Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  It was still dark as Ian opened his eyes to see Tasha, now in her cat-burglar attire, and holding an oil-lamp, bending close to him to stir him awake. “Ian. The storm’s over—get dressed. Quickly.”

  “The storm …” he said groggily, then as awareness grew, “Oh, the ferry … I’m up.”

  Tasha picked up his trousers, draped over the back of a chair, and tossed them to Ian, who (remember, this was 1906) had moved behind a dressing screen. She then collected his shirt and tossed that over the screen as well.

  “Here’s your shirt. Would you mind a little last minute advice?”

  “I reckon I surely wouldn’t,” he answered from behind the screen as he called for his vest (and he used the American term, instead of waistcoat). “And don’t fret—you just high-tail it back to London and save that kid.”

  Tasha picked up the vest. “Oh, I think I’ll be able to save her.” She tossed the garment over the dressing screen. “By the by, that ruined church on the mainland, the one with the telescope trained on the Dreadnought … if you’re quick enough you may be in time, Inspector. Here’s your tie.”

  He stepped out from behind the screen, nearly dressed, and caught the tie. “Be in time? In time for what?”

  “To stop the Circle of the Smiling Dead from attacking the Dreadnought, blaming Germany, and provoking a major war. Their long brewing revenge on Christian Europe. I think the coat comes next.” She flung it to him.

  He stared at her and finally said, “Seems we’ve strayed a mite from your friend McGloury’s murder—not to mention your daughter’s kidnapping.”

  “While the man who was murdered last night was certainly McGloury, he was not the man who hired me. The man I knew was an imposter, used as bait to lure me to Millport Island, just as my daughter’s abduction is a ruse to force my return to London.”

  Ian slipped on his coat and froze, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “The genuine McGloury had served at sea,” Mother explained pleasantly. “My imposter had not. There were no calluses on his hands, his walk was not the rolling stride of someone used to a life on ships. But the details hardly matter, Inspector.” Her voice took on an icy tone. “Is it Inspector? Or perhaps your credentials are as assumed as your affection.” She reached into her belt and withdrew the Mariner’s Master Certificate.

  Ian’s tone hardened, “You’ve been just stringin’ me along from the first!”

  There was no emotion in Tasha’s voice, “This is a very complex game and you’ve done rather well for a pawn.” She threw him his hat and said coldly, “But now that you’re dressed, let’s visit the queen.”

  Ian drew his revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Mother. “I’m amazed you forgot this.”

  “I didn’t. It isn’t needed. Shall we go? We mustn’t keep Deirdre waiting.”

  “I wish to heaven you’d returned to London!” he spat out through clenched teeth.

  Mother noted his heightened passion, what it might portend and how it might be useful.

  As Ian and Mother approached the altar stone, it sank into the mud and slid away uncovering a shaft with handholds hewn into the rock.

  “As I suspected,” said Tasha. “We are observed—and expected.”

  Grimly, Ian motioned for her to descend, following close behind. They vanished into the dark shaft, and the altar stone slid back into place. The ruins were again deserted, alone and gaunt against the night sky, leaving no visible evidence anyone had been there at all.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Caverns

  The shaft emptied into a mammoth crypt. Tasha nimbly dropped to the floor and glanced around as Ian descended more slowly. He had to pocket his gun as he came down, clutching the foot- and hand-holds cleft into the stone shaft. He paused, still grasping the last hand-hold, and out came the revolver, keeping Mother covered, as he dropped to the ground.

  Mother regarded him disdainfully, “I have mentioned how superfluous that six-gun is.”

  Ian hesitated, his Colt wavering, then returned to cover Mother. He motioned for her to walk ahead, deeper into the chamber.

  Ancient skeletal remains festered in wall alcoves and under shrouds on stone slabs. More tortured faces were carved all around and everything was layered in generations of dust and webbing. Ian guided Tasha through the under-world maze, as her eyes ceaselessly inspected everything. She ran her finger through the powdery filth. “A pre-Roman Golgotha. Last dusted around the time of William the Conqueror.”

  Ian led her to a huge visage, mouth agape, carved on the far wall. Tasha stopped before it and asked Ian, “This Deirdre has gone to singular effort to humiliate me. Why?”

