by Dana Cameron
We agreed in every particular. We assumed disguises—a tradesman and his son—and began on our way to the Russell Square bolt-hole to meet Wiggins’ captor.
We discussed the case along the way but made no progress until we walked past a shuttered butcher’s shop. The smell of animal blood was heavy on the air.
“Wait!” The animal blood, and the memory of tasting Sherlock’s blood, jarred a memory loose. An odor not quite right. “When I was there, at the room, two weeks ago—”
Sherlock’s keen eyes turned to me. “What precisely were you doing in the boy’s squat?”
I don’t think Cousin Sherlock was angry, and yet I hesitated. He’d already suspected I was hiding something when I’d asked too quickly to accompany him earlier.
“If you were there to copulate or drink or take opium or anything else, I do not care,” he said with some impatience. “No, that is not true. It is, rather, of no consequence. You have proven yourself trustworthy and reliable; I do not fear for your moral being. I seek context, that is all.”
I nodded. “I was there in costume, as a street urchin, a boy, testing my disguise.”
The final test of a good disguise was to appear in front of friends unrecognized. It was a variation on the one I used now, which had received no criticism from my meticulous Cousin.
“They did not know it was me,” I said. I’d been scraping acquaintance with the Irregulars in disguise, hoping I could find my way with them to Sherlock’s sitting room. Perhaps I would even fool him. “They offered to show me a clasp knife they’d found, and I could not have refused without raising suspicions, especially as I’d earlier admitted to having no particular plans for the evening.”
“How long were you there?”
“Less than a half hour.”
“Did you notice anything?”
“At first, I detected only those things one would associate with young men living in the most desperate of circumstances, but just now I remembered . . .”
He seized on my hesitation. “Yes?”
“I remembered I had noticed a very faint odor, familiar but misplaced. Bath soap. Lavender.”
Cousin Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Excellent! And where was this odor the strongest? Was it localized, or was it ambient? It was not there when I arrived—that is certain. My head finally seems to be clearing!”
We stopped, and I tried to visualize the memory. “It was when I first stepped into their room. I realized something was out of place, but then Tommy showed me the knife at that moment, and I was taken away from the thought.”
A slight narrowing of Cousin Sherlock’s lips spoke volumes: I must do better to fend off distraction. And then a slight shrug: I had not been there on business; there had been no case at that moment; and I was attending to the requirements of my disguise.
But perhaps he suspected that it was Tommy himself who distracted me.
“I believe it was Jack, sir. I noticed it when I was closest to him. It was very weak and only on his side of the room.”
“Did you see the soap?”
I opened my eyes, shook my head. “No. So he must have used it only once?”
“Or was hiding it, though I do not know why Billy should not have noticed. Excellent, Cousin Amelia; we shall start by observing young Mr. Cooper.”
“But Hal wasn’t wounded? Surely that puts some suspicion on him?” I didn’t like Hal any better than he liked me, and thought he made a fine suspect.
“Bruises are easily had and make a good protestation of innocence.” Sherlock shook his head. “No, Jack is a recent addition to the Irregulars, and based on that, and that shiny new shilling, I believe he was paid by someone to spy on the Irregulars and me. Possibly the Family.”
I gasped.
“His spymaster will be someone with wealth and other resources—he knows about me and knows I trust Wiggins. He has an unnecessary niceness about him, and he asked that Jack wash his face and hands before they spoke—with the fine soap. This worries me, Amelia. Every instinct I have tells me that the kidnapping, the spying, and the thefts are all part of a broader, more dangerous plan.”
“You believe that the thefts were intended to attract our attention?” I asked. “Or that the artifacts themselves might have something to do with the Fangborn?”
“Both. I just know it.”
It was not unusual to hear Sherlock speak of “feeling” or “just knowing.” Fangborn instincts, as well as imagination, are to be attended to. He preferred to emphasize deduction and scientific method in examining a case, as it not only gave us fresh eyes for noticing things out of order but also served to instruct Ordinary police detectives by example. This was merely one aspect of Sherlock’s plan to teach Ordinary humans skills that would match some of the unusual talents we come by naturally. It would, he declared, one day create a world where humans would not fear the idea of our Fangborn kind, because we would have similar abilities, learned or natural.
“What I did not tell Watson was this: The thefts had one other thing in common. I have not been able to trace any scent at any of the crime scenes. My nose has never failed me before, but in each of these cases, it has been my eyes and my brain that revealed any clues I found. It is as though someone were aware of my peculiar powers and was doing his utmost to thwart me.”
His eyes grew wide as soon as he said it. “The Order of Nicomedia. It must be.”
“How is that possible?” I exclaimed, understanding immediately. The Order had hunted our Family for centuries, believing us demons rather than the guardians we truly were, because of our ferocity and shapeshifting abilities. Sherlock’s files were filled with stories of the Order torturing unlucky Fangborn and destroying our homes with such a wanton hatred as to be nearly unfathomable. “You’ve said they were not well organized—because of this, we have been able to hide ourselves and our abilities for generations! They know of us, but surely . . . never so much as you suggest!”
