by Anna Elliott
Mr. Holmes sat down, put the tips of his fingers together, and shut his eyes. Anyone looking at him might think he didn’t care about Jack, but Becky knew that wasn’t it. He was just concentrating on the problem.
“We have a limited circle from which to choose,” he began. “Our plan was known only to ourselves and to the police officers charged with guarding Lady Constance and her husband. Otherwise—”
He broke off as the sitting-room door opened and Flynn burst in, still panting as if he’d been running hard all the way here.
Becky sat up straighter, a small spark of hope igniting inside her. But Flynn’s face looked grim, and when he saw her he shook his head.
“They had a carriage parked on the other side of the park. I managed to follow them for a few miles. They were heading for the East End. But I lost them somewhere on Poplar High Street.”
Becky knew how much he must hate having to tell them that.
Lucy nodded. The disappointment had to be just as bad for her, but she said, “Thank you for trying, Flynn. You did well. And that at least gives us a direction to go on.”
It wasn’t much of one. Becky knew just how big and sprawling the East End of London was, and Jack could be anywhere. They could even have loaded him onto a boat on one of the docks and be sailing away from London.
Lucy braced her hands against her eyes for a second, then she turned back to Mr. Holmes.
“This doesn’t make any sense. They can’t actually think we’ll just hand Lady Constance over to them, can they?”
The words made the knot in Becky’s stomach twist tighter, because she knew even Jack himself would never agree to that kind of bargain. No one who knew Lucy and Mr. Holmes would think that they’d sacrifice someone innocent that way, not even to save someone they loved.
“They may be desperate enough to think it worth the attempt.” Mr. Holmes sounded just as grim as Lucy and Flynn. “Either way, we have little more than twenty-four hours until the time set for the exchange. I believe that they can best be spent in investigating who the informant behind tonight’s attack was.”
Lucy took a breath that shook a little, but she was still trying to speak steadily. “So, we’re back to the police constables assigned as guards. Jack chose them for the assignment specifically because he trusted them most.”
“And I would not fault his judgment,” Holmes said. “But trustworthy men have been known to be tempted by bribes. And even honest men may be susceptible to threats against their loved ones. If the kidnappers approached one of the officers, for example, and threatened to harm his wife or a child or parent—”
Lucy nodded. “There are the Dales’ servants, too. One of them may have contrived to overhear our plans. Although they would have had to work very quickly to get word to anyone outside the house.”
“The police officers will still be at the hotel, guarding Lord Anthony and Lady Constance,” Mr. Holmes said. “If I leave immediately, Watson and I can interview them before the night is out.” He stopped and looked at Lucy with an expression Becky didn’t often see in Mr. Holmes’ eyes. He looked as if he were sorry for her. “I know how much you will wish to be active in this investigation, but I believe that someone ought to stay here at all times, in case our kidnappers telephone again. We ought to leave them with a means of easily and rapidly communicating with us. Not just for the sake of Jack’s safety, but because the more opportunities we have to speak with them, the more likely they are to let slip some information that will lead us to them.”
Becky saw just how much Lucy wanted to argue. She even opened her mouth. But then she sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter what I want to do; you’re exactly right that someone needs to be here. And it had better be me. I’ve already spoken to what seemed to be the man in charge once. I’ll stay.”
Flynn spoke up. He’d caught his breath by now. “What about the lawyer, Mr… what’s his name? The one putting the case together against Mr. Linden.”
Mr. Linden had tried to murder a friend of Flynn’s, so Flynn had taken even more interest than usual in this case and the preparations for Mr. Linden’s trial.
Lucy looked a little surprised. “Mr. Phelps? But he’s the council for the prosecution. His entire career hinges on his success at gaining convictions. Why would he want to silence Lady Constance?”
Flynn shrugged. “Mr. Holmes said it. Almost anyone can be bought, if the bribe’s big enough.”
