by Anna Elliott
The Vase Room, however, with its rather dull array of terra-cotta pots, was attracting very little notice—making it the perfect place for us to meet without attracting attention.
“I don’t know him personally,” Jack said. “The Commissioner’s way over the head of an ordinary detective constable. But I’ve heard he’s a former military man. Served in India. That’s where he lost his arm. They say he was mauled by a tiger. Beyond that?” Jack shrugged. “He’s respected. Well liked.”
“Do you think it likely he could be induced to turn traitor?”
Holmes and Jack were both dressed as members of the wait staff, in white jackets and waistcoats. Both of them carried silver trays of champagne flutes. Holmes had set his down shamelessly on the top rim of a large Etruscan pot, while Jack’s tray rested on the floor.
“I wouldn’t want to think so.”
Jack was not supposed to be here at all. Holmes had tried to insist that he remain safely behind in Baker Street, since he was after all supposed to be dead.
Jack, though, had been respectfully but grimly determined to come, and had refused to so much as consider the possibility that he should stay behind.
I had to credit his strength of purpose. Few managed to override Sherlock Holmes—but Jack had managed it without ever once raising his voice or uttering a combative word.
As a compromise, he had been outfitted by Holmes with a black beard that altered his appearance quite a bit.
Becky had giggled uncontrollably at the sight of him, until Jack picked her up and turned her upside down in his arms—which made her laugh even harder.
She was not entirely happy about her brother’s having come out to the museum tonight. But she had agreed to stay back in Baker Street with Uncle John and Prince—and she hadn’t seemed frightened about saying goodbye.
Maybe she wasn’t aware of the possible dangers. Or maybe—since Holmes had already brought her brother back from the dead—she simply trusted him to manage anything up to and including miracles.
“I met the commissioner once,” Jack went on. “He came to the station house and talked with everyone—shook all our hands. He’s the first commissioner to have done that. He’s pushed for more education among the officers, too.”
Like Jack, Holmes was disguised—in a truly appalling ginger wig that looked rather as though a longhaired cat had perched on his head. He had also acquired an indolent slouch and a hunched posture that he maintained even here, with only Jack and me.
As always, I was struck by Holmes’s genius at immersing himself in the roles that he played.
“We will put Commissioner Bradford down as a remote possibility for our role of traitor—but not likely. I believe it is far more likely that—as Lucy and I surmised earlier—he is a target in tonight’s affair rather than a culprit.”
“The Commissioner and Lucy,” Jack put in. “We know whoever’s behind this wanted her here.”
“We do.” Holmes fixed Jack with a stern eye. “And I am counting on you to ensure that our enemies do not succeed in inflicting whatever harm they have planned for her.”
“Yes, sir.”
I felt my grasp on my temper slip a little. “Would the two of you like to pound your chests and roar like gorillas? First of all, I am standing right here with you—there is no need to talk about me as though I were nowhere in the room. And in the second place, I can look after myself. I have done so for quite some time.”
I had witnessed Jack stepping in front of a bullet for me once before. I was not at all anxious to repeat the experience.
Holmes looked perfectly sanguine, despite my outburst. “While I despise aphorisms in the general sense, there is a saying about two heads being better than one that I believe applies here. I believe that Lucy will be safe in your presence.”
Holmes was lucky that I was already dressed in Pitti-Sing’s kimono and did not wish to get the costume spattered with blood—otherwise, I might have thrown a punch at him.
What had gotten into him? He was not usually so heavy-handed or so protective.
Jack only smiled, though, a flash of white in the dark beard. “I reckon Lucy will be safe here in her own presence, sir. I’m just here for backup.”
Holmes was apparently satisfied. “And now I must depart to circulate more amongst the guests.”
Holmes had postulated that the guise of waiter would allow both him and Jack to move virtually unnoticed amidst the crowds, eavesdropping as they chose.
Hardly anyone bothers to stop what they are saying just because a waiter has appeared to offer them champagne.
“I have learned one significant fact. Commissioner Bradford will make a formal speech and presentation of the firangi sword to the museum towards the end of the evening. Just before the final dance.”
The final dance. My annoyance with Holmes evaporated as the words hammered home.
“Then that must be—”
“It would be an opportune time to arrange for an assassination attempt, yes—whether that attempt involves a rifle bullet or some sort of explosive device. Do you know where you are expected to be during the Commissioner’s speech?”
“I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Harris—and the rest of the performers—in just a few minutes so that he can give us our final instructions.”
“Then unless circumstances alter greatly, our original arrangement holds.”
In talking the matter over back in Baker Street, we had reached a balance, of sorts, between protecting the lives of the ball attendees here and drawing our enemies out into the open.
If we had not discovered the source of the danger by midnight, Holmes would approach Commissioner Bradford and tell him the whole, asking that the ball guests be evacuated for their own safety.
“The man whom Lucy knew as Frances Ferrars has already appeared once in this affair. It is possible that he may be present tonight, also.” He glanced at Jack. “You would recognize him, if you saw him again?”
“I’d know him.”
