Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  “I’d rather go straight to Chief Constable Slade and tell him who we are and why we’re here.” I didn’t usually like to capitalize on my connection to Sherlock Holmes, but at the moment I was perfectly willing to use my father’s name and reputation if it kept me from being thrown into a jail cell.

  Becky nodded. Then she frowned, sniffing the air. “Lucy? Do you smell smoke?”

  “It’s just the—” candle, I was about to say. But then I froze.

  A harsh scent of burning, sharp and acrid, was filling the air. I raised the candle higher. Ribbons of smoke were pouring in from under and around the door behind the desk.

  Something crashed in the distance, making the roof above us shake. A series of thuds followed, as though something was raining down from above. The floor vibrated under my feet.

  “We need to get out of here.” I spun around, unbolted the door, and turned the knob.

  The door refused to budge.

  I set my shoulder against it and tried again.

  I might as well have been shoving against a brick wall.

  “Lucy?” Becky asked.

  I took a breath, ignoring the sting of smoke in my lungs, and tried to speak calmly. “That door won’t open.” If the docks were on fire, maybe debris had fallen and blocked the door. “We’ll have to try the other one.”

  Although judging by the amount of smoke billowing in from around the edges, that way out wasn’t any too promising, either.

  I crossed to the second door and knelt down in front of the knob. I just had to hope that this lock would be easier to pick than the last one.

  I pushed, twisted, and then the tumbler clicked. Unlocked. I swung the door open—and a choking cloud of thick black smoke rushed in.

  “Lucy, I can’t see you!” Becky’s voice was on the edge of panic.

  “I’m right here. Just reach out towards the sound of my voice.” Coughing, I wiped my eyes with one hand, holding out the other towards Becky. Her fingers gripped mine. “It’s all right.” I peered through the thick cloud of smoke beyond the doorway. “At least I don’t see any flames.”

  I didn’t see any way out of here, either, but Becky didn’t need to know that. “All we need to do is find another entrance.”

  “What’s happening?” Becky was coughing, too, her eyes streaming. “Why is the building on fire?”

  I might not have the full answer, but I was already certain there was an approximately zero percent chance that this fire was accidental.

  “Here.” I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to Becky. It would be helpful if I had water to soak it in, but it was better than nothing. “Keep this over your nose and mouth and keep close to me, all right?”

  Becky clamped the handkerchief to her face and nodded wordlessly.

  I started to step out of the office and into what seemed to be a hallway, then stopped.

  Someone was trying to destroy this building, presumably for a reason.

  There wasn’t time to make a more thorough examination of the room, but I stared through the smoke, trying to fix the details of the scene in my mind. Maybe whatever was bothering me would surface later.

  I turned, snatched up Lord Lynley’s suicide note, then swept up as many of the other papers as I could hold off the surface of the desk and tucked them inside my coat.

  They might or might not provide answers, but at least it was something.

  “Follow me,” I told Becky. “And stay as close to the ground as possible. The smoke is less thick there.”

  I crouched down, bending almost double as I led the way out of the office, holding tightly onto Becky’s hand.

  I was still clutching the lighted candle, but I blew it out after the first ten steps. The smoke was so thick that it was still impossible to see even with a light, and trying to keep the flame from going out was only slowing me down.

  I groped in the dark, identifying rough plaster walls on either side of us, about five feet apart. A hallway. One, so far, without windows or doors, but even so it had to lead somewhere.

  I kept my hand on the wall to our right, letting my fingers trail across the surface so that I would know if there were any exits or turns. I counted off the steps, trying to calculate how far we had come.

  Twenty feet. Fifty.

  The air felt hotter with every crouching step forward. My eyes burned. Smoke scraped my throat and scoured my lungs.

  I stopped short as the hallway under my fingertips abruptly ended and an orange glow lighted the smoky darkness up ahead. I blinked, trying to clear my eyes enough to see. We were standing on the edge of what looked to be the huge open space of the warehouse. Here and there, the shapes of big shipping crates loomed. But fire was everywhere, licking the wooden crates and barrels, racing in trails of flame across the floor, running up the walls.

  Beneath the harsh smell of smoke, I caught a sharp odor that reminded me of my father’s chemistry experiments. Someone had doused the room with something flammable, and then struck a match.

  “Look out!” Becky screamed.

  The fire had leaped up to reach the ceiling, and a chunk of wooden beams and slate roof came crashing down in a shower of sparks.

  We both jumped backwards out of the way. Becky clung to my side. I could feel her trembling, coughing and struggling to breathe. “Lucy, everything’s burning.” She had to almost shout to be heard over the fire’s crackling roar. “If we can’t get out of here, we’ll be burned up, too. We’ll die!”

  I crouched down, checking her over quickly to make sure that none of the burning sparks had set her coat or skirt on fire, then did the same for my own. “We’re not going to die, and we are getting out of here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I categorically refuse to let Mrs. Torrance’s new antimacassars be the subject of the last conversation I ever have on earth.”

  As I’d hoped, Becky hiccupped an unsteady laugh and wiped her eyes.

