Tasha could watch no more. She leaned into the car, her face distant and drained as she whispered, “Adios.”
Chapter Forty-three
The Royal Scot
The train sped south, hooking a mailbag off a passing post. Inside the mail compartment, an old-timer was showing the basics to his dandified young assistant. The old-timer didn’t think the lad had much of a future in this career. He didn’t seem all that interested and hated to get his hands dirty. As the young man slowly started to sort the mail, the older man tried giving him a word of encouragement. “That’s it, lad. Three stacks to start … London … across the channel …”
The assistant held up a letter. “This one’s got no stamp.”
“Aye! But look at the envelope…. Crest of the Earl of Danoon. Anyone he’s writing to is good for the postage. If it’s quality, we send it on …”
The young assistant shrugged and dropped the envelope to the London stack.
Tasha sat in the sleeping compartment of Mycroft’s luxurious private car, watching me as I lay trance-like on the bed. The car was divided into two sections: a sitting room in front and a sleeping compartment in the rear, connected by a wide door. From behind Mother came a knock at the passageway door, and a porter’s voice announced dinner had been brought to her from the kitchen. Mother had arranged to eat in the compartment; she was in no mood to see people and did not want to be away from me.
“Come in.” She turned back to me as the door opened, and Sebastian entered in a porter’s uniform. We later found he had killed a genuine porter and tossed his body from the train. He set down the tray, uncovered a dish and drew a revolver from the plate.
Mother heard him order her to turn around. Her body tensed, and she slowly turned. “Well, Commander, ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting.’”
He motioned for her to enter the sitting room. Her eyes instinctively darted to me and, not wishing to be near me if there was gunfire, she obeyed. Sebastian signaled her toward the exterior door. Outside the window, the countryside was rushing by in a blur of lights and dark shapes in the night.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
Mother did so, magnifying the din of the speeding train. “What will you do with Laura?” she asked as she finished opening the door.
He glared coldly. “What did you do with Deirdre? Kill her?”
“She’s alive. She wants you!” Tasha took a step toward him. He wasn’t stupid and brandished the gun, stopping Mother cold.
“You destroyed her!” the words spat out of him. “Before her we were nothing—now we’ll be nothing again!”
“Then perhaps you’d like to destroy me.”
“I intend to.”
“With that?” Mother dismissively gestured toward the gun. “Where’s the satisfaction?”
He shook his head, not having any of it. Mother dropped her inviting smile and nodded toward me.
“I’d like to say goodbye to Laura.” There was no hint of pleading in Mother’s voice, which would have been pointless. He would either grant her request or he would not.
“Why should I?” he answered.
“A parent would not ask. Perhaps simple compassion is beyond you,” explained Mother.
“Don’t move.” With the gun trained on her, Sebastian cautiously stepped to the doorway of the sleeping compartment. He momentarily fixed on me, motionless on the bed; then his focus reverted back to Mother. The scowl never left his face, but he signaled his consent to Tasha.
Mother stepped to me, all the while covered by Sebastian’s revolver, and sat on the bed. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me gently on the forehead and then, suddenly, hard on the mouth.
The monster was ripping at my face! My eyes flew open, and I screamed until my tortured throat could not produce another sound.
Sebastian was momentarily stunned, only for a second, but that was all Tasha needed. She ploughed into her larger opponent, smashing the gun from his hand.
“That’s what your Deirdre did to her!” cried Mother with intensity. “She can’t stand to be touched!”
Sebastian, driven by his own demons, fought back. They struggled through the compartment, knocking over the furnishings and nearly tumbling out the open door. It was a close thing. Mother was exhausted and with one bad arm, fighting to the death against the powerful and insanely determined Sebastian.
He pinned Mother to the floor and wrapped his muscular hands around her throat. She couldn’t break his grip and felt darkness closing in around her. Then desperately, with her good arm, she smashed the palm of her hand against his chin, stunning him. She threw him off and, using her powerful legs, kicked him out the open door. His neck caught on a passing mail hook and he flew out of the compartment. He hung there, his eyes open, the hook jutting from his neck, his expression grotesquely bewildered.
Mother collapsed across the bed, drained in mind, body, and heart. I sat next to her, now silent, catatonic, and staring at the wall. Mother had again saved our lives, but there was no feeling of safety for me. Part of me had died. My child’s sense of love and security had been shattered, and left me only with fear and—though I later understood how unfair these emotions were—a sense of betrayal. The journey back for both of us would be long. Only when I was older and shared the challenges and dangers of our now mutual profession would my bond with Mother at last truly and completely heal.
