by Anna Elliott
Ferrars’s chest swelled. “That’s right. The fat slob had it coming. Thought he could blackmail us, didn’t he?”
“Blackmail?”
I was hoping that Ferrars might give away what, exactly, Inspector Mallows had known that had got him killed.
But Ferrars went on as though he had not heard me, his eyes darkening with memory, his lips curving in a small, eerie smile. “I got him when he was on his way home. Never even heard me coming.”
He was describing a murder—the end of a fellow human being’s life. True, Inspector Mallows had not been a very likable man or a good one. But my stomach still clenched.
“How did you get Jack’s truncheon?” I asked. “And his fingerprints on it?”
“That part was easy. We just asked—” Ferrars broke off, a suddenly cagey look flashing across his face. “Never mind. You’re talking too much!” His voice rose and he took a menacing step towards me. “I didn’t bring you down here so that you could jabber the night away. I brought you here so that you could do as you’re told!”
Moistening my lips, I looked over Ferrars’s shoulder. His step towards me had brought him in front of Jack.
I smiled a bright, apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that there is just one crucial problem with your plans.”
“What?” Ferrars’s face darkened, the beginnings of a snarl trembling on his upper lip. “What the ’ell are you talking about?”
He was on the verge of snapping; pushing him any farther would be taking a risk.
A coward with a gun in his hands is often more dangerous than a brave man. I had heard Uncle John say that once. The coward wants above all else to prove to you—and himself—that he is not afraid.
“There’s something that you don’t yet know.”
“What?” Ferrars was still angry—but puzzled. Clearly the script for this conversation had gone differently inside his own mind. Probably his version had included me dissolving into a weeping puddle of fear by now.
In a single smooth motion, I brought out the Ladysmith pistol that I had carried all night in the pocket of whatever costume I happened to wear.
“I’m an actress.” I aimed the pistol at Ferrars’s heart. “I’m trained to notice the way that people move—the way that they walk. You can put on a wig and a waiter’s jacket, but you still move nothing at all like Jack does. I knew the entire time that I was following you down here that it was a trap.”
For a brief second, Ferrars looked as though I had smacked him across the face with a dead fish. Then his expression darkened with fury, and he made a brief, convulsive movement as though to spring for me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I flicked the safety off the pistol with my thumb. “In addition to being an actress, I am an excellent shot. You may also have a gun, but the safety catch on yours is still on.”
Ferrars’s lips drew back. “You think I’m afraid? You’d need more than a little pea-shooter to do any real damage.”
That unfortunately was all too true. The small, pearl-handled Ladysmith I carried was the only weapon that I could reasonably conceal while wearing a theatrical costume. A great heavy gun like Uncle John’s army revolver, for example, would create something of a stir if it tumbled out onto the stage during one of my songs.
But the Ladysmith’s bullets were small enough caliber that a single shot very likely would not incapacitate.
Unless I shot Ferrars straight through the eye, which I was unwilling to do unless I had absolutely no other choice. Ferrars was not worth having a murder on my conscience.
I kept my voice calm, conversational. “I might not be able to cause you serious injury. But what I can do is provide a distraction.”
“Distraction?” It was almost comical to watch the look of confusion pass across Ferrars’s too-handsome face. “What are you talking about?”
“That.”
As I spoke the last word, Jack surged to his feet, wrapping one arm around Ferrars’s chest and yanking him backwards. Ferrars’s gun clattered to the floor as Jack laid the blade of his knife against Ferrars’s throat.
“Easy, now,” Jack murmured. “No need to get excited. Just stay quiet and maybe there’s a chance you’ll get to walk out of here.”
Ferrars really was a coward. The knife blade had barely nicked him, but his face blanched, turning chalky white, and he went rigidly immobile in Jack’s grasp.