  “Good.” I hugged her quickly then straightened. “Now help me look for a door that leads to the outside.”

  At least the fire was casting enough light for us to see, if only dimly, through clouds of choking smoke. We edged sideways, past a stack of wooden barrels that hadn’t yet caught aflame—and another huge chunk of the ceiling caved in, blocking the way in front of us.

  This time, Becky didn’t even scream, but I still held her tightly, my mind racing. Flames had sprung up all around, blocking our way back to the office. Not that we could get out through there, either.

  Shouting for help wouldn’t do any good. I could barely even hear my own voice, much less hope that anyone on the outside would hear me.

  A man’s dark figure loomed up suddenly out of the smoky shadows to my left. Backlit by the glow of the orange flames, he looked for a split second like the demon in a medieval morality play.

  Then he drew nearer, and I recognized the Chinese man from Mr. Seewald’s shop.

  “Come with me!” His eyes were red and streaming from the smoke, and he, too, held a length of cloth across his nose and mouth. “Quickly!”

  I pushed back the shock of his appearance, but still stayed where I was, my hand on Becky’s shoulders.

  “Why should we trust you?”

  He coughed and wiped sweat from his forehead. “You will forgive me for stating the obvious, but your options are somewhat limited at the moment.” The exaggerated accent he’d used with Mr. Seewald was gone, leaving his voice short, clipped. He gestured back towards the way he had come. “There is a doorway, straight over there. Unless you are searching for a creative and extremely unpleasant way to die, you will follow me.”

  29. UNEXPECTED AID

  LUCY

  After ten feet, the smoky air cleared a fraction.

  The stranger edged carefully around a pile of smoldering shipping containers, and cooler air washed across my face. I see the dark outlines of an open doorway with a slice of the night sky visible beyond. It was only about five feet up ahead, but even
still, Becky and I almost certainly wouldn’t have found it without help.

  Our rescuer stepped through the doorway, then paused, looking to see that we made it safely out after him. I let Becky go first, squeezing her hand briefly.

  The doorway seemed to emerge into a narrow space between two warehouse buildings. If the whole of the Lynley warehouse behind us caught fire, then the second one would be in grave danger as well, but for now the air here was comparatively clear.

  I drew in a breath, stepped to the doorway, then caught my toe on the door frame and stumbled forward.

  “Take care!” The stranger held out a hand to steady me.

  I took it, stepped out onto the hard-packed frozen ground, and then used the leverage to yank him forward and down.

  He staggered, stumbling towards me, and I hit him across the back of the neck with my joined fists. The blow wasn’t hard enough to knock him out, but he at least collapsed onto the ground, face-down.

  I set my foot between his shoulder blades and drew the Ladysmith revolver I’d brought on tonight’s expedition.

  “Don’t move.”

  Most people either froze or panicked at the sight of a gun. The Chinese man, though, remained calmly motionless, and his voice was remarkably composed. “Is this always how you repay those who save your life?”

  Becky was standing off to one side, her hands clenched. I didn’t doubt that if our rescuer tried to fight back, she would throw herself straight into the fray.

  One of the reasons I had brought the Ladysmith along.

  “No, not always. But this strikes me as an extraordinarily good night for being cautious.” I flicked the safety off the gun. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I am Chang Kai-chen.” He pronounced the name differently than I would have done. Closer to Zhang. But I’d been right about his identity. “You may call me Kai-chen.”

  His arms lay at his sides, palms flat on the ground. The firelight showed angry red marks on his right wrist, as though he’d already been struck by burning debris.

  “I serve Ming Donghai, Lord Lynley’s … for lack of a better word, business partner,” he went on. “May I get up now?”

  I didn’t move, but I did raise my head, listening. The smoke, even out here in the open air, was thickening as the building behind us caught fire, and I could hear shouts and voices. The night watchman must have raised the alarm.

  We couldn’t stay here much longer. Another section of the roof in the building beside us crashed down. I startled involuntarily— And Kai-chen twisted himself out from under my foot and sprang to his feet in one agile, fluid motion.

  My heart lurched. But instead of coming towards me, Kai-chen whirled and raced away, vanishing into the smoke-filled night.

  30. FACTS AND CONCLUSIONS

  London

  Monday, January 10, 1898

  WATSON

  Clouds of shag tobacco smoke filled our sitting room. Holmes was sitting cross-legged on the floor on several of our sofa cushions, in front of his fireplace chair. On the grate the coals had been stoked and were glowing brightly. I felt grateful to see breakfast on the table.

  “Watson, good morning. Do you recall last night’s incident with Inspector Plank?”

  “I do.”

  As I poured coffee for myself, he continued.

  “Have you reached any conclusions?”

  “The shot cannot have been for you. The inspector must be mistaken. If the shot came from the river, it would be impossible for someone that far away to have seen you. The inspector is a bulky man, and he was standing in the doorway.”

  “That much is obvious. However, I need your help.”

  “Of course.”

  “The wound the inspector received. I did not see it, but you did. You recall it well?”

  “Very clearly.”

