The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters) E-Book

Mercedes Lackey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The thirteenth novel in the magical alternate history Elemental Masters series continues the reimagined adventures of Sherlock Holmes in a richly-detailed alternate Victorian England.The threat of Moriarty is gone—but so is Sherlock Holmes. Even as they mourn the loss of their colleague, psychic Nan Killian, medium Sarah Lyon-White, and Elemental Masters John and Mary Watson must be vigilant, for members of Moriarty's network are still at large. And their troubles are far from over: in a matter of weeks, two headless bodies of young brides wash up in major waterways. A couple who fears for their own recently-wedded daughter hires the group to investigate, but with each new body, the mystery only deepens.The more bodies emerge, the more the gang suspects that there is dangerous magic at work, and that Moriarty's associates are somehow involved. But as they race against the clock to uncover the killer, it will take all their talents, Magic, and Psychic Powers—and perhaps some help from a dearly departed friend—to bring the murderer to justice.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Available now from Mercedes Lackey and Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

THE BARTERED BRIDES

The ELEMENTAL MASTERS

Available now from Mercedes Lackey and Titan Books

THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES

Foundation

Intrigues

Changes

Redoubt

Bastion

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS

The Serpent’s Shadow

The Gates of Sleep

Phoenix and Ashes

The Wizard of London

Reserved for the Cat

Unnatural Issue

Home from the Sea

Steadfast

Blood Red

From a High Tower

A Study in Sable

A Scandal in Battersea

The Bartered Brides

THE HERALD SPY

Closer to Home

Closer to the Heart

Closer to the Chest

FAMILY SPIES

The Hills Have Spies

VALDEMAR OMNIBUSES

The Heralds of Valdemar

The Mage Winds

The Mage Storms

The Mage Wars

The Last Herald Mage

Vows & Honor

Exiles of Valdemar

Bartered Brides

Paperback edition ISBN: 9781785653544

Ebook edition ISBN: 9781785653551

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: October 2018

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Mercedes Lackey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2018 by Mercedes R. Lackey. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Jody A. Lee.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To the memory of Harlan Ellison. Irreplaceable.

1

The calendar read June 3rd. The weather agreed. There was a fine, light summer wind sweeping down the London street where Nan Killian, her friend Sarah Lyon-White, their raven, their parrot, and their ward Suki lived. It frisked in through the open windows of their flat, bringing with it the scent of the daffodils blooming in the flowerboxes outside their window, a scent that just managed to counter the less pleasant odors of London as summer began. At this time of the day there was minimal traffic outside, but you could have heard a pin drop in the sitting room. Not even the birds were feeling chatty.

Sarah, Nan, and Suki sat on the sofa on one side of the cold hearth; their friends and fellow occultists John and Mary Watson sat on the matching sofa on the other. Between the sofas, the table was laden with tea-things, completely untouched so far. Mary was dressed in full mourning, and John had a mourning band around his upper arm.

John was, in Nan’s estimation, a very fine looking gentleman. He kept himself in shape, and the hard line of his jaw gave the lie to the kindness of his eyes. His wife Mary was not a beauty, the way Nan’s friend Sarah was, but she was something between “pretty” and “handsome,” and her own expression was generally as kind as her husband’s.

Nearly a month ago a mysterious telegram addressed to both of them had arrived from Germany. Unsigned, it had said merely this: Do not believe what you read.

Then, before either of them had been able to find John or Mary Watson, both of whom were out of London, or consult with Lord Alderscroft—the what of the mysterious message became clear, as within hours headlines across London screamed SHERLOCK HOLMES DEAD!

Alderscroft, when they finally contacted him, knew nothing. Mycroft Holmes was unreachable. And John and Mary, when at last they appeared in London again, were no help. They went into outward mourning. John Watson simply said in print that Holmes had had a “misadventure” in Germany, and had fallen to his death at the Reichenbach Falls—in private, he thinned his lips and gave the girls a look that suggested they needed to go along with that story.

Mary Watson sent around a brief note a week ago suggesting they should gather for a wake for Holmes, but oddly specified the girls’ flat, not 221B nor one of their own flats—neither the seldom-used one above John’s surgery nor their real home at 221C. So here they were, regarding one another across a laden tea table covered with cups and edibles that no one had touched, silently staring at one another. Even the birds, sitting behind the girls on their perches, were uncharacteristically silent. No one had said a word aside from the initial greetings. To say that the atmosphere was “strained” was something of an understatement.

