by Anna Elliott
“Mr. Phelps’s flat is on the top floor,” Becky went on. “And there’s a doorman on guard at the entrance. We’ll never get past him.”
From where they sat they could see him in the electric entry light: a solid, military-looking sort of cove in a blue coat trimmed with brass buttons and braid on the shoulders.
Flynn had to agree that Becky was right. Asking the doorman to let them in would get them a big fat no, followed by a kick in the pants.
“So I don’t see what other choice we have,” Becky said. “There are balconies on almost all of the flats. If we can use them to climb up to the top of the building somehow—”
“And when one of the people who live in those flats asks what we’re doing on their balcony, we say, Don’t pay us any mind, please, we’re just breaking in on one of your neighbours?”
“We don’t know that anyone would see us.”
“We don’t know they wouldn’t, neither. And it’s three stories up! Fall, and you’ll be a wet spot on the pavement.”
Becky flinched, but then glared at him again. “And I suppose you have a better idea?”
“Maybe.” An idea had just struck Flynn when he took another bite of potato. “Lucy gave you money, didn’t she?”
“Plenty. Why?”
“Give it to me.” There wasn’t much time to explain; this plan would take a while. Flynn gestured. “You go scout around in that alley over there.” It looked like the kind of place where rubbish bins would pile up. “See if you can find any scraps of wood. Packing crates, old newspapers—anything that will burn.”
“Oi! Guv’nor!” Breathing hard, Flynn raced up the flagstone walk to the entrance of Albert Mansions.
The doorman was standing straight at attention in his post beside the door, but he must have been half dozing, because he came to with a start when Flynn shouted at him.
Then he frowned, looking like Flynn was something nasty he’d just found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Flynn could see the Be off with you, hovering on the man’s lips.
“I’m not lookin’ for trouble, guv!” Hands up, Flynn jumped back before the doorman could grab him by the coat collar. “Just wanted to let you know there’s something caught fire over there around the side of your building. You can see the smoke from here.”
He pointed to the smoke from the fire that he and Becky had started on the side of Albert Mansions away from the street. You could see a bit of the blaze, too, glowing in the dark.
Becky had found an old broken bed in the alley with plenty of wooden slats, and a heap of old newspapers besides. They’d used the burning coals that Flynn had bought off the potato vendor, and gotten the fire going nicely in almost no time. The Albert Mansions building was built of brick, so it shouldn’t be much damaged, but there was dry grass all around, and some leaves that had fallen off the trees inside the Mansions’ iron fence. They’d burn all right.
The doorman leaned forward to peer around the building, then gave a sharp exclamation and ran towards the flames.
In a wink, Flynn ran up the front steps and ducked into the doorway the man had been guarding. Becky had been watching from the shadows out in the street, and now she hopped over the low fence and raced to get inside, too.
“Quick.” She shoved Flynn across the entrance hall, past a desk where the residents probably came to collect their mail and such. “He’ll come back to telephone for the fire department in another minute. We need to be out of sight before then!”
They pounded up the stairs two at a time and reached the third floor.
“Now how do we get inside Mr. Phelps’s place?” Becky panted. “Pick the lock?”
“No need. I got the doorman’s passkey.” Flynn held up the ring of keys. “Nicked it off him when I told him about the fire.”
He was out of practice with picking pockets since working for Mr. Holmes, but this one hadn’t been much of a challenge. The doorman had been distracted enough that Flynn could probably have taken the shirt off his back and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Becky gave him a look of grudging approval. Grudging because she was probably wishing she’d thought up the idea first.
“That was good planning. All right. Here’s Mr. Phelps’s door.”
A quick twist of the passkey, and they were inside Mr. Phelps’s flat.
There weren’t any lights on, so all Flynn could see was what the light from the hall showed. But it seemed like a big, rich-looking sort of place, with lots of dark wood furniture and red velvet.
Flynn eased the door shut behind them, then lit the stump of a candle he always carried in his pocket. “Where do we start?”
