Death at the Diogenes Club: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery (The Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mysteries Book 6), page 20
I exhaled slowly. Becky was safe. Jack was free of the threat of Flint’s revenge. It seemed almost too good to be true.
“I also spoke with Constable Kelly for a few moments,” Holmes said. “There was not time for a lengthy discussion before Miss Kelly, having heard the ring of the telephone, joined me, but I was at least able to inform him of the arrests. I asked if he wished to speak with you, but he said you ought not to be disturbed.”
Of course he did. Still, if Jack now knew that Flint had been locked up, that was something.
“Was Mr. Bayles able to give you any information on the man who hired him?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing conclusive.”
I repeated everything that Flint had told me the night before.
Holmes listened with pursed lips and half-lidded eyes. “Suggestive, but as you say, ultimately inconclusive. Certainly not enough to make me feel more sanguine about the prospect of the ball at Lansdowne House tonight.”
“Lord Lansdowne is going ahead with the ball? Even after the bomb incident yesterday?”
“Lord Lansdowne has arranged for his house to be heavily policed by Lestrade’s constables. He believes that the police presence will be enough to ensure the event’s safety.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I believe that allowing Lestrade—much as I respect him, as policemen go—to be in sole charge of any event’s security is a version of a Vaudeville production involving custard pies in the face and ludicrously oversized shoes,” Holmes said. “However, allowing the event to proceed may be to our advantage. I have it on Lord Lansdowne’s authority that Mr. Dimitrios will be there, as will Lord Armstrong and Sir Andrew.”
Cold crawled through me. “You mean that anyone who wished to kill one or all of them before may use the opportunity presented by the ball to make another attempt?” I asked.
“As you say. I have already directed Lestrade’s men to keep watch on the storage facility where Mr. Bayles had stashed the stolen weapons.”
“Why?” I frowned, then answered my own question. “Oh, of course. Whoever hired Flint set up the police raid, hoping for Flint’s arrest. That means that whoever it was must already know where Flint had the weapons stored. He must have followed Flint or one of his men.”
“Or extracted the information from the man McHale, also known as the waiter Royce,” Holmes said. “Assuming that the finger was his and that he is now a captive of Flint’s nameless employer.”
There was a kind of abstracted tension in Holmes’s voice, as though he were talking to me, but at the same time recalling something else.
“Was anything missing from the cache of weapons?” I asked. “Anything to show whether Flint’s buyer had already started to access the guns?”
I saw in my father’s face that my guess had been right. “Only two items.” His lips compressed. “A large crate, containing some fifty pounds of gunpowder. And a Maxim machine gun.”
My mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Last summer, Uncle John had witnessed demonstrations of the kind of destruction a machine gun could unleash.
Holmes’s expression was still tight. “As you are about to observe, such weapons being in the wrong hands is—”
“Every kind of bad,” I finished for him.
“Another Americanism?” Holmes asked. “I shall have to remember that one. It is quite expressive.”
I fought through the feeling of having my lungs crushed by an invisible hand. “Do you think whoever took it will try to detonate an explosion at Lansdowne House tonight? Or fire the Maxim into the crowd?”
“Possible, but I believe unlikely. The grounds of Lansdowne House are well policed and guarded, thanks to his position in the government, and transporting fifty pounds of explosives is not something that can be accomplished in a subtle manner. Neither is a Maxim a weapon of stealth; it requires a tripod mount and boxes of ammunition, neither of which will be easy to smuggle into a ball, especially given the security measures that will be in effect. What I am more concerned about is the chance of a sniper’s—”
The sitting room door flew open, and both Holmes and I cut off speaking as Becky came back in.
“Have you shown her?” Becky demanded of Holmes. “Have you shown her the letter yet?”
“What letter?” I asked.
“The final letter General Pettigrew ever wrote was tracked down to the Diogenes Club outgoing mailbag and retrieved by some of Inspector Lestrade’s men. He passed it on to me, and Miss Kelly and I have been going over it, hoping for some clue as to how he died.”
“I’ll fetch it so that Lucy can see, can I?” Without waiting for Holmes’s response, Becky ducked out again, and I heard her tripping lightly up the stairs to 221B.
“Clues?” I raised an eyebrow at Holmes. “I would dearly like to concentrate on writing this letter, but unfortunately some annoying personage whose name I shall divulge shortly insists on waving a canister of cyanide gas under my nose?”
Holmes twitched one shoulder. “It has served to keep the child occupied and to keep her mind diverted from her brother’s absence, which was my primary—”
He stopped again as Becky came back, letter in hand. “Here it is!”
The letter was addressed in a spidery, cramped hand. A few crumbs of red sealing wax still clung to the back of the envelope. I took the letter out, unfolded it, and read the few short paragraphs.
“So his final letter wasn’t to the editor of the Times, after all, but to the membership committee of the Diogenes,” I said. I scanned the general’s words. “Must protest in the strongest terms the lax standards for admission … new arrivals who do not at all uphold the high standards set by our revered founders … indeed, I had recent cause to suspect rank deceit, or at least fraud …”
I stopped reading, looking up to find Holmes’s gaze on me.
