Jack was wearing his policeman’s uniform, the dark blue almost blending in with the surrounding shadows. The silvery moonlight overhead patched his lean face with shadow and silvered his dark lashes.

  “Your father told me about the ball tonight and the patrols Lord Lansdowne had ordered. I didn’t think anyone would notice one more police constable around.”

  They almost certainly wouldn’t, he was right.

  “I saw you leave the ballroom,” Jack said.

  I could hear the implied question in his voice, but for the moment I couldn’t answer. I still felt as though I were somehow trapped, caught in the state between dreaming and awake—or possibly between present and past.

  Jack was silent a moment, and then he said, “Becky told me what happened here, the night of the Jubilee Ball.”

  I went motionless, my heart tightening. It hadn’t occurred to me that Becky would have recounted the story to Jack, though it should have. She wasn’t exactly known for her ability to keep secrets, and she had played a starring role in the events at the ice house.

  “It was lucky for me that she was here,” I said.

  Jack’s hands were still on my upper arms, from where he’d caught me from falling. The touch of his fingers was a small point of warmth in the chill all around.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here too,” he said.

  “You’d been shot and nearly killed. I will grant that as a reasonably good excuse for missing the excitement of that particular escapade.”

  I tried to speak lightly, but my voice shook a little on the last words. I could remember so vividly the blood on the steps of St. Paul’s cathedral, soaking Jack’s uniform, staining my hands. Jack’s face, white against the sheets covering the operating table in Uncle John’s surgery.

  None of that was a nightmare, it was simple fact, a reminder of just how close he’d come to dying. I shivered involuntarily.

  “I came out here tonight because I was hoping that if I went back—if I faced being here again—the memories would go away and stop haunting me so much,” I said.

  “That’d be nice.” Jack’s voice was still quiet. “But I don’t think it’s ever that simple.”

  I was still shivering. Jack shifted position, and I braced myself for him to let go and step away from me. But instead, slowly, almost carefully, he drew me in, pulling me close against him.

  “Life just doesn’t work that way.” His words were a breath of warmth, stirring my hair.

  “I know.”

  I leaned against him, feeling the iron-hard strength of his arms around me, the steady thump of his heart beneath the rough material of his uniform.

  After a moment, he straightened, starting to move back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  Of course, he would have to go back to treating me as though I were poisoned.

  I shut my eyes for a quick second, cutting him off. “Could you just not move for one more moment?”

  Jack looked down at my hand, curled around his arm. “I’m not sure that’s such a good—”

  I interrupted him again, hating the way my voice wavered, but unable to stop it. My throat hurt and my eyes burned.

  “Even if you blame me for what happened at the Jubilee, even if you’ve changed your mind about how you feel about me, even if you never want to touch me again, could you just let me have five minutes to pretend that you do?”

  I felt a jolt, as of surprise, go through him, and he stared at me.

  “If I blame you?” Jack’s eyes were colored with shock in the moonlight. “That’s crazy. You didn’t pull the trigger on the gun that shot me. And as for not wanting—” He shook his head. “God, I’ve been going out of my mind trying not to—” He stopped, the words seeming to catch.

  We stood face to face, so close that I could feel the tension that vibrated almost like an electric current through his muscles.

  “Not to what?” I couldn’t seem to speak above a whisper.

  Jack’s gaze met mine. From back at the house, I could hear the strains of orchestra music, but they seemed to come from a long way off, as though the rest of the world had retreated away from us. The air between us felt suddenly warmer and almost charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

  Then, instead of answering, Jack leaned forward, lowering his head until his lips brushed mine, just lightly at first, then more urgently.

  The touch spread all through me, like the feeling of coming home to warmth and firelight on a dark winter day.

  I felt Jack’s breath go out in what I would have sworn was relief, as though he really had been fighting not to let himself draw so close to me, and was happy beyond words to give up the struggle. His hand cupped my face, his thumb gently brushing across my cheek.