As the mail car sped past, Sebastian’s body was hooked and flung inside.
The prim young man stared aghast at the body. The older man was in the back, sorting letters.
“Sir … sir …” gasped the young man.
The old-timer, while sorting, just repeated, “If it’s quality … send it on.”
Chapter Forty-four
Lady Natasha Dorrington’s Residence, Grosvenor Square
A few days later, at ten in the morning, Mother was still haggard from her ordeal. She entered her house to see Wickett, our butler, rushing down the stairs toward her. His usually passive demeanour was discernibly upset.
“Oh, Madam … the police, they’ve taken away Miss Laura.”
Tasha’s face hardened. Before she could speak, she saw Mycroft Holmes. He stood phlegmatically at the study door, gesturing for her to enter. Tasha did not move, but stood rooted, collecting her powers. She already had a good idea what was going on, and her blood boiled.
“Please,” said Mycroft as he motioned into the study.
Mother walked over warily, while saying, offhandedly to Wickett, “Please continue with the packing.”
“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “I think that’s best.”
She stopped before him, furious, resenting his imperious attitude, and most of all, anxious about me. “Where’s Laura, Mr. Holmes?”
“She’s getting the best help in England.”
“The best is in Vienna.”
“But not the most discreet.”
She entered the study. Inside were three husky constables—insurance on Mycroft’s part. She glared fiercely at him.
If Mycroft was aware of Mother’s anger, he did not reveal it. “Please understand I am speaking for exceedingly high-placed personages. My own feelings in the matter are of little moment. They suggested we discuss your retirement.” He amiably waved toward Tasha’s upholstered armchair.
As Mother sat down, she was instantly flanked on either side by the constables.
Mycroft, as if giving a lecture, continued. “Last week our entire intelligence apparatus was outsmarted by one woman, and rescued by another.”
Tasha nodded ironically.
“My … friends … wouldn’t like this known,” Mycroft added.
“My lips are sealed,” she said flatly.
Mycroft smiled and settled his capacious bulk comfortably in a chair. “Are they?”
“I want Laura.” Mother stripped away all but the essential.
He suavely ignored her comment. “The concern is that you could become famous, Lady Dorrington. And, as a woman, a cau
se célèbre in some misguided circles. Radical circles that would seek to air your accomplishments before, I believe the term they used was ‘the mob.’ That kind of notoriety is considered dangerous.”
“By your friends?”
Mycroft nodded. “There you have it.”
Mother held him under her penetrating inspection. Deep beneath his patrician impassivity was something else: Fear. Tasha smiled enigmatically and leaned back in her chair. Her legs extended, her fingers pressed together in the familiar thoughtful pyramid, she closed her eyes. The lady detective in her favourite thinking position.
Mother had violated convention, not because she had anything to prove, but because she was determined to live the life she wanted; to use her gifts in the way she saw fit. But her unrelenting challenges to a culture which sought to crush that spirit—and her own arrogance—had exacted a savage price on her—and on me.
Mother would never again allow her child to be vulnerable. The crucible of Deirdre had mandated changes; her nights at the Inn of Illusion were done, that energy was now dedicated to my well-being, but she would not abandon the passion of her calling.
Mycroft breathed heavily, reminding Mother of his presence.
She did not fear Mr. Holmes or the shadowy authorities for which he spoke. Mother leaned forward, holding Mycroft in her uncompromising gaze, and though the motion was slight, she defiantly shook her head.
Epilogue
Lady Laura Dorrington’s Residence, Grosvenor Square
1982
Tasha’s chair, repaired and reupholstered in the intervening near eighty years, still remained rooted in its spot in the study. The rest of the room had altered. Gone were the Edwardian pieces and the bric-a-brac, replaced by modern furnishings: a stereo, television, and even that very latest of devices, a computer. Outside the window, near a full-length oil portrait of Tasha, the Bentley carrying Laura and Julian pulled up.
The driver opened the door for Laura, but she sat for moment as she remembered.
“Julian, you’ve made me call up a lot of ghosts.” Her mind was distant and her voice was far away. “But it was useful to reflect back, with the wisdom of now, on the wounds of then.”