“It didn’t occur to you that it was rather too easy for you to grab Jack and drag him down here?” I asked. “We knew you would make a move like this. When Jack said he was tempted to stab himself from sheer boredom when we first came in here, that was him telling me that you hadn’t found and taken away the knife he’d hidden in the top of his boot.”
Jack looked up at me. “Sorry it took so long. I couldn’t get the angle of the knife right.”
He turned, showing me his wrist, which was still wrapped with the frayed remains of a rope. It was stained with blood; he must have cut himself while sawing through the bonds.
I let out a breath. Swooning with relief was out of the question; I still had standards. So I only steadied myself with one hand against the wall.
“Better late than never. We need to get upst—”
“Dear me, dear me.”
The sound of the voice behind me made me feel as though my entire body had suddenly fallen through a crack in the surface of an icy pond.
Even before I turned, my pulse had already slammed into higher gear. But as I faced the doorway, I froze, my heart going momentarily dead in my chest.
Dr. William Everett—at least, that was the name by which I knew him—stood just outside the little storage room. With him, her back pressed to his front, was Mary.
And Everett was holding a revolver pressed firmly to her temple.
38. SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
My own heartbeat pounded, reverberating in my ears. No plan survives first contact with the enemy.
That was another of Uncle John’s sayings, one learned from his army days. That was why it was important always to formulate backup plans.
But none of our plans for this evening had involved Mary’s being dragged into this confrontation.
Unlike mine, Dr. Everett’s weapon was a .44 caliber British Bulldog revolver that would do fatal damage, especially fired at close range. One squeeze of his finger, and the doctor could end Mary’s life.
Mary still wore her kimono from the Mikado number. Beneath the white stage makeup, her face was grayish pale, her eyes terrified and pleading.
“Lucy? Lucy, what’s happening? What is all this about? Tell him to let me go!”
Her voice broke on the final words as Dr. Everett yanked her even harder against him. “Shut it.”
His voice was indifferent, almost careless—and with equal indifference, he struck the butt of his revolver against the side of Mary’s face.
Mary gasped in pain and then started to cry—though she was also obviously terrified of moving or making a sound. Tears rolled in silent tracks down her face, making trails in the face paint.
“Dear, dear.” In a blink, Dr. Everett’s usual jolly, unassuming persona was back—all the more sickening because I knew exactly what lay behind the mask.
At least he had dropped the pretense of a nervous stutter that he had assumed at our last meeting.
He wore a gentleman’s evening dress of black tie and white waistcoat. He had not been among the guests at the ball, I was certain. I would have seen him. But maybe he had blended with the arriving guests in order to get into the museum, then remained in concealment until now.
His long thin face was fixed in an affable half-smile. Only his eyes remained chillingly, soullessly cold.
“Our present circumstances are lamentably melodramatic.” His glance swiveled from me, still clutching my pistol, to Jack, whose grip on Ferrars hadn’t faltered.
“I believe that this conversation would go more smoothly if you would put the gun down, Miss James?”
I
did not do as he asked. I doubted that he expected I would. Instead, I forced a breath past the tightness in my chest.
“Let her go. Mary doesn’t have any part of this.”
“On the contrary.” Dr. Everett’s thin mouth creased in a smile. “She is currently serving as hostage to your good behavior—which means that she has a very important part in this. Now, Miss James. I really must insist that you set the weapon on the floor. Unless you wish your friend’s brains to be spattered all over those rather uninspired examples of ancient Assyrian pots.”
He nodded towards the nearest storage shelf.
Mary almost choked, trying to hold back a fresh sob.
“All right!” I held my hands up, bending down to set the Ladysmith at my feet. I felt horribly naked without the weapon, but could not see any other choice. I did not for a single moment doubt that Dr. Everett would make good on his threat.
I felt as though I were watching the sands of an invisible hourglass slip steadily away. Ten minutes, Ferrars had said. How much longer did we have now? Eight minutes? Less.