Lucy sat up straighter, a little of the light coming back into her eyes. “You’re right. And Mr. Phelps went to use the telephone, just before we left to get into the Dales’ carriage, remember?” She looked at Mr. Holmes. “He said that it was to engage a room for himself at Claridge’s, but he could have been telephoning to an outside accomplice.”
She jumped up, went to the table where some files and papers were spread out, and copied something from one of the notebooks onto a small sheet of paper.
“Here. This is Mr. Phelps’s address. A flat in Albert Mansions.” She handed the paper across to Flynn. “He won’t be at home, if he’s staying with the Dales at Claridge’s. You and Becky go to his flat, see whether you can get inside, and search for anything at all that might implicate him in this.”
For a moment, Flynn just stood staring at Lucy with his mouth hanging open. Becky wasn’t sure how her own face looked, but it was probably as surprised as Flynn’s.
Lucy actually gave them a tiny smile. “I know. Winged pigs are probably about to start flapping past our window, because I’m actively encouraging the two of you to commit burglary and invade the home of a potentially dangerous man. But we all three of us know that you’ll take part in this investigation regardless of what I tell you. And the plain fact is that we need your help.” Her voice wavered for a second. “Jack needs your help.”
Becky jumped up before Lucy could change her mind and tell them to stay home after all. “We’ll do it—won’t we, Flynn?”
Flynn nodded, his shoulders squared. “We will. You can count on us.”
CHAPTER 5: WATSON
“I’ll never forgive myself if any harm comes to that poor policeman.”
Perfectly balanced on her window seat at Claridge’s hotel, Lady Constance twirled a ringlet of her golden hair around her index finger. Her blue eyes flashed with indignation and worry. “Whoever is behind this ought to pay a very severe price. Imagine, the unmitigated gall, to expect me to go like a little lamb to offer myself to those who have tried to kill me! And to expect me to do that because they have kidnapped a policeman!” A breeze blew in from the dark city outside, fluttering the chiffon curtains behind her. She pushed it away. “Although kidnapping is of course very, very wrong. But I really don’t know what I ought to do about it.” She shut the window and reached her hand out towards her husband, plainly seeking his support.
“It is a desperate manoeuvre,” said Lord Anthony, coming forward to sit down beside her. He took her hand and held it for a long moment. “Still, I don’t think you ought to fret over it, my dear. I’m sure these police chaps will take care of their own, won’t they Mr. Holmes?”
We were awaiting the arrival of an extraordinarily late supper, so late as to very nearly be better-deemed an early breakfast, the four of us, in the sitting room of the suite Lord Anthony had engaged at Claridge’s Hotel. Lady Constance and Lord Anthony, both accustomed to keeping such hours, had insisted on a full report of what had happened when we had arrived to question their police guard, and had immediately sent down for refreshments, explaining that the hotel staff were always prepared to accommodate such orders.
Claridge’s was known as an extension of Buckingham Palace, due to the frequent use of its rooms and banquet facilities by royalty. The entire hotel had been recently rebuilt and redecorated. No expense had been spared. The fifteen-foot high ceiling in the Dales’ suite had been painted a tranquil sky-blue, with a pattern of fluffy white clouds. Silvery satin drapes framed each of the tall windows. The dr
apes muffled the faint noises of the sparse late-night traffic that wafted through the partially opened window from the Mayfair streets and the park five stories below. We were in another world, one of quiet luxury and ease.
It may have been my frugal Scottish upbringing, but I felt a twinge of disapproval at the insistently opulent nature of our surroundings, and the capricious nature of our hosts’ demand for refreshments at what seemed to me to be a most inappropriate moment. It seemed wrong for Lord and Lady Dale to have ensconced themselves here, turning their hiding period into a holiday while Jack, solely for their protection, was suffering the fate of a kidnapped prisoner.
Holmes, however, accustomed to long periods without rest when occupied with a case, was plainly unperturbed by the lateness of the hour.
