by Anna Elliott
I held absolutely still, pressing my back against the brick wall behind me as the drifting snowflakes swirled and stung my cheeks. If Mr. Ming chose to turn this way, he would pass by me—and there was absolutely no chance whatsoever that he wouldn’t see me.
If he saw me, I would lose all chance of finding out the purpose of Kai-chen and Mr. Ming’s errand, and the cause of their argument. Not only that, but I would put them on guard—unless I could come up with a plausible reason for being out here, other than a wish to follow them.
A toothache, a lost dog …
I was trying out and discarding possibilities that sounded ridiculous, even in my own mind, when the footsteps reached the entrance to the alley … and turned the other way.
Away from me.
I let out a long, slow breath and waited until the sound of the footsteps had died away. Then I walked swiftly and silently back to the entrance of the alleyway. I still couldn’t see anything, but I strained my ears, listening.
Everything felt muffled by the snow and the cold, swirling wind. But I caught what sounded like a jingle of keys, followed by a soft thud.
The opening and closing of a door?
I waited, still listening and debating with myself. Everything was silent, which suggested to me that Kai-chen had gone inside, somewhere back into the hotel. Or on the other hand, he could be standing at the other end of the alleyway, just waiting for me to walk straight into him.
As much as I hated the thought of inaction, staying in place here was safest.
Three minutes dragged past, then five. I tucked my freezing hands together, wishing I’d been able to liberate a scarf and gloves from the hotel lobby, as well as the cloak.
I had counted off seven minutes inside my head when I heard footsteps coming towards me, almost at a run. I didn’t have time to retreat to my former hiding place. I barely managed to crouch down behind an upturned wooden packing crate before a man’s shadowy form came barreling out of the alley.
Kai-chen.
As he reached the alley’s entrance, a stray gleam of ambient light from the hotel above showed his face. He looked pale and strained, his mouth set in a tight line, his black hair streaked with droplets of water from the snow.
I held my breath, but he went past me without a sideways glance and strode off into the night.
I counted off twenty seconds to make sure he wasn’t going to turn back around, then straightened up.
I now had another set of options to debate. I could try to follow Kai-chen, although given that we two seemed to be the only souls out on the streets right now, that would be next to impossible to achieve without his noticing.
Or I could find out what Kai-chen’s errand had been inside the hotel. Because he had been inside. The snow on his hair had been melted into water droplets, which meant that he had spent those seven minutes some place where the temperature was above freezing point.
I very much wanted to find out where that some place had been.
The alley was even more littered with rubbish than I had realized. Kai-chen must have navigated it often to have avoided tripping over the assortment of barrel staves and rusted bed-springs and broken wagon wheels that were piled high. My eyes had at least partially adjusted to the dark, allowing me to see vague shapes, but even still it took a maddeningly long time for me to pick my way to the passage’s other end.
When I emerged, I found myself in the hotel’s rear yard: a small, square area paved with flagstones that contained both the tradesman’s entrance and the metal hatch through which coal would be delivered to the furnace room in the hotel’s basement.
The tradesman’s entrance probably opened into the kitchen area. Light was filtering out around the edges of the door and through the narrow transom window, and I could hear the sounds of voices, the clatter of dishes and the metallic clank of pots and pans.
The hotel staff must be preparing food for any guests who wanted a late supper.
I very much doubted that Kai-chen’s errand had taken him into the kitchen. For one thing, the light dusting of snow in front of the door was undisturbed, and for another, a trip to the kitchens wouldn’t be a likely cause for the argument with Mr. Ming.
That left the coal cellar—where, I saw, the dusting of snow had been shifted off the double-sided metal hatch and onto the flagstones. Footprints marked the ground there, as well, both going in and coming back out again.
For just a second, my ears buzzed and weight compressed my ribcage. Of course. It had to be the underground coal cellar.
Just once, I would love it if an investigation led me into an open, airy apple orchard. Or a sunlit cottage garden.
A metal padlock held the coal hatch closed, and I didn’t have my set of picks—but I did have a hairpin, and the lock was a simple one. A few quick twists and it snapped open in my hands. And the door’s hinges had been recently oiled, too, so it opened silently when I tugged one side of the hatch open and peered inside.
A straight drop into near-pitch darkness greeted me—since two-ton deliveries of coal didn’t need sets of stairs to walk down. But I could just make out the top of the coal pile, maybe six feet below me, which made it slightly risky to jump, since I had no guaranteed way of pulling myself back out again.
But not actually suicidal.
Probably. Depending on what else besides coal was down there.
My heart still hammered, though, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the cold flood of memories that squirmed through me.
This place wasn’t an exact replica of the place where I’d been held prisoner. But it was deep, dark, and underground, and that was enough to make my stomach clench and my skin start to crawl.
I’m afraid had always been my two least favorite words in the English language. But right now, I would rather do almost anything else than go down into the Grand Hotel’s cellar.
Holmes could be down there. If he was still alive.