Dr. Everett nodded. “Very good, very good. Now you.” His gaze fixed on Jack. “You let my associate go and step away. Slowly, if you please.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Jack’s expression was grimly set, but his voice was even. “You’ll just shoot her anyway and then move on to the rest of us.”
“Perhaps, perhaps.” The doctor’s tone held a slightly more biting edge than usual. “But I shall certainly shoot her if you do not comply.”
“Try it,” Jack said. “Your friend here will be dead before her body even hits the ground.”
“Dear me.” Dr. Everett’s voice was still pleasant, genteel. But he was sufficiently irritated that he omitted adding a second dear me. “I do so abhor an impasse. Perhaps I have not found quite the right bargaining point for you.”
Keeping his hold on Mary, he abruptly took the revolver away from her temple and pointed it at me, instead.
“If you do not do as I ask, I will shoot Miss James first.” Dr. Everett’s voice was now laced with steel.
Jack’s grip on Ferrars did not slacken, but I saw his expression shift, almost imperceptibly.
He was gauging the distance between himself and Doctor Everett—calculating whether he could tackle the doctor and wrestle the gun away before Dr. Everett managed to get off a shot.
But that was impossible. Jack was hampered by holding Ferrars. He would have to shove Ferrars away first—or kill him—and then launch himself at the doctor. By which point, Dr. Everett would already have shot me.
My heart thundered in my ears, the beats seeming unnaturally stretched and lengthened. Even the sights and colors of this dingy little basement storage room seemed unnaturally clear and bright.
This would be an excellent time for that miracle I had been hoping for to arrive.
However, since no miracle was forthcoming, I would just have to make my own.
I saw Dr. Everett’s finger move on the revolver’s trigger—and I threw myself forward, diving down low, so that I crashed into first Mary’s legs and then Everett’s.
A roar of a gunshot tore through the room, hammering my eardrums. A burning flash of pain shot through my upper arm. But Mary and Dr. Everett toppled over, landing on the floor with me.
I scrambled to untangle myself, searching frantically for the doctor’s weapon, which had fallen—I thought it had fallen—when I knocked him over. I barely heard the voice calling my name.
“Lucy!” Jack’s voice finally cut through the ringing in my ears. I turned to realize that he had come to crouch beside me, his expression more shaken than I had ever seen it.
“Lucy, how badly are you hurt?”
“Hurt?” I felt oddly light-headed, but I looked down at the red stain that had blossomed on the sleeve of my dairy-maid’s gown. That explained the burning pain in my arm; the bullet must have grazed me.
I looked up and saw that both Ferrars and Dr. Everett lay unmoving on the ground. Mary was huddled in a corner, still sobbing.
“Are they dead?”
“Not unless Goldilocks there died from sheer terror. I knocked them out, that’s all.”
Which left us free—but it also meant we couldn’t question them as to the location of the bomb.
“We need to get upstairs.”
Jack looked down at my arm.
Before he could speak I said, “I will not let you go alone!”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. “All right, then. Come on.”
We locked the still-unconscious Everett and Ferrars in the storage room. Jack took the key. I managed to get to the top of the basement stairs without stopping, though dizziness kept coming at me in waves. Behind me, I could hear Mary stumbling along more slowly. But I didn’t have any attention to spare for her just now.
“Where would they have hidden a bomb?” Jack was not out of breath in the slightest.
I pressed my eyes shut, ordering myself to think. Where would—
Jack and I both spoke at the same time. “The podium!”
The podium in the ballroom, where Commissioner Bradford would give his speech.
Jack opened his mouth.
“Go,” I told him. I would only slow him down.
Jack started forwards—and nearly collided with two men who were just leaving the ballroom.
Holmes, still wearing his ginger wig. And an older man, with a crest of white hair, a white mustache, and a tanned, square-cut face. This second man wore a military uniform, the chest arrayed with ribbons and medals—and one of his sleeves was empty, pinned up at the elbow. Police Commissioner Bradford.
