by Anna Elliott
Becky’s scream of horror snapped me back into the present moment, time resuming its normal course with a sickening lurch.
I leapt forwards, wrapping my arms around Becky and trying to make her turn away—but she shook me off furiously.
“It’s Jack! Jack!” She was screaming and crying, throwing herself forwards against the metal grill.
Chaos had broken out inside the yard, and I could no longer see where Jack had fallen. More uniformed guards had come—blowing shrill whistles and shouting for the prisoners to line up, stay back.
The prisoners were paying no attention. Some were running towards the spot where Jack had fallen. Others were brawling, throwing punches and cursing each other as they spat and rolled on the ground, the violence erupting shockingly fast.
Finally, straining to see past the kicking, roiling bodies, I caught a glimpse of just the toe of a boot.
Jack was not moving.
I hugged Becky more tightly. My heart beat sickeningly hard, and my chest squeezed so tightly that I could not seem to draw in enough air.
I realized that my lips were unconsciously shaping a word.
Please. Please. Please.
The word seemed to hammer through me like a second pulse.
The fighting ended almost as suddenly as it had begun. The guards waded into the chaos, hauling the brawlers apart, wielding their truncheons with brutal efficiency.
It could not have been more than a minute before the prisoners were lined up in a sullen, straggling row and being herded out through a gate at the back of the courtyard.
All except for one last remaining form still lying on the ground and shrouded in a blanket that one of the guards must have brought.
I could not see his face. But it didn’t matter.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I had been here before: frozen in the moment when all you desperately want is to be able to rewind time—or to wake up out of the nightmare into which you’ve been plunged.
But there is no going back, and no waking up, either.
Becky had stopped screaming and started to cry—wracking, uncontrollable sobs that shook her whole body.
I hugged her against me, even as I clutched at the wave of anger that hissed and sizzled through my veins.
Any second now, I would feel pain. I could feel it rolling towards me like a boulder. But as long as I could stay angry, I could hold off the grief and loss a few seconds more.
If the man who had stabbed Jack had appeared before me right now, I would have shot him dead without a second’s remorse.
I strained to look for him among the crowds, but could not see him. Not that I had gotten a good enough look at him to really be sure of what he looked like.
Maybe the guards had already dragged him away.
More guards appeared, carrying a stretcher between them, which they set down on the ground next to Jack.
I struggled against the wish that I could hide my eyes like Becky, or look away.
I knew I was probably being unfair, but I was furious with Holmes, too—for letting me think that Jack was not in imminent danger, and for failing to save him.
The guards—showing far more efficiency than feeling—briskly dumped Jack’s body onto the stretcher. The blanket slipped a little, giving me a glimpse of one of Jack’s strong, calloused hands—hanging limp, now.
My eyes burned, pressure building and building inside my chest.
Most of all, I was angry with myself. I was angry with myself for bringing Becky here. I was angry with myself for not doing anything—for just standing here, frozen, while Jack—
One of the guards—the tall one, the one who had summoned Jack in the first place—suddenly turned towards Becky’s and my gate.
I froze.
No. Not possible.
Shock was making me hallucinate, desperately searching for a reason to hope.
But then the tall guard raised his hand. His gaze was still fixed on Becky and me as he pushed back the brim of his hat just slightly.
I bit back a gasp, the hope I had been trying to suppress bounding to life inside my chest.
The other guards hefted the stretcher up between them, one at the front, and one behind.
“No! Jack!” With a fresh sob, Becky flung herself out of my arms, pounding on the metal gate with both fists.
I shook off the moment’s paralysis, moving quickly to crouch down in front of her.
“Becky, listen to me. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”
Tears were streaming down Becky’s face as out in the yard the guards carried the stretcher away.
“It’s not all right!” Becky’s voice was so choked with sobs the words were scarcely intelligible. Her hands were scratched from where she had pounded on the iron grating. “How can you say that? How—”
I took hold of her shoulders. “Becky, listen to me. You trust me, don’t you? And you trust Mr. Holmes? Remember all the stories you’ve read about him? He always wins in the end—always.”
I strongly suspected that Uncle John wrote through an idealized lens on some of the cases he recorded—but Becky did not need to hear that right now.
Becky stopped fighting to get free of me and stared, still choking back sobs. “What—”
I lowered my voice to a near-soundless whisper.
“I can’t say any more here.” I had no idea whether any of the prison guards were eavesdropping on us at the moment—but it seemed a virtual certainty that they could be. They would not allow prisoners to speak with visitors in complete privacy.
“But you need to trust Mr. Holmes now. Trust me, when I say that it’s going to be all right.”
Becky was too intelligent to miss what I was saying. I saw the sudden hope kindle in her tear-filled eyes, and took her hand. “Let’s go, now.”
I spoke out loud, adding for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, “There’s nothing for us to do here.”
Becky nodded, taking tight hold of the hand that I offered her. Her face was completely transformed—turned from anguished to radiant in the space of a breath.
I would have to tell her to keep her head down on our way out of the prison, lest she give this entire charade away.
If it was a charade.