  “You’ll get your answers in here.” He put his hand on the control lever, but didn’t depress it. Some of his anger faded. He whispered, “I’m sorry it came to this.”

  Mother, her neutral expression unchanged, nodded. It was answer enough. Ian’s anger had been directed against himself. He depressed the lever and the ancient wooden jaw slid away exposing a passage. Without waiting for a signal, Tasha entered.

  She stepped into a lofty tunnel, like a large mine shaft. Many entrances were visible. Some were crude tunnels that simply appeared in the walls. The bigger shafts were like the eye sockets of skulls. Others had demonic carvings, mostly more faces, with the open portals giving the impression of screaming mouths hewn into the stone, creating a passageway of pain and rage. Torches were set at intervals and also an occasional oil lamp mixing yellow light with the flickering of crimson open flames. The stone arches above the torches were stained black with soot. Wooden shipping crates were stacked irregularly and there were tiers of cable spooled and stored in depressions along the walls. Ian, his gun still trained on Tasha, entered behind her.

  She cocked her head at the supplies. “Now here’s a well-stocked little pantry no private army should be without.”

  Suddenly, a voice with a thick Scot accent boomed at them from ahead. “Staun where ye are!” Out from the tunnel shadows hobbled a crusty old sweeper man, holding a dust-pan and sweeping broom. “Clean yer boots!” he ordered as he tossed Tasha a well-used rag.

  She wiped the thick mud from her feet. “There are some things that surprise even me.” She tossed Ian the rag. “Like these crates. British ammunition, German machinery … No playing favourites here. And these …” She walked over to a stack of crates, each with markings in a different language. “English. German. French. Russian.”

  “Deirdre’s message … to incite the soldiers to mutiny after the war starts,” Ian confirmed Tasha’s assertion.

  “It would have to exceedingly convincing,” said Mother with asperity.

  “Back in America—around 1776—a lot of folks were on the fence about the revolution. They knew things were bad, but didn’t know what to do. A man named Thomas Paine wrote something called ‘Common Sense.’ People read it—and a whole lot of them got off that fence and picked up guns.”

  “But that was Thomas Paine,” replied Mother.

  “Deirdre’s that good. I read it—she almost made a believer out of me,” said Ian as he tossed back the rag to the sweeper. “Almost.”

  The four midgets from the Admiralty murder, dressed in German sailor suits, walked into the tunnel. One carried a sextant and nautical chart. They filed past and vanished into a passage.

  Tasha discerned them with dispassionate interest. “MacMurdo’s Leprechauns, no doubt. Shall we continue the tour?”

  They stepped onto a wide stone platform overlooking the main chamber. It was an immense cavern whose roof and sides faded into the darkness. The fierce carvings were sparser but more massive. The screaming granite face behind them was so large that its open mouth both framed and dwarfed the big tunnel through which they had entered. The huge eye sockets gleamed red as deeply recessed crystals reflected the flickering torches. The colossal space was very dim, mostly lit by spotty torches, but here and there were brighter pods of light, cast by oil lamps.

  The largest of these
illuminated pools was on a makeshift pier at the edge of a lagoon that seemed to have no end as its true expanse melted into the murky blackness of the cavern. The carvings died away as the grotto extended into the water leaving the natural cave unembellished. On the pier stood construction equipment and many crates. This was obviously the scene of much activity. Tied alongside the wharf was a small coastal submarine with a huge conning tower, far larger in disproportion to the size of the ship. Mother, who kept up with current events, recognised the conning tower as a perfect replica of a German Fleet U-boat, right down to the Imperial German Navy marking. Tasha easily surmised that the lagoon opened to the firth. There were twenty men, mostly in two groups and dressed in no distinguishing way. The larger group was engaged in some activity around the U-boat, making it ready for sea. The other group, of just five men, was eating a supper of mutton and bread at a wooden table.

  Tasha turned her head to Ian, standing grimly behind her. She was impressed. “There is genius behind this. Where is she?”

  The hatch of the conning tower opened, and Von Traeger emerged, spotting them on the platform above. “Willkommen!” he shouted. The other men shifted their attention to the platform and grinned at the sight of Mother as a prisoner. A few applauded, but Ian angrily cut them short. “Where’s Deirdre?”