  But then he pulled back, so suddenly that I felt him almost stumble as his weight shifted to his bad leg. “You shouldn’t be here with me like this.”

  “What?” I had barely managed to recover from the shock of the kiss, as if I had been spun around and hadn’t yet found my footing either.

  Jack let go of me, stepping away. I could see a fine tremor moving through his body, but his voice was firm, if uneven. “The two of us together … I’m not right for you.”

  “Why not?”

  Jack gave a humorless half-laugh, disbelief etched across his face. “You’re joking, right? I knew from the first day we met I didn’t stand a chance with a girl like you.” He waved a hand towards the noise and lights of the house. “You think all those people inside the ballroom back there, the ones you were talking to just now, would so much as let me in the door? The second I opened my mouth, they’d know I was an East-ender they might hire to polish their shoes or guard their valuables, but that’s as far as they’d go. I used to be part of a criminal gang, I only just earn enough to keep a roof over Becky’s and my heads, it takes me half an hour to read a newspaper article, and I could barely write you a letter, much less a poem or whatever you’re supposed to do to court a girl of your station.”

  I stared at him. “A poem?”

  Jack kept going as though I hadn’t even spoken.

  “And as if all that’s not enough, now I can’t even do my job because I’m crippled, maybe for good. And you ask why I’m not right for you?”

  “Because it’s not true.” I folded my hands tightly together. “None of that is true. Or maybe it is, but it isn’t what matters to me.”

  “Right.” Jack’s voice was all at once hard, tinged with bitterness. “Because you just can’t say no to a hard-luck case, can you?”

  I jerked back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Jack raked a hand distractedly through his hair. “Let’s see. You wind up owning a chicken because you can’t stand the thought of killing it, you won’t tell old Mr. Griggs that he can’t cook, you’ll risk your own safety tracking down a blackmailer who’s threatened your friend … I don’t want you out here with me out of pity or because you think you owe me something for saving your dad’s life—”

  Something hot ignited in my chest, racing through my veins. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

  In the silvery light of the moon, Jack didn’t look angry, just suddenly tired, which was somehow worse.

  He gestured again back towards the lights of the main house, twinkling golden through the bare-branched trees all around us. “Lucy, you have a life—in there, where you belong, with people like you. Forget about me and go live it.”

  Anger sparked through me, like fire along a detonation cord. “I somehow missed the vote when you were put in charge of deciding where I do and don’t belong!”

  Footsteps—running footsteps—suddenly echoed through our small clearing.

  The breath snagged in my throat, and Jack instantly whirled around. A man’s figure staggered and stumbled at an uneven run through the trees towards us, crashing into branches without even seeming to realize they were there.

  Mr. Dimitrios. A ray of moonlight slanted across him, and I recognized the broad lines of his face and the peak of his dark hair on his forehead. He was breathing hard, his breath audibly sawing in and out.

  And he was carrying a long sword of some sort in one hand and a heavy revolver in the other.

  My heart slammed painfully into my ribs, but Jack didn’t hesitate. He stepped into Dimitrios’ path.

  “Stop.”

  Mr. Dimitrios lurched to a halt—more from the shock of Jack’s appearance, I thought, than because he actually meant to obey. His face was ghastly in the moonlight, blanched yellowish white and sweating, his teeth bared, his eyes wild and staring.

  “Get … get out of my way.” He was still drunk. Possibly even more drunk than he had been in the ballroom. His words slurred. But that only made him more dangerous, not less. He gripped the revolver tightly, one finger on the trigger as he waved it threateningly.

  One involuntary twitch of his fingers and he could let the gun discharge, whether he meant to or not. His other hand gripped the sword, which I now saw with a fresh lurch, was covered with something that looked wet and glistening dark in the moonlight.

  Jack didn’t move. His posture was easy, his voice calm. “You don’t want to do that. Just put the gun down.”