Becky peered into the shadows. They were in a kind of parlour, and there were a couple of doors off to the side that looked like they led into other rooms. “You look in his bedroom, I’ll see whether he has an office here or a desk where he keeps papers.”
It sounded to Flynn like she was more likely to find something interesting than he was, but then again, Becky still read better than he did since she’d been at it for longer. She’d stand a better chance of knowing what kind of papers might be important.
“All right.”
The first door on the right led into the bedroom, which had a big canopied bed and a feather mattress so plush and high that Flynn couldn’t imagine how Mr. Phelps didn’t get lost in the middle of it.
He set to and got to work, pulling out drawers and dumping the contents out onto the floor. Half an hour later, he knew a lot more than he wanted to about Mr. Phelps’s taste in hair oils and gentleman’s underwear. But he couldn’t see that he’d uncovered anything that might settle whether or not he’d been bribed into helping with Jack being kidnapped.
“What are you doing?”
Flynn looked up and saw that Becky had come to stand in the doorway. She was staring at the mess on the floor with her mouth open.
“You’ll never be able to put all of this back the way it was!”
Flynn shrugged. “What’s it matter? If Mr. Phelps is our man, then he’s got bigger worries than having his boot polish and clean collars tipped out. And even if he’s not, what can he do besides call the rozzers when he sees his place has been tossed? He won’t have any way of finding out that we’re the ones who broke in.”
“I suppose. Did you find anything?” Becky asked.
“Nothing. You?”
Becky shook her head. “I don’t think so. I found this”—she held up a long blue envelope, the kind used for holding papers. “It has Lady Constance’s name on it, so I thought it might be important. But I looked through, and it’s just a copy of Lady Constance’s will. I took it—we can see if she’s left Mr. Phelps any money. You know, in case she does die. That would give him a motive.”
It sounded pretty thin, but Flynn didn’t want to hurt Becky’s feelings when it was all they had. So he said, “Sounds possible.”
It didn’t work, though, because Becky’s lip trembled. “No it doesn’t.” She slid the envelope into the pocket of her coat. “But we’ve come all this way and we haven’t found a single thing that might help Jack! We’ll have to go back to Baker Street and tell Lucy that we didn’t find any evidence at all.”
She sounded like she was about to cry again. Flynn looked around wildly. He wasn’t much of a one for praying, but right then he’d have welcomed any favours that the Almighty cared to hand out.
Then he saw it.
“Hang on.” He pointed to the round tin lying on the floor in amongst all the rest of Mr. Phelps’s belongings. “Boot polish?”
Becky ground her knuckles hard against her eyes. “So Mr. Phelps likes his shoes shiny. How does that help?”
“Look around.” Flynn gestured at the room all around them, the fancy bedding and carpet, the gold clock on the mantle. “Does a man who’s got enough money to buy all this seem like the sort who’s going to polish his own boots?”
Becky sucked in a quick breath. “You’re right! He’d go to one of the shoe-shining stalls on
the street. Or maybe this block of flats has servants to do that sort of thing. Either way, he wouldn’t do it himself. Let’s see.” She pounced on the tin, using her nails to pry it open. Then she gasped again as the lid popped free. “Money!”
She was right about that. Flynn gave a low whistle at the stack of twenty-pound notes that were folded up inside the tin.
Becky counted quickly. “It’s about a hundred pounds. Do you think that’s enough to have been a bribe?”
“I don’t know.” It sounded like a fortune to Flynn, but rich people had different ideas about what counted as wealth. “Could be—”
A step sounded just outside, and a deep voice boomed out, “What the devil do you young rapscallions think you’re doing?”
Flynn and Becky both jumped and turned to look around.
Mr. Phelps was standing in the doorway, his face going red with anger.
Flynn felt like his feet had grown roots into the floorboards, but in his head he was flipping through their options—which as far as he could see boiled down to just one: run.
