Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  “Kick the knife over towards me,” Kai-chen ordered.

  I did as he said and sent the knife skittering across the flagstones. But I kept my gaze on Kai-chen’s, refusing to break eye contact.

  “You’re not going to kill Alice. You can’t.”

  A flicker of some expression flashed across Kai-chen’s features and was gone, too quick for me to identify. “You know nothing.”

  My mind was spinning through possibilities, trying to identify a plan of escape, and so far failing. But one of Uncle John’s sayings from the army was that a distracted soldier was a dead soldier, and the saying worked outside of the battlefield, as well.

  A distracted enemy was often a dead one. And if I could keep Kai-chen talking and distracted, a way out of here might occur.

  “I know that Mr. Ming ordered you to kill her tonight, and that you came here for that purpose,” I said. I kept my eyes on the barrel of the revolver. “But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You care for her.”

  The quick twist of pain that crossed Kai-chen’s face was more pronounced this time. “But I came back.” He straightened his shoulders, his expression flattening into determination once more. “I will do as Mr. Ming asks. There is no other way.”

  He had so far avoided looking at Alice, but now his gaze just touched her before flicking away again. “Death will be instant. She will not suffer.”

  His breathing had quickened, just slightly, and his eyes were dilated. He was talking himself into action.

  Not good news for either Alice or me.

  “Rubbish.” I kept my voice calm. I thought of the bronze statuettes in the tea shop, the little game players, meant to provide friendship to their owner into the next life. “You don’t think it will pain her to know that the man who killed her is the same man who was supposed to love her? She loved you enough to leave her friends and defy all social convention for you—how many girls would have done the same? Does Mr. Ming show you that kind of loyalty? Does—”

  “Stop! Stop talking!” Kai-chen’s hand holding the revolver shook ever so slightly.

  I fell silent, but also tensed all my muscles and watched Kai-chen closely. Despite what many believed, unless you were an expert marksman the odds of shooting someone even at close range weren’t strongly in your favor.

  If I dodged and dove low, under Kai-chen’s guard, I might be able to knock him off balance and then get the revolver.

  Before I could decide on a moment to act, the sound of angry voices broke the silence—muffled by the thick basement walls and the sound of running water, but still not far off.

  “Unhand me at once!”

  The majority of whatever was being said was lost, but some trick of acoustics carried those words to me plainly. I froze, shock inching its way down my spine.

  I knew that voice, almost as well as I did my own. It was Uncle John.

  66. DOWNWARD

  Saturday, January 15, 1898

  BECKY

  “They’re not here.”

  Jack’s voice was quiet and completely calm, but Becky could tell just by looking at him that he was worried. He was looking around the hotel room where Dr. Watson was supposed to be staying. They wouldn’t have known where that was, but Dr. Watson had left a note for them at the hotel desk and told the receptionist to give it to them when they arrived.

  Now it was after midnight, and the whole hotel was eerily dark and quiet, the only light coming from the couple of electric torchiers set into the hallway’s walls. Dr. Watson’s room was completely dark, too, the curtains drawn. But Becky could see it was empty—and they’d already checked Lucy’s room next-door and found it just as deserted.

  Wherever Lucy and Dr. Watson were, it wasn’t here.

  “I don’t understand.” Flynn had been silent up until now, his shoulders hunched and his whole pose uneasy as they made their way through the hotel. If he didn’t like to be inside even on a good day, the amount of luxury and rich furnishings in the Grand was probably enough to turn his stomach. “You’re a … copper, right?” he asked Jack.

  Becky knew that was a more polite word that he would usually use for the police.

  “So why don’t you just go down to the desk and tell ’ooever’s in charge that they better tell you everything they know about Miss Lucy and Dr. Watson and ’elp you find them, or else? Becky told me about that Mr. Torrance, that runs this place. ’E sounds like a shady character, to me.”

  Jack looked as though he were almost tempted to try that idea. But he shook his head. “That’s not how it works. I’d need a warrant to search this place. And if we alert Mr. Torrance—or anyone else who might be guilty—to the fact that we’re here, and looking for Lucy and Dr. Watson—”

  He stopped talking, and Becky saw the line of his mouth go tight.