Looking down at Becky’s teary gaze and tremulous smile, I mentally resolved that if my father had just been instrumental in giving this child false hope, I might just murder him myself.
34. RESURRECTION
“Lucy, my dear.” Uncle John’s voice was commendably patient. “You are going to wear a permanent track in the floor if you go on pacing in that way.”
“I know.” I paused in the midst of what was very likely my seven-hundredth circuit of the Baker Street sitting room, forcing myself to drop into a chair before I could reach my ultimate goal of the window.
My self-restraint did not last long. Within barely a second of sitting down, my skin was crawling with the need for movement again.
“I can’t help it, Uncle John.”
I gave in and jumped back up again, crossing to the window in a few quick steps. “Don’t you think that he ought to be back by now?”
After leaving Holloway Prison, Becky and I had hired a hansom cab and come straight back to Baker Street. I did not know where else to go.
Now Becky was showing far more patience—and trust in Holmes—than I was managing at the moment.
She was sitting on the hearth at the other side of the room, occupied with feeding Prince some of Mrs. Hudson’s buttered muffins.
Prince would very carefully and deliberately take each muffin—and then inhale them whole, as though weeks had passed since he had last been fed.
Becky looked almost carefree, giggling at him.
I looked quickly away, my heart clenching as I peered out into street below.
I knew what I saw. What I thought I saw. But now, as each second dripped tortuously by, I could feel cold doubt creeping in. What if I was wrong? Maybe my mind really had been playing tri
cks, or—
A step sounded on the stairs: a heavy, masculine tread that definitely was not Mrs. Hudson’s.
I jumped, and Becky sprang instantly to her feet, proving that she was not as distracted or carefree as she had appeared.
There were two sets of feet coming up the stairs, I realized.
My heart pounded. I wanted to cross the room and fling the door open—but somehow, I could not make myself move. I stood frozen, as though my feet had suddenly grown roots and anchored me to the ground.
Finally, the latch clicked and—
“Jack!” Becky launched herself at the figure in the doorway, throwing herself headlong into his arms.
Jack caught her—and the stabbing ache in my chest reminded me that I had not taken a breath in what must have been close to a minute.
“Jack! Jack!” Becky was laughing and crying, both at the same time. “You’re alive!”
Prince, joining in on the excitement, bounded forward to leap up and try to plant his massive paws on Jack’s chest.
“Down, boy.” Laughing, Jack held Prince off, hugging his sister closely. “Of course I’m alive. I promised you I’d never leave you on your own, didn’t I?”
Becky said nothing, burying her face against Jack’s shoulder. Her small arms were wrapped tight around his neck as though she never meant to let go.
Over the top of Becky’s blond head, Jack’s dark eyes finally met mine. “Hello there, Trouble.”
I realized that without being aware of it, I had taken several steps towards the doorway—as though I were going to embrace Jack, too.
But I caught myself. We were not on those terms.
Although if I had had any doubts about my own feelings for Jack Kelly, those doubts would have vanished the second he walked through the door.
I summoned up a smile. “You look quite healthy, for a man who’s supposed to be newly deceased.”
Becky raised her head at that. “How, Jack? How did you manage it? Lucy said that you were only fooling. But what about the guards—and that man who stabbed you and everything?”
“You’d better ask Mr. Holmes about that.” Jack glanced over his shoulder, and I realized that Holmes had entered the room behind him.
I was so preoccupied with Jack that I had not even seen him before now.
Jack shifted Becky’s weight in his arms. “He appeared out of nowhere—dressed as a prison guard—and said that one of the other prisoners was going to pretend to stab me, and I had to fake being dead. That it was the only way of getting me out of prison and saving my life.”
Holmes’s jawline still bristled with trace wisps of the mutton-chop whiskers he had worn as a prison guard. “Constable Kelly cooperated admirably, obeying my instructions without question.”
Holmes gray-eyed gaze held a rare look of approbation. “Another man in your position might well have given the whole game away by arguing or asking for further explanation.”
Jack’s eyes met mine again. “He said that you and he were convinced there was a plot to kill me.”
I swallowed. This all still felt almost too good to believe, as though Jack might vanish in a puff of smoke at any minute.
Uncle John seemed to have no such concerns. Of course, he had years of experience with these surprises of Holmes’s.
He beamed paternally on Becky and Jack. “But you must sit down and take some refreshment after your ordeal. Mrs. Hudson has already provided us with a tea tray, but I am sure that she can be prevailed on to bring an extra two cups, and perhaps some sandwiches?”
There was a flurry of activity as Uncle John ushered both Jack and Becky to the couch, where they settled with Becky sitting curled up on Jack’s lap.
At eight, she was almost too big to fit there comfortably—but for today, I doubted that she cared.
I edged nearer to Holmes, lowering my voice.
“You could have told me.” I tried—not very hard, but I did try—to keep the note of accusation out of my tone.
“I could have. However, I judged it important that your reaction to Constable Kelly’s death should be authentic, thus lending credibility to the pretense of his demise.”
I opened my mouth, but Holmes went on.