“Lucy!” A flash of relief crossed Holmes’s face at sight of me. “What—”
“There’s a bomb! It will go off in five minutes or less if we can’t stop it!”
The Police Commissioner straightened, giving me a long look. His eyes were steady and grave—and even though my dizziness, I could see why Jack thought him an honorable man. There was something about him that I liked at once.
“How sure of that are you, young lady?”
“Positive, sir.” It was Jack who spoke. “The criminals who set the bomb are unconscious in the basement. You’ll want to send a couple of constables down there to take charge of them.”
Commissioner Bradford transferred his attention to Jack. He looked as though he were trying to make up his mind about something. Jack held the older man’s gaze.
“This is the detective constable you were telling me about?” Commissioner Bradford asked Holmes.
“Yes, quite correct.”
The police commissioner seemed to come to a rapid decision. “You get to work on clearing the ballroom. Try to keep people calm. Say the word bomb or explosion, and there’ll be all the makings of a riot in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Holmes was already halfway across the ballroom, heading straight towards the podium. Plainly he had the same thought as to the bomb’s location as I. Now I just had to hope that we were right.
By the time I managed to push my way across the ballroom, Holmes and Commissioner Bradford were working together to tilt the podium over onto its side.
Behind me, Jack had stopped the orchestra from playing and was directing the guests to file out. But there were still far too many people in the ballroom—and as the commissioner had said, if word got out about a bomb, there would be an instant stampede. People would be trampled and hurt or even killed.
Holmes succeeded in moving the podium and sucked in a breath. “There we are. Quite a clever apparatus, really.”
My vision had started to shiver oddly, but I saw Holmes point to a complicated-looking arrangement of tubes and glass vials. “As you can see, the acid in this vial here would in a few more minutes have eroded through the barrier to mix with—”
“We don’t need a lecture right now!” Commissioner Bradford barked. “What we need to know is whether it can be disarmed!”
Holmes’s l
ips pursed as he studied the apparatus. “I believe … yes.”
Reaching into the mechanism with one deft, delicate motion, he withdrew a small glass vial of some clear liquid. “The device is now harmless.”
39. EPILOGUE
Police Commissioner Bradford took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “I—and your country—thank you.”
His glance included the three of us: Holmes, myself, and Jack.
We were standing on the steps outside the museum. The ball was over, and the guests were gone—most of them with no idea of how narrowly they had escaped death tonight. Mary had departed, too, saying that she was going back to our flat.
At some point, I was going to have to give her a severely edited version of tonight’s events, one that kept Sherlock Holmes’s name entirely out of it. But that shouldn’t be too hard. She had never seen Holmes—and she already knew that Jack was a policeman. I could say that the criminals who had taken her captive had been trying to frame Jack, out of a desire for revenge.
Below us in the street, I could see Ferrars and Dr. Everett being led, in handcuffs, to a waiting police wagon. Dr. Everett’s face was stony. Ferrars looked torn between anger and terror.
My arm burned as though it had been dipped in boiling oil, but I blinked hard, trying to clear shreds of fog from my sight. I still needed to speak with Commissioner Bradford, urgently.
“That man is the one who killed Inspector Mallows.” I gestured to Ferrars. “Not Constable Kelly. I don’t doubt that Dr. Everett gave the orders. But Ferrars fully admitted to carrying out the murder in my hearing. I will testify to it, if need be.”
“Thank you, Miss James. Though it may not be necessary. I myself heard those two berating one another before I unlocked the caretaker’s room. Mr. Holmes has also testified on behalf of Constable Kelly’s good character. And it is possible a confession may be wrung from our long-haired prisoner.” Commissioner Bradford’s eyes were trained appraisingly on Ferrars. “He looks the type to break under pressure.”
The commissioner glanced at Jack. “At any rate, I believe a formal pardon and apology to you are in order, Constable Kelly. As well as a commendation for your bravery and quick thinking tonight.”