“I found no toxins of the sort we know are dangerous to us,” he murmured. “In my researches, both botanical and chemical, I’ve found nothing else that could possibly have that effect, and I don’t believe the Order, with their crude research, has either. And yet, there must be such a thing, to confound me so. Amelia,” he said, now taking notice of me again, “I believe we have found the answer!”
“What answer, Cousin?”
“That one constant in our equation: My distracted mind. It is the thread that we must follow to the end.”
He took as much satisfaction in that very slender thread as if he’d already solved the case.
Satisfaction was the furthest thing from my mind. If Sherlock was correct, there was a new, dire danger to the Family. If that new foe had discovered our existence, and worse, had found the means of distracting us so thoroughly, then not only the short-term safety of the Ordinary populace but also the future of everything we worked for—Introduction and worldwide peace—was threatened.
“We must be very careful, now, Amelia. We dare not make one misstep.” Cousin Sherlock’s brow was deeply creased now, and anger flashed in his eyes.
With his anger, I saw that spark of interest that meant Sherlock was warming to the investigation. With that, we found our way to the Russell Square bolt-hole.
This bolt-hole was nothing but the most basic of hiding places. A small room—equipped with water for washing, disguises, and food—hidden by means of a false wall in the back of a shop. Ordinarily, the brick-covered door was opened by a triggering mechanism . . .
. . . but the door was already ajar.
We entered cautiously and found Jack Cooper lying on a pile of wigs and torn clothing, quite dead.
Sherlock ascertained that the secret cupboard with the weapons had not been found. “They came here, they found nothing of note, and they killed Jack.”
I felt quite giddy at the sight of the lifeless Jack and barely attended to my Cousin’s words.
Sherlo
ck tried to rally his thoughts. “They didn’t find anything—and yet we were not followed, no one is watching us now . . . the room is situated so that it is impossible to be observed . . .”
I realized it a moment sooner, having been under its influence less than my Cousin. “We must go out into the fresh air—”
“Yes, yes, they’ve brought us here, left the chemical compound about to slow us . . .”
We staggered outside and shortly our heads cleared.
“Billy is not here—Amelia!” My Cousin seemed much more like his usual self. “It is not us that they are looking for. They seek our friends, the Ordinary men and women of our acquaintance! Watson is in danger. I will go to him; you return to Baker Street and warn Martha to guard the household!”
Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted off toward the doctor’s home.
I was frozen with the horror of that notion. Hal had been right: My Family and I were responsible for Tommy’s injuries.
I sprang, moving as quickly as I could for Baker Street, but found my steps lagging when I passed one of the lecture halls of University College. I was slowed by the scent of an evildoer, rank and putrid. Somewhere behind that smell—which no perfume could hide—was a hint of lavender bath soap.
I had Jack’s murderer.
What was so astonishing was that the man—I could not call him a gentleman, no matter his rank—entered the lecture hall.
I was terribly curious, for what could a murderer and kidnapper want with a presentation on the binomial equation?
I was able to watch him, and keep my hackles down, as he sat near the back; I spied from the open doorway. Giving only half an ear to the speaker—a skinny, older, cerebral-looking fellow who not only was incomprehensible in his mathematics but also had an off-putting habit of swaying his head side to side, a symptom, perhaps, of some nervous disorder—I noticed that my quarry had no particular interest in the lecture. Perhaps he’d only come in to get warm, or perhaps he was scouting out some new victim.
As soon as the lecture concluded, he left, and I followed him outside. He was nearly as slick as I was, quick and quiet, but he had no hesitation in shouldering someone out of the way when he thought he would be unobserved or unchallenged. As I followed him to an empty academic office, I suspected that he was the man who had bumped into Sherlock. There was no way any Fangborn, much less Cousin Sherlock, could have missed the unmistakable odor of evil that followed this man.
Whatever chemical had been used on us was very strong. Very dangerous.
A lamp was lit, and I hid in the anteroom. While I’d been caught up in my thoughts, the lecturer had entered from another doorway, and a conversation begun.
“—these creatures? And of what interest are they to this Order of . . . whatever you call it, Professor?”
“The Order of Nicomedia.”
My blood froze at the words. Our Family’s most storied enemies, dedicated to finding and destroying us. The sound of the lecturer’s voice, cultured, low, suggesting deep water and the darkness beneath and his interest in the Order’s goals, terrified me. I felt in him an inhuman malice.
“The Order? Pack of loonies, the ones I saw,” my quarry said dismissively.
A sound of disagreement. “There are schemes to be found everywhere, Moran. I keep my ears and my mind open to any advantage I might take. Even ‘loonies,’ as you call them, may present an opportunity, so when I first heard about the Order, I assumed another crackpot spiritualist group. But such may yield money or information or access. Then they proved to me, Moran—proved beyond a shadow of a doubt—that these creatures—these Fangborn—exist. More than that, they have an ancient pedigree, and there are objects that may enhance their strength. The excavations at Woodbridge yielded one such object, the Order claims. I’ve acquired many of these artifacts, and if they are the source of Fangborn abilities, I shall crack their code—and then crack them.”