  Von Traeger pointed down the grotto. “On the mainland. She will return soon.”

  Ian bound Tasha to the wall in the same prison chamber, using the same chains, that earlier held the genuine McGloury. Though her features betrayed no emotion, he avoided meeting her eyes as he clamped her in irons.

  Then, after he had left Mother alone for over an hour, he reentered the chamber with his revolver ready. “I’ve brought you some vittles. I’m going to let you loose so you can eat.”

  Another man entered with a tray of food. As he walked into the torch light Tasha could see the bulky form of Constable Blake.

  “Is this entire island working for Deirdre?” she asked as Blake set down the tray.

  “Most of it, ma’am,” said Blake.

  “Including, I fear, the woman at the telegraph station?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Of course, in that case the telegram regarding Laura’s abduction might be a canard.”

  Blake shook his head, “No ma’am. That was real.”

  “Indeed! We shall see about that! However, I am accurate in assuming my message to London was never sent—at least not in the form I intended.”

  “As the Americans say, ma’am, the cavalry won’t be coming to your rescue,” replied Blake with unexpected humour.

  “That’ll do, Blake,” snapped Ian as he undid Mother’s manacles. The chains were too short to allow enough movement for eating. Tasha rubbed her wrists and gratefully attacked the meal that Blake had placed on a small, sturdy wooden table. There was nothing “lady-like” about her appetite—she even ate from the end of the spoon instead of more properly from the side. She had no fear that the food was poisoned, for Deirdre conspicuously wanted her alive for reasons that could only be unpleasant.

  “It’s only mutton pie, I’m afraid,” said Blake.

  “By way of the cliff on McGloury’s croft,” she alleged between bites. “Must be a lot of mouths to feed down here. I take it those nautical midgets were employed on occasion to assist getting the sheep into this cavern.” Tasha paused in her eating and gave Ian a nod. “Still. Thank you.”

  “We ain’t cruel, Tasha.”

  “Ah. One hungry woman upsets you, but the impending death of millions somehow fails to prick your delicate conscience.” She handed the now empty bowl back to Blake.

  There was no response. Ian, grim and taciturn, just watched her.

  Later, Ian, Blake, and Von Traeger stood on the pier as Sebastian and the man who posed as McGloury, as I will continue to call him, expertly shipped oars and moored Deirdre’s rowboat. She hurriedly disembarked from the stern—Deirdre disliked travelling over water—and Von Traeger noisily clicked his heels to attention. She glided past him to Ian, her keen eyes asking an unspoken question. He frowned and shook his head “no.”

  Deirdre held an oil lamp close to Tasha’s face. Tasha was bound again to the walls of the prison chamber. Each studied the other; Deirdre had assumed her veneer of impenetrability. Tasha regarded her adversary with a touch of boredom, sighing, “Wasn’t our last game enough for you?”

  Deirdre drew away and in a quiet voice, commanded, “Let her loose.”

  Sebastian and Ian were there. Ian, scowling, slipped the key from his pocket and unshackled Tasha. Deirdre handed Sebastian the lamp, walked to Tasha and appraised her, studying every womanly curve.

  Sebastian’s frown deepened as he barely controlled his rage at this dangerous charade. Ian shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

  Deirdre grazed Tasha’s neck with one hand then slid it down her shoulder toward her breasts. Ian was livid, but Tasha grinned as if nothing untoward were happening. Then she explosively backhanded Deirdre and spun away. As she completed her spin, Tasha pulled out her dainty Webley revolver from a hidden pocket. “I’m amazed you forgot this, Ian.”

  Deirdre, maliciously calm, picked herself up from the ground. “Then Ian must take it back.”

  He didn’t move until Deirdre turned her stern, compelling eyes on him. He walked to Tasha, but Mother firmly held her ground. “Ian … I will use this.” Mother would certainly kill if there were no other choice, but something was ringing alarm bells in her brain. Ian met her eyes, ignoring the maw of her revolver. Tasha made her decision and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened, and that’s what she expected. She gave a cold smile and handed the Webley to Ian. Deirdre extended her hand, and he grudgingly handed it over.