I took a breath, eased myself backwards over the edge until I was hanging by my hands, and then dropped. Landing on a shifting, unstable pile of coal made me stagger and almost fall, but I gained my balance and picked my way downwards to the floor—forcing myself to notice details rather than think about how easy it would be for someone to slam and lock the coal hatch and trap me down here.
The cellar was dark, but from somewhere up ahead of me, I could see a faint, pale sliver of light near the floor, as though from the crack under a door.
I could also hear something from up ahead, beyond the coal cellar—something that sounded, incongruously for a basement, like the splash of running water. As I edged my way towards both the light and the sounds, an odd scent stung my nostrils and crawled down the back of my throat—a harsh, chemical smell, like paint thinner or vinegar.
I reached the source of the light, which proved to be a heavy wooden door. Feeling around the edges, I found no lock—just a heavy metal bolt that had been drawn across, holding it closed from the outside. Putting my ear to the wooden panel, I listened.
The splash of running water was louder, closer, now, making it hard to hear. But I thought I could just make out a rustle of movement, and a soft, irregular sound, like someone breathing—or sobbing.
I slid the Ladysmith out of my pocket with one hand and flipped the safety catch off. Then I drew the bolt slowly back, wincing at the squeak of the metal, and swung the door open.
The room was small, windowless, and looked to be a store room of some kind. The light from a single oil lamp showed cans of paint, brushes, and a few workman’s tools on the shelves which stood against one wall. And in the center of the room, a young woman was tied, at the wrists and ankles, to a wooden chair.
She gasped at the sight of me, her blue eyes flaring wide as she stared through disheveled strands of pale blonde hair—first at me, then at the revolver in my hand.
I slipped the Ladysmith back into my pocket and spoke above the pounding of my own heart. “It’s all right. Are you Alice Gordon?”
She stared for another second, then jerked her head in a nod, still looking too shocked—or too frightened—to speak.
I let out a slow breath. Against all odds, Alice Gordon was alive. Finally, something in this investigation had gone right—or it would, if I could get both of us out of here.
“My name is Lucy,” I told Alice. “You don’t know me, but I’ve been looking for you.”
64. TAKEN
WATSON
Thinking to keep watch for Lucy, I waited in the lobby. I felt uncomfortable remaining in the room where the demonstration had been held. Ming had seemed too eager in his invitation. Something about the man did not seem genuine. It was a cold night, and the wind pressed against the pair of lobby doors, pushing them open slightly, whistling and howling as the sea air struggled to get in.
I waited a few minutes.
Then I decided to investigate the facilities downstairs, testing my idea that this was where Kai-chen had taken the two ladies and thus where Lucy would have gone to follow them.
But the stairway door to the lower level was locked. The lift attendant shook his head when I asked him to open it. “All closed up until tomorrow.”
I was beginning to have an intuitive sense that something was wrong. Lucy should have been back by now.
I had the lift operator take me to the third floor. The corridor was empty. I knocked on the door to her room, but there was no answer. I took the stairs up to my own room and the adjoining room I had secured for Lucy. Both were empty.
I felt the overpowering urge to get out, to do something, to take control somehow. I wrote a short note and addressed it to Jack, telling him my room number. I left the note with the receptionist. Then I put on my overcoat and went down the stairs to the lobby floor. I tested the door to the lower level, but it too was locked. I went into the lobby, hoping to find Lucy. But she was not there. I pushed through the outside doors to the front portico and the steps leading down to the pavement and the street.
The bellman was still standing in his position. He gave me a curious look.
“Not leaving us already?” he asked.
“Fresh air,” I replied.
I strolled around to the back of the hotel. The sea was far from calm. Even in the harbor, waves slapped against the sides of the cargo vessel we had seen coming in on our arrival. The ship was now docked at the pier, about a hundred yards along the boardwalk past the hotel. The hum of the ship’s engines mingled with the splash of the waves. I could see men working on the deck, and I wondered at the activity at this time of night. I wondered why the men were silent.
The silent men were unloading cargo from the hold of the vessel. I could see their shadowy figures pulling on a rope connected to a hammock—like cargo sling, guiding it and its contents down to the dock. The crates appeared to be heavy. I could see wispy bunches of packing hay protruding from beneath the lids. Two men stood guard.
I watched for about ten minutes before I realized that the shadowy outline of the stack of cargo on the dock had not changed. It had grown no larger, or smaller, yet the cargo sling had continued to be lowered full, raised empty, and lowered full again and again with more pallets, each laden with sacks and crates.
Perhaps ten loads of pallets. Perhaps a hundred sacks and crates.
They had to be going somewhere.
I strolled. Casually. One of the guards saw me and came forward.
“State your business.”
“My business is medicine,” I said. “I am a doctor.”
“This is private property.”
“I am a guest at the Grand Hotel.”
“I suggest you go back there. It’s a cold night. If you’re a doctor, you should know that the cold air can be dangerous.”
There was no point in arguing, but I was certainly not going to give up. I bade the fellow good night and walked back to the hotel, continuing around to the street pavement at the front. Then I continued walking along the street until I had got well past the cargo ship. It was only a dim outline, about two hundred yards away.
