by Angela Misri
“But where did Mr. Valentine go?” Annie broke in.
“He stayed in the stall, probably crouched over the toilet until Dubhthaigh was dragged into the main bar,” I said, watching Sarah’s face crumble. “I’ll bet that you were so distracted by the fracas, Miss Valentine, that you were surprised to see your father suddenly appear as one of the men around Dubhthaigh’s body. Did you wonder when he had come in?”
“I wasn’t sure, I swear,” she said, her croaking voice coming through a bit to my ears. “I was so nervous, sitting there, and then … the shouting … and so much blood … and then my father, he told me what I had to say. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t.”
“And the bombs?” Annie asked.
“The same ones the police are searching for in London, Annie, though I don’t know how many of them made it up here. I’m not sure of some of the details still, but if those are the same mines discovered at the bomb sites in London, Valentine’s motive will be enough to get your father released,” I replied, pulling my hat lower over my eyes at the arrival of the police. “Can you manage this with the local police? I’d rather not take the chance. And have them check the cabinet for the missing tools from the mine. Valentine might have had the foresight to instigate the anger against the foreman.”
Annie nodded confidently, leaving Sarah with me and stepping forward to speak to the bailiff and the two officers.
“You and I must regroup with that useless defence attorney, I think. Now that the police are involved, I must step back, but we will solve two parental issues today: we will free Annie’s father, and start the process to get yours where he belongs. Behind bars.”
CHAPTER 33
SAM WAS ACTUALLY A moderately useful lawyer once you got a whole pot of coffee in him and walked him through the evidence twice. With the revised statement from Sarah Valentine and the new testimony from the police chief, fresh from retrieving nine Russian-made bombs from a duffle bag in the Valentine flat plus the stolen tools, it took under an hour to secure Mr. Coleson’s release in the judge’s chambers. I was basically ignored, the focus on Sam and the prosecutor, who were thrilled with this new level of drama in their sleepy town and happy to let the Colesons and their odd lady friend drift away.
We left the courthouse with the assurance that Mr. Valentine would be charged with several crimes, including the premeditated murder of Barris Dubhthaigh, younger brother to Éamon O’Duffy.
Only Benton the bailiff stopped me on our way out. “Constance Adams from London. I will not forget that name.”
I shook his hand, and suggested he forget it right away, hoping his admiration wouldn’t turn to bile when he found out that I was being sought by Box 850.
We made the last train to London with minutes to spare, Annie and her father sharing one bench and I on the other side in the train car, unable to restrain my grin at their relief and joy.
“How will we ever thank you?” Mr. Coleson said finally, reaching for my hand.
“If you truly think of me as family, Mr. Coleson, no thanks are necessary,” I said, squeezing his hand. “In fact, by helping you, I’ve probably condemned you to weeks of surveillance from Box 850.”
He waved that off. “They can watch us all they want, but they’d better not get too close, or they’ll get an earful for the way they’re treating you.”
Annie shook her head at her father. “We just got you out of jail for running your mouth off. Can you please keep your opinions to yourself?”
“How can we stay silent while our Portia is being chased out of her home and business?” he demanded of her. “No, you have to give me something to do, Portia. Something that will help you. Or I may run mad.”
I smiled at him and Annie. “I have the perfect thing. Can you and the boys stay at my Baker Street apartment for a bit? You will be surveilled wherever you are, to be honest, until I clear my name and therefore your association with me. I need someone to dissuade Box 850 from picking through my life, and I need people to help watch Brian.”
I quickly filled them in on the situation with my partner, the addiction to opioids, and Gavin’s involvement in our troubles. They had matching reactions, from sympathy to horror to anger, looking at each other before promising to take care of Brian and his family on my behalf.
I wrote a note for my grandmother explaining all of this, and also begging her for a stipend for the Colesons while they did this work for me. It wouldn’t be easy to persuade Mr. Coleson to take the money, but if anyone could do it, my grandmother could. Mr. Coleson agreed to take the note to my grandmother before scooping up the boys and taking over my flat. He threw his arms around Annie and me, squeezing us tight and giving us both a kiss on the forehead before we left him, getting off at Kensal Green, well before the main London stops.
“Are you sure about this, Annie?” I asked her again, following her lead as she hailed a cab.
“No, but like you said, our choices are limited,” she replied, ushering me into the car, and giving the directions to the cabbie.
We pulled up at a nondescript row of townhouses and I followed Annie up the stairs to observe three mailboxes marked only with A, B, and C. No names or other identification. I guessed that if I were to walk up to the other townhouses, this might be a common occurrence.
“You promised not to be critical,” Annie said, holding the key in her hand, and I nodded, for what choice did I have?
The townhouse was dark and Annie didn’t turn on a light until she got to the second floor where she stepped with more confidence, unlocking a door directly off the main stairs and flicking a switch on. Inside was a large single room with expensive furnishings, a small kitchen, a tiny water closet, a small sofa, and a king-sized bed. I bit my tongue from saying anything, so tired that I really wished my brain wasn’t cataloguing the space for what it obviously was.