  “No firing pin,” noted Deirdre. “How careless. Use your brilliant mind and not your heart, my dear. Is Ian the type to make so elementary a mistake?”

  Ian glared at Deirdre. “Why don’t you leave her be?”

  Deirdre handed the Webley back to Ian and circled the chamber, eyeing Tasha, halting at the entrance. “Good thinking, Ian.” She feigned a sad smile at Mother. “You don’t like me, do you? I’ll just have to find amusement elsewhere.”

  She snapped her fingers and McGloury shoved me, gagged and trembling, into the chamber. Mother instantly comprehended Deirdre’s meaning. I can still see the raw terror on her face, which would haunt my dreams, appear in my waking moments, and hasn’t faded in over seventy-five years. Mother tensed to spring into action, but the barest nod from Deirdre caused Ian to draw his revolver. I don’t know what horrified me more—the deadly Colt, or seeing Mother incapacitated, her breath caught in her throat.

  Deidre, void of passion, ordered Ian, “Aim at the child.”

  Ian didn’t move, but his jaw clenched. Deidre, with a slight motion of her head, gave a silent order to McGloury. He reached for Ian’s revolver. That snapped Ian to reality. He exhaled and glared, but did nothing as McGloury grasped the gun and placed the end of its barrel against my forehead. I shook with dread. Deidre returned her regard to Tasha.

  “Bind her,” Deirdre whispered to Ian.

  Ian, fuming, forced Mother back to the wall and secured the chains. I tried to scream, but the gag was too tight. I wrenched free and ran to Mother. Deirdre stopped me. We strained to touch each other. Tears were streaming down my face. Every nightmare I’d ever dreamed had become a terrible reality. Deirdre’s grip was like steel, and she shoved me back to McGloury, ordering breathlessly, “Take her to my chamber.” McGloury lifted me by the waist with one hand. Ian brusquely retrieved his revolver, and McGloury, ignoring my frantic kicking, hauled me away. I was helpless—powerless to help myself or Mother—and I despised myself for it.

  Mother was now desperate, stripped of all affectation and arrogance. Her impenetrable armour had been obliterated. In me, Deirdre had found the weapon to shatter it. “Don’t, please. She’s only a child.”

  Deirdre, her aware eyes gleaming, followed me, passing a frustrated Sebastian.
She said to him caringly, “You had better get some sleep.” He glowered and left.

  Deirdre noticed Ian, also fuming. “You’ve been a disappointment to me, Ian.” Then as if remembering something, she smiled warmly to Mother. “I told you we’d play again soon.” Then in a soft whisper that still mocked, “Good night, Tasha.”

  Deidre glided down the tunnel, her soft footfalls receding. Ian cast his eyes to Tasha and she met his gaze. Her voice was quiet, but desperate. “Ian, you must stop her.”

  He picked up the lamp and staggered to the cell entrance. His fingers gripped the doorframe as if trying to crush the granite entrance to Tasha’s prison.

  Mother pleaded, “You can stop her. She’s insane …”

  He halted, keeping his back to her, torn apart by conflicting allegiances.

  Mother, striving to reach the compassion she knew was within, entreated, “Laura is an innocent child. You can stop her! You must stop her! Please!”

  He walked away. Mother screamed after him, “Ian!” She pulled furiously at her bonds. As strong as Mother was, the iron was stronger. She collapsed to the floor, waiting in horrible anticipation. Then, chords of a harp began and Tasha heard Deirdre’s clear, lyrical voice, singing the old ballad (which to this day I cannot listen to) “Come Live with Me and Be My Love.”

  Deirdre, in her chamber, sat and sang serenely at her ornate harp, her delicate fingers floating across the strings. She sang, sitting erect, her priestess robe draped elegantly and pulled tight at the waist, her crescent-moon necklace reflecting the flickering lamplight. She was a queenly vision of calm. I’ve often thought how womanly at odds this was with her malignant nature.

  I lay in her huge four-poster bed, watching in terror as McGloury, at the table, mixed a solution from little vials, and then poured the liquid into a hypodermic syringe. Deirdre followed my gaze and stopped singing. She regarded me through half-closed eyes, then resumed the haunting ballad.