“I trust that if you come to feel that the object of the general’s rancor has anything to do with the case in hand, you will inform me?” Holmes asked.
Of course Holmes could tell just by watching me that I suspected I knew the unnamed subject of General Pettigrew’s letter. I shouldn’t have been even mildly surprised.
“I will.”
I had scanned the rest of the letter, and it mentioned no specific names. But still, the fraud General Pettigrew had spoken of almost had to be Susan—otherwise known as Suzette—Teale.
“At the moment, I don’t think it has any bearing at all on our missing weapons. But if there is some link, I promise I won’t hold anything back.”
“Very well, then.” Holmes made Becky a gallant bow. “Miss Kelly, would you do me the honor of accompanying me upstairs to breakfast?”
Becky took his arm.
“While we eat, we may discuss our plans for tonight,” Holmes said. As his gaze met mine over the top of Becky’s head, his expression turned grave. “For I believe that our best chance at averting disaster lies in keeping our eyes open and our attention vigilant at tonight’s ball.”
CHAPTER 29
“Oh dear, did I tread on your foot again, Mr. Dimitrios?” I opened my eyes wide. “I am so terribly sorry. How clumsy of me.”
Mr. Dimitrios gave me a bleary look, swaying slightly—as well he might, considering the number of glasses of champagne he had drunk.
“Quite all right, my dear Miss James. No need to appol-appol—there is no need to be sorry.” His heavy accent, combined with the slurring of his words, made his speech very close to unintelligible. “A beautiful girl such as yourself—”
He started to sidle closer, and I suppressed a sigh, preparing myself to stamp on his foot yet again—this would make the third time—if he tried to snake an arm around my waist.
All around us, the Lansdowne House ballroom was aglow with the light of candles and gas chandeliers. Potted palm trees and hothouse orchids and lilies lined the walls, and at the head of the room, a musical quartet played while couples in evening dress circled the mirror-polished dance floor.
Other guests were circling the room, admiring the famous Roman marble sculptures that had been set into the walls.
A podium had been set up in front of one of the marble friezes, where later on I presumed that Lord Lansdowne would give the speech or presentation he intended to make tonight.
Always assuming that our adversary didn’t murder him first.
I had come over to speak with Mr. Dimitrios nearly half an hour ago in hopes that I might learn more about whoever had planted the bomb. So far, though, all I had succeeded in learning was that Mr. Dimitrios was far too fond of speaking about himself and of female company, particularly when he was intoxicated.
Although there was some slight consolation in that fending off Mr. Dimitrios’ unwanted attentions had left me with very little time to worry about my own memories or waking nightmares coming back.
Now his eyes nearly crossed as he made an effort to focus on my face. “Where was I? Ah, yes, I was telling you about the development of the recoil-operated firing systems—”
A voice spoke behind me. “Miss James, might you do me the honor of allowing me this dance?”
I turned to find Edward Barton holding out one gloved hand. He wore a black tie and white waistcoat, and his russet-colored hair was combed straight back from his face.
I hesitated. But I couldn’t honestly think that further conversation with Mr. Dimitrios would achieve anything but the increased risk of my sooner or later breaking one of the arms dealer’s toes.
I put my hand into Mr. Barton’s. “Thank you. I would be delighted.”
The back of my neck prickled as we made our way out onto the dance floor, although it was difficult to tell whether that was my own nerves or simple awareness that something could happen at any time. I had seen the blue-uniformed police constables fairly crawling over the grounds outside and checking invitations one by one before the guests were admitted to the house.
So far, there had been no sign of any danger, but I couldn’t shake the weight of Holmes’s prediction that there would be trouble tonight. My father wasn’t entirely infallible, but his predictions had a habit of generally coming true.
The strains of a waltz began playing, and I rested my hand on the top of Mr. Barton’s shoulder. “I never got the chance to thank you, Mr. Barton, for getting Becky and Mrs. Hudson out of the house so quickly the other morning.”
Mr. Barton smiled at me as we started to move with the other couples across the dance floor. “Edward, please. I believe the experience of nearly being exploded by a bomb together ought to obligate you to use my given name.”
“Edward, then. And I do thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Have there been any new discoveries in the case?”
“None to speak of. Were you put in charge of the added security measures for tonight?”
“In part,” Edward said. “It was something of a scramble to arrange everything on such short notice.”
Uniformed police officers stood just outside the windows that lined the ballroom walls and opened out onto a narrow paved terrace that circled the house.
Maybe that was what was making my skin crawl with the sense of being watched.
I looked around the room again, searching for Holmes, but couldn’t find him. He was—for a wonder—not in disguise and was mingling amongst the various members of Parliament and government officials who were here.
We passed by one of the large mirrors on the ballroom wall, and I caught sight of our reflection. I was wearing the gown that Becky had selected as the prettiest in my wardrobe back at home: a pale green satin with short puffed sleeves and a belt of deeper green. Pearl clasps—also Becky’s choice—held back my hair.
