by Anna Elliott
Prince snuffles in his sleep at Constable Kelly’s feet, his paws twitching in some canine dream.
I take a breath. “I could stay with Becky for you.”
Constable Kelly looks at me quickly, both his eyebrows going up in surprise.
I hurry on, “Just for now, I mean. Until I can find out—well, anything—about who I am or where I belong. But in the meantime, I could look after Becky and at the least stop her from annoying any more tavern owners. Although—”
A sudden thought strikes me, and I stop short. “Maybe you would not want to trust me with your sister. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I could be anyone—any kind of criminal—”
But Constable Kelly stops me, shaking his head. “No. You couldn’t.”
His face is all hard planes and angles in the firelight, his dark eyes serious, intent beneath the scar on his brow.
It’s strange—strictly speaking, the so-called Frances Ferrars is, I suppose, the better looking of the two. But right now, the errant thought flashes through my mind that I wouldn’t even glance at Ferrars if John Kelly were in the room.
Constable Kelly’s face has both strength and character, as well as good looks—where Ferrars’s was a bland, empty mask.
“I know criminals,” Constable Kelly goes on. “From both sides—being one and arresting them. I have no idea what to make of you. But whoever and whatever you are, you’re not a murderer. If you shot someone, it was for a good reason, and because you had no other choice.”
After knowing him less than a day, John Kelly’s opinion shouldn’t really carry such weight with me—and yet somehow at his words, I feel oddly lighter, as though an invisible weight has been suddenly lifted from my heart.
I meet his gaze and say, quietly, “Thank you.”
The room is silent, save for the occasional snore from Prince, and the small crackles the fire makes. Outside, I can hear all the street noises of a London night: shouts and voices raised in drunken song, and from somewhere more distant a splintering crash of what sounds like breaking wood.
But here in this room, everything feels safe—cozy, the rest of the world held at bay.
I rub my temples. “Although I do still wish that I could remember. It’s very unsettling, not even knowing my own name.” My fingertips curl in frustration. “I can add up the pieces—everything I know about myself. But I can’t seem to make any sense of them.”
Constable Kelly shakes his head. “You’re something different, that’s certain.”
“What?” I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Do you mean to say that you don’t run across young women with no memories on a regular basis? How shocking!”
“I didn’t mean your memories being gone. Even if you remembered your whole life perfectly, I’m pretty sure I’d still have never met anyone like you.”
I smile unsteadily. “That could be the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me. Of course, my memories only go back a little over twelve hours. But it was still very nice.”
Constable Kelly smiles, too. The expression completely transforms his face—making him look younger, less dangerous and hard-edged.
Our eyes meet—and for a second, time seems to slow to a mere crawl. The whole rest of the world fades away.
I don’t want to move. I don’t even want to breathe, for fear of shattering this moment. And yet there’s an odd kind of pressure in my chest, too—a curiosity to know what will happen next.
Something falls with a crash outside—likely from just behind the small window at the far end of the room.
In an instant, Constable Kelly is on his feet. Prince wakes with a snuffle and a short, sharp bark, all the fur on the back of his neck rising.
My heart hammers as Constable Kelly crosses to the front door, yanks it open, and strides out into the night.
No one knows that I am here—or they shouldn’t.
Unless I was somehow followed?
Unless the tavern owner Reg told someone? Or the elderly flower vendor was somehow an enemy in disguise?
Which sounds ridiculous, even inside my own mind.
I try to steady my breathing. Wildly fanciful theories are not going to help me right now.
It is barely a minute—though it feels like much longer—before Constable Kelly returns.
He shakes his head in answer to my questioning look. “Nothing there. Just an empty trash bin and a couple of crates knocked over at the side of the house—like someone plowed into them, maybe.”
Or as though someone were trying to stand on them and see inside through the window.
