Death at the Diogenes Club: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery (The Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mysteries Book 6), page 22
“No, sir. I heard nothing of that kind.”
I tried to think back, remembering those few minutes by the ice house. I could recall the noise of the party, the sounds of music, the wind creaking through the tree branches … nothing else.
Would either Jack or I have heard a struggle if there had been one? I would hope so, but I couldn’t be entirely sure.
“You knew right away, though, that something was amiss?” Lord Lansdowne asked.
“Yes, sir. Apart from the weapons, Mr. Dimitrios’ hands were stained with blood. Following his directions, we searched around the back of the house and found the body.”
Lord Lansdowne looked at Jack sharply. “Mr. Dimitrios actually led you back to the body?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he seem guilty to you?”
“He was … frightened. Confused. Other than that, I can’t say.”
Lord Lansdowne glanced at me. “Miss James, you concur?”
“Yes. He was badly frightened—shocked—as well as intoxicated. I’m not sure he fully realized what he was doing.”
Edward Barton leaned forward, speaking to Jack for the first time. “You allowed Miss James to accompany you to find a dead body?” he asked, his voice incredulous. “That did not seem to you like reckless endangerment of Miss James’ safety?”
I clamped my mouth shut to keep from interrupting. Interrupting would make it look as though I didn’t think Jack could answer the question on his own.
I had glossed over the reason for my having been outside, saying only that I had gone out of the ballroom for a breath of air when—coincidentally, at the same time as Jack—I had happened to see Mr. Dimitrios.
But otherwise I had kept silent while Jack was recounting what had taken place out on the house grounds. We hadn’t had a chance to make sure our stories lined up, and I didn’t want to accidentally contradict anything he might say.
With the exception of Uncle John and my father, I didn’t particularly care what anyone at Lansdowne House thought of me. But I was aware that Lord Lansdowne, as Secretary of War, could probably cause Jack to lose his job with a single telephone call or a word in the right ear.
Lord Lansdowne couldn’t find out that Jack had known the dead man personally.
Not to mention, if it were known that at the presumed time of the murder Jack had been standing in the grove of trees by the ice house, kissing me, the questions put to him would be significantly more awkward than the ones he was answering right now.
I willed myself not to flush at the memory, which I was trying to keep locked away. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I let myself think about it for too long. Although crossing the room and smacking Jack hard enough to rattle his teeth was a distinct possibility.
“Reckless,” Jack repeated. His voice was neutral.
“It means—” Edward began.
Jack’s jaw tightened fractionally, the expression so brief and slight I could have blinked and missed it. But his voice stayed perfectly level and calm. “I’m familiar with what the word means. No, I wasn’t concerned.”
His gaze just barely touched me again.
Three months ago—at least if we’d been alone—I would have expected a joke about the fact that I’d been the one holding the gun at that point, and he wasn’t crazy enough to suggest I stay out of danger for fear of getting himself shot.
Now I couldn’t at all tell what he was thinking.
“The suspect had been caught and disarmed, and I had no reason to think there might be further danger,” Jack finished.
Lord Lansdowne studied Jack. “You were unarmed, Constable Kelly, and yet you tackled a man wielding both a loaded revolver and a sword?”
“Miss James had distracted him.”
“Even still, the odds were surely not in your favor.”
“My job is to apprehend criminals, sir,” Jack said. “There was nothing in the oath I took about getting to pick only the fights I know I’m going to win.”
“Yes, well, it was very well done, Constable,” Lord Lansdowne said. “Your actions were commendable. Unless Mr. Holmes has any further questions, you may return to your duties now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack’s dark brown gaze met mine for another brief second before he left the room. I still couldn’t tell for certain what he was thinking, although if I had to guess, it would be somewhere in the neighborhood of a grim I told you so.
The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong.
Lord Lansdowne had spoken politely—cordially, even. But polite or not, everything about his manner had practically dripped with an inherent sense of superiority, his words an order, given to a subordinate.
