“Reggie, I can’t simply abandon him.”
“You can walk away and let the professionals handle this. They can’t make you do this.”
“No one is making me do anything.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because it’s the right thing. And because he trusted me to do it. And anyway, I owe him this much.”
“I can’t see that you owe Robert Buxton a thing.”
“Reggie, I owe him for posting your bail in the Black Cab case, if for nothing else.”
Reggie didn’t like being reminded of that. Buxton had once posted a million pounds to get Reggie out of jail—on Laura’s request. Reggie had not been able to prevent it—she had made the request over his objections—but he had known at the time that it would mean trouble someday. And apparently, that day was now.
“He already got his money back on that,” said Reggie.
“It’s not a matter of the money. It’s a matter of his being willing to do a major favor when I asked.”
“We both know why he was willing to do that. He didn’t mind at all the prospect of my rotting in jail. We both know what he was after.”
“Fine, Reggie, you know so much, tell me—exactly what was Lord Buxton after?”
Reggie didn’t answer. He couldn’t think of a safe way to say it. He and Laura were both standing facing each other, near each other, but squared off in the corridor, and it just didn’t seem wise to say it. Probably he’d already said too much.
“Very well, then,” said Laura. “I’m going home. Before one of us does some damage.”
She turned and pressed the button for the lift.
Reggie couldn’t stop her. He knew that. But when she stepped inside the lift, he put his hand between the doors before she could close them.
“When they call again, promise me you won’t go to meet them. You’ll call me.”
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with helping Robert.”
“I don’t give a damn about Buxton, and he doesn’t give a damn about me. But you’re in this and I’m in it with you. So promise you won’t go to meet them. And you won’t rely on the bloody security team. You’ll call me.”
“I can’t see what—”
“Promise.”
Laura gave an exasperated sigh. “I promise,” she said. “May I go now?”
Reggie brought his hand back and let the lift doors close.
Then, as the lift descended, he went to the exterior window in his chambers office and looked down on Baker Street. He picked up his phone, and as he watched Laura exit the lobby below and flag down a cab, he punched in the number that he had gotten from her address book.
After just two rings, an authoritative male voice answered
“Alex,” said the man on the phone
“I take it you are the git in charge of Robert Buxton’s security,” said Reggie.
“Who are you?” said Alex.
“Reggie Heath.”
There was silence for a moment. Then: “Mr. Heath, you should not have this number. You can call Lord Buxton’s standard reception line if you want to make an appointment.”
“If you make me go through channels, “said Reggie, “I will tell every channel I go through that I know why Lord Buxton hasn’t been making any of his appointments.”
Silence again, then: “Laura Rankin told you?”
“She had no choice,” said Reggie.
“What is it you want?”
“You put her at risk. Don’t do it again.”
“We took every possible precaution. We had everything under control.”
“Apparently, not quite everything. It was Regent’s Park, for God’s sake—it’s surrounded on all sides by a major thoroughfare.”
“Obviously. What’s your point?”
“And you couldn’t keep a good-enough eye on things to stop them from getting away? What sort of control is that?”
“My team had all the exit points covered.”
“Again—apparently not. But I’m just letting you know: If you put Laura Rankin at risk again, I will ruin you.”
“From what I can see, Laura Rankin pretty much makes up her own mind about things.”
“Completely beside the point. If you send her out to meet the bloody kidnappers alone again, and harm comes to her, I will destroy you.”
“I’m a professional, Mr. Heath. What are you going to do, sneak up on me in an alley?”
“From what I can tell,” said Reggie. “a schoolgirl could manage that.”
Then Reggie hung up.
He closed his chambers door, locked it, exited Dorset House, and got in his car.
He hoped Buxton’s security team would take his threat personally. But he wasn’t about to take that for granted.
He sat in the Jag for several minutes, giving Laura’s cab a head start. It wouldn’t do to be caught tailing her. And then he started his car and drove toward Laura’s home in Chelsea.
21
Robert Buxton was conscious again.
The same stench from before was in his nostrils. He felt like it was permeating his sinuses; he was sure he would never get it out of his head. But this time, it was the voice that woke him. Still the most annoying voice he had ever heard.
“You are still alive, Mr. Buxton. You may wonder, given what you see and smell around you. Imagine, if you dare, what it is like to spend every waking day for years in such a place. But you are still alive, at least. For the moment. If Ms. Laura Rankin brings us the letters on time, perhaps you will stay that way.”
“What letters?”
“You bloody well know, Mr. Buxton.”
Buxton tried to think. He did not bloody well know.
His vision was clearing more than his head was, or at least that’s how it felt, but even so, he got only a general impression of the man’s face: very pale, and just barely illuminated by a single electric lantern several feet away.
The letters. Buxton tried to think.
“Hell,” he said after a moment. “You mean the letters to Sherlock Holmes?”
The pale-faced man just stared back at him.
“This is about the bequest, isn’t it?” said Buxton. “Are you from the States? You don’t sound like it. But if this is about that will—hell, that was just a joke. It didn’t mean anything. I was just playing a prank on Heath. That’s all it was. You sure as hell didn’t need to bring me here over that.”