To judge by his expression, Constable Kelly has had the same thought. But he drops the bar on the door into place, bolts the latch—he’s obviously reinforced the security measures of this place—and says, “You should try to get some sleep. Prince will wake us if there’s anyone out there.”
I should try to sleep. Both of us should. But I can’t help asking, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do—about Sergeant Mallows, I mean?”
The line of Constable Kelly’s mouth hardens. “For a start, I thought I’d see if I can have a look around the sergeant’s desk tomorrow, sometime when he’s not around. See if anything jumps out at me as something he might have taken away from Harley Street. Barring that—well, that and keeping an eye on him”—he shakes his head—“I doubt there’s a lot I can do. I could talk to one of the station house Inspectors. But I don’t have any proof that Sergeant Mallows did anything wrong. The Inspector’s not going to call him onto the carpet for questioning just because I’ve got a feeling he knew more than he was letting on about an empty house.”
He’s right. “Do you think we ought to go back to the house in Harley Street? We could see whether or not there’s anything else that Dr. Everett and Sergeant Mallows may have missed.”
“It’s a thought. We can go after I get off duty, maybe.”
Since I am not anxious to face Dr. Everett—or Ferrars—on my own, I nod.
Going with a uniformed police constable will also make it less likely that I get arrested for breaking and entering.
“Anyway. Nothing more we’re going to do tonight.” Constable Kelly rubs a hand across his face and then indicates the sofa. “You can have the couch.”
“I can’t take your bed!” I protest. “Where will you sleep?”
I have a feeling that I ought to be expressing far more maidenly horror at the thought of sharing a room—if not actually a bed—with a young man for the night. But somehow, I cannot seem to work up any very great concern.
I trust Constable Kelly. And the niceties of social decorum do not feel as though they have much of a place in my life at the present.
“I can take a spare blanket and make do on the floor.” He smiles briefly. “I’ve slept in worse places, believe me.”
“So have I. Well, I assume that I have. The street outside The British Museum was certainly worse.”
Constable Kelly checks the latch on the window, then pauses at the door to his sister’s room, glancing in to where Becky is sprawled asleep across the narrow bed.
“What if we switch? You can have the couch for tonight, and tomorrow night we’ll trade.”
The mention of tomorrow night makes me feel slightly better—even with the thought of our possible peeping Tom lingering at the back of my mind.
I at least have this small, safe refuge in which to stay.
Maybe—just possibly—I am not completely alone. As if he’s picked up my thought, Constable Kelly says, “You can stay as long as you’d like. And if you keep Becky company, I’ll be grateful. But you’ve got your own place in the world, out there somewhere, too.”
The fire is dying down to just embers, making it hard to see his expression. But I think there’s an odd shadow of something like regret or sadness at the back of his gaze as he looks at me. But the look is gone in a blink, making me wonder if it was ever there at all.
“Wherever it is you belong, it’s not in rented lo
dgings in Saint Giles. That much I’m sure of.”
15. A CASE OF IDENTITY
I wake to the soft clinks of cutlery—and realize upon opening my eyes that it is early morning. Against all odds, I slept dreamlessly through the night.
Both Constable Kelly and Becky are already awake and dressed, working at getting breakfast in the tiny area by the hearth that serves as their kitchen.
“I went out and fetched water from the pump,” Becky says. She still looks at me a bit shyly, but gives me a small smile. “If you’d like a wash.”
Since I haven’t any change of clothes, there is very little for me to do beyond splashing my face with cold water and re-braiding my hair.
The lump behind my ear still feels painful to the touch—but the throbbing headache is at least nearly gone.
I emerge back into the outer room to find Constable Kelly ladling bowls of porridge out from the cooking pot on the hearth.
“Thank you.” I accept my bowl and sit down at the small table, taking a chair beside Becky’s. “Do you have to be on duty today?”
He’s wearing his uniform trousers, but not the blue tunic or helmet yet. “I’ll have to be off in a minute or two.”
