps even farther than the foundation of the hotel.

  I saw wooden chests, coated with pitch, identical to the chest we had first seen in Swafford’s room and later in Mrs. Newman’s home. Chests by the thousands, stacked along the wall on shelves about a foot above the concrete floor, to guard against damp. There were perhaps fifty electric bulbs shining throughout the room, hung from the ceiling. They would provide abundant illumination for the loading and unloading process, making it difficult for a thief to conceal and get away with anything of value.

  On the shelves were also hundreds of glass bottles of varying sizes. “Supplies,” Holmes said. “Alcohol, lime, acetic anhydride, ammonia, Activated charcoal. Now you have seen it. For the first and last time.”

  Lucy stepped into the room. “We are all three in this,” she said.

  Holmes pulled something tubular from inside his coat pocket. It had a string. I realized it was a tube of dynamite. Perhaps a foot long, perhaps two inches thick.

  “Powerful enough for its purpose,” said Holmes.

  He led us out of the storage room, partially closing the metal door. As we waited in the tunnel, he struck a match, lighting a wax candle that stood in a wall sconce next to the door. “I will shut the door after I light the fuse,” Holmes said. “We need not go all the way down the tunnel.”

  Then from behind us in the laboratory room, came a familiar, raspy voice.

  Ming’s voice.

  “Drop it, Mr. Holmes.”

  72. BATTLE

  WATSON