The pale man still just stared and said nothing for a moment.
Then he said, “Is Ms. Rankin smarter than you? You may hope so. If she isn’t, you’ll never get out of here.”
“And just where the hell am I?” asked Buxton.
“You are about fifty meters north of the Albert Memorial. Several meters below a park that used to be a private hunting reserve for kings who would shoot deer for sport while the commoners starved. It was a bit of a slog getting you here, and I mean that literally. But if one is looking for symbols of British empire and decadence, and I am, this location will do.”
The pale man stood. He picked up the electric lantern and held it out at arm’s length to give Buxton a better look at his situation.
“Two hundred years ago, this little ledge was used by the sewer maintenance workers to assemble their equipment. See, right here is a little nook for you to put your lantern—if you had one. Now you can jump down from here if you like—the sewer water here is only about three feet deep at the moment; it’ll rise when it rains. But I’ve put new locks on both the exit grates, so you won’t get far, whatever the weather, and I’d advise you to stay put.
“But if you do decide to jump down anyway, do you know what you’d be standing in? I’ll bet you don’t. Well, maybe you do, in a general sort of way. You can’t see it in the dark, but I bet even you can smell it: the queen’s shit. And I mean that in a very specific sort of way: the queen’s. Though I bet you can’t tell from sniffing it the difference between it and anyone else’s. Or maybe you can. Do you think? I
f you had beef bourguignon for supper, would your crap smell different than if you had bangers and beans? Maybe. I haven’t done a study.
“But I can tell you that royal shit is what you’d be standing in if you tried to get out, because we are directly under Hyde Park, and just two kilometers to the north of us is Buckingham Palace, which is a main contributor to this tunnel. Everything the royals grunt and strain out of their bums comes through here. Yeah, I know. I do. I know all about it. I spent ten years fixing these sewers back in the day—lively occupation for a young man getting ready to go out and about on the town, don’t you think? So I know. Too bad they wouldn’t let me make a career of it. But if they had, I would never have found my true calling.”
“And what would that be?”
The man with the lantern shook his head and started to turn away.
“Wait,” said Buxton. “Don’t you have any idea who I am?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then think about it. You’re mad at the royals, right? I get that. I do. Now, think about the newspapers I own. Think what I could do for your cause if I gave it coverage.”
“Your fish wrap is part of the problem. You make the royals a bloody national obsession.”
Buxton shrugged. “I can change.”
“Doesn’t matter. You think I brought you here because of the trash you print? Don’t flatter yourself, Lord Buxton. I mean, if you can help it.”
“Wait—I’m not even a real lord, you know. That’s just for show. Not related to any royals, ever, no matter how far back you go.”
The man with the lantern looked back at Buxton, shook his head again, and then turned off the light.
22
It was late in the evening now, and Laura was at home in Chelsea, but she had no thought of sleeping. She made Earl Grey tea with milk and drank it for something to do, and it would be fine if it kept her awake.
All that she was supposed to do—all that she could think of to do—was just to wait.
Wait for the kidnappers to call her. Or wait for Buxton’s team to call her, if the kidnappers contacted them first. Or wait for Scotland Yard to arrive with sirens wailing if somehow they had found out, or, worse, if they had found out and already managed to cock it up, wait for a couple of detectives to drive up quietly and walk to her door with bad news.
She wanted to ring Reggie on his mobile and just talk to him; just to hear his voice would help. But she couldn’t, and it wasn’t because of how they had left things at Baker Street.
It was because she knew exactly where he was, and if she rang him and let him know she knew, he would insist on coming in, and then—well, then things would get just too bloody complicated.
She put her tea down, got up from the chair, and went to the front window again. She stood behind the opaque drapes and parted the semitransparent curtains only as much as she thought she could without being seen.
Less than twenty yards down the street, just past the second drive, was a Range Rover. She knew—or at least was reasonably certain—that it was the one that belonged to Buxton’s security team. It was the largest thing on the street; none of her neighbors had such a vehicle. And although it had arrived more than two hours ago, she had yet to hear a car door slam or see anyone get out.
And another ten yards beyond that, but across the street, and slightly better hidden from her line of sight, but still not completely, was Reggie’s XJS.
Laura had heard him drive by more than once since she got home. And then he had pulled up and parked just shortly after dusk. Her orange cat had jumped from the couch onto the windowsill in the way that he did when Reggie came over, and Laura had come to the window in time to see Reggie dim the lights on the Jag.
He had been there for hours; he was probably famished by now. It wouldn’t do to ring him anyway; he would be cranky if hungry.
But now, jarringly, her phone rang.
This would be the kidnappers. Laura spilled just a little of her tea into the saucer, but then she took a breath and calmed herself.
She let the phone ring twice more, and then she picked up.
“Yes?” she said.
“Are you alone?”
She knew this voice.
“Reggie, of course I’m alone. Why are you calling me?” asked Laura.