  She didn’t need Jack to fill in the rest of what he had been about to say. If Mr. Torrance had taken Lucy and Dr. Watson prisoner somewhere, then he might hurt them—or worse—if he thought that anyone was here looking for them.

  Becky felt as if invisible hands were wrapped around her throat, trying to strangle her. She had lost count of the number of times she had said I’m sorry on the train ride up here, so she didn’t say it again, but it felt like the words were stuck in her throat, like sharp-edged rocks.

  If she hadn’t gone off to look at the house in St. John’s Wood, then Jack would have been able to come up to Shellingford with Lucy, and maybe Lucy and Dr. Watson wouldn’t be missing—

  “It’s thanks to you that we found the map, Beck,” Jack said quietly. He must have known or guessed what she was thinking. “That’s important—it’s the best lead we have right now, in fact. But I need you to do something for me.” He kept going before Becky could ask what it was. “I’m going to go down to the docks and take a look at this tunnel the map showed.”

  “No!” Now Becky felt like the invisible hands had shifted, trying to squeeze all the air out of her chest. “Not by yourself, you can’t!”

  Lucy and Dr. Watson were missing, Mr. Holmes might be dead, and if Jack got caught, too—

  “I’ll be all right. But I have to go by myself. There’s a lot less chance I’ll be seen that way.” Jack hadn’t raised his voice, but Becky knew from his tone that there was no point in arguing.

  She couldn’t really argue. Three people were more conspicuous than just one.

  “I need you and Flynn to stay here,” Jack said. “Right here in this room where you’ll be safe, all right?”

  The lump in Becky’s throat swelled and the back of her eyes burned, but she nodded.

  “Good.” Jack smiled at her and tugged one of her braids. “I’ll come back soon, Beck. Promise.”

  Becky stared at the clock on the mantle. Jack had said that they could light one of the gas jets over the mantle, so that they could see better, as long as they kept the curtains shut tight and a pillow stuffed under the edge of the door to keep anyone outside in the hall from noticing that a light was on.

  Seventeen minutes after twelve … Eighteen minutes after twelve …

  It felt as though the seconds were crawling by. Finally, the minute hand ticked over to read twenty minutes past midnight.

  She jumped up. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Flynn had been slouched in the easy chair by the fireplace—not asleep, maybe, but Becky suspected he’d been on his way to dozing. Now he startled, blinking at her.

  “What d’you mean, let’s go? Your brother said to stay ’ere, remember?”

  “I know. But he didn’t specify how long we were supposed to stay here.” If Jack had been less worried about Lucy, Becky knew he wouldn’t have made that mistake—but it worked out well for her purposes. They had been here a total of ten minutes, which meant that strictly speaking she hadn’t lied when she’d agreed to do as Jack asked. “Besides, I have a better idea.”

  The edges of Flynn’s mouth pulled down in a scowl. “I don’t think we agree on what the word better means.”

 
; Becky ignored him. “We’re going to search the rest of the hotel and see whether we can find any sign of where Lucy and Dr. Watson may have gone—or where they’re being held, if they’ve been taken prisoner.”

  Flynn’s scowl deepened. “Oh good. ’Ow’d you know I was just sitting ’ere, ’oping for a chance to get myself caught or killed?”

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Becky asked. That wasn’t really playing fair, since she knew Flynn would rather die than admit to being afraid of anything. But she was long past caring about fair tactics versus dirty ones.

  Flynn stood up, still glaring at her. “Where do we even look? The ’otel’s a big place. It’d take us all night to look in all the rooms—and that’s if we ’ad keys to them all, which we don’t.”

  Becky let out her breath. It might not sound like it, but she knew she’d won. “I know. But I found that map of the tunnel that leads from the hotel to the docks—and the only sensible place for it to start is down in the basement, below ground. So that’s where we’ll start. Downstairs in the cellars.”

