Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery

by Anna Elliott

  The door closed behind him, and neither Mary nor I spoke for what felt like quite a length of time. The awkwardness of the silence was almost enough to make me forget the reason I had come back to the flat in the first place.

  Finally, I said, “I’m sorry to have interrupted—”

  My words collided in mid-air with Mary’s as she began, “Keenan—”

  We both stopped short, and I gestured for Mary to keep going.

  Her eyes were on the area rug on the floor, her hands knotted in a fold of her skirt. “I was just going to say that Keenan came over to discuss some family business. He says—that is, he doesn’t like my being on the stage. That’s why I’ve never talked about him before.”

  Mary finally dragged her gaze up to meet mine. “You know how priests are—well, maybe you don’t.” Mary sped up, the words coming more and more rapidly now that she’d begun. “But where I come from, theater is the work of the devil, and if you’re an actress on the stage, you’re thought to be no better than a common doxy. Keenan thinks that I’m shaming our family by singing in operettas. He’s always after me to leave the whole business behind and come and keep house for him. He thinks I should spend my time embroidering altar cloths for the church and bringing soup to a lot of cripples and invalids.”

  Her voice twisted scornfully on the last word.

  “I’m sorry.” I was not sure what else I ought to say.

  To me, Keenan Mulloy had not seemed like the sort of man to consider his sister a harlot for entertaining on the stage. But that particular attitude certainly was not unheard of.

  Since Roman times, actresses had been branded as one of the less respectable professions.

  “Families can be difficult.”

  I had a sudden memory of Holmes striding off and leaving me with absolutely no idea of where he was going or what his next step in our investigations was going to be.

  “I know.” Mary’s voice broke with emotion. But then she shook her head and asked, “What was it you were saying, just when you came in? Was it something about the show for tonight?”

  “Oh—no, nothing like that.”

  After Holmes had abandoned me on the Embankment, I had been left at something of a loose end. Uncle John—having lost sight of Holmes, too—had approached me and asked whether I wished to return to 221B.

  But I told him that no, I would go back to Exeter Street. I had two reasons for being here: the first was that I wanted to question Mary further about the man who had arranged our performance at tonight’s gala. The second reason had to do with the strange words that Holmes had called out to Alice at the last.

  “Do you know what”—I tried to remember the exact syllables that Holmes had used—“what Éire go Brách means?” I asked Mary.

  In thinking about it further, I had realized that the words sounded as though they might—possibly—be Gaelic. Or Irish, as I supposed it was properly called.

  Now the effect on Mary was every bit as dramatic as the effect on Alice had been. Her eyes flared wide, her face went white to the lips—and then she lunged forward, seizing hold of my wrist.

  “What do you know?” Her voice was a whispered hiss. “What have you heard? Were you eavesdropping on Keenan and me?”

  Her fingers bit painfully into my skin, and the look in her eyes was almost wild. For a half-second, I was too shocked to move—then I clamped firmly down on a flicker of fear.

  Harriet, my last close friend, had turned out to be a German spy. I tried not to think about her often—and I usually even succeeded. I was also trying my hardest not to let her betrayal color my view of human nature. Just because Harriet had proved a traitor did not necessarily mean that Mary was hiding anything catastrophic or criminal.

  She was hiding something, though.

  I said, slowly, “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I have no idea what you and Keenan said to one another, except for what I heard when I came in through the door.”

  I met Mary’s gaze, ignoring the pain where her fingernails were digging in. “If you let go of me, I’ll explain.”

  Mary did not move. I was not even sure whether she had heard a word that I said.

  I kept my voice calm. “If you don’t let go, you’re not going to like me very much.”

  Mary was not un-athletic, exactly. But I had been learning the finer points of combat since I was a schoolgirl in braided pigtails.

  That—finally—seemed to register. With a gulp and a shuddering rush of breath, Mary finally let go—though her hands remained clenched at her sides. Her whole body was rigid with what looked like barely-contained panic.

  “That’s better.” I nodded. “Those words were just something I happened to hear someone say in the street.” That much was true. “It sounded like Irish—so I thought I would ask you what they meant.”

  “Where in the street?” Mary’s eyes narrowed.

  “The Embankment.”

  I had learned a long time ago that when lying, it was important to tell the truth as much as possible. The principle had saved me from getting into trouble with our school headmistress dozens of times.

  Mary gave me a hard look as though trying to decide whether she believed me or not. But then, finally, she relaxed a little, seeming to take me at my word.

  “Oh. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” She gave me a weak smile. “It’s just those words—Éire go Brách—they’re a … a kind of slogan. A motto for … some dangerous people. It doesn’t do to be saying them out loud.”

  At least three-dozen questions crowded into my mind all at once—but I said nothing.

  That was not one of my own personal principles. I was not particularly good at silent waiting. But I had learned through observing Holmes that sometimes saying nothing at all was the most effective interrogation technique.

  The other person, uncomfortable with silence, would feel compelled to fill in the void.