“What’s all this?” I ask Becky. I gesture to a pile of papers beside her place at the table.
“Oh that—they’re my Sherlock Holmes stories!” Becky’s shyness seems to evaporate completely at the question. She turns to me, excitement brimming on her small face. “Have you read any of them? Oh—of course, you wouldn’t remember, would you? Jack told me all about how you can’t remember anything before you woke up.”
I glance quickly at Constable Kelly. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I thought so; he hasn’t told his sister everything about me.
For her own safety, I’m sure he wouldn’t have told Becky about Sergeant Mallows, either.
“It’s so exciting!” Becky bounces a little in her chair. “I thought maybe we could try to de—deduce”—I can hear her struggle momentarily with the word—“who you are. Just like Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”
“And which one are you?” Constable Kelly quirks up an eyebrow. “Watson or Holmes?”
Becky sticks out her tongue at him. “You like the stories, too, Jack! You know you do. You always listen when I read them.”
“Only because you don’t give me a choice.”
I barely hear their teasing.
Sherlock Holmes. I feel as though the name has snagged on some inner thread inside my mind and is tugging. Sherlock Holmes.
Constable Kelly mentioned the name yesterday, I remember—and it felt as though it were familiar to me then.
“What kind of stories are they?” I ask Becky.
“The best kind! Detective ones.” Becky picks up the top magazine from the pile and rifles quickly through it, then sets it down in front of me when she comes to the page she wants. “Look!”
The title on the magazine page reads, A Case of Identity.
An illustration shows a tall man in a smoking jacket, welcoming a rather plump, plain lady into a sitting room.
I stare down at the printed page, the nagging feeling of familiarity even stronger. I feel as though I should remember … something.
But I banish the sensation. I am getting thoroughly sick of my memory giving me these subtle hints, and never any definite answers.
“And after we read this one, I’ve got all these here.” Becky gestures triumphantly to the stack beside her plate.
Constable Kelly looks at his sister with a small twitch of a smile. “Well, I can see you’ll be well entertained, anyway.”
“I’m sure I will be.”
He pushes away from the table and goes to shrug into the rest of his uniform. “I have to be going.” The smile is gone as he turns back to look at me over the top of Becky’s head.
“Take care.”
“I will.” Left to my own devices, I might try investigating on my own. But I have Becky to think about now—which means that I have no intention of doing anything more dangerous than reading through the entire stack of Sherlock Holmes stories in Becky’s possession.
Constable Kelly hesitates, as though he’s still reluctant to leave.
I am disturbingly reluctant to see him leave. So, I force a smile. “Of the two of us, I think you’re a good deal more likely to run into danger than I am.”
Constable Kelly finishes buttoning up his tunic and gives me an answering grin. “You say that now.” He tugs on one of his sister’s braids. “You haven’t yet run the risk of Becky here talking your ears off.”
Becky is both lively and talkative—but I welcome her chatter. It is a pleasant change from having only my own thoughts to occupy me.
We finish A Case of Identity, and The Red-Headed League, then move on to A Scandal in Bohemia.
“Who taught you to read?” I ask Becky, when she pauses for a moment.
She reads slowly, moving one finger along the line of text as she goes, but she is quite fluent.
“My mum had my dad hire a tutor for me. She wanted me to grow up to be a lady, she said. That’s why she had me learning the piano, too.”
I don’t want to pry, but I say, “I’m sorry about your mother—and your father, too.”
Becky shrugs her thin shoulders, her eyes on the floor. “My dad never paid much attention to me anyhow. He always said he didn’t want me underfoot. I do miss the piano. And my mum—” she stops.
Her gaze is still fixed on the floor, but I can see her swallow. Then she raises cornflower blue eyes to my face.
“Maybe you’re lucky you can’t remember anything. Sometimes remembering just makes you sad.”
I hesitate, then reach to squeeze her hand. “Maybe you’re right.”