  “No!” Mr. Dimitrios shook his head, seeming to speak almost to himself more than Jack, slurring the words under his breath. “No. Got to get out of here. He’s dead.” Then suddenly his head snapped up and he gave a sudden lurch forward, slashing furiously with the sword.

  “Dead, I tell you!”

  Jack ducked out of the way of the flashing blade, but only just.

  I stepped out of the shadows. “Mr. Dimitrios!” My heart was pounding crazily against my ribs, but I kept my tone light, friendly.

  Mr. Dimitrios clearly hadn’t noticed my presence until this moment. Now his gaze swiveled in my direction, confused, as he tried to make sense of who I was and how I had come to be here.

  That’s right. Look at me, not Jack.

  I summoned up a bright smile. “Mr. Dimitrios, I am so glad that I found you again! We were interrupted just before you could tell me those very interesting details you were sharing about recoil-operated firing systems.”

  Mr. Dimitrios shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts, wiping his forehead with the back of the hand that held the revolver.

  I tried hard not to flinch, expecting a shot to go off.

  “I … what?” His words were still so blurred together they were scarcely intelligible.

  “You were telling me all about your gun factory. Don’t you remember?” I said.

  I didn’t dare look at Jack directly, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see him edging forward, step by slow step, circling around to Dimitrios’ side.

  Don’t die, I ordered him silently. Please don’t get killed tonight.

  I willed myself to keep smiling, to keep talking. “It was so very interesting!”

  Unfortunately I was running out of things to say about recoil-operated firing systems, about which I knew absolutely nothing.

  Jack had reached a point to the right and just behind Mr. Dimitrios, in line with the other man’s shoulder.

  “Maybe you could tell me more—” I began.

  Jack moved so fast he was almost a blur of motion, knocking Dimitrios’ gun hand up with a short, sharp blow and at the same time tackling him so that they both went crashing to the ground.

  The gun flew out of the arms dealer’s hands, and I saw the sword drop to the ground too. By the time I had managed to find the revolver and pick it up, Jack had wrestled the other man face down and twisted one arm behind his back.

  Mr. Dimitrios struggled for a brief second, but then lay still.

  Jack raised his head to look at me, breathing hard. “You could have gotten yourself killed, confronting him like that.”

  I glared back at him. “Aphorisms about pots and kettles spring to mind!”

  I crouched down, examining the blade of the sword without touching it, sickness twisting through me as I realized I’d been right. The blade was wet with something that would probably appear rusty red if there were better light.

  “Is that—”

  “Blood,” Jack said. He sounded grim. “It’s all over his hands too.” He was holding on to Mr. Dimitrios’ wrist and drew back so that I could see the sticky smears that marked the Greek man’s fingers and palms.

  “He’s dead.” All the fight seemed to have gone out of Mr. Dimitrios. He sagged on the ground, his voice breaking on a drunken half-sob. “He’s dead, I tell you.”

  Still keeping firm hold of Mr. Dimitrios’ arms, Jack dragged the older man to his feet. “Come on. You’d better show us.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “There,” Mr. Dimitrios said. Jack still had his hands pinned behind him, so the arms dealer made a vague, exhausted gesture with his head.

  His directions had led us around to the back of the house, where bright lights and the sounds of laughter and raised voices were spilling from the ballroom windows.

  Outlined in the billiard room windows, I could see the gentlemen who had escaped from the noise and dancing of the ballroom playing pool.

  “Through the trees over there,” Mr. Dimitrios said.

  I had picked up the revolver and was keeping it trained on him, our present safety outweighing any concern I had about destroying fingermarks. But so far he had only stumbled drunkenly on in what seemed almost a hopeless trance.

  Jack moved forward, pushing Mr. Dimitrios ahead of him in the direction he’d indicated. Then he stopped short.

  As I moved up to join him, I saw the man’s body sprawled on the ground at our feet, hands flung out, head tipped back, legs bent at an odd angle.