Even a brief glance showed that I looked pale, though.
I tried to drag my attention back to the dance.
Edward was a good dancer, polished and sure and good at leading. We spun around the floor in silence for a few moments and then he said, “I hope I didn’t misinterpret your expression of glazed boredom just now, Miss James. But I thought it looked as though you would be glad of an excuse to leave our friend Mr. Dimitrios behind.”
“Have you met Mr. Dimitrios before?”
“He has had dealings with the War Office, from time to time. He’s a weasel, will try to twist and turn any contract to his advantage. And I wouldn’t trust his word if he told me that the sky was blue.”
The strains of the waltz were fading. Edward brought us to a halt, and I held up one hand. “Wait a moment. I believe you’re trying to give me a subtle hint as to what you really think of him.”
Edward laughed. “I’m sorry. My opinion was rather more than blunt. But I have little patience with these merchants of death—leeches who grow fat off the business of war.”
His amiable face darkened.
“That’s rather an odd point of view for someone who works for the War Office,” I said.
“Well, I did tell you that I had hoped to run away to sea and lead a life of adventure.” He smiled, his expression lightening. But then he shook his head. “Modern theory holds that to be at war is a part of man’s natural state. That might will make right and that we, the lights of civilization in a dark world, must ensure that we have enough might to conquer the uncivilized savages of the world or be overrun. But I cannot help wondering whether all our efforts to build better guns and stronger naval ships and more deadly mortar shells would be better directed towards working for peace.”
I couldn’t disagree, though it would probably give half the men Edward Barton worked with an apoplectic fit to hear him voice such a terribly un-British opinion.
The orchestra struck up the strains of another waltz. Edward bowed. “Another dance, Miss James?”
I knew that I should stay here in the ballroom. I should dance and mingle and try to keep a watchful eye, as Holmes had said.
But I felt sick to my stomach, and my heart was racing so that it was hard to draw breath. The noise and lights and bright dresses of the ballroom were tilting around me, threatening to coalesce into a sickening, spinning whirl.
I forced a smile. “Thank you, but no. Do you think you might see whether you can fetch us anything to drink? It’s quite warm in here.”
“Of course, Miss James. Your wish is my command.”
He departed, weaving his way slowly but confidently through the throngs of people. I waited until he was just out of sight before turning in the opposite direction, towards the entrance to the ballroom.
If Edward Barton wasn’t a murderer—like other seemingly pleasant men I had known—it was somewhat unkind of me to be slipping away from him this way.
If he wasn’t what he appeared, though, I couldn’t tell him the truth. And if he was the perfectly nice young man he seemed to be, then he would probably out of gallantry insist on accompanying me.
I didn’t want company, any more than I wanted the drink I had sent him to fetch. What I wanted was to confront my memories, stare the nightmares in the face, and lay them to rest once and for all.
Three police constables stopped me as I made my way away from Lansdowne House towards a small grove of trees at the back. They let me go, though, as soon as I mentioned mine and my father’s names. Not the first time I had been aware of the benefits of being associated with Sherlock Holmes.
There was bright moonlight tonight and no fog. With the lights of the house behind me, it wasn’t hard to find my way.
I ducked through the trees and then stopped, staring at the small building that had been the focus of my nightmares for the past six months.
The ice house looked exactly the same as it had the night of the Jubilee Ball: square, squat, and completely innocuous, a small brick place designed to keep ice chilled through the summer months.
I couldn’t see any police on patrol out here. Their efforts were all concentrated closer to the house.
My heart hammered hard enough to make me almost dizzy. Stop.
I wasn’t being marched inside at gunpoint this time. No murderers or madmen lurked inside. There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. That was the whole point of my coming here, to prove to myself that I didn’t have to be afraid.
The door was locked, but it was a simple one, there not being much market for stolen ice, particularly in the middle of autumn’s rainy chill. A moment with one of the pins from my hair and I felt the lock click open.
I swung the door open and was struck by the smell of damp and the straw used to pack the ice. I shut my eyes for a second and, for the first time in six months, instead of trying to lock the memories away, I let them come, practically daring them to come back.
You want me to remember you? Fine. Let’s see how frightening you really are.
The inside of the ice house was dark, shadowed, but I could see that the chair I had been tied to was gone, and of course no trace remained of the ropes that had bound Mycroft’s ankles and hands.
“Lucy?”
The voice behind me made my heart jolt to a stop, stealing my breath. I spun, slipped on a patch of damp ground, and would have fallen if Jack hadn’t moved instantly out of the shadows to catch me.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded, unable to draw breath enough to speak. Just for a moment, it was hard to believe that Jack was real. His appearance almost seemed as though it had to be part of another waking dream. Except that Jack was never the one to arrive at the ice house in the nightmares.
I’m sorry, Lucy, but he’s gone. In the past three months, I had heard Uncle John say those words in my dreams more times than I could even count.
“What are you doing here?” I finally managed to ask.