“The individual who until recently was passing himself off as Dr. Everett may also be involved. Constable Kelly and I are at somewhat of a disadvantage, never having met the man. However, Lucy has furnished us with an adequate description that should enable us to spot him, should he appear.”
At the thought of Dr. Everett, an involuntary shiver prickled through me.
Ferrars was a bully and a coward—as so many bullies are—with a cruel streak to compensate for his innate lack of intelligence.
I did not doubt for a moment that he would relish the chance to make life thoroughly unpleasant for me if ever I had the misfortune to fall into his power again.
But Ferrars was nothing compared to Dr. William Everett.
I had a knife-edged memory of Dr. Everett’s long, cheese-white fingers and his jolly, good-humored voice that was like a wrapping of beautiful paper around a parcel of rotting meat.
I had met with few truly evil men in my life—but I had known enough to recognize when I found one, and Dr. Everett struck me as evil, through and through.
“Or the agents tonight may be a person or persons entirely unknown to us,” Holmes finished.
Jack was frowning. “As I understand it, you don’t want the small fish at the bottom of this whole operation so much as you want the man—or woman—at the top. The one giving orders.”
“Quite so. Thus far, we have only the vaguest knowledge of the individual who sits at the center of this ring of spies, pulling strings like a great spider adjusting the strands of his web.” Holmes’s expression was thoughtful. “It puts me in mind of another criminal mastermind with whom I have tangled.”
“You don’t think—”
“No, I do not suppose that Professor Moriarty has managed to resurrect himself from the dead in order to head a ring of German spies. I was merely reflecting on the similarities in criminal organization.
“To summarize, then: we may assume with virtual certainty that an attack is planned for tonight, likely
directed against Commissioner Bradford, but possibly targeting Lucy as well. We may recognize the conspirators or they may be unknown quantities—which makes it all the more imperative that we keep alert and on guard throughout. Lucy will of course be most vulnerable, since her role as performer necessitates standing immobile on the stage area.”
I had to bite my tongue to stop myself thanking Holmes so very much for having pointed that out.
I had not been unduly afraid until this moment. I think I had been pushing the personal component of tonight’s threat out of my mind.
But now my whole body flashed hot and then cold again at the thought of doing exactly what Holmes had said: standing up on stage and singing the dainty and innocent lyrics of “Three Little Maids from School”—all the while just waiting for an assassin’s bullet or bomb to end my performance with the proverbial bang.
I could not even muster up a smile over my own thoroughly terrible pun.
“I believe this goes without saying, but I shall say it none the less,” Holmes finished. His gaze rested on mine, steady beneath his wig’s absurd ginger fringe. “Be careful.”
“And you.”
“I shall return to the main reception room first.” Holmes reached to retrieve his tray of champagne glasses from the Etruscan vase. “Wait five minutes before following, so that anyone watching will not automatically assume that we have been conversing out here.”
Holmes slouched his way out, dropping effortlessly into his character’s languid, indolent shuffle.
Watching him, it struck me for the first time that maybe my own love of acting and the theater actually came to me through my father.
“Lucy—”
I swung around. This was actually the first moment that Jack and I had had alone together since his escape from prison.
Back in Baker Street, we had been too busy theorizing and making plans with Uncle John and Holmes—and then, too, Becky had not wanted to leave his side.
“I’m so sorry that I brought Becky to Holloway this morning!” I interrupted whatever Jack had been about to say in a rush. “She was desperate to come and see you—and of course, I had no idea of what Holmes was planning. But I realize that you have every right to be angry with me for bringing her, all the same. A prison is no place for an eight-year-old girl—which I only realized once we were actually there. I’m afraid I’m still working at controlling my habit of acting first and thinking later.”
“You don’t say.” Jack’s stern face relaxed in a brief smile. “But it’s all right about Becky. I know my sister. If you’d refused to bring her along, she’d only have climbed out of the window and tried to follow on her own—and got into who knows what trouble on the way.”
That was unquestionably what I would have done in Becky’s place at her age—and hearing Jack say it made me feel slightly less guilty.
I smiled. “Becky was right. That beard does make you look exactly like a pirate.”
Jack laughed. “I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to make fun of a man who could be hauled back to prison at any moment. It’s in the rulebook somewhere.”
Actually, I had not intended it as a criticism. The beard made Jack look handsomer than ever, accentuating the lean, strong lines of his face and the graceful curve of his mouth.
And I clearly needed to stop, because I was beginning to sound just like one of the Twenty Lovesick Maidens in Patience.
“You’re not going to be hauled back to prison!”
Though even as I said it, I was acutely aware that it wasn’t a promise I could truthfully make.
Jack shrugged. “We’ve got a long way to go before I can even think about saying I’m out of the woods.”
“You say that as though that means it can’t be done.”
Some of the grimness ebbed from Jack’s expression. “You never give up, do you?”
“Never.” I smiled faintly as I tilted my head to look up at him. “Impulsiveness and stubbornness—another two of my besetting sins.”
Jack’s smile faded. “Look. Tonight—your father’s not wrong. It’s going to be dangerous.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re about to start lecturing me, too.”
