A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  “Ugh.”

  “She’s a pretty girl. You just need to be civil.”

  It was never that simple, but Tobias was tired of arguing right then. It seems my value as a pawn is not yet over. Magnus. Keating. His father. There was not much to choose between them. He had come to hate them all because, despite what he said to Evelina, he could see no realistic way to escape them. Not without throwing his mother and sisters to the wolves.

  He’d been surprised to find he possessed a sense of duty. And rather less pride than he expected, too. He had the makings of a good man, but not a great one. Not the rebel with the burning torch of truth.

  In his mind’s eye, Serafina’s chest rose, and it fell. Was that a smirk on those red, red lips?

  “In the meantime,” Lord Bancroft said, topping up his glass, “there is Holmes to consider.”

  Tobias had nearly forgotten the detective. “Feed him dinner and send him on his way. There’s nothing here to find. Magnus is gone. Let our bad luck die with him.”

  Bancroft’s face set. “If only it were that simple.”

  The words were an eerie echo of his thoughts.

  Tobias left his father’s office a few minutes later, his head pounding and his stomach queasy. Nothing for Holmes to find? Of course there was. Only the great Lord Bancroft wasn’t telling his son what that was, so how the blazes was he going to forestall disaster?

  Tobias stopped outside the parlor, listening to the murmur of voices. The last of the daylight was fading, painting the corridor in washes of gray. Inside the room, drinks were being poured, relaxing the guests the way the color was relaxing out of the sky, leaving behind a blurred, twilight mood.

  Evelina had said it was someone in the house who had killed Grace Child. It had been a violent, frantic act. Wasn’t that usually done by someone driven to the brink, frantically lashing out like a drowning swimmer? Someone with secrets? Someone under the thumb of powerful enemies and in danger of ruin?

  Tobias turned and looked at the study door, wondering.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  You know my method. It is founded upon the observance of trifles.

  —Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by John H. Watson, M.D., “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”

  “Quite simply, Mr. Roth, I can see at a glance that you are an aficionado of things mechanical by the condition of your fingernails.” Holmes set down his soup spoon, enjoying his display far too much to bother with mere consommé. “And your last mistress was an Italian opera singer. I can tell that by your shirtmaker, who uses a distinctive pattern of buttonhole on your front placket. The only seamstresses who know that trick come from warmer climes and generally work where their skills are most appreciated, which would be near the costume shops of the Italian opera. No doubt you purchased that garment on your way home some morning when your own was the worse for wear. However, you had a falling-out with the lady, and then a contretemps with your valet.”

  Holmes was just warming up, but Tobias was nearly at the boil. “How do you know that?”

  “Your shoes.”

  “My shoes.”

  “Indubitably.” Holmes folded his hands over his waistcoat, not even bothering to hide his gloat.

  “Is he always like this?” Imogen whispered under her breath.

  “Wait for it,” Evelina muttered. “I feel a coup de grâce coming on.”

  “Let’s have it.” Tobias waggled his fingers with a come-hither gesture, turning a furious red about the ears. “How do my shoes betray my amorous missteps?”

  “There is a scrape of gold paint along one heel. Your valet would have caught it if he paid closer attention to his duties. The mark is a particular gaudy shade used only in one establishment in town that has been—until recent events—devoted to German opera. I would think only a young man banished from the exquisite delights of bel canto would resort to the Royal Charlotte.”

  Tobias cringed at the name, which meant Holmes had scored.

  “Isn’t that the one attacked by a giant crab?” Holmes put in, mischief at the corners of his mouth.

  “Squid,” Tobias said.

  Everyone looked at him. His gaze darted around the table. “Or so I read.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow in the curious silence.

  “What a delightful roast of lamb, Mother,” Imogen said brightly to Lady Bancroft, who fielded the comment with the expertise of a world-class cricketer.

  While his wife prattled about mint sauce at the other end of the table, Evelina noticed Lord Bancroft staring moodily at his plate. Flushed with too much wine, he had the air of someone looking for a fight. She picked at her food nervously, never entirely letting her attention wander from him.