And there was absolutely nothing I could say right now that wouldn’t make it worse.
Jack was right about one thing, if nothing else he’d said tonight. Men like Lord Lansdowne—even men like Lord Lansdowne, who was fundamentally a good and honorable gentleman—wouldn’t accept Jack as an equal just because Lucy James said so.
After Jack had gone out, Lord Lansdowne turned to my father. “Since our murderer has already been apprehended—and since as far as we know, the man he killed was never even inside the house—do you see any objections, Holmes, to allowing the rest of the evening to proceed as planned?”
As Lord Lansdowne said, the man McHale had never been inside or, if he had, he had managed to escape the notice of every police officer on duty here. The vast majority of the ball guests did not even know that anything untoward had happened.
“Objections?” My father repeated. His eyes had the unfocused look that meant the vast majority of his brain was engaged elsewhere.
“The charitable presentation, Holmes,” Watson said. Long experience with my father made him speak patiently. “The endowment of the pensioners’ home.” He looked at Lord Lansdowne. “For myself, I see no reason why your presentation may not proceed as planned. I believe you had hoped to give a speech about the need for the project, in hopes that those in attendance here tonight might feel moved to make donations.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Lord Lansdowne looked at my father, his brows creeping together in a frown. “Mr. Holmes? May I take it that you are in agreement?”
Holmes’s gaze was fixed on the bloodied sword, and I suspected that he hadn’t heard a single word either Lansdowne or Uncle John had said.
“Mr. Holmes?” Lord Lansdowne repeated.
My father stood up in a sudden explosion of movement. “The body—to where was the body brought?”
Lord Lansdowne blinked once. “I believe Lestrade has summoned a police wagon, to convey it to the city morgue—”
“Tcha!” Holmes gave an exclamation of either frustration or disgust and strode from the room.
Edward was the first to speak, turning to Uncle John with a faint smile. “Dr. Watson, I believe that I begin to understand what you once wrote about there being madness in his method.”
CHAPTER 31
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Edward Barton raised his voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
He stood at the podium I had seen earlier, his hand lifted to attract attention.
“Our host tonight, Lord Lansdowne, wishes to say a few words.”
There were a few murmurs, and then the noise of the ballroom died down. Lord Lansdowne, slim and straight in his black evening jacket and white tie, approached the podium. I could still see the faint lines of strain gathered about his eyes, but he smiled as he faced the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here.”
Uncle John and I stood a little off to one side, Holmes having still not returned from viewing McHale’s body. Despite the fact that, with Mr. Dimitrios in custody, the danger ought to be over, my skin was prickling with uneasiness, and all my nerves were stretched tight.
If the Greek arms dealer really were our killer, I would at least have the satisfaction of my earlier suspicions proving justified. But I couldn’t convince myself that the threat had actually passed.
Lord Lansdowne was still speaking, saying something about the proposed pensioners’ home. I listened with half an ear, letting my gaze travel around the ballroom.
Some of the guests looked mildly bored, others attentive, but I couldn’t pick out anyone who looked as though they were biding their time, waiting for a chance to attack.
I couldn’t find Jack in the crowd at all, not even among the constables guarding the windows and doorways.
I shook my head—an unsatisfying substitute for being able to yank Jack Kelly physically out of my thoughts—and refocused on Lord Lansdowne.
There was a magic lantern projector on the podium in front of him, the sort that projected an image or photograph onto a larger screen. The screen in this case had been hung from the ceiling directly behind Lord Lansdowne, the lower edge just clearing the top of his head.
There was something odd about the magic lantern itself, though. I had seen them before, and this one didn’t look quite right. The case that ought to hold the slides seemed not quite to fit—
“And now if you will bear with me a moment, I can show you some photographs detailing the good and noble work your charitable contributions …” Lord Lansdowne began.