She stepped out of the car and walked to her house. Julian accompanied her to the door. “Laura. That’s a horrid place to stop. What happened … with her … with you?”
Laura paused in the doorway as another memory altered her mood. Her eyes suddenly twinkled, “Ah, that’s another story.” She entered the house she had known since childhood and softly closed the door.
Afterword
In 1906 the two superpowers of the Edwardian age, Great Britain and Germany, were in the beginnings of an arms race that had parallels in the military rivalry of the Cold War that dominated the latter half of the twentieth century.
Germany, a land power, was building a fleet to challenge the naval supremacy of Britain—a move that a maritime power like Britain could not safely ignore.
Under the energetic direction of First Sea Lord, Admiral John Fisher, Britain answered the German challenge in the form of the H.M.S. Dreadnought, one of the most remarkable ships in the history of the world.
Completed in the remarkably short span of a year and a day, the Dreadnought, with her new turbine engines (a first), her massive firepower (twice that of any existing ship), and her numerous other innovations made all previous battleships obsolete. If the Kaiser wanted to compete with Britain, then he would have to answer with dreadnoughts of his own.
Germany did just that. The rivalry that followed gripped the attention of the world. The two superpowers invested gigantic sums in the construction of these sea-going monsters. The size of the fleets, the range of the guns and all the deadly statistics were heralded by the press, as the populations of both countries studied the figures and hoped that the sum of these numbers equaled security.
Lady Sherlock is fiction, but the story has a genesis in reality. The facts relating to the Dreadnought and the public’s reaction to her are history.
The end-result of this arms race is also history—the conflagration was called, at the time, The Great War.
We call it World War One.
Addendum
About the Artwork in Lady Sherlock
Inclusion of visuals was inspired by the legacy of the richly illustrated Sherlock Holmes stories as they first appeared in Strand Magazine.
The author personally crafted a majority of the images in this book. Most of the graphics contain elements well over a century old. In many instances the backgrounds were created using bits and pieces from dozens of Victorian photos. These public-domain vintage photographs were combined with recently taken pictures depicting our heroine. All of these elements were composited in Photoshop, sometimes colorized (for the E-book edition), and then given an engraving overlay to complete the period effect.
The cover is based on A Wet Night on the Embankment by Paul Martin. Shot around 1895, this photograph is a rare Victorian time-exposure taken at night.
It is hoped that the illustrations will enhance a modern reader's experience, helping them step back into that long-vanished era of swirling London fogs, Hansom Cabs, and the singular adventures of Lady Natasha Dorrington.
About the Author
Lady Sherlock: Circle of the Smiling Dead may be Brooks Wachtel’s first novel, but he is no stranger to crafting stories; he is an Emmy Award-winning writer with a long resume in television and film.
Mr. Wachtel spent his youth as a “Navy Brat” traveling the world. While attending Hollywood High School and college he produced several student films. One, a forty-five minute Sherlock Holmes spoof was the first film ever shot at Hollywood’s famed Magic Castle.
Wachtel co-created, executive produced, and co-wrote many episodes of the hit series DogFights for the History Channel. He also wrote and produced many History Channel documentaries, including episodes of Defending America: National Guard and The Coast Guard. Additionally, he has written The Great Ships, Search and Rescue, The Royal Navy, and Fly Past, which won the Cine Golden Eagle Award.
Wachtel also wrote and co-produced an independent documentary feature illustrating the history of his famous alma-mater, Hollywood High School. All rights and royalties were donated to Hollywood High to help fill the school’s scholarship funds.
His latest documentary project, Silver Tsunami, which he co-wrote and co-produced, details the calamity of the massive and aging baby-boomer demographic.
In addition, Wachtel has written more than 100 produced episodes of television fiction—with shows as diverse as Fox’s live-action Young Hercules (starring Ryan Gosling), to animated hits like PBS’s Liberty’s Kids, Tutenstein, Heavy Gear, Spider-Man, X-Men, Robo-Cop, and Beast Machines: Transformers. For younger viewers, he has penned episodes of the pre-school hits, Clifford the Big Red Dog and Rainbow Fish. His work on Tutenstein received an Emmy Award.
Wachtel serves on the Steering Committee of the Animation Writers Caucus of the Writers Guild, as well as teaching screenwriting at UCLA Extension. He is a performing magician and member of Hollywood’s Magic Castle.
Photo by Steven L. Sears
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