  However, he opened with an innocuous gambit. “I had no idea a consulting detective would also be acquainted with the musical arts.”

  She relaxed a degree. Her uncle liked musical discussions.

  “I have my favorites,” he said. “I am particularly fond of Tartini.”

  “Violin?”

  Holmes took a sip of wine. “The Devil’s Trill is a quite magnificent piece.”

  “A rather sensationalist title.”

  “That does not lessen its beauty.”

  “I understand that someone in Copenhagen has invented a type of closet that will play Don Giovanni on a mechanical mandolin while it rotates,” said Lady Bancroft enthusiastically. “One can be serenaded while selecting the day’s wardrobe.”

  Holmes looked like he’d accidentally bit into a lemon.

  Bancroft’s silverware clattered on the china plate as he attacked the lamb. “I am not a devotee of the Italian aesthetic.”

  The detective forked up a bite of potato. “That’s right. You were ambassador to Austria. Mozart and marzipan.”

  “The Viennese tradition has much to recommend it.”

  Holmes smiled, but it was disarming. “I’ll grant you Beethoven, but you must keep Strauss out of my path.”

  Bancroft grumbled something, but it was muffled by his wineglass. He was drinking a great deal, but had obviously had practice. His speech was barely slurred. Evelina bent her head over her plate, paying careful attention to her peas. Her uncle was a little too fond of his own opinions to make a comfortable dinner guest—at least not when there were other equally dominant men in the room.

  She carefully picked up the silver container of mint sauce, aimed it at her plate, and pushed the button on the nozzle. A puff of steam gently curled from the lid, and a dollop of sauce plopped onto her lamb, warmed to exactly the correct temperature. A chased-silver boiler sat in the center of the table, connecting a half dozen such condiment dispensers, including butter, gravy, and red currant sauce. As a consequence of this latest invention for dining en famille, there were no servants hovering in the room. A little steam whistle sat atop the boiler, with a dainty pull-chain one could use to summon the next course.

  “What did you think of your dance with Captain Smythe last night?” Imogen murmured.

  “He’s used to cavalry charges.”

  “You didn’t dance after the intermission. You sat with Tobias instead. Mother noticed.” Imogen poked her under the table. “I noticed. Is there something I should know?”

  “I wasn’t feeling quite the thing. That was after Dr. Magnus made a nuisance of himself. Tobias was being kind.”

  Imogen sobered for a moment, but it didn’t last. “Is that all? Nothing more than that? Did you waltz with him?”

  Evelina blinked, feeling her ears going hot as Tobias’s had a moment ago. “Once. Your brother is an adequate dancer.”

  “Evelina Cooper, you have no romance in you!”

  She looked across at Tobias, feeling her chest tighten. He was so handsome it was hard to keep her girlish thoughts from dribbling into the rest of her brain like runaway treacle. “I beg to differ.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes toward her father. Evelina returned her attention that way. The conversation had turned to more serious matters, and the ambassa
dor was pontificating.

  “How can you question the prime minister’s decision? You are one of the new men, Holmes. Science all the way. No room for sentiment.”

  Her uncle could—and would—argue with anything if it satisfied a point of logic, but Evelina held her tongue. What were they talking about?

  Holmes shook his head. “I do not argue with science. I might quibble with its misuse by demagogues.”

  Bancroft reacted like a bull spotting a red flag, nostrils flaring. “One of the gentlemen rebels we hear so much about lately?”

  Holmes’s eyes went wide for a split second. Bancroft had surprised him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you one of those who would see the steam barons blasted from their own engines?”

  “As diverting a sight as that might prove, why should I wish that? What would it gain?”

  Tobias hitched forward on his chair, visibly inserting himself into the debate. “Do you find it logical that one group of manufacturers has been allowed to acquire so much power?”

  Holmes gave a dry laugh. “To play the devil’s advocate, there is precedent. England has seen the great lords of the middle ages and the ascendancy of the Church. The public has simply consented to a different type of feudalism. Regardless of where my own sentiments might lie, who am I to question the public will?”