Of course, Nan could probably have used her mental powers to read John’s mind, or Mary’s—but Sarah and Nan had discussed that, and without their permission, that was something Nan simply would not do, and nothing either of the Watsons had said or done had indicated to her that she had said permission.

And as for Sarah, her mediumistic talents were not of much use here.

So for the course of the last month, they had alternated between being certain that it had been Holmes who had sent that telegram, and that he was alive and well, and certain that it had been a mistake or a cruel hoax, and their dear friend Sherlock Holmes was dead.

“Tea?” Sarah ventured, breaking the silence. But before either of the Watsons could answer, they were interrupted by the sound of the bell downstairs.

All of them started, and strained their ears. Mrs. Horace, the girls’ landlady, answered the door on the second pull of the bell. There was the sound of quiet murmuring, then footsteps, two sets, coming up the stairs to the girls’ flat.

Mrs. Horace tapped on the door, and opened it. “A Mrs. Stately to see you,” she said, in tones that suggested she felt very doubtful about their visitor. “She says she is here on invitation from the Watsons.”

“Show her in, thank you, Mrs. Horace,” Nan replied before Sarah could say anything. The door opened fully, and a hunched old lady—at least, Sarah thought she was old—clad head to toe in black, with a black veil, entered the room. Mrs. Horace closed the door.

And as soon as the door was firmly closed, the old lady suddenly stood up straight, gaining almost a foot in height, pulled back her veil, and revealed the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Sarah stared; she would have sworn that a moment ago the face beneath that veil had been pinched and wizened, and nothing at all like Holmes—save, perhaps, in the beaky nose. But now, there was no doubt—although Holmes looked thinner than usual, and a bit more pale. Still, it was Sherlock Holmes.

Mary and John just looked as if an enormous burden had been taken from their shoulders. Suki squealed, and threw herself at Holmes; he smiled very slightly and patted her on the back as she hugged his skirts. The birds both flew to Holmes as well, landing one on each shoulder, Grey bending down to gently mouth the top of Holmes’ nose, and Neville pressing himself up against the side of Holmes’ head. Nan felt like flinging herself at Sherlock as well, but what he tolerated in children and animals made him uncomfortable when coming from adults, so she confined herself to sighing as she felt a surge of unimaginable relief.

Then, suddenly, John burst out laughing. “By Jove, I get it. Stately Holmes, indeed!”

Sherlock smiled slightly and took a seat on the one remaining chair, as Suki returned to the girls and the birds to their perches. “The last four weeks have been unpleasant enough for all of us that I thought I might amuse you with a small pun.” He lost the smile. “Unfortunately, the unpleasantness is just beginning.”

“Wait!” Nan said, before he could continue. “Before you do that, for heaven’s sake, tell us what happened! Why did you and John vanish? What happened in Germany? Why did you pretend to be killed? You did send us that telegram, didn’t you?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the laden tea table significantly. Sarah hastened to pour out for everyone, while Nan passed around ham sandwiches and cakes, the birds returned to their perches for their shares, and only when Holmes had eaten and drunk did he put his cup aside and begin,

“I have been on very short commons these last few days,” he said by way of apology for eating more than half the sandwiches all by himself. “Well, to begin at the beginning, you will recall my campaign against that villain, Professor Moriarty, and his fiendish gang?”

They all nodded.

“Last month, the campaign had nearly reached its ultimate goal; I was about to spring my trap, when I became aware that Moriarty was going to escape it—and in revenge would not only seek to destroy me, but everyone I had allied myself with. Mary was safely out of harm’s way for the moment, so John and I slipped off to the Continent with Moriarty in pursuit. To make the story as brief as possible, I hoped that we could occupy him at the least, and possibly bring him to justice, and while he was concentrating on us, the police would be able to swoop in and round up his gang.”

“We stayed as close to water as we could at all times,” John put in at that point. “It would have been much easier if we’d had Mary along—”

“I absolutely forbade that,” Holmes interrupted with a frown. “Not that I do not believe Mary perfectly capable, but it was enough of a risk bringing John in. Moriarty would have immediately made Mary his target as the weakest of the three of us; he would have used her ruthlessly against us, and in the end, brought all three of us down.”

The Watsons exchanged a look. Mary shrugged, a tendril of her dark blond hair escaping from her chignon. She pushed it back behind her ear with an impatient gesture.

