by Dana Cameron
Other Books in the Series:
Seven Kinds of Hell
Pack of Strays
“The Serpent’s Tale” (short story)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Dana Cameron
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781477851326
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For David Pomerico, editor extraordinaire, with thanks
Contents
Start Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
It had been a very quiet September at 221B Baker Street, and the evening in question was almost unbearably so. I found myself nodding, yet again, over my volume of mathematics. I wished for the Irregulars to appear, so that I could go off with them and find trouble. But they were occupied elsewhere, and I was trapped in a tranquilly boring domestic snare.
I glanced across the sitting room at the workbench, where a vile green potion bubbled away madly, this one giving off an odor like rotten eggs. I was happy when my Cousin, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, finally developed his new test for bloodstains—but this was far more noxious and pervasive.
I sighed; the best I could hope for tonight was that one of Sherlock’s eternal chemical experiments would go awry. Most frequently, there was awful smoke, but sometimes there was a fire, and once in a great while, there’d be a terrific explosion. It was wrong of me to wish for excitement, but I do love a good explosion.
The warm mugginess made my heavy skirts and petticoats unbearable. My Cousin was out investigating a string of thefts, though Scotland Yard was adamant that the crimes were unconnected. Not having that proof that would demonstrate his superiority put him into a bleak, distracted mood, but Sherlock forgave them their obtuseness because he himself could not yet positively gainsay them.
As a result, two-thirds of our little household was quite vexed, and the only one who was cheerful was Mrs. Hudson. Her obstinately pleasant demeanor was an affront to my pettishness, from across the whole length of the house.
There was a horrific pounding on the door, such that at first I thought it was the rumble of sudden thunder. I jumped up, glanced out the window, and my heart contracted painfully: I recognized all four figures. Doctor Watson supported a bleeding and unconscious youth, his medical bag fallen by his feet, while two other young men shouted and knocked.
The maid answered, and falling into my role, I gathered up my books and pencils and papers and scuttled off to the far side of the sitting room to await the moment when an Ordinary girl would be aware that something was badly amiss. Then crying, “What is the matter?” I raced to the top of the stairs and stopped, my fist to my mouth.
I watched as the good doctor stripped off his coat and put it under the unconscious lad’s head. As he did so, the others were not idle: The maid looked as though she would faint, until Doctor Watson barked an order for hot water and clean rags. The second young man went to help her, and the last boy, covered in blood as well, stood wringing his hands, wheezing and coughing, moving from one foot to the other in his dismay.
I fancied that I saw the doctor as the military officer he had once been, and no longer a London gentleman. He was not tall, but very vital, and the ease with which he arranged the prone lad showed that he retained the strength of a younger man. If the vicissitudes of war had contributed to the premature graying of his light hair, his training also gave him an air of calm yet intense focus, which reassured me as he examined the boy, searching for deep wounds. I held my breath until he sat back and grunted with satisfaction. He rummaged through his medical bag, emerging with a surgeon’s needle and suture as the maid and lad returned with the water and bandages.
Cousin Sherlock appeared from behind me, his hair damp-dark and sleeked back, a little disheveled. His long face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and the hair at his temples was artfully colored so that he appeared to be older. The carelessly tied sash on his dressing gown, the bulge in the sleeves that indicated his shirtsleeves were still rolled up, and his crooked collar were more than enough clues for me: My Cousin had come in through the back way, from an investigation, in a disguise that he’d shed too rapidly. The look on his face was mixed confusion and alarm, a combination I’d not seen him display before. He glanced down the stairs, then at me. I indicated his various untidinesses, and he adjusted them before he made a deliberate noise and caught the eye of his old friend.
Doctor Watson nodded to him and kept on with his work. The two conscious boys noticed me for the first time.
“Amelia, go to your room. This is nothing for you to see,” my Cousin said sternly, an actor now intent on his role. He raced past me and down the stairs, his long legs moving so quickly that he seemed in danger of getting them tangled up in his dressing gown.
I, of course, went to the curtained recess where I might hear anything in the sitting room and most of downstairs, by virtue of an accommodating system of listening tubes. I kept a tight rein on my emotions—such an enormous quantity of blood!—and concentrated on what transpired below.
Mrs. Hudson appeared then and cried aloud at the sight of the dirtied and bloodied boys, the doctor, and the unconscious lad in her house. Dark-haired, trim of form, and an attractive young widow, Mrs. Hudson had the Scotswoman’s hatred of disorder.
“Mrs. Hudson, we will no doubt do less harm to the kitchen flags than to your hallway parquet,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps we could remove there and see to Tommy more comfortably?”
Mrs. Hudson said, “Och, Emily, run quick and warn Cook!” In her brisk directness, Mrs. H. almost echoed Doctor Watson’s commanding manner; the maid scurried off, followed by the doctor and Sherlock, carrying the unconscious boy.
I stole down the stairs, keeping close to the walls so that I might observe the kitchen better and possibly help.