  “I’ve heard that theory.” Tobias looked grave. “Some believe the nation will go so far as to crumble into petty kingdoms, each with its own baron. Such will be the demise of the Empire.”

  Bancroft was turning pale. From what little Evelina knew of his politics, not long ago he would have agreed with his son. However, Jasper Keating had been his guest not many nights ago. If he’d switched sides to further his career, it wouldn’t sit well to have his son arguing against the Gold King in front of strangers.

  Unfortunately, Uncle Sherlock had a mischievous look in his eye. “If the nation is in danger of breaking into factions, it is best that we preserve what unifying ideals we can.”

  “Such as?” asked Lord Bancroft.

  Holmes looked around the table. “I play my small role in the upkeep of justice, and can speak first hand of the deficiencies of the system. If we as a community cannot give the people justice and the rule of law, can we blame them for looking to men like Jasper Keating for protection?”

  Lord Bancroft narrowed his eyes. “Is that how you see your role? Supreme upholder of justice?”

  Holmes lost his air of mockery. “I do not flatter myself so much. However, I have become increasingly conscious of the precarious balance of the nation. Power breeds resentment, and there is plenty of both in the air.”

  “I ask again, are you advocating revolution, Mr. Holmes?”

  The word made Evelina shiver. She wanted to think it was just the cool air from the window behind her, but she dreaded the idea of riot in the streets. Too much would be destroyed—businesses, homes, schools, hospitals. She remembered what it was to be a step ahead of hunger.

  Her uncle inclined his head, considering. “I am merely sounding a note of caution.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the guilty. To those who will not pursue the solution of a crime, especially when the poor and helpless have been victims.”

  Evelina tensed, catching the allusion to Grace Child. So did everyone else. The room became deathly still, only the distant bustle of the rest of the house audible.

  Her uncle turned so that he faced Bancroft. “Don’t you agree, Lord Bancroft?”

  Lord Bancroft frowned. “You overreach yourself. No man can be judge and jury.”

  He gave a dry smile. “I am a consulting detective. I detect.”

  “And in doing so, you restore the natural order of things?”

  Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together. “So I would hope.”

  “Then I would ask you to restore order to my household and remove your niece.”

  Shocked, Evelina’s fork slipped from her fingers. “My lord?”

  “She has been throwing herself at my son.”

  “Father!” Tobias exclaimed.

  Evelina’s heart froze. She was half out of her chair before she realized she was standing. A protest formed on her lips, but she realized with horror that she had no grounds to defend herself. She hadn’t thrown herself at Tobias, but she’d not discouraged him, either. Not really.

  Tobias was on his feet, too, features rigid and angry. “How dare you! Evelina is innocent.”

  Bancroft drained his glass, pointedly ignoring his son. “Forgive my boy, Mr. Holmes. He enjoys his dramatics. Should have been on the stage, like all his whores.”

  His statement was so stunningly clumsy that no one spoke. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of Bancroft’s glass hitting the table. He’s drunk.

  Imogen grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her seat. Evelina felt her friend trembling, but her own hand was oddly steady. Maybe she’d been expecting this moment all along.

  Her uncle remained seated and silent, watching everything like a cat about to pounce. “I understand the maid who was murdered was with child.”

  Bancroft snorted loudly. “No doubt it would have been a waste of air, like all my children.”

  Tobias turned to his father, his face white. “A waste of air, like all your children?”

  Bancroft’s face slackened. Evelina couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Lord Bancroft was Grace’s lover? Lady Bancroft sat frozen, like a woman turned to marble.

  Tobias looked around the table, his gaze quickly touching on each person there, and then landing again on his father with a look of horror. Then he stormed from the room.

  Bancroft lurched to his feet, his napkin slithering to the floor. He swayed a moment, as if letting the wine fumes settle. He turned to Holmes. “You’re nothing but a busybody with a chemistry set.”

  Holmes gave a slow blink. “Indeed. And I know how to make an admirable stink.”