  I drew in a sharp breath. The man’s face was one I’d never seen before: close on thirty, square-jawed, with curling dark hair. But I suspected I might be able to put a name to him nonetheless. One of the outflung hands was heavily bandaged, and I suspected that if the bandages were to be unwrapped, we would find him missing a finger.

  “Is that—”

  Jack answered without my even having to finish the question. “Yes.”

  McHale, our missing waiter. I didn’t need to check whether he was dead. There was light enough to see the torn, bloodied mess where his throat should have been, the blood pooled on the ground beneath him, and the way his eyes stared glassily and sightlessly up at the night sky.

  Mr. Dimitrios gave a hoarse cry. “Dead. Told you.” He staggered, stumbling forward in Jack’s grasp.

  For a second, I thought he was trying to attack again, and I got as far as flicking the safety catch off the revolver.

  But instead, Mr. Dimitrios’ eyes rolled up in his head, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground. Jack bent, pulling up one of the arms dealer’s eyelids, then shook his head.

  “He’s not shamming.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Probably.” Jack looked up at me. “I’ll stay on guard here with the body. You go and tell your father and Lord Lansdowne what’s happened.”

  “Your name and rank, constable?” Lord Lansdowne asked.

  We were in his private study on the second floor of Lansdowne House, one of the few rooms not crowded by ball guests. The room was more like a library than an office, with comfortable chairs, a large oak mantel, and shelves of leather-bound books lining the walls.

  Jack stood straight, projecting the air of relaxed and yet disciplined competence that made him so good at his job.

  “Kelly, sir. Detective constable.”

  Lord Lansdowne nodded. Fortunately, he didn’t seem aware that Jack hadn’t officially been assigned to duty here, and Lestrade wasn’t here to tell him.

  Lestrade and the rest of the men he had brought were outside, ranging over the crime scene and combing the grounds for any signs of further intrusion.

  My father and I sat in matching chairs on either side of the hearth, Uncle John was next to my father, and Edward Barton sat beside Lord Lansdowne.

  “Very well, constable, you may proceed,” Lord Lansdowne went on. “You were telling us of apprehending the suspect as he attempted to escape the grounds.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Lord Lansdowne shot a quick glance at Uncle John. “Dr. Watson, our suspect has not awakened yet?”

  Watson shook his head. “I would estimate that it will be several hours before he is in any coherent state to answer questions. To be blunt, he has in my considered medical opinion imbibed enough liquor to pickle his insides.”

  At the moment, Mr. Dimitrios was unconscious in one of the upstairs bedrooms, handcuffed to the bed and under guard of two police officers.

  Lord Lansdowne asked Jack, “He was armed with both this sword and this revolver?”

  He gestured to the weapons that currently lay atop Lord Lansdowne’s desk, a sheet of newspaper spread out beneath them to protect the desk’s surface. Just as I had thought, the sword blade was clotted and sticky with blood.

  “He was,” Jack said.

  Holmes had been silent until now. As both the owner of the house and the highest ranking official in the room, it was perhaps within Lord Lansdowne’s rights to ask all of the questions. Although since my father typically cared absolutely not one iota for rank, I suspected some other reason for his allowing Lord Lansdowne to take the lead.

  Now, though, he abruptly shifted position slightly and said, “Not just a sword. I believe the article in question is a shashka. A traditional Russian sabre.”

  I glanced from the weapon to my father, scrutinizing his face. “You believe that is significant?”

  Holmes lapsed back in his chair, his fingers twitching in the brief, dismissive gesture that could mean anything from it is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of data to I simply don’t feel like telling you right now.

  “Mr. Dimitrios is, I believe, of Russian heritage.”

  “Quite so,” Lord Lansdowne agreed. He returned his gaze to Jack.

  “You heard nothing before Mr. Dimitrios’ sudden appearance? No fight, no outcry or sounds of a struggle?”

  For the first time since we had all entered the room, Jack’s gaze flicked just for a brief moment to me. But then he refocused on Lord Lansdowne.

 

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