“It ain’t just Tommy,” one of them gasped. I recognized Jack Cooper’s ginger hair and chronic cough, exacerbated by his exertions. Jack lowered his head, putting his hands on his knees, panting with exhaustion. “It’s Billy, sir. Billy Wiggins.”
Cousin Sherlock wheeled on him. “What about Wiggins?”
“’E’s gone, Mr. ’olmes!” He looked up, and I saw his pug nose was bleeding steadily. He moved as if his ankle were tender. “The men what done for us—they—ahem—took ’im!”
A rush of voices and only a cry from Doctor Watson, not minding he was not in his own consulting room, but his friend’s kitchen—“A little quiet, please!”—was enough to quell them.
Sherlock said hastily, “I believe I know something of this, Jack. Once we know Tommy will survive, we will discuss what you know about Wiggins and his abductors.”
My eyes were only for the young man on the table, Thomas Turner. Doctor Watson worked busily. He seemed suddenly at a loss and looked up. “He has lost too much blood—I fear—”
Sherlock caught my eye and winked; he glanced across the room.
Mrs. Hudson nodded in response.
Tommy moaned and then went limp.
I gasped loudly, taking my cue, not needing it.
“Miss Amelia!”
Mrs. Hudson said sharply.
All eyes but one pair were on me.
“Whatever are you doing, miss? This is no place for you—”
I cast my eyes down, but saw Sherlock, who had been examining the boy’s hand, dart at the vein in his wrist. I saw Tommy’s face relax, and my Cousin turned as if just noticing my intrusion.
No one had seen Sherlock Holmes bite Tommy.
Mrs. Hudson all but chased me out. “Miss Amelia, upstairs, immediately, if you please!”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” I wobbled a little, as if unnerved. The uninjured, dark-haired boy, Hal Schulz, scowled at me. I quickly retreated, though I wondered angrily why he should be unmarked when Tommy was all but killed.
“Bread and meat for these boys, if you would, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.
Outwardly, she frowned, but I heard her whisper, “I can do a good deal better than that, Cousin.”
I resumed my listening post off the sitting room. After a short time, order—such as it could be—was restored. Doctor Watson, reassured he’d done all possible for the injured boys, had given Tommy a sedative to keep him comfortable and asleep. The doctor washed and went to the sitting room, where he sat down to a plate of food that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Once he had wolfed it down—the sudden excitement of his arrival put aside—he settled back in his chair with a brandy and soda.
“Well, Watson,” my Cousin said. A small, dry smile played at the corner of his lips. “It’s good to see you. As always, you bring an enlivening air to your old rooms.”
Doctor Watson, too tired to laugh, merely returned the smile, an acknowledgment of their adventures together. He leaned back with his brandy and soda and—all present needs met—relaxed. “I saw ’em as I turned into Baker Street. I recognized your “Irregulars,” and as they were struggling to carry their fellow to your doorstep, I found myself able to attend to ’em even quicker than if you’d called, Holmes.”
“It is more than good of you. Not many doctors would trouble themselves over street Arabs.”
Watson mumbled, “My blushes, Holmes” into his brandy.
“What is the nature of their wounds?” Cousin Sherlock asked.
“The unconscious boy—?”
“Thomas Turner—Tommy.”
“He has a broken arm, some very bad bruising on his ribs, and a worrying knock to the back of his head. Badly beaten, and blood loss from a deep knife wound to the shoulder.” He glanced up. “The boy can’t be fifteen, surely?”
“Nearer eighteen, I think. His small frame is due to malnourishment.”
“The other one who was injured, with the freckles and red hair? Has a worrying cough, asthma, I think. I do not know his name.”
“Jack Cooper.”
“Minor contusions to the head and a lightly sprained ankle. A street scuffle no doubt—he refused to tell me anything. The third lad I recognized from his brown hair and the badly healed scar on his arm—Hal Schulz. He was uninjured. He also said nothing.”
Sherlock frowned. “I will speak with them presently. Is that all you observed?” he asked curtly.
“My dear fellow—it was quite enough!” The doctor blotted the sweat on his forehead; now that trouble was passed and he’d done all he could, his efforts took their toll.
“There is something distinctly odd going on in London, Watson. You know the case I’ve been troubled with?”
“Cases—plural, I thought. Have you determined the thefts are unrelated?”
“I have not. There is no geographical pattern to the scenes of the crimes; they are scattered randomly around England and Europe. The objects themselves have no cultural association and were of wildly disparate values. There is no pattern of social connection that binds their owners all together—no common church, no shared club. The one thing in common is that other, more valuable objects—art, jewelry, the usual ornaments of the well-to-do—were left untouched. The foci of the crimes were on specific items. A great deal of planning went into these robberies.”