The rest of what he was saying was lost to me, turning into a jumbled roar in my ears as I saw his hand reach for the switch that would turn the lantern projector on.
“No!” I threw myself forward, trying to stop him—and did manage to crash into him, knocking him aside.
But in the same instant, I heard a click, then a hiss. A smell of bitter almonds filled the air.
My head swam, my vision darkening and my lungs burning. Then everything seemed to fold together, like the pages of a book slamming shut.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
“Uncle John, I’m all right,” I said. “I really am all right.”
We were back home in Baker Street, in the sitting room of 221A. Becky was sound asleep on the trundle bed in the bedroom, so Uncle John had set me down on the couch after insisting on carrying me inside from the carriage we had taken home.
Now he scowled at me, the edges of his mustache pulling down.
“I beg your pardon, I was making the mistake of thinking that I was the only licensed physician in this room. Oh.” He gave an exaggerated start of surprise. “Wait just a moment. I am in fact the only doctor in the room. And as such, perhaps you will do me the honor of allowing me to assess whether the effect of the poison you inhaled is severe.”
He took out his pocket watch, reaching with his other hand for the pulse in my wrist. I leaned back, letting him count off the beats of my heart.
In fact, I did feel somewhat ill, with a lingering headache and a sick, dizzy feeling making the room waver slightly. Though the effects were nowhere near as severe as they could have been.
Uncle John finished taking my pulse, then exhaled. “Very well. I believe I may be cautiously optimistic that you will suffer no permanent effects. However, you are to rest quietly for the next several days. I am about to send a letter to Mr. Harris at the Savoy, explaining that you will of medical necessity be absent from performances for the next few nights. Do you understand? You are to remain here, quietly, and not set foot on stage or do anything more strenuous than lift a teacup.”
From his expression, arguing would be a wasted effort, and I didn’t have the energy in any case. “Thank you.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I frightened you, Uncle John.”
My memories of our departure from Lansdowne House were something of a haze: a confused jumble of someone shouting for a doctor, and Uncle John saying that he was one …
“Is Lord Lansdowne all right?” I asked.
I had still been drifting in and out of consciousness on our carriage ride here, unable to ask.
The door to the sitting room opened, admitting Holmes in time to hear my question.
“He is practically recovered already. You knocked him aside, such that he inhaled even less of the cyanide gas than you.”
“The cyanide was inside the magic lantern?”
Holmes looked down at me. His face was less fierce than Watson’s, but I still had the feeling from his expression that I had frightened him as much as I had Uncle John.
“The device was rigged such that a press of the switch released the valve on a pressurized canister of cyanide gas. A bold plan, if a somewhat fallible one. In a room as large as the Lansdowne House ballroom, the gas would dissipate too quickly to be fatal. Unless, of course, it was received directly in the face. As would have been the case with Lord Lansdowne, had you not intervened.”
I let myself lean back against the sofa cushions, relief making my muscles feel weak. Weaker.
“Will she be all right?” I heard Holmes ask Uncle John.
“I have difficulty enough in keeping just you alive.” Watson’s gruff voice seemed to come from a long way off. “The strain of keeping two of you from running headlong into danger and certain death may possibly drive me into an early grave. But yes, with a night’s rest, I believe she will be perfectly fine.”
I wanted to open my eyes and tell them that I was fine. But I couldn’t seem to find the energy. Distantly, I was aware of someone pulling a blanket over me and turning out the lights, though whether it was Watson or my father, I couldn’t be sure.
“Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?”
The ragged shreds of the ice house and Arkwright’s sneering face melted away, leaving me gasping and staring up at the sitting room ceiling.
Becky was sitting perched on the edge of the couch beside me, her blue eyes concerned. “Were you having a bad dream?”
“I—” I managed to get my breath back and sit up. “Yes, I suppose I was.”
So much for banishing the nightmares with my visit to the ice house. The dream-memory had been every bit as vivid and stomach-twisting as before.