Another mumbling noise, and I knew my quarry expressed doubt. I strained to hear more closely. I could not bear the thought that this “professor” should turn his malignant attention and logical mind to “cracking” us.
“I understand your hesitation, however carefully phrased,” came the sarcastic reply. “But I assure you—I assure you—that it is a mathematical certainty. And it explains much. There is not only money to be gained, Moran, but power beyond your wildest imaginings. I mean to have it. A former colleague of mine, from that dusty little so-called university I fled, used to mumble about such things as the Order does. I thought him mad, but now I believe I shall pay him a visit to renew acquaintance and to enlighten me further.
“These . . . creatures, these vampires and wolf-men, are subject to pain and death, and their prodigious senses can be baffled. I myself made several important adjustments to the crude concoction of black hellebore that the Order is using to disable these Fangborn. My formula is already far superior, for though it does not last as long, it is less detectable and causes confusion. It sometimes disguises the presence of their enemies—though why this is true I must study further. I’ll keep my research to myself, for why give the Order any advantage?”
I shuddered. No wonder Sherlock had been so addled lately, with the use of this man’s formula. Indeed, my true nature called for me to attack the two men, remove them from the face of God’s green earth, but something told me to wait. Not only was it Cousin Sherlock’s insistence that we always leave proof that Ordinary police might be able to follow logically—if only they would look!—but there was also something else bidding me, Wait, stay just a moment . . . That in itself was so unusual, I almost missed the next sentence.
“Now, things are settled at Baker Street?”
My heart thudded at the name—they knew where we lived? How did they—?
“Seven men down there soon, if not already.”
“I told you to bring twenty.”
“And how am I supposed to move a crowd through the center of London? Not a bit conspicuous that—no, sir. No, I sent my seven best.”
“You should have gone yourself.”
“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have had the chance to see your latest acquisition, Professor.”
“If you must, Moran.” The professor unrolled a long bundle of burlap. A heavy thump, then a hissing intake of breath. I raised my head and saw a sword.
More proof that I’d found our thieves.
Like the other stolen items, it was old, ancient. The blade was fine and straight, just under three feet long, iron, and might have predated the Romans: It truly seemed a blade of Albion. Despite its obvious antiquity, I could still see a keen edge. When the professor held it up by its blade—the fool!—I saw the hilts were filled with a red enameling in a geometric pattern that reminded me of intricate paving bricks. The handle was breathtaking; I could not see well, but there was some sort of cross set into the end of the pommel.
I had to take it from them. I knew, as surely as I was born, that they must not keep this object and that this was what kept me lingering here.
“Very curious; you see, a medieval reliquary cross has been incorporated into the original Anglo-Saxon weapon. I wonder if that is their doing or some unknowing human’s.”
Another mumbled reply.
“Moran, I assure you. These are not human beings we are dealing with.”
I had to stop them. I decided to go for the older one first . . . no—the one who had followed him seemed much more dangerous. But the other one was the brains . . . Far better to take him out . . .
Even as I realized that I was dithering to an unconscionable, unprecedented degree, I heard the noise behind me. Several men—how had I not detected their arrival?
They saw me at almost the same moment, and I cursed my foolishness. The professor had guarded his office with the same chemical compound he’d used in the bolt-hole! It was now acting on me, and because it did not have the sickening odor of the hellebore concoctions I recognized, it was far more
insidious.
“What you doing in here, boy?”
At least my disguise still held. In my present uncertain state, I knew only two things. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible because my fighting skills and mental skills were utterly compromised.
And I needed to take the sword with me.
I feinted, making as if I’d dart past them, but then turned and barreled through the open door. I halted; the door the professor had used was blocked by his desk. Moran, the one I’d followed, immediately produced a pistol. The professor looked surprised, but only for a moment, and then his face cleared as he stared at me. “Ah. Not a lad at all.”
The other said, “What do you mean, Professor?”
“I can detect the merest trace of theatrical gum. And the clothing hides much, but those are most certainly the hands of a girl.”
I was surrounded now, three men behind me, two in front of me. Presumably, the pistol was not the only weapon. The smallest of the men outweighed me by thirty pounds.
Perhaps if I’d been more alert, I would have denied it, said I was lost, or simply told them to sod off. But instead, I did the worst thing possible and remained silent.
The professor, oddly, grinned at me. Then, as if something were not as he expected, he frowned and furrowed his forehead. He continued that odd motion of his head as he spoke: “Too small for a man, far too small for Holmes. The law of conservation of mass must hold; Lavoisier and Lomonov tell me this. So . . . who are you?” His eyes flicked over me. “Female, small, and if the other information is correct”—he pulled the wig from my head—“red hair and green eyes.”
I growled. I was right; I didn’t like him studying me so. His gaze was dissecting and merciless.
“Ah . . . my informant tells me of three of your kind in Baker Street. Not old enough, or if I may be so bold, large enough to be the formidable Mrs. Hudson. She’s the one we want; our informant in the Order says she’s the one with the location of all the Fangborn in the Southeast. I wonder: Is hers a tartan pelt, the doughty Scot that she is? If not Martha Hudson, you must be the girl.”