  In this case, Mary seemed to struggle for a moment, but then went on, “There’s some that are fighting for independent rule for Ireland. Some that think the English have stolen the food from our mouths and killed our children and taken our lands—and it’s time we threw them out of the country that’s rightfully ours, not theirs. Keenan and I were just talking about it because we know—knew—someone who … someone who felt that way.”

  Her voice wavered, her hands tightening into fists all over again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. My classes at school had not included very extensive information on the history of English rule in Ireland. But I did know enough to be certain that what Mary said was true. “I’m not Irish, but I grew up in America—where they were willing to fight a war to win their freedom. So I understand a little.”

  “Yes, well, maybe it’s time for another war.” Mary’s eyes kindled briefly. But then she stopped and looked away. “Not that it’s any of my fight. It’s not like I’m a Fenian. It’s just that you won’t find many born in Ireland who welcome English rule.”

  “Fenian?”

  Mary only shook her head, though, looking scared all over again. “Best not to say that out loud, either. I shouldn’t have said it myself. That’s the kind of thing that can get you killed back home where I’m from. My brother—”

  She stopped abruptly and did not go on.

  “Keenan?”

  “No. My other—” her voice cut off again, her chin bobbing up and down as though she was fighting tears. The undercurrent of pain or sorrow that I always sensed in her was so much nearer to the surface, now—naked and raw. Even her voice was different; the Irish accent more plain, the notes of complaint and affectation completely gone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. Impulsively, I touched her hand. “I’m sorry for whoever you lost, or for whatever happened to hurt you.”

  Mary’s hand was rigid under mine, like a block of wood. But finally she jerked her head, blinking rapidly.

  “I’d better be getting down to the Savoy,” she said. “I promised I’d help with packing some of the costu
mes for tonight.”

  “One other thing.” I hated to ask Mary anything more, but I had to know. “I wanted to ask whether there was anything else you could tell me about the man from the British Museum who spoke to you the other night.”

  “What? Oh.” Mary’s eyes widened again, but then she stopped, giving me an odd look. “What do you mean?”

  I was sorry for Mary. But I also wasn’t being as successful as I’d like in suppressing the memory of Harriet. If Mary was involved in something criminal—or even shady—I needed to know.

  “I just wondered whether he might have said anything else?”

  “I—” Mary stopped speaking and stared at me intently, a look I could not at all read in her pale blue eyes.

  When she went on, it was all in a rush—the words spoken so quickly that they almost ran together. “It was nothing important—not really. But he said that if I was one of the players chosen to perform, that I”—Mary’s throat bobbed as she swallowed—“what he said to me was, You might not wish to stay till the final dance of the ball.”

  33. HOLLOWAY

  I stared up at the crenelated roofline of Holloway Prison, counting the chimes of a nearby church clock.

  It played the twelve notes that signaled the third quarter of the hour.

  Fifteen minutes left until ten, and there was still no sign of Holmes.

  Beside me, Becky tugged on my hand. “Should we just go in?”

  I had debated with myself about bringing her. But when I returned to Baker Street to ask for any messages she might wish me to bring to her brother, she had begged me to let her come along.

  Seeing her small, teary-eyed face and tense shoulders—braced in anticipation of my refusal—I had not had the heart to say no.

  What if something happened to Jack? What if Holmes couldn’t save him?

  I was trying hard to trample on that thought whenever it reared its ugly head. But I could not quite stamp it out.

  If the worst did happen, Becky needed this chance to see her brother—

  I stopped myself before I could add, one last time. She deserved the chance to see Jack, that was all.

  Now I hesitated, debating. Holmes had told me ten o’clock; Becky and I were early. But on the other hand, he had said to go in without him if I did not appear—

  “No.” I shook my head before I could give way to the impulse to march straight up to the prison’s main gates. “We need to wait until ten—just in case Holmes comes.”

  He had another fifteen minutes—and however much my nerves were twitching with the urgent need to make sure that Jack had survived his transfer to Holloway, I would wait.

  Holmes had also said that he would leave word at the gatehouse to ensure that I would be admitted. But he would have said nothing, of course, about Becky, since he hadn’t known she would be with me.

  Becky’s odds of getting in to see her brother would be much greater if Holmes himself were here.

  Becky’s shoulders slumped a little, but she nodded. Her small, freckled face was set with an almost adult look of weary endurance.

  I felt a renewed flicker of anger. Whoever was behind her brother’s arrest had a great deal to answer for.

  Pedestrians passed by us on either side: corn chandlers with their seedbags, and dustmen with their fan-tail hats and wicker baskets—as well as men and women who walked with slow, plodding steps in the direction of the gaol. They must have friends or family inside, and be here to visit.

  As the traffic rumbled past, and Becky held tight to my hand, I silently replayed Mary’s final words to me.

  You might not wish to stay till the final dance of the ball.

  What did that mean?

  I knew what it sounded as though it might mean. It sounded as though something were scheduled to happen at the ball. Something dangerous—something that Ferrars had felt obliged to warn Mary away from, for her own safety.

  Although that was where my suppositions broke down.