But Nan had a good idea of why Holmes had not wanted to risk her presence—and a good idea of why having Mary along would have been more useful than having her husband. Holmes still did not have much of an idea of what an Elemental Master could do with his or her powers. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that had Moriarty seized Mary Watson, she could have sucked the very breath out of his lungs—or rather, her Elementals could have. Under the normal course of things, no Master would ever ask her Elementals to kill, but nothing about the threat that Professor Moriarty posed could be construed as “normal.”

“So we stayed close to water so we could employ the protection of my Elementals, knowing they would warn us of danger. And it was in Germany that they finally did. The Professor finally caught up with us. We chose the falls as the place with potentially the most power for me to use, and the likeliest place for Moriarty to attempt an ambush,” John continued. “And as we had hoped, Moriarty took the bait as we hiked on a brief sojourn to view the falls close at hand. He sent a false message that there was a dying Englishwoman back at our inn who requested my services. We didn’t fall for it, of course.”

Now that they were no longer guarding their minds and memories, glimpses of what they had done in those moments flashed across Nan’s mind. There was the steep, mist-soaked path leading to the falls. The roar of the falls themselves, like a roar of thunder that never ended, almost obscured the boy’s speech. There was the boy; blond, bareheaded, in short leather pants, long white woolen stockings, a green wool jacket, much patched, and sturdy clogs. He wouldn’t look at Watson, his eyes shifted as he gabbled out his message, and he fingered something obsessively in his right-hand pocket. The money by which Moriarty had bought him?

Holmes nodded. “John pretended to believe it, and sent the messenger back to tell them he was coming. In actuality, he only went a few hundred yards, then doubled back, warned of exactly where Moriarty was by his Elementals. Moriarty expected me to fight honorably.” Holmes uttered a dry laugh. “I think, Doctor, he was rather too much a consumer of your fine stories. Watson and I got him between us; he was concentrating on me, and between the noise of the falls and his own eagerness, Watson crept up on him completely undetected. Watson, I believe you shot first?”

Again, the memory washed over her; first from Holmes’ point of view. The Professor faced him, fearlessly, a cold arrogance over his features. The falls thundered at Holmes’ back, and if he had not been so keyed up, he would have shivered in the cold spray. But he was keyed up; like a racehorse, waiting for the signal to spring into action. Behind Moriarty, Watson crept up the path, step by cautious, sideways step, a little crouched over, revolver in hand. In that moment she knew, with utter certainty, that Holmes had not exaggerated when he had told Watson that as long as Moriarty perished, he would be willing to die as well.

John nodded, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face. “You don’t do a mad dog the courtesy of letting him have the first bite. I got him in the back. I wasn’t taking a chance on missing, so I aimed for his torso. I reckoned on the shock of the first shot allowing me to get off more, even if the shot itself deflected on a rib.”

Now Watson’s view; and within Watson was an anxiety that was tearing him apart. He was afraid, desperately afraid, that Holmes would be honorable, be chivalrous, would offer to fight the fiend man-to-man. Watson did not intend to give Holmes the chance to make that offer—indeed, his one fear as he had doubled back was that Holmes would initiate a fair fight before he had a chance to get in place. So when he saw Holmes’ gun hand twitch, ever so slightly, he did not hesitate, bur fired a burst of three shots into Moriarty’s back. By the time the second had struck, Holmes had fired his own gun, reflexively.

Holmes continued. “And I shot once you had, as well. He was . . . surprised. He staggered over the side of the path and into the falls.”

It was uglier than that. Moriarty staggered, gasped, bled, snarled—tried to reach for his own gun, but his right hand would not obey him, and he could not reach the pocket where it was with his left. He stumbled toward Holmes, arm outstretched, as Holmes skipped out of his grasp with great agility, despite the slippery path.

And then a half dozen long, white arms made of mist snaked out of the falls and seized him.

They were not strong, those arms, but they were enough. They pulled him off-balance, and his stumbling feet carried him to the edge of the path and over. Both John and Sherlock approached the edge of the path cautiously, lest he be somehow lurking on a ledge just beneath it, ready to seize one of them to end the victory in defeat—but there was nothing there, nothing but mist and thundering water. Moriarty was no more.

“And I made sure my Elementals pulled what was left of him down underwater and held it there for a day and a half. Between that, and after four shots and the plunge, we were sure he was finished. Holmes disappeared, and I reported his death along with that of Moriarty.”