“You are about to say that it was cruel to enact the performance in front of young Miss Kelly.” His gaze landed on Becky. “But may I remind you that it was hardly my idea to bring an eight-year-old child to a prison this morning.”
“True.”
“Knowing that she was there, I deemed it best to go ahead with the plan regardless. The danger to Constable Kelly’s life would only grow more acute as time passed, and all the pieces of the ruse were already set into motion. I did take pains to alleviate the child’s distress as soon as possible.”
He had. Holmes had not been obliged to reveal himself to me, in his guise of a prison guard.
“Thank you. I still don’t understand how you managed it, though. How did you get inside the prison, much less succeed in impersonating one of the guards?”
“That was the least difficult part of the scheme.” Holmes sketched a careless gesture with one hand. “I have a contact amongst the guards—a young man whose life I had once saved when he had fallen foul of a nasty group of cut-throats. He was perfectly willing to smuggle me into the prison by way of the coal service delivery—and happy to lend me his spare uniform, as well.”
“But the prisoner—the one who stabbed Jack? Pretended to stab him.”
I could not help a glance over to the couch where Jack sat. He was not at all wounded that I could see.
“Also an acquaintance of mine. An elderly safecracker who goes by the name of Bones amongst his various criminal contacts. He was readily persuaded to lend his assistance in exchange for a promise that I would serve as a character witness when his case comes to trial. He understands that my endorsement is conditional on him keeping silence about today’s work. I am confident that he will not say anything to give us away.”
“But won’t this … Bones … get into trouble? He just killed a fellow prisoner! Or at least everyone must suppose that he did.”
“My contact amongst the guards has ensured that Bones is now locked securely in a solitary confinement cell, where he will be perfectly safe for the next day or at the very most two, until we can secure his release. We cannot hope to maintain our deception any longer than that. The morgatory arrangements at Holloway are somewhat lax, but eventually someone in authority will go to look for Constable Kelly’s body. At which point they will discover that said body is nowhere to be found.”
“Of course.” A chill ran though me as I realized how very little time that gave us. “We have a day—possibly two—then, to prove Jack’s innocence?”
Holmes looked far less daunted than I felt. “That seems an accurate assessment.”
Jack was eating a muffin with one hand, Becky still perched on his knee. I thought he looked tired, but he was smiling, answering some question that Uncle John had asked him.
“Have you any idea where to begin?”
“I believe that your instincts were quite correct. We must return to the place where this entire affair began: The British Museum.”
“Oh!” A jolt of remembrance went thought me. “I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you what Mary said to me this morning.”
I repeated as well as I could remember my conversation with Mary, and Ferrars’s warning about not staying for the final dance.
Holmes’s brows drew together. “An odd warning for him to give her. It seems entirely out of character that the man you encountered should be troubled by an attack of conscience in regards to the life of a girl he had never met before a day or two ago.”
“I know. I had the same thought.” I could not at all imagine Ferrars walking across the street to save Mary Mulloy’s life, much less caring whether she died in a planned attack on the Guy Fawkes ball. “Do you think he gave her the warning, knowing that she would sooner or later repeat it to me? It could be a false lead,
making us think that the attack will happen late in the evening, when in reality, it’s planned for earlier on?”
Holmes steepled his fingers. “It is possible.”
“Do you think we ought to speak with whatever museum officials are organizing the ball? Give them a warning that there may be trouble?”
Holmes considered, his brows drawn and his gray eyes focused on some spot on the rug. “I do not believe that would be productive, no. Remember that we are unfortunately operating in large part in the dark, without any certainty as to whom we can trust. Issue our warning to the wrong person—or to someone who may inform the wrong person—and we shall have tipped our hand, alerting the enemy to the fact that we suspect their plans. I believe that our better option is to remain silent in hopes that we may draw our suspected spy ring out into the open.”
“But all of those people who will be at the ball. Innocent bystanders could be killed.”
Holmes’s face was grave. Not unsympathetic, but with a stern look to his gaze.
“One of the most difficult aspects of this profession—as you will yourself discover should you continue to pursue it—is the frequency with which we are forced to play God.”
He did not say so aloud, but I knew what he was thinking—that my taking part in his detective work had been all my own idea. Holmes would gladly have kept me out of it, if he could.
Before I could do more than feel the weight of that settle over me like a heavy cloak, Holmes kept going.
“I am sensible of the responsibility we bear to protect those innocent lives. But I also have great confidence, not just in my own abilities, but rather in our combined ones.”
He did not smile—and yet his expression altered, softening in some indefinable way. “I believe I may say without vanity that the guests at tonight’s Guy Fawkes ball could not be in more capable hands.”
35. GUNPOWDER, TREASON, AND PLOT
“What can you tell us about Commissioner Bradford?” Holmes asked.
Jack considered, frowning.
He, Holmes, and I were gathered in a recessed alcove of the Vase Room at The British Museum.
The gala event itself was being held close by in the Refreshment Room—but the various exhibits of the museum had also been thrown open to the attending guests, who milled around, exclaiming over Egyptian scarabs and sarcophagi and marveling over sections of Greek marble friezes.