  Frances Ferrars—or whatever his real name was—had struck me as a young man utterly without conscience, the kind of man who would dig the gold fillings out of his dead grandmother’s teeth for the sake of a few shillings.

  However I looked at it, I could not imagine him caring enough about Mary one way or the other to bother with warning her away from potential danger.

  But then why else had he said it?

  I pushed a loosened tendril of hair back beneath the brim of my hat. The few hours of sleep I had managed to snatch last night had done little to banish my fatigue.

  Maybe Ferrars had hidden depths of compassion.

  Though that left me with the uncomfortable awareness that something was indeed going to happen at tonight’s Guy Fawkes ball.

  A bomb?

  Another death-ray?

  The most recent investigation I had shared with Holmes and Uncle John made either of those possibilities all too real.

  Another chime of the church clock made me jump, snapping off my train of thought. Ten o’clock. Ten o’clock, and Holmes still was not here.

  Becky’s hand tightened around mine. She said nothing, but she tilted her head to look up at me with a look of entreaty.

  “Yes, we’ll go in now.”

  We had waited long enough. I had no idea what Holmes was planning, but whatever it was would have to happen with myself and Becky already inside the prison.

  As it turned out, the guard on duty barely glanced at Becky. He was a middle-aged, stolid man, with a square-jawed face and a soldier’s bearing—and apparently Holmes really had prepared a way for our arrival here, because once I had given my name, he merely grunted, “Follow me.”

  The guard led the way through a seemingly endless procession of narrow hallways, and past a countless number of locked and barred gates.

  If I had had any thought of enabling Jack to escape from Holloway, that idea died as we made our way deeper into the heart of the gaol. Each gate had its own lock, its own key, and its own separate guard. Even if you somehow managed to get past one, the guard at the next gate would catch you before you made it anywhere within sight of the outside world.

  I shivered.

  Holloway was not as terrible as I had been imagining. The air was chilly, but not dank, and the glimpses I had into cells as we passed showed them small and Spartan, but clean. What troubled me more was the claustrophobia of the place: the sense of being buried alive, trapped inside these massive stone walls.

  “Women’s wing,” the guard grunted over his shoulder.

  He jerked his head to the right, and I glimpsed through another gateway a room where maybe two dozen women were seated on cots and stools, most engaged in sewing or knitting.

  “Juvenile offenders through there.” The guard nodded towards another gated doorway—but this one led only to a bend in the passage, so that I could not see through into the juvenile offenders’ wing.

  “What will happen to them?” I asked.

  The guard shrugged. “Depends what sentence they get from the judge. Most that come here are waiting to be tried in court.”

  Like Jack.

  Becky must have had the same thought. She clung a little more tightly onto my hand, but kept her head up, her posture defiant rather than afraid.

  Finally, the guard drew up in front of yet another gate, this one fitted with a kind of iron grill on the top half. Maybe five or six feet away, I could see a second gate, with another grill—and through that gate, I could see an open air, square-shaped courtyard.

  Men were milling around the yard, walking or talking together or slouching against the walls.

  “That’s where the prisoners take their daily exercise,” the guard said. “Stay here, and I’ll get Kelly to come and talk to you.”

  “Talk to us? Here?”

  I looked at the arrangement of the two gates and pictured calling out a conversation across the distance between them.

  The guard looked mildly apologetic. “Stops any visitors from trying to pass things to
the prisoners. Wait here.”

  He departed, vanishing through a locked door at the side of the passage, and I squeezed Becky’s hand.

  She was on tiptoe, peering through the gateway and into the open prison yard. “Can you see him?”

  I had been trying to pick Jack out from the crowds of prisoners, but without any success so far. I shook my head. “No, I—”

  I stopped as a uniformed guard strolled across the courtyard. Not the same guard who had led us here; this man was taller and thinner. His face was shadowed by the brim of his cap, and he carried a heavy wooden truncheon in his hand.

  He walked over to a group of prisoners standing against the far wall of the courtyard, said something—and then one of the prisoners at the back detached himself from the main group and started towards us.

  My breath caught, and Becky let go of my hand to stand on her toes, pressing herself up against the iron grill.

  “Jack! It’s Jack!”

  My heart sped up. Becky was right. I recognized Jack’s dark hair and tall, broad-shouldered form as he came towards us.

  Becky bounced on her toes. “Jack!”

  He must have heard his sister’s voice, because he stopped walking, and I saw a frown cross his face as he looked towards our gateway.

  Until this second, it had not occurred to me that Jack might not want Becky to see him this way. I would have to—

  Another prisoner came racing towards Jack across the pavement.

  Jack’s head snapped up, as though sensing a threat even before the second man reached him. But it was too late; everything happened so fast that Jack had no time to react, much less fight back.

  I saw the glitter of a blade—a knife or some other sharp weapon in the second prisoner’s hand. He thrust savagely at Jack’s heart—

  And the rest I seemed to see in disjointed fragments, time bending and slowing down like the images in a fun house mirror.

  Jack’s blank, astonished face.

  Jack’s body, pitching forwards, crumpling to the ground.

  The uniformed guard sprinting towards him—