Mr. Phelps was short and flabby-looking. If Flynn head-butted him in the stomach, he’d probably fall down, and then he and Becky had a decent chance of getting past him and out the door.
That would be the smart move, considering he might have tried to kill two people tonight, Lady Constance and the police coachman.
But instead—almost like he was watching himself do it from a long way off—Flynn stood up straight and heard himself say, “We work for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He knows we’re here. We’ve got a lookout waiting outside in the street.”
Flynn looked Mr. Phelps straight in the eye as he said it. If you had to lie, you’d better sound like you meant it, he’d always found.
“All I have to do is give him the signal”—he put his thumb and first finger to his lips like he was going to whistle—“and he’ll be away, running back to get Mr. Holmes and bring him here. So.” Flynn held up the tin with the money in it. “So you’d better explain to us what this money is from, otherwise you’ll be telling Mr. Sherlock Holmes half an hour from now.”
Mr. Phelps’s face turned even redder, and the veins on his forehead stood out. Flynn got ready to run at him after all, just in case he tried to make a grab for him or Becky.
But then all of a sudden, the barrister seemed to collapse, like a balloon that’d been popped with a pin.
“Very well.” He got out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I will tell you what that money is. But you must promise to keep the information to yourselves.”
CHAPTER 7: WATSON
In the Claridge’s sitting room, Holmes was crouching at the window, peering out into the night, his eyes at the level of the lowest point of the shattered glass. I was kneeling beside Lady Constance, who appeared only to have fainted. I saw no sign of a wound.
Then the entry door opened and the police constable on guard came rushing in. “Wait there, constable,” Holmes said.
I turned towards Lord Anthony, who appeared to have gone into some kind of wilful shock. He kept his eyes and mouth clamped shut, grinding his teeth and shaking his head from side to side.
Then Holmes stood. “We go now, constable,” he said. “Our quarry has fired from the fourth floor of the building across the street. The third window from the end. Dr. Watson, can you attend to Sir Anthony and Lady Constance?”
“I shall make do,” I said as Holmes and the constable hurried from the room.
I realised that Leonie, the French maid, was at my side. In my halting schoolboy French, I asked her to bring brandy and water and a pillowcase and a pair of scissors. She nodded.
I bent over Sir Anthony and spoke directly into his ear. “The bullet passed through your shoulder,” I said. “It is a clean wound, but it will require dressing. I must remove your jacket and shirt.”
To my surprise, he sat up and said, “That’s all? I am really going to be all right?”
“You are.”
“Then just let me wriggle out of these.” He fumbled with his jacket for a moment, but then winced in pain and sat still. Then he asked “Where’s Constance? What happened?”
“Someone shot you through the window. Holmes and the police have gone to capture the gunman. Lady Constance has fainted.”
“She didn’t see me whining and writhing about there?”
“I doubt it.”
“There’s a relief.”
By then, Leonie had returned. Lady Constance had not yet awakened, so Leonie helped me with Lord Anthony. We removed his jacket and shirt, each of which bore a bullet-hole at the entry point and another at the exit. The bullet, as I expected, had pierced straight through the fleshy part of his upper arm.
Using the brandy and makeshift pads and bandages cut from the pillowcase, I began to stabilise the wound. As we worked, Leonie murmured something in French that I thought meant ‘you have kind hands,’ so I nodded my thanks.
Lord Anthony winced as I tied the last strip of pillowcase around his shoulder. “I smell like a ruddy grog shop,” he said.
“We’ll soon replace the dressing with a proper medical kit,” I said.
Leonie had brought a clean shirt for Lord Anthony and was helping him put it on.
Then we heard Lady Constance’s voice, coming faintly. “What happened?”
Her blue eyes widened as the three of us bent over her.
“Prepare yourself for a shock, my dear,” said Lord Anthony. “Some devil with a gun tried to kill you. Fortunately, they only hit me, and made only a pretty harmless wound at that. Dr. Watson says I’ll be as good as new.”