The memories let go of her, and Nan took a deep breath and a sip of her lukewarm tea. She wondered if either of them guessed what she had just witnessed.

“I stopped in a small village just long enough to telegraph you young ladies, because I did not want you to do something . . . untoward.” Holmes added. “But I didn’t dare do more. As it transpired, I had been too sanguine in my surety that my trap would catch all of Moriarty’s gang. Much to my chagrin and alarm, I underestimated the number of his followers by fifty percent. I have been tracing and dealing with individuals for the last four weeks, and I am only halfway through what is proving to be a gargantuan task, a true Labor of Hercules.”

Nan frowned. “And you think that anyone who is connected with you is still in danger,” she stated.

Watson and Holmes both nodded. Holmes started to open his mouth, then gestured to Watson instead. John sighed. “I’ve had several close calls over the last month. They might have been sheer bad luck and coincidence, but they might not have been.”

“In my estimation, that much bad luck is improbable,” Holmes observed with a frown. “Moriarty did not engage stupid henchmen; they learned from him, and they will not have forgotten what they learned. Moriarty’s men probably are not motivated to avenge him, but they certainly have personal reasons for seeking to revenge themselves on me—and perhaps on John. We have been instrumental in sending most of their comrades to prison, and they probably are aware that their own hours as free men are numbered. And until I have them all in custody it is better to take no chances.”

“Do you think we’re under any hazard?” Nan asked. “Sarah and me, I mean.”

“I do not think Moriarty was aware of my work with you, but it is better to take no chances,” Sherlock repeated. “This is why I will remain ‘dead’ and you will not see me until every last man of his is behind bars.”

“We need a point of contact with you, Holmes!” Watson protested. But Sherlock shook his head.

“Every point of contact is a risk. This was a risk, and contacting my brother was a risk, and these are things I do not intend to repeat twice. Don’t worry, old man,” he added, with a faint smile. “Mycroft is taking steps to make sure I don’t starve to death, or catch pneumonia from sleeping under a Thames bridge.” He looked at the tiny pendant watch in a jet case he wore about his neck. “And now it is time for me to go. Don’t see me out.”

He pulled the veil over his face, and suddenly his visage seemed to shrink in on itself; and as he stood up, Nan saw he was hunched over again, and back to being the old lady who had arrived at the door. “Good evening, my dears,” quavered a high, thready voice from behind the veil, as he opened the door. “Thank you for inviting me.”

And then he was gone.

“Stubborn goat,” John Watson grumbled, as Mary patted his hand. “Well, at least he’s gone to Mycroft. Hopefully he has a place to lay his head and a ready source of food now. Judging by the way he ate, he hasn’t had a proper meal in a month.”

“Well, he got those widows’ weeds from somewhere,” Mary pointed out. “And they weren’t rags, either. I think he can manage. Don’t fret too much.”

Nan leaned back in her seat, and her raven Neville hopped from his perch to the back of the sofa and from there into her lap. “Well, despite the fact that he was finally able to accept the factual existence of your Elementals, John, I’m still concerned that magic is a blind spot with him.” She scratched the back of Neville’s head as Grey climbed into Sarah’s lap to be cuddled. “I don’t think Professor Moriarty was as stubborn. And this worries me. Holmes doesn’t himself know who the magicians and occultists of Britain and the Continent are. And now that he has run off on his own, he’s not going to have someone he can ask. He scarpered before we could tell him anything that might protect him.”

It was Mary’s turn to frown. “Now that you mention it . . . you’re right. Moriarty was powerful and ruthless, and I find it unlikely that he ever rejected any form of manipulation and control. Even if he himself did not believe, he would be aware that some of his henchmen were believers, and he would have taken pains to acquire at least one magician among his followers.”

“I’ll go further than that, my love,” Watson agreed, frowning under his handsome moustache. “This could be a critical area of omission for Holmes. He doesn’t have our abilities, and literally won’t see an attack by magic coming. So we must be doubly, triply alert, and take care of such enemies for him. Remember, we are all fast friends, and united, nothing is beyond us.”

Mary smiled wanly. “I wish I was as sanguine as you, my dear,” she replied, but then she relaxed a trifle. “Still, you are right. And I must say I am relieved to be unburdened of that secret.” She finally took an interest in the tea tray. “Did Holmes leave us anything to eat?”

* * *

“Do you think Mycroft would have told Lord Alderscroft about Holmes?” Sarah asked as Nan returned from setting the depleted tea tray out on the landing.