  67. LIES FROM OUR CAPTORS

  LUCY

  Kai-chen prodded me in the back with the barrel of his revolver. “Sit down.”

  Uncle John was already sitting, bound and gagged, on a wooden chair that had clearly been cast off from the hotel’s restaurant upstairs. One of the legs was cracked, but the gilt-edged white paint and rose-colored upholstery made for a bizarre contrast to the dankness of the cellar’s walls.

  Alice, still weeping, was tied to a second chair next to Uncle John’s, and a third one waited for me beside hers.

  I stayed where I was, ignoring the press of the gun against my rib cage. “I don’t think so.”

  I didn’t know what they had planned for us, but I did know that the moment I allowed myself to be tied down, I would be helpless to stop it.

  Behind me, Kai-chen gave a growl of frustration. His voice sounded even more ragged than before, his nerves more frayed.

  Bad for him, good for us.

  My eyes sought Uncle John’s. Above the length of white linen that formed the gag, his gaze was steady and clear, and as I looked a silent question at him, he gave me a barely perceptible nod.

  I had just been given permission to try whatever means of escape I could, regardless of the risk.

  Duck, spin, knock Kai-chen’s gun-hand up, at the same time aiming a kick at his left knee.

  I gave the maneuver about a sixty-seven percent chance of working—and I had in the past acted on worse odds than those.

  I drew in a breath …

  And a man’s hunched figure stepped out of the shadows, clearing his throat and beaming as though this were a gala ball and he was the host, welcoming me to the evening’s delights.

  “Ah, Miss James. Or perhaps you would prefer Mrs. Kelly? I beg that you will not attempt whatever assault you were about to perpetrate on Chang Kai-chen. The outcome would be unfavorable to you both, I assure you.”

  I held very still, ordering myself not to react—although I could feel tiny crystals of ice burrowing into my skin. Ming had just called me Mrs. Kelly, which meant that he knew exactly who I was.

  He seemed to pick up the thought, because his smile grew even broader. “A wise man once said, ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’”

  “Sun Tsu also said, ‘Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you; this will diminish his enthusiasm.’ I’ve read The Art of War, too.”

  It was one of the very few ancient texts we had studied in history classes at school that I had really enjoyed.

  Ming tipped his head back and laughed. “Remarkable. Just as I thought, truly you are a remarkable young woman.” He scrutinized my face, nodding as though I had just confirmed some long-held theory. “My only regret where you are concerned is that we could not have made one another’s acquaintance under more harmonious circumstances. However—”

  He was only a foot or two away from Uncle John. A quick step brought him to Watson’s side, and he drew a hypodermic syringe from a fold of his robe. He set the point of the needle against Watson’s throat.

  “Sun Tsu also advises, ‘Begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then he will be amenable to your will.’ Sit down in that chair, or I will inject the full measure of heroin in this syringe into your friend. I assure you, the dose will prove fatal.”

  My pulse was beating in short, hard bursts, but I stayed where I was. “I’m very sure that you intend for tonight’s activities to prove fatal for us in any case. And I think I can safely speak for both myself and Dr. Watson when I say that I would very much prefer to be shot than to die by heroin injection.”

  “Fatal?” Mr. Ming’s eyes widened, and his mouth rounded in surprise, like a child wrongly accused of naughty behavior. “Oh, no, no, no. Not fatal. At least, not necessarily so. I give you perhaps a seventy percent chance of surviving the night, provided that you do as I say.”

  It ought to have been the least of my worries, but it was still was oddly unsettling to realize that the odds Mr. Ming had just given me were nearly identical to my own earlier calculations.

  “Shall I tell you how it will be?” he went on. “You will be given a dose of heroin—not a fatal dose, you understand, merely enough to induce a pleasant lethargy followed by sleep—then you will remain here, soundly asleep, for the rest of tonight, and will wake in the morning none the worse. Always provided, of course, that you suffer no adverse reactions to the heroin, which, of course, I must admit that some do. Yes, I cannot lie, there are, where opiates are concerned, certain risks involved.” Mr. Ming lowered his eyes, shaking his head at the sadness of it all. “But there is, as I say, a strong chance of your waking up tomorrow morning.”