“Although further treatment will be required,” I said, helping her to sit up and offering brandy. “Now, Lady Constance, if you would just take a sip of this.”
She sipped and shuddered. “Thank you.” She looked up at me. “I cannot thank you enough for attending to Anthony, Dr. Watson.”
“I’ll ring down to the front desk,” said her husband. “We must have another room.”
“I should advise not,” I said. “You both need quiet and rest. And to be practical about it, I would expect this room is as safe as anywhere else. Holmes and the police are on their way to where the shooter seems to have lain in wait. I doubt that he will choose the same location for another attempt.”
“Mr. Linden is truly evil,” Lady Constance said. She reached for the brandy and took another sip, then set it down. “My only satisfaction will be to see him walk away in chains, both of us knowing I have sent him to the gallows.”
Leonie placed her hand on her mistress’s arm. “ne t’inquiète pas,” she murmured.
“She’s worried I’ll distress myself,” Lady Constance said, turning to me. “But Doctor, why would Linden go to the trouble of kidnapping a policeman and then try to silence me in this way?”
“It would indicate how fearful he is of your testimony,” I said.
“Needs to make assurance double sure, and all that?” said Sir Anthony.
Lady Constance sighed. “Well, I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she said. She gave me a momentary smile. “In the morning, I will try to gather my courage and face all of this horror once again. But for now, I hope you will not think me a terrible shirker if I say that I just want my bed, and a damp cloth over my eyes. Leonie, aidez-moi.”
The little maid helped her mistress to stand. The two shuffled carefully out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, leaning against each other. The door closed behind them.
Lord Anthony said, “What next, Doctor?”
“I will send out for my medical bag. When it arrives, I can apply a more permanent dressing. And a suture or two. You will be brave, I take it?”
“I suppose.” He looked towards the bedroom door. An idea seemed to strike him. He lowered his voice. “Say, you don’t think that little French baggage could have made a signal from the window in there? Wave to somebody across the street? Somebody with a gun? Let him know when to shoot?”
“It s
eems unlikely,” I said. “Particularly since she does not speak English, how would she have been able to make arrangements with the shooter in the first place?”
“Oh, she speaks English well enough,” he said. “I’ve cause to know it, if you understand me.” He winked. “She’s been with Constance for five years, and she’d have to be pretty thick not to have picked up enough to get by. But Constance just likes to tell people Leonie doesn’t understand a word of English, so they’ll speak freely in front of her. Leonie pretends all the choice gossip is all going in one ear and out the other, but she takes it all in, all right. Then she gets together with Constance and gives her the low down.”
He had buttoned up his shirt and was pouring himself a glass of champagne. I picked up his jacket and, as I handed it to him, a piece of paper fell out. I recognised a bookie’s racetrack receipt. He nearly spilled his champagne as he snatched hastily at the paper.
In a low but urgent tone he said, “Can you just forget you saw that, doctor? Medical privilege or something? Keeping a confidence?”
“You mean, not tell your wife.”
He nodded. “Constance thinks I’ve been on the straight and narrow ever since we were married. I promised to turn over a new leaf and it would break her heart to learn I was backsliding into my old ways. She shouldn’t have to bear any more distress. Not when she’s so worried about Linden and the trial.”
CHAPTER 8: LUCY
“Romantic novels?”
Just for a moment I had the half-hysterical urge to laugh, despite the lump of dread inside me. “Mr. Phelps writes romantic novels?”
Flynn nodded, looking disgusted, staring bleakly at the grey dawn outside the Baker Street bow window. “Got quite a knack for it, apparently. Calls himself Rosalind Lovelace and publishes his stuff as serials in one of the ladies magazines that put out tripe like that. But he’s too embarrassed to deposit the checks they give him into his own bank account. He’s worried that word might get out, and he’d be a laughingstock. So he gets the magazine editors to make their checks out to cash only and keeps the money hidden in his flat. What we found was the payment for his latest instalment.”