I could no longer see the workers on the cargo ship, or their guards, which meant they could not see me. I walked directly towards the Channel, leaning forward into the sting of the January wind. I had not brought my hat, scarf, or gloves, but I had my Webley revolver in my pocket.
A full moon was just rising, but its pale silver glow failed to brighten the dark outlines of the cargo ship and the dock. The icy sea wind tore at my coat. I had to fight to keep my balance on the wet beach sand as I made my way forward.
I did not want to look at the Channel. I could hear it surging and booming as the waves broke and hissed along the shore. Much of the sea was in shadow. Here and there wavetops caught a few reflections from the ship’s lanterns, or from the town street lights, or from the moon.
I did not want to look at the Channel, because each glimpse of the dark water made me think of Sherlock Holmes.
I was close enough to the waves for my shoes to be wet. From that angle I could look back up the coast and see the ship, the dock, and, further to the left, the wooden columns that supported the dock.
From somewhere beneath the dock, three men were coming out.
They were bent over, leaning forward, pushing something.
Crouching low, I moved forward on the sand to get a better view.
The three men paused, looking upward to see another pallet swung on its rope above their heads, moving with the wind and the waves as the crane gently lowered it from the cargo ship.
I now could see that the pallet was being lowered to rest, not on the dock as I had thought, but beneath the dock, onto whatever it was the men had been pushing.
The men waited. The pallet and its cargo came to rest. The men moved around it. One of them bent forward and the others did the same. Then the rope swung clear. The ship’s crane hauled the rope up to the deck of the ship.
The men came around between the pallet and the ship. They bent over and braced themselves, hands on the cargo. Then as if on cue, they pushed. The cargo and the men moved away from the ship, then beneath the dock, then out of my view. I heard the clatter of metal wheels on steel rails.
A railway, I thought. Smugglers. Bringing contraband cargo ashore under cover of darkness, then hiding it in some chamber excavated below the dock. Would they have something to do with Ming? Or the opium chest that had launched this adventure? But what I had seen were crates and sacks, not even faintly resembling the chest we had found in the room of Inspector Swafford.
The chill wind of the Channel was picking up, and I was beginning to shake from the cold—my body’s involuntary reaction and attempt to keep warm. I could move forward and brave the further chill, and the chance of being discovered by the loading crew and the guards. Or I could come back in the morning. The unloading process would have concluded by then, and I could walk on the dock and find a reason to climb down and inspect the area beneath the dock. I could also tell Lucy what I had found, and perhaps she could assist.
Concluding that this was the more reasonable course, I turned to walk back up the beach to the paved road.
But two burly men had crept up to stand behind me, only a few feet away. They blocked my path. One of the men was the guard I had seen nearer the dock. Even in the shadows, I could see that other man was holding a pistol.
The gun was pointed at me.
65. NOT ALONE
LUCY
Alice Gordon’s eyes were still wide, frightened and uncomprehending. “I … I don’t understand.” Her voice was hoarse and choked. Seen closer, her hair was dirty and tangled, and her face was streaked with grime, except where recent tears had washed clean tracks down her cheeks. “Who … how did you …”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get away from here.”
I spoke quickly, drawing the knife from the top of my boot and kneeling down to slice the ropes that kept her ankles bound to the legs of the chair.
Both those ropes and the ones around he
r wrists were padded with rags, to keep from chafing the skin. The remains of a food tray sat on the floor beside the chair, too, containing the crust-end of a loaf of bread, a cheese rind, and a half-empty bottle of milk.
If Kai-chen was the one who had locked her in here, he had tried to keep her from suffering.
I cut through the ropes on Alice’s wrists. “How do you feel? Do you think you can walk?”
Alice drew a shuddering breath, seeming to scarcely hear the question. Instead she brought her two hands around to the front, staring down at her fingers as she clenched and unclenched them.
Sudden tears welled up in her eyes, then, and she started to cry—hoarse, gasping sobs that had her doubling over as though in pain.
I gripped her shoulder, sympathy warring with impatience. “Alice, we need to leave, do you under—”
A step sounded behind me and I cursed myself for the stupidity of not keeping a better watch.
I spun around, my knife at the ready.
Kai-chen stood in the doorway, leveling a snub-nosed revolver at me. For a split-second, he looked momentarily even more stunned to see me than I was to see him. Not so shocked, though, that he let the gun waver, and in barely a heartbeat, the shocked expression had flattened out into one of grim determination.
He kept the barrel of the revolver aimed directly at me.
“Put the knife down.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice. With another opponent, I might have tried throwing the knife—it might not kill, but it would certainly injure. But I already knew how quick Kai-chen’s reflexes were. The second my knife-hand twitched, he could fire off a shot, and I would be dead before the blade came within a foot of him.
The same went for trying to draw my own revolver. I was kicking myself for having put it away so as not to frighten Alice—it would take far too long for me to reach for it now.
I crouched down slowly, setting the knife on the ground. I’d cut the ropes binding her, but Alice was still huddled on the chair, and still sobbing.
Obviously, I couldn’t look for any help there.