“I just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“Why—well, just think about what’s been happening!”
“Reggie, hasn’t anyone ever told you that women don’t want a man to fix things, they just want a man to listen?”
“Um … yes. You told me that. I think. If I heard correctly at the time.”
“Well, then?”
“I guess I just see it differently. Personally, I’d think it was great if someone would fix things for me.”
“Reggie, it’s Robert who was kidnapped, not me. And I already promised that if the wankers call, I won’t make a move without telling you, did I not?”
“Well, yes, but … even so.”
“How about this—you protect me from being tired tomorrow by letting me get a good night’s sleep tonight. Would that be fair?’
“Of course.”
“All right, then. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Reggie.
Laura hung up the phone.
His voice sounded so patient when he said good night. He was trying so hard.
Oh well. It couldn’t be helped.
Laura managed one gulp of the tea, and then her phone rang again.
This would be the kidnappers. One ring, two rings—she picked up.
“Yes?”
“Have they called?”
Laura knew this voice, as well. It was Alex, Buxton’s chief of staff.
“No. And you shouldn’t, either. And if you think I haven’t seen your great big Range Rover with the tinted windows parked down the street, you are mistaken.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Rankin. We have a job to do.”
Laura paused. She wanted to tell them just how badly they’d been doing it. But she knew it wouldn’t help.
“Your job,” she said instead, “at this moment, is to let me sleep. Can you manage that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alex.
“Thank you,” said Laura, and she hung up.
She checked the time. It was nearly eleven. She knew Reggie knew her routine. Sadly, Robert’s team of security spies probably knew it, too. If they all knew what she presumed they knew, then they knew it was just a bit early for her to be going to bed. But given what had been transpiring, they certainly would not think it odd.
So she turned off the porch light. Then she went to the kitchen and turned off that light, as well.
She turned off the light in the front room and went upstairs to the bedroom. She turned that light on; then she turned the light on in the loo. She waited an appropriate amount of time, and then she turned both lights off again in the proper sequence.
There. That should hold them.
Then she walked back downstairs in the dark. She picked up her Earl Grey tea—with luck, she would be allowed now to drink it in peace—and she waited.
23
Reggie waited in his car.
And waited.
He was parked on Laura’s street, just three houses down from hers, under a large walnut tree.
Just up the street was an unusually bulky Range Rover with tinted windows and what Reggie guessed had to be armor plate under the bumpers, given how they protruded. It was parked two houses down from Laura’s, and across the street from Reggie. It was the surveillance spot Reggie would have chosen himself if he had not been trying to be inconspicuous.
No question. The vehicle had to belong to Buxton’s surveillance team. It had the garish personality of their employer.
He had seen Laura turn on the lights in the kitchen. He had seen those lights go off, and then the upstairs lights go on. And then the upstairs lights had gone off, as well.
<
br /> She had gone to bed. It was just a little early, not quite eleven, but she was no doubt tired.
Reggie was, too. He settled back in his seat to wait. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he faded.
Then suddenly, he was jolted awake. His mobile was ringing.
He checked his watch: It was almost one in the morning.
He picked up the phone. The lights were still out in Laura’s house, but it might be her.
It wasn’t.
“Mr. Heath?”
A woman’s voice, though Reggie didn’t recognize it immediately.
“This is Mrs. Winslow,” she said. “I’m very sorry to call you at this hour. I hope you weren’t sleeping or … doing anything important.”
“Nothing like that,” said Reggie.
“I simply didn’t know who else to call. I thought you might want to know. Or maybe you won’t. I suppose it doesn’t matter now that Mr. Liu is—has passed on, but … I just feel like I should tell someone.”
“Yes?”
“I’m just so sorry about it. It turns out that he did not make a mistake after all.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Reggie. Clearly the man had made some sort of mistake, or he would not have died suddenly in a Soho alley thousands of miles from home.
“It’s a very well-known rhyme,” she said. “And the mistake—what I thought was his mistake—was so obvious. But it wasn’t—I mean, it wasn’t his mistake at all. It was in the original.”
Reggie tried to focus.
“You’re saying that, in fact, Mr. Liu translated correctly.”
“Yes,” she said. “The error—what I thought was an error—was not a discrepancy between his translation and the source material that was sent to him. It was a discrepancy between what was sent to him and what the nursery rhyme is commonly understood to be.”
Reggie rubbed his eyes. It felt very late to be talking about this sort of thing.
“You’re referring to the ‘buckle my shoe’ rhyme? The duck?”
“Yes, that one, and some of the others. And I thought he had made the errors. But he had not. All of the errors were in the source material that was sent to him. I don’t know how this could have happened, except that a Mr. Sandwhistle, who provided the source material, must have made an accidental change in what he sent on to Mr. Liu. I received a copy of that as well, and ever since you spoke to me earlier, I’ve been looking for it. I found it. And that’s where the errors were—in the source, not in the translation. I’ve just now called both Mr. Sandwhistle and my client to inform them about their error.”
The Baker Street Translation Page 12