  “Would you please trace your finger along your own shoulder to indicate the wound?”

  I did so. The bullet had caught the inspector’s right deltoid muscle, so close to the surface as to penetrate the skin, and continued straight through it. I traced my finger accordingly.

  “Now please set down your coffee and stand before me and perform the same tracing action as before.”

  I did so.

  “Place your fingertip where the bullet went in, and the tip of your thumb to mark where the bullet went out.”

  I did so. Holmes stood up, came forward, and looked at my shoulder for a long moment, and with a level of interest that puzzled me. Finally, he nodded with apparent satisfaction.

  “Now, Watson. We are getting at the truth of the matter, thanks to your demonstration.”

  “I am glad indeed to hear it, but I confess I have no idea what you have seen or how this has been helpful.”

  “You know my methods.”

  “Holmes,” I protested. “I have had a very late night and have not yet taken breakfast!”

  “Quite so. Let me make the situation plainer for you then. How far above the ground is the tip of your finger?”

  “Why, about five feet.”

  “And the tip of your thumb?”

  “Nearly the same height. About five feet above the ground.”

  “So, since your fingertip and the tip of your thumb represent the points of entry and exit of the bullet, it was on more or less a level trajectory when it struck the inspector and passed through his coat and the surface of his shoulder.”

  “It must have been.”

  “You are five feet ten inches tall. The inspector is a shade taller, but I confess not to have a precise image in my mind of the slope of his shoulders. Let us say that his shoulder was at the same height as yours. So, given that the trajectory of the bullet was a level one, how far above the floor of the Red Dragon must the shooter’s weapon have been when it was fired?”

  “About five feet.”

  “And where did the two constables say the shot came from?”

  “From the river.”

  “From a boat on the river, Watson. Not from a ship, but from a boat, which would have been on the water. And the surface level of the Thames, I noted as we left the building, is some fifteen feet below the floor of the Red Lantern. What does that tell you?”

  I did some elementary mental calculation. “That the two constables were mistaken. The shot would necessarily have come from a height of twenty feet above the river level. From a ship.”

  “That is one possibility. But where was this ship? When we arrived and when we left there were only coal barges and small launches. Nothing of that height.”

  “I am at a loss to explain.”

  “Consider also the aim of the shooter.”

  “Not very good, presumably. Though to give him some credit, if the shooter was out on the water, a hundred yards away or more, rocking on the waves, the wind buffeting him—”

  “It is remarkable that he hit anything at all,” Holmes finished for me.

  I had an idea. “What if there was a second shooter, Holmes?” I asked. “With an air gun. The first fires randomly from somewhere out on the river. The second, closer at hand, at the same level, concealed from the constables in a building or shed, fires his air gun from there.”

  “There were no buildings of that sort.”

  “Then what did happen, Holmes?”

  “There was a shooter on the water. He did fire his weapon. The inspector heard it and fell. At the same time, while rolling onto the floor and while our eyes were on the outside, where the shot had presumably come from, he whipped off the black wool scarf that concealed a wound previously made and, falling, flung the bullet against the wall.”

  “But Plank rode in the carriage with the two constables.”

  Holmes drew on his pipe and emitted a great cloud of tobacco smoke. “We assume that Plank shot himself at some time prior to opening the door and covered the tear in his coat with his scarf. He may have done the shooting before entering the police carriage and concealed his pain from his two subordinates. Alternatively,
the constables may have been in on the deception.”

  I shuddered. “Why should the inspector wish to shoot himself?”

  “He said he wanted to keep me away from Limehouse. He may be sincere, or he may not. He may want the exact opposite.”

  “The opposite?”

  “He may have staged the incident, hoping I will be challenged to redouble my efforts. He also mentioned the rumor in Limehouse that I was wanted dead, which also may be taken as a challenge. We must add to this the fact that Limehouse is controlled by Newman’s gang, and that the note at St. Philip’s implicates Newman in the death of Miss Janine and her mother.”

  “So Limehouse and Newman are the key to the mystery.”

  “To the mystery of the three murders, very likely. To the mystery of the missing opium—”

  “I thought you had declined that case.”

  “I declined to recover the opium, which has earned me the approbation of several men in high places. But we must take the opium into account all the same if we want to solve these murders and prevent many others.”

  He stood. “I am going to Scotland Yard. Will you come?”

  31. A POLICEMAN’S WIFE IS NOT A HAPPY ONE

  Lincolnshire

  LUCY

  The London Police stations I had visited were big, modern buildings, all constructed with their intended purpose in mind, all housing not only holding cells, offices, and interview rooms, but dormitory housing for unmarried constables, as well.

  The Shellingford police station, by contrast, looked as though it had been lifted straight out of Shakespearean times: half-timbered, with a thatch roof and diamond-paned windows.

  Beside the police station itself sat a small, whitewashed cottage that I knew from making inquiries in the village was the private residence of Chief Constable Slade and his wife.

  Beyond and behind both buildings, the fenlands stretched out, the tall brown grasses waving in the breeze, and pools of water glinting mirror-smooth in the early-morning sun.