“No lectures. I just wanted to say that I’ll be right there if you need me. Even if you can’t see me, I’ll be there.”
There was only one thing that I could say to that. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“For what? Holmes was the one who got you out of Holloway, not me.”
And as Jack had just pointed out, smuggling him out of prison was a long way from declaring him actually vindicated and free.
“I know—and I told him thanks already.” Jack’s coffee-dark eyes were steady. “But while I was sitting in prison, I realized I needed to say something to you. Though I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the chance.”
My heart sped up as I waited, all the breath going out of me as though a vise had clamped around my ribs and squeezed.
“Thank you,” Jack said. “For believing in me—for never thinking I was guilty.”
“Oh.” As declarations of undying passion went, thank you for believing in me was somewhat lacking.
I would have felt a wave of disappointment. Except that something in Jack’s voice made me aware of how close we were standing. Close enough that I could see the tiny points of his eyelashes, the flecks of gold around the irises of his eyes.
I felt blood spilling up into my cheeks, and opened my mouth—but no words emerged.
Apparently I was no better at heartfelt declarations. Maybe it was not only acting abilities that I got from Holmes.
But only yesterday, when Jack was in prison, I had been kicking myself for not being able to tell him how I felt. Like Jack, I had thought I might never get the chance.
I swallowed. “You believed in me, when you first met me,” I said. “And I’m sure I was a much more hopeless case than you. I couldn’t even remember my own name.”
Jack’s hand moved, almost as though he were going to reach for me. “Lucy—”
“Lucy!”
The second voice to speak my name was considerably shriller and less warm than Jack’s had been.
Jack and I leapt apart, and I spun to see Mary advancing on our alcove, the skirts of her kimono flapping about her ankles.
“Lucy, there you are! Mr. Harris sent me to find you. He wants you back in the reception room at once.”
I felt my chest constrict for an entirely different reason as Mary’s gaze fell on Jack. She, after all, had seen him in our flat, when he brought Becky for singing lessons. If anyone at tonight’s gala were likely to recognize him, it would be Mary.
She barely glanced at him, though.
Jack had instantly and deftly retrieved his tray from the floor, snapping into a respectful, blank-faced waiter’s pose. And Mary was simply not to the sort of girl to look twice at a member of the serving staff.
“Hurry.” She tried to thread her arm through mine, pulling me back towards the reception room. “You know what Mr. Harris will say if we’re late.”
I did—only too well. Still, glancing back over my shoulder at Jack, I was tempted to pull away from Mary’s grasp.
I would have done, but I could not think of a convincing excuse. Even Mary was unlikely to believe a vague murmur about a dropped handkerchief.
“I was looking everywhere for you.” Mary’s voice was naturally on the shrill side, and as she went on, I did not doubt that Jack overheard every word. “Why on earth were you wasting time speaking to one of the waiters? There are simply throngs of eligible men here—and Mr. Harris has given us permission to dance, in between our performances, if we are asked.”
It would appear strange to turn and look back over my shoulder again—so with a herculean effort, I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead.
Inwardly, though, I ground my teeth at Mary’s interruption. Just when Jack was about to say—what?
I still did not know what he might have said.
/> He could have been about to ask whether I knew the time. Or whether I could tell him how to get to the gallery of Grecian urns.
“Is that why you’re here? For the sake of the eligible young men?”
The look on Mary’s face was—almost—enough to make me feel guilty for asking the question. Something hard, bleak and bitter crossed her gaze.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was only telling you what Mr. Harris said. Come along.” She tugged harder on my arm. “I’m going to be stuck right in the back of the chorus—as usual—unless we hurry.”
“Mary?”
As we reached the entrance to the crowded reception room, I paused. The noise and the heat of hundreds of guests crammed into a single space washed over me.
“What is it?”
I hesitated, wondering whether I ought to remind her of Ferrars’s warning that she might not wish to stay for the final dance. But either we would uncover the spy ring’s plot—in which case Mary would be safe. Or else we might fail, in which case Mary would be evacuated along with all the other guests.
“Nothing.”
Stepping forward, I moved towards the front of the room, where Mr. Harris waited on a small wooden stage.
36. THE PLAY’S THE THING
For that evening’s performance in the reception room I had even less attention to spare for my parts than I had at the Savoy the night before.
We began with several songs from The Mikado, then moved on to Patience and finally to The Gondoliers while supper was being served. I sang the part of Pitti-Sing in “Three Little Maids,” took part in a duet of “Prithee, Pretty Maiden”—and all the while felt as though my chest had been painted with the kind of giant bulls-eye target you would find on an archery range.
During the break in the performance I also had cause to silently curse Mr. Harris for ever saying that we were allowed to accept invitations to dance.
In theory, it should have given me a good excuse for circulating amongst the guests and trying to spot any familiar faces. Actually, it did give me the opportunity. It was just that I saw precisely no trace of either Ferrars, Dr. Everett, or anyone else that I recognized, and I overheard not a single helpfully whispered conversation about where a bomb had been planted or a sniper’s rifle set up.