“He’s good to me, Portia,” Annie said, crossing her arms over her chest, her bare feet buried in the shag rug under the sofa, comforting herself with its familiar softness. “And his wife is barely holding on to her sanity. She’s more of a child than a wife.”
“I’d heard the rumours,” I agreed, taking off my coat and satchel and making my way to the kitchen to pour a glass of water for each of us.
I handed her the glass and she stared at me pensively before drinking from it. “Then you have nothing to say?”
“I have nothing to say,” I agreed. “Save to thank you for finding us somewhere safe to spend the night. I haven’t had that in a very long time.”
Her shoulders came down at that. Not all the way, but enough that I redoubled my efforts to ignore the clues all around me that spoke of Annie not being the only woman this rich peer had brought here. She was just the latest conquest and when her charms were overshadowed by a newer, younger version, she would be put aside, just like the others. I said none of this aloud, said nothing of the remnants left behind by a young nurse, and the book forgotten by a woman of Indian descent, possibly a tutor by profession.
Annie in the meantime had gone to the closet to pull out a robe. “Why don’t you have a wash up? I can warm up some soup or something if you like.”
By the time I was back out, two bowls of soup and a small crust of bread were laid out on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Annie had several papers spread out in front of her and was reading all of them at once it seemed.
“You were right about Gavin, he’s right on the front lines,” she said, seeing me.
She pushed a copy of the Intelligencer my way, where I could see a photo of a group of men exiting Downing Street. The men walking in front were the focus of the shot, but bringing up the rear, deep in conversation, were Gavin and Ramsay MacDonald — the prime minister easily recognizable for his shock of thick white hair and uneven moustache. Gavin looked the part of a diplomat, his suit tailored in crisp lines, hugging his shoulders. Several newspapers had captured this moment from dif
ferent angles, some showing Gavin, some not.
“How is he even back in London? Doesn’t the Yard have open cases he has to answer for?” she asked between bites of soup.
“Gavin knows that, it’s why he’s back under the protection of diplomatic immunity,” I answered. “But I wonder what he’s working on. Officially, he seems to be working with the coalition government as some kind of intermediary between the German and British governments.”
“But unofficially?”
“I’m worried he might be the one supplying the British government with arms,” I said.
Annie whistled under her breath. “Well, that’s a promotion if I’ve ever heard of one.”
We finished our soup deep in our own thoughts and I promised to join Annie in bed as soon as I finished reading the papers. I found two stories describing the scene Lancaster and I had run away from, the journalists describing the unsolved murders of Harold Digby, an unidentified teenaged girl (Ilsa), and Constable Rory McKinnon. Neither the spy nor I made the papers at all.
The bomber hadn’t struck again while I was out of London, which was as I’d predicted. I only hoped that the threats wouldn’t resume now that I was back. If the bomber was actually aware of Box 850’s suspicions, then they would be happy to tie me to the bombing by only committing or threatening the crimes while I was in town to take the blame. Of course, that would give me more data because the fact that Box 850 was pursuing me at all was not a widely known fact. The posters around town didn’t describe why I was a person of interest, only that I was. But if the bomber was in fact linked to the Secret Intelligence Service or Scotland Yard, then why were some of the bombs showing up in the Black Country? I pressed on the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on and looking at the bed where Annie slept. I closed the newspaper wearily and crawled in beside her, leaving these open questions to the kindness of the morning light.
CHAPTER 34
“I LOOK RIDICULOUS,” ANNIE said, staring at herself in the mirror.
“You look plain,” I corrected with a smile. “Something you have never experienced before, I admit, but not ridiculous.”
“This wig makes me look sixteen,” she complained, poking at the mass of curly brown hair under the newsboy hat.
“No, that’s the lack of makeup and the fact that you’re wearing mismatched clothes,” I said. “But this will get you into the War Office without a second glance. Students are always coming in and out of there on various research projects.”
“Meanwhile, you look like …”
“You,” I said, fluffing my pretty blonde wig, a replica of Annie’s natural short bob. I had borrowed her clothes from the day before, though I had kept my flat boots because of our height difference. I wouldn’t be able to fool someone who knew Annie well, but an acquaintance to be sure.
She glared at me in the mirror. “Only for you, Portia Adams.”
“You will remember my instructions concerning The Wool and Weaver?” I prompted her, helping her don my father’s old coat.
“I will pretend to shop at the fabric store until I am sure I am not being followed,” she replied with a nod. “And if I pop upstairs, I can change out of these ridiculous clothes before we meet.”
I followed her out the front door of the flat where she stopped me. “Here, you keep the key in case anything goes wrong. I can always go home to Spital Street after all. And Portia, do be careful.”
I promised and she was on her way down the stairs and out the front door of the townhouse paid for by her rich boyfriend. I waited five minutes and then followed her, exiting the front door with my umbrella open and heading straight to the train station. I got off a stop before my destination and walked the rest of the way, making sure to smile at the newspaper boys as I bought today’s paper. I wanted them to remember a friendly blonde rather than the introspective brunette hiding underneath. I took the back stairs into the building and opened the paper to the crossword puzzle, writing in answers as I walked until I was at the door to the office I knew well. I knocked and entered at the same time, surprising the occupants in a rather provocative position.