  “I see.” The needle still rested against Watson’s throat—and Kai-chen still held the barrel of the revolver pressed against the small of my back. At that moment, I had no other strategy than to keep Ming talking. “And what is to stop us from coming after you then?”

  Mr. Ming clucked his tongue. “Ah, no, no, no. By morning my associates and I will be long gone. This area has proved to be a convenient base for our operations for some time. But Lord Lynley’s unfortunate death has complicated matters. It is now time for us to move on. By morning, we will be on a ship, sailing for … ah, well.” He shook his head like an indulgent uncle cautioning a wayward child. “You can hardly expect me to tell you that. But we will be hundreds of miles away, and you and Dr. Watson here will awaken refreshed and ready to commence a return to your ordinary lives.”

  I drew in a breath. “If by ‘refreshed and ready’ you actually mean, ‘dead, drowned in the hotel’s hydrotherapy baths,’ then yes, I’m sure things will happen exactly as you say.”

  I had to credit Mr. Ming: his start of surprise was very slight and almost instantly masked.

  “I’ve been hearing the sound of running water ever since I came down here,” I said. “It’s coming from the hotel’s hydrotherapy rooms, isn’t that right?” I had actually forgotten about the hydrotherapy until I remembered what Bill the bellboy had said about the Grand’s spa weekends. “Some people believe that submersion in water stimulates blood circulation and treats the symptoms of a variety of diseases. But there’s absolutely no reason for the hotel to have the machines running now, at this hour of the night.”

  I looked over at Alice Gordon, who was still slumped in the chair with her long blonde hair hanging into her face, scarcely seeming to hear anything that was said. I wondered whether they’d been already dosing her with opiates—in her food, maybe—to keep her quiet and compliant while they held her captive.

  “Alice found out through Kai-chen about your smuggling operations—and that the cures you offered to opium addicts were actually nothing of the kind,” I continued. “That’s why you kidnapped her and held her prisoner here. Although at first, I’m sure Kai-chen didn’t know that. Until you told him the truth, he genuin
ely didn’t know what had happened to her.

  “Your plan was to dose Alice with enough heroin to render her unconscious, then leave her in the tanks to drown. That way, you could dispose of the body … where? My guess would be in one of the irrigation ditches in the fens, and her death might feasibly be ruled simple accident—since it would be a death by drowning, after all. But Kai-chen was worried that Alice would suffer. Drowning is a very unpleasant way to end one’s life, so he left her, unbeknownst to you, and came back with a gun. But now you’re planning to include Dr. Watson and me in your original plan.”

  Mr. Ming’s eyes narrowed just fractionally. If I’d read him rightly, behind all his smiling, eccentric mannerisms, he liked to imagine himself the cleverest person in the room—and he didn’t at all appreciate my having deduced his actual intent.

  Unfortunately, knowing his real plans didn’t help me think of a feasible way to stop him from doing with us exactly as he chose.

  Above the strip of the gag in his mouth, Uncle John’s eyes were resolute, steady and clear. But the second I tried to attack Kai-chen or draw the Ladysmith, Mr. Ming would depress the plunger on the syringe, injecting the fatal dose of heroin into Uncle John’s bloodstream.

  I kept talking. Delay was the only tactic I had. “Also, I don’t believe that you really intend to quit this place forever and start your operations somewhere else. You’ve got a ship docked nearby—I saw it for a moment when I went outside. The ship was unloading cargo. Maybe it still is. But if you were shutting down your operations, the ship wouldn’t be bringing in supplies.

  “You’re planning to keep right on with your operation, and you’re planning to kill Dr. Watson and me so that we can’t interfere. And, by the way, what are you planning to do with Lady Lynley and Mrs. Slade? Where did you take them? What was the purpose of having them make those touching, hopeful speeches to your audience this evening?”

  Ming just stared at me. But I saw something in Kai-chen’s eyes. The same flicker of shame he had exhibited when he had looked at Alice.