  Wordlessly, Lord Bancroft marched for the door, staggering just a little to navigate through the opening. Silence fell, breathless and seemingly endless.

  Evelina caught sight of Lady Bancroft’s pale face. The woman was distraught. “I’m so incredibly sorry. I have never … he’s never …” Words failed her as her chin began to tremble. “I’ve not seen him like this since …”

  She seemed incapable of finishing a sentence. Evelina exchanged a quick glance with Imogen, who rose to comfort her mother. Uncle Sherlock was staring after Bancroft. Evelina fingered her water glass, half temped to throw it, if she were only certain whom to blame.

  “Very instructive,” Sherlock said almost to himself.

  “How?” Evelina demanded.

  “Judging by the evening as a whole, Bancroft would be a formidable opponent when sober. But of course, that is just the start of it.”

  Imogen was helping Lady Bancroft from the chair, no doubt to assist to her bed. Evelina rose to help. She had barely taken one step to the side when she felt a rush of air skim her cheek. At the same moment, glass shattered behind her. Instinct made her drop to the ground, letting the soft carpet cushion her fall. A chair crashed, and Lady Bancroft screamed, high and shrill. A cascade of smashing china cut her cry short.

  Sour fear filled Evelina’s mouth. She blinked, trying to look around without moving her head. Was it safe?

  The pool of light cast by the gas chandelier spilled over the edge of the table. Evelina was curled on her side, knees tucked to her chest. She had dived for the dark space beneath the dining table, and the forest of chair and table legs made a comforting barricade.

  Glass littered the carpet like misplaced chips of ice. Carefully, she rolled to her hands and knees, bumping her head on the table as she went. The cloth had been pulled halfway off the far side of the table, making a tent. It blocked her vision, but she could hear everything. Running feet. Servants’ voices. Lady Bancroft crying. She crawled for the edge of the table, but pierced her hand on a shard of glass. Cursing, she eased out fro
m the lip of the table, rising cautiously.

  It was chaos. Lady Bancroft was swooning in a chair, Dora cradling her head while two footmen braced to lift her limp form. Imogen was down on the floor, bending over the dark shape of Sherlock Holmes.

  “What happened?” Evelina demanded.

  “He’s shot!”

  Evelina was around the table in a moment. Imogen looked up, her eyes huge. She was pressing a napkin against his shoulder, staunching the blood. Her hands were slick and red, the skirts of her dinner gown splattered beyond repair. “What do I do?”

  Heart hammering, Evelina knelt for a better look. Her hands shook, and not just from the shock of the attack. For all her uncle’s frustrating habits, she genuinely loved him, and not just because he was a genius. He understood her. They never tried to fix each other. They never played games. She couldn’t afford to lose him.

  His face was in shadow, but she could see his teeth were clenched against the pain of his wound. No spurting blood, no shards of bone glistening in the lamplight, but it was still serious. She found his good hand and squeezed it. To her surprise, he returned the pressure.

  “I’ll send for Dr. Watson,” she said, forcing her voice to sound level.

  He gave a barely perceptible sigh of relief. “Preserve the scene. Do it. I’ll survive.”

  Exasperated, Evelina swore under her breath. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Miss Roth can hold my hand, but she cannot investigate. She doesn’t know my methods. You do.”

  Evelina wanted to protest, but instead, she nodded. Evidence didn’t seem to matter now, but it would later.

  His mouth twitched. “Good.” It was so faint she might have missed it.

  A dozen thoughts jammed as the last moments replayed themselves. The bullet had nearly hit her. If she hadn’t stood, would she be dead? Or had the shooter been waiting for her to move? Evelina rose just as Bigelow hurried into the room.

  “What is happening, please?” he demanded in the voice of a man whose universe was imploding.

  “Send for Dr. Watson,” she said, struggling to recall where the doctor lived now that he was married. The mental exertion helped. She was calmer by the time she remembered the address and wrote it down. “And help Miss Roth to make my uncle comfortable.”