“Every effort will be made to resolve the situation,” he said. “But while we await your supper to be brought, I should like to hear, Lady Constance, if you can recall any details of the first attack on your person. Perhaps there may be something that can help with the current difficulty.”
“I don’t want my wife distressed!” Lord Anthony said.
“Oh, Anthony, don’t treat me like a fragile flower,” Lady Constance replied. “I survived, didn’t I? And I do want to help. Though there isn’t much to tell. It all happened so quickly.”
“Try to remember, nonetheless,” Holmes said.
“Well, I was out for my usual morning ride in the park.”
“Hyde Park?”
“Yes, we have an arrangement with the stables there.”
“Your own horse?”
“Naturally.”
“At your regular hour?”
“Yes.”
“On your usual route?”
“Yes. I see what you are getting at, Mr. Holmes. I’m a creature of habit, so it was easy for anyone to know just where to wait to ambush me.”
“And so, someone did.”
“Yes. As I told the police, a man with a flat cap and shabby coat jumped out of the bushes onto the riding path before me and fired a gun.”
“A pistol?”
“A hand-held gun of some sort. I don’t know what kind it was. As I said, it was all over in a moment. I felt the sting of the bullet on my forehead, and my horse panicked, and bolted, and knocked the man down, so that he didn’t get off a second shot, thank God. But I was far too occupied getting Chester—my horse, you understand—back under control. By the time I had stopped and looked back, the man was gone.”
Holmes nodded. “How far do you think you rode before you were able to stop your horse?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps twenty yards. Perhaps more. I really couldn’t think of anything other than hauling on Chester’s reins.”
There came a light, respectful tapping at the entry door.
“That will be our meal, at last,” said Lady Constance.
She stood.
“Allow me, Lady Constance,” I said. “It is as well to be certain.”
I opened the door. The guard, a police constable, said, “Supper, sir,” and stepped aside, to allow four smartly uniformed hotel staff to pass through. They each wheeled in a gleaming food-cart, sparkling with white linens and silver service. The carts moved silently over the plush carpet, on rubber tires.
One of the staff uncorked a champagne bottle and put it into a silver urn with ice as Lady Constance hovered over the carts, lifting the bright silver dome lids and inspecting the contents of the trays beneath. Finally, she gave an approving nod, and the four uniformed staff bowed and made their exits.
“I shall serve,” she said, turning away from the trays and going back to her husband. “Anthony, don’t bother getting up. You have had enough trouble on my account. And Leonie can clear away when we’ve finished.” She raised her voice slightly. “Leonie?”
The door to the adjoining bedroom opened, and we saw a small, tidy, dark-haired woman in maid’s uniform peering out. “Vous avez appelé, madame?” She waited, primly folding her hands over her small white apron.
Holmes gave a look of disapproval. “Lady Constance, you were instructed to tell no one at all where you were going.”
“Oh, Leonie doesn’t count. I only told her we were coming here just before we left. Besides, she doesn’t speak a word of English, do you Leonie?”
The woman blinked, as if puzzled, and bobbed her head in a brittle, bird-like manner. “Madame?”
“You see, Mr. Holmes? I trust her implicitly, and she couldn’t tell anyone anything of our circumstances or plans, even if she wanted to.” She turned back to Leonie and said a few sentences in French, at which point Leonie nodded and dropped a well-practiced curtsey before returning to the bedroom.
“I told her she could finish the unpacking and then come back here when we’ve done with our supper. Now, just one more question for you, Mr. Holmes. About that poor policeman. You are planning to rescue him, are you not?”
“Why would you need to ask about such things, Constance?” Lord Anthony broke in. “It’s up to the police to take care of their own, just as they are duty-bound to take care of us.”
Lady Constance shut her eyes a moment, as though gathering courage. “It’s no good blaming the police, Anthony, or doubting their abilities. Is it, Mr. Holmes? After all, they’re what we have, and we must rely on them. Them and you, of course. Do you know their plans?”