“All of the objects are antiquities,” Doctor Watson offered. “They were artifacts taken from museums or heirlooms stolen from well-established families. The necklace with the Star of Bengal ruby, the collection of Japanese netsuke, a clay pot from Utah, the Moroccan—”
Sherlock held up a hand; he knew the items in question. “There has been one theft that breaks that pattern, but it is clearly unrelated. Mr. Page of Hertford reported the theft of a painting along with some valuable antique Spanish coins. It became clear to me very soon that he’d staged the burglary himself, to keep the property from the rightful heir. It is no comfort when gentlemen given every advantage in education make the rudimentary mistake of breaking the window glass from inside the house.”
“No connections, no apparent relationship among them.” The doctor poured more brandy and employed the gasogene again. “It is as though it were a puzzle created particularly for you, Holmes.”
My Cousin startled and, with a glance at his friend, continued. “I spent the day at my old haunt, the British Museum, speaking with a Professor Emerson, an expert in antiquities. I was walking back to Baker Street, the better to clear my head, when someone ran straight into me. I was so deep in thought that by the time I had collected myself, he had vanished, possibly into a hansom. I feel certain that this incident, the attack on my Irregulars, and my investigation must be connected.”
“Well? What did his face, his dress tell you about him?” Doctor Watson asked, after waiting expectantly, though in vain, for more detail.
“Nothing, not a clue. Male, dark clothing, above average height.”
Now this was something quite extraordinary, and not just a bit worrying. I frowned, and Doctor Watson had almost the same response, perhaps for different reasons.
“It’s unlike you to be so unperceptive, Holmes. Indeed, when you are so careless, something strange is afoot in London. Or else . . . look here, old man, I must ask—have you been indulging in that unhealthy pastime of yours?”
A noise of dismissal. “No, Watson. It is fatigue and distraction only.”
There was the sound of movement, followed by a brief silence.
“I hope you’ve found my pulse to be normal, Watson,” I heard my Cousin say, with the faintest tinge of annoyance in his voice.
“You’re pale, Holmes. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”
My Cousin rose suddenly. “I hope you will excuse me. You’ve come to visit and not only have I imposed on you, but I am very poor company.”
It would have been a terrible shock to his readers if they could hear Doctor Watson make nary a protest, make no offer to stay and take notes. “Very good. Tomorrow, then, I’ll stop by to check on the boy.”
“Thank you. I’m certain Mrs. H. is very put out by all this. She suspects the lads will be as Visigoths and pillage the silver. She fears for the pristine nature of the anti-Macassars.”
“Ah, well.” The doctor chuckled. “I’ll smooth her ruffled feathers as I see myself out.”
I knew that Dr. Watson believed Mrs. Hudson didn’t approve of the Baker Street Irregulars, as Cousin Sherlock called his army of ragged youths, but that was far from true. She worked hard to hide her affection for them—many of them children, sometimes girls—and used some of the household money to surreptitiously help them and their families. But no respectable lady would want them in her house, and Mrs. Hudson was the very image of respectability.
“Thank you, Watson.”
They shook hands. As Doctor Watson’s footsteps faded down the carpeted stairs, I followed him.
“Shall I ask the housekeeper to give you some steak and kidney pie, Doctor Watson? She’s just finished one for tomorrow’s dinner, and I know how you love it.”
His demeanor brightened considerably. “What a kind thought! You always know what will cheer me up, Agatha!”
Doctor Watson always got my name wrong. He was so often preoccupied with medical ma
tters and writing up Cousin Sherlock’s cases that I didn’t like to trouble him about it. He’s a lovely, kind gentleman.
I feel sorry for him.
“You’ve had a trying day,” I said. “A long day and your wife out of town, then to find a bloody and beaten lad on the doorstep? A bit of pie for your dinner tomorrow will help make up for your maid’s dismal cooking.” I trotted down the hall ahead of him.
“How on earth—?” I heard behind me.
It wasn’t hard, my deduction, and as a medical man—indeed, as a soldier wary of ambush—he might have reached the same conclusions from the same evidence. But that final step of deduction always seemed just a little beyond him, clever as he was.
He still had his medical bag. If Mrs. Watson had been home, he would have gone straight there to dine. Such a simple observation, and yet . . .
The doctor made certain that Tommy was comfortable and gave a few instructions to the housekeeper, who looked none too pleased to be given the chore of nursing the boy. Mrs. Hudson had, rather presciently, wrapped up a piece of pie for him and we sent him on his way.
“My Cousin would like to talk to you both,” I said to Hal and Jack.
“And we’d like a word wiv him,” said Hal, a little ferociously. I looked away.
“It won’t take long . . . ahem, . . . miss,” Jack said in a placating fashion. He’d recovered from the earlier excitement, but his chronic coughing persisted.
I led the way to the sitting room. Just before we went in, Hal seized my arm. “You keep away from Tommy, hear?” he hissed. “You're no good for him.”
Hal had seen me talking to Tommy once and was not pleased about it.
“Take your hand off me,” I said, holding his gaze until he did.
In the sitting room, we found Cousin Sherlock seated, deep in thought.
He looked up as we entered. I departed the same way the boys and I had come, down the main hall stairs. I then sneaked up the backstairs to spy again from the curtained recess.