“Oh dear,” I muttered, closing the door and turning to face the people as they leapt apart.
“What in blazes do you think you’re …,” Inspector Michaels started to say, and then did a double take, actually seeing who it was.
“Portia!” my cousin Heather mouthed and then she ran to me, her blouse still half-unbuttoned, her state of dress forgotten for the moment.
Michaels was stunned, but his hands were still moving, doing up the buttons on his shirt and straightening his hair out. “Adams, what the Hell are you doing here?”
I struggled out of Heather’s bear hug, only managing to negotiate half my body away to answer, “I’m here to help and to get some help, Inspector.”
“You can speak again, Portia,” Heather said, holding my face in her hands, her smile as wide as her face. “Amélie? I knew she could help you.”
“In more ways than one, Doc.”
I heard the knock at the door behind me, but not the words of whoever knocked, and Michaels fairly leapt past the two of us to stick his head out and answer.
“You’re not safe here,” Heather said, leading me to the opposite corner of the office and closing the blinds before speaking again.
“Doc, I can speak again, yes, but my hearing’s still not one hundred percent. No whispering,” I said, forcing her to turn back towards me.
“Your grandmother told us she had sent you to Italy for your own safety,” she repeated, braiding her long silvery hair into a single plait.
I had no doubt that Irene Adler was planting clues of my escape all over Europe so as to confuse the Secret Intelligence Service. No matter how angry my grandmother was with me, she always had my back.
“As you can see, I am not. Meanwhile, Gavin is back in town and he’s up to something,” I said in reply.
“Gavin, your … ex-boyfriend?”
“Wait, start over,” Michaels said, rejoining the conversation. “Why aren’t you in Italy?”
As quickly as I could I brought my allies up to speed. When I got to the part about Brian, Michaels interrupted me.
“He didn’t mention that Whitaker was behind his dereliction of duty. I wouldn’t have been so hard on him if he’d said something about that,” Michaels said, reaching for a cigar.
I wasn’t surprised that Brian had taken the full blame upon himself, but I wasn’t going to let Gavin get away with his manipulations.
“I docked Dawes’ pay, but his shrink spoke up for him, said he was on the mend, so he’s still on payroll,” Michaels said. “Threw up twice in my wastepaper basket, by the way.”
“His shrink?”
“An older Dutch man with quite an accent and an immaculate beard,” Heather explained, describing one of Holmes’ favourite disguises. “He came with Brian to the Yard, explained the course of treatment he was administering. Your boyfriend is lucky to have him. Said Dr. Watson set them up.”
I smiled at that reference because of course Sherlock Holmes had been referred many times by the late Dr. Watson, just not the young Dr. Watson Heather was talking about.
“Constable Dawes is meeting with the officer in charge of Éamon O’Duffy,” Michaels put in. “You didn’t have anything to add to that angle did you?”
With a sigh I filled them in on my trip to Sandwell to exonerate Mr. Coleson of his involvement with the Barris Dubhthaigh murder that in turn led to the discovery of the bombs being used to torment Londoners.
“At some point, you and this Lancaster fellow will have to come in and give your statements. I don’t care who you are or who you’re running from.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But in the meantime, I think we can all agree that Whitaker …”
“Whitaker is protected by all kinds of international
law,” Michaels pointed out, puffing around his cigar, something that made it harder to read his lips. “Can’t even bring him in for questioning while he’s got that blasted diplomatic immunity. All we can do is expel him from the Kingdom, but there’s no way the government is going to back us on that. If he’s helping them get weapons — which, by the way, is ridiculous. He’s a kid. No way he’s built a network of black market weapons pirated in the few years he’s been out of our sight.”
“I’m not the only one who thinks so,” I said, glancing at Heather.
Michaels snorted, “If you mean your little journalist friend …”
“No, someone you hate but can’t help but believe,” I interrupted.
Michaels finally understood that I was talking about Holmes, someone Heather still didn’t know was a part of my family, but was probably suspecting at this point. I did not want to imagine my cousin psychoanalyzing the motivations of the Holmes side of my family. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Do you at least have someone following him?”
“Of course we do!” Michaels blustered. “I may not be able to bring him in, but I trust him about as far as I can throw him. He’s got round-the-clock surveillance between Downing Street and The Gore Hotel where they’re all staying.”
“What aren’t you two telling me?” Heather asked, looking back and forth between us. “Why are you having Gavin followed when you don’t think that he’s a danger?”
“He’s a danger,” Michaels and I said, almost in unison.
“And in the meantime, what about this ruddy bomber?” Michaels said, tapping flakes onto his desk which Heather quickly swept into his rubbish basket. “It sounds like a few of the bombs are in hand in Sandwell, which is fantastic, but that still leaves … a half-dozen unaccounted for?”
“Seven by my count, but that’s based on the questionable memory of a pilfering colonel, as relayed to me by a spy,” I said, watching as Michaels riffled through his desk for a file.
“Thirty bombs of this type in total,” he said, reading from a coffee-stained sheet of paper. “According to Colonel Collins, substantiated by his daughter, Alisha …”