“I have every confidence,” Holmes replied. “But as yet I do not believe specific plans have been formulated.”
“Because I do feel responsibility, naturally. And I must say that if worse comes to worst, I am feeling more and more that it is my duty to go exchange myself—”
“You cannot be serious,” said Lord Anthony. “I forbid it!”
Lady Constance continued as if her husband had not spoken. “—for that poor young policeman. The Linden gang want to keep me from testifying. That is clear. But otherwise they have no use for me. So, they are likely to release me when the trial is over. It would only be a matter of ensuring my safety and comfort during the intervening period of time.”
“Oh, that gang won’t stop there,” said Lord Anthony. “Even after the trial.”
“No, Anthony. After the trial they will have got what they want, and they will release me.”
“They will want a great whopping ransom, I’ll be bound. Wouldn’t you think so, Mr. Holmes?”
“I hope it will not come to that,” said Holmes.
“No matter,” said Lord Anthony. “I cannot allow you to place yourself in danger, in any event.”
Lady Constance shook her head. “We must both of us be brave, Anthony. Just as it was my decision whether to do the right thing and testify against that Linden rapscallion, I can make my own choice not to testify. I think there may be a greater right involved here. It appears that a man’s life is at stake, which to me is far more significant than the Crown securing a conviction against Linden. After all, Phelps might succeed without me. He only wants my testimony in order to make his job easier.”
She moved away from the bedroom entrance to where the four food carts had been left in a tidy row against the wall, close to where I was seated. Ignoring the champagne, she proceeded to lift the silver-domed covers, setting them aside to expose the various cakes and canapes as well as the little trays, plates, cups and saucers. Wielding a silver trowel in a brisk expert manner, she stacked several small cucumber sandwiches onto one small plate and topped them off with another, this appearing to be of watercress. She set the plate onto a small silver tray, along with a china teacup and saucer, and turned to her husband with a look of appeal.
“Please, Anthony, let us not quarrel. Not when it is more important than ever that we face our enemies with a united front.”
She spoke with a smile as she stood before her husband and handed him the small silver tray.
But just at the moment Lord Anthony returned her smile with a grudging one of his own and reached for the tray, there came the crashing sound of shattering window glass. The tray
hit the floor with a clatter of metal and broken china.
Lord Anthony clutched at his shoulder, which was bleeding into his hand.
Lady Constance staggered and fell to the carpet.
CHAPTER 6: FLYNN
Flynn stared at Becky. It was after midnight and the two were sitting side by side on the street curb opposite Albert Mansions, each of them holding a baked potato. Nothing should have surprised him about her ideas by now, but he kept waiting for the words, Only joking to come out of her mouth.
But she just sat there looking back at him.
He finally said, “If you’re that set on dying, I can think of easier ways to join the heavenly choir.”
Becky scowled. “I’m not going to die. Probably. And anyway, you don’t have to come.”
“Yes I do. If I don’t, who’s going to make sure you get out of this alive? Besides—”
He cleared his throat. Families and grown-up people looking after you weren’t for boys like him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see that they were nice to have. And Becky’s brother being missing gave him a hollow, broken feeling, like there was something wrong that needed to be set right.
“For a copper, your brother’s a decent sort,” he finished.
For a second, he thought Becky was going to cry—which would have been even worse than the idea she’d just explained to him. But then she took a gulp of air and said, “All right, then. That’s Mr. Phelps’s building there.”
She pointed to the tall brick building on the other side of the road. They’d bought hot baked potatoes from a vendor who’d set up her stall a block away, selling to fashionable toffs returning from a late night out. The potatoes were cold, but at least they gave Flynn and Becky an excuse for sitting on the curb. So far, Becky had barely touched hers and was only pretending to take a bite every now and then. Flynn never passed up a chance for a hot meal, but even he wasn’t feeling any too hungry right now.