Becky raises one hand to brush at her cheek. Then she straightens. “At least I’ve got Jack. And Prince.” She strokes the big dog’s neck. “And anyway, I won’t need to play the piano, if I grow up to be a police constable, too.”
I feel my eyebrows rise. “Can women be police officers?”
I can’t remember whether there are any laws forbidding it—but it seems somehow highly likely, given what I’ve seen of the world in the past day.
“Not yet.” Becky looks unconcerned. “But I think they’re bound to let girls in sooner or later. Jack says if anyone can persuade them, I can.”
I smile.
Becky glances down at the story on the table. But she seems to have tired of reading for the moment, because she says, “Do you think that you could teach me to sing like you—”
A knock at the door interrupts her, making her cut off in mid-word.
Prince is instantly on his feet, his hackles raised and a low growl rumbling in his throat.
My heart is hammering. “Could it be your brother back, do you think?” I whisper.
Becky shakes her head. She doesn’t have any of my reasons to be frightened—but maybe some of my own nervous anxiety is communicating itself to her, because she keeps her voice to a whisper, also.
“No. He won’t be back for ages, yet. And anyway, he wouldn’t knock.”
The knock sounds again—louder, this time, insistent. A deep, booming male voice shouts out, “Hello! Anyone at home?”
“Yes!” Becky calls back.
I clamp a hand over her mouth—but it’s too late.
“Hello!” The voice shouts again.
What should I do? The question seems to hammer in time to my own pulse. Answer it? Ignore whoever it is and hope that they will go away? The knocking resumes—hard enough to rattle the front door on its hinges.
I swallow and rise, stiff-legged, from the table. I can’t just sit here and wait for whoever it is to break the Kellys’ front door in.
“Go into the other room,” I whisper to Becky.
She looks at me with wide, suddenly alarmed eyes. “Why? Is something—”
“I’ll explain later,” I promise. “But for now, go into the other room. You can pretend that you’re She
rlock Holmes spying on some dastardly criminal. Just shut the door and don’t come out unless I tell you to. Promise?”
With a stiff, jerky nod and a final worried look over her shoulder, Becky obeys.
I wait until the latch on her bedroom clicks. Then I cross to the front door and swing it open.
I stop, staring at the figure before me with a mixture of relief and astonishment.
Standing on the doorstep is an organ grinder—one of the itinerant musicians who perform on city street corners in hopes that passers-by will grace them with a few coppers.
This man is somewhere hovering around middle age—with possibly the largest, blackest, most luxurious mustache I have ever seen. His hair is likewise shiny and black as boot-polish. His gray eyes peer at me from behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. And on his shoulder—the main source of my astonishment—is perched a tiny monkey, dressed in a small purple vest and matching cap. Behind him the door to the flat across the hall opens. Someone—Jack’s neighbor, probably—is listening.
The man looks me up and down, then grunts out, in a surly, gravely tone, “Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be givin’ a performance in a few minutes.” He jerks his head at the central paved square behind him. “Thought yer might like t’ come.”
He lands hard on the final word, giving it an odd emphasis.
I frown. “A performance.” After being certain that disaster had found me, my mind is struggling to adjust itself to a small, fluffy monkey and its master.
“Jugglin’ and such. Rollo here does tricks, too. Wonderful, he is.”
The man nods to the monkey—who doesn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. With a chattering screech, he lunges, attempting to bite the organ grinder on the ear.
“Thank you—” I stop short—feeling as though a bucket of freezing water has just been dumped over my head.
The monkey’s attack has drawn my attention—and now I stare, transfixed, at the mustached man’s ears. Or more accurately, his ear lobes.
A voice—I wish I could remember who the blasted owner of the voice is, but I still cannot—sounds in the back of my mind.
A man may disguise his features with putty and paint, twist his posture, don a false beard. But the lobes of the ears are practically impossible to disguise—and nearly as distinctive as a fingerprint for individual shape.