The room was dark, but I could see pale gray light filtering around the edges of the curtains. It must be early morning.
Becky crawled under the blanket to curl up next to me. “I thought so.” We were both quiet a second, and then Becky twisted her head to look up at me. “Did you see Jack last night?”
The effects of the cyanide gas seemed nearly gone; all that was left was a faint, lingering trace of a headache. But I still couldn’t seem to gather my thoughts for any kind of coherent response. I just stared at her, no words coming out.
“I know he’s not really in Bath,” Becky said. Her small, freckled face was pale, her hands balled up into fists on top of the blanket. “He’s here in London, doing something dangerous, something he doesn’t want me to know about. But I do know. You’re both not lying to me, but you’re not telling me the whole truth either. I can tell.”
I sighed and rested my cheek on top of her head. “I’m sorry. We should have told you the truth. There was someone—someone who would have hurt you, if he could, and Jack too. Jack didn’t want you to be in danger or frightened. But you’re an intelligent, strong girl, and maybe you deserved to know.”
I was thinking of my nightmare and the memories of that night in the icehouse. Becky had quite possibly saved my life and Mycroft’s. If not for her, I might not even be here.
“I suppose sometimes we like to think that we know what’s best for other people,” I said. “Especially people who we … who we care about. But we’re often wrong.”
I blinked, trying to clear away the memory of Jack standing in the moonlit grove of trees and telling me to go back to where I belonged.
Becky sat quiet for a moment. “Did you catch him? The man who wanted to hurt me and Jack?”
“Yes. He’s in prison now. And likely to stay there.”
“And Jack is all right?” Becky’s gaze searched my face, intent. “You’d tell me if anything had happened to him?”
“Yes, I would tell you. And yes, he’s all right.”
At least in Becky’s terms he was. Jack’s being criminally stubborn and blind-sighted probably wasn’t what she was worried about.
“Good.” Becky let out her breath and leaned against me for another moment. “Sometimes I have bad dreams too.”
I smoothed her flyaway blond hair. “What are your dreams about?”
“My mother, sometimes.” Becky rested her head against my shoulder. “Sometimes I dream about when she was dying. Or sometimes I dream about the night of the Jubilee Ball. You know, about that man who caught me.”
I went still, guilt sliding through me like a hot knife. Becky had been caught by one of our opponents that night, tied up, and used as a bargaining chip to try and force our surrender. At the time, she had been more outraged by the ordeal than frightened, and I had never heard her speak of it until now.
But it was still my fault—my fault that she had been at the ball in the first place.
“I would never have let him hurt you,” I said.
I might not dream about it, but I had still replayed that part of the night in my imagination a hundred times, all the what-if’s and the might-have’s crowding into my mind. I was ninety-eight percent sure that no matter how hard Griffin had tried, I could have stopped him from harming Becky, even if it meant dying myself.
“I know. You saved me. But sometimes I dream that I’m back there, tied up again,” Becky said in a soft voice.
I hugged her more tightly. “Have you told Jack?”
Becky shook her head. “No. I didn’t want him to worry.”
“Well, you can always talk to me, if you want to. Always.”
Becky was silent for a second. “I still remember it,” she said finally. I felt her muscles quiver, her small frame taut. “The way he made Mr. Holmes put his gun down in exchange for letting me go. That’s why you didn’t want to tell me about the man you had arrested, wasn’t it? You were afraid I might get caught and almost make a mess of things again.”
“What?” I stared at her, shocked. “Becky, no! I mean, yes, I didn’t want you to be hurt. But your being captured that night was not your fault.”
I could see in Becky’s face that she didn’t entirely believe me. “Becky, listen to me.” I put my hands on her shoulders, looking directly into her eyes. “You were so, so brave that night. You were quick-witted and clever and courageous, and you did everything exactly right. If anyone is to blame for what happened, it’s me. If you hadn’t been worried about me, you would never have even been at Lansdowne House that night.”