“I think it very likely, but unless Alderscroft contacts us, and says something about it, we should continue the charade,” Nan replied, and looked down at Suki.

The little girl with a head of beautiful black curls and a complexion of café au lait looked back up at her. Nan didn’t have to say anything. Suki bobbed her head so hard her ringlets danced. “Won’t tell nobody about nothin’,” she volunteered. “I dun think we should tell Memsa’b neither,” she continued, with a little frown. “Mus’ Holmes didn’ say nothin’ bout Memsa’b.”

Nan considered that, and nodded reluctantly. “I think you’re right. Besides, she isn’t as close to Sherlock as the rest of us are. It will do no harm to keep her out of the secret for now.” She had no fear that Suki would blurt out anything by accident. The child’s life previous to her being adopted by the girls had taught her how to hold her tongue better than most adults.

“Well, now that the interruption to our day is over—,” Nan began.

Suki sighed, and went to fetch the box that contained her testing cards.

The cards consisted of three decks shuffled together—one deck of ordinary playing cards, one deck of Tarot cards, and one deck of the cards used to drill children in their letters and numbers. To be fair, this exercise was as much to keep Nan sharp as it was to strengthen Suki’s telepathic abilities. They took it in turn to be “sender” and “receiver,” and did not stop until they had been through all the cards three times. Meanwhile, after tidying the flat, Sarah resumed her self-appointed task of going over all their summer and spring clothing, making sure that no repairs had been overlooked when they had put the clothing away last autumn, and checking that moths had not had a chance to damage things while in storage.

Sarah sighed audibly as Nan put away the cards. “We did our best, but I think we are going to have to invest in new stockings,” she said mournfully. “They’re more darn than stocking, and I hate wearing lumpy stockings.”

“You’ll get blisters if you try,” Nan pointed out practically, and checked her watch. “We’ve just time to go round to the shops, then the park, before dinner.”

Suki looked up with hope in her eyes at that.

The child looked nothing like Nan or Sarah, of course; she had curly hair as black as a raven’s wing and a dusky complexion, with a sweet, round face. Sarah was a true English rose, blond and blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, while Nan was taller than her friend, with plain brown hair and an equally plain face. But any impertinent observations on the fact that Suki did not look sufficiently “English” were swiftly quelled with one of Nan’s dagger-looks, and Sarah’s frosty, “Suki has been our ward for several years.”

Sarah tossed all the stockings in the rag basket. “Get your bonnet, Suki,” she said, and the child ran off joyfully to do so.

Not more than an hour later, new stockings duly bought, the two of them were in one of London’s many parks. This one was smallish, with a round pond in the center. There were four benches spaced equally around the pond, and a circle of heavy bushes shielded the pond from the streets around it. As it was teatime, they had the park to themselves.

They sat together on one of the benches, with Neville on Nan’s shoulder and Grey the African parrot on the back of the bench beside them, and watched Suki romping with the pigeons and starlings, who were more than used to her, and knew that she was a good source of crumbs. She wore her currently favorite dress, a blue and white sailor suit, with a straw sailor’s hat. Nan, as usual, wore a plain brown Rational Dress gown; Sarah a light blue gown of similar design. “You were hoping Puck would show up, weren’t you?” Sarah said in an undertone.

Nan shrugged. “It was a thought. I was hoping Puck could put a watcher on you-know-who.”

“Except that you-know-who is quite likely to go places a watcher won’t want to go,” Sarah pointed out practically. “You know Earth Elementals do not much care for the city. Let John and Mary tend to that side of things. We can find out from Memsa’b if there are any occultists she would suggest might have been Moriarty’s henchmen. A telepath would have been extremely useful to him, after all.”

“That is a very good point, and we can do so without letting the secret slip,” Nan agreed. She watched as Suki stood balanced perfectly on the curb around the pond, walking the stone as easily as if she was on the flat pavement. “We should get Suki a toy boat.”

“So we should. It will be worth it to watch the horror in every nanny’s eyes as she outsails their male charges. How long, do you think, before she starts begging to march in suffragette parades?” Sarah chuckled.

“Any day now—” Nan replied, when suddenly, the pleasant day turned horrific.

Three things happened simultaneously. Nan got a sudden surge of nausea and panic and a glimpse of horrific visions of Suki being treated as no child should be, Suki whirled and screamed, pointing, and Neville launched himself off Nan’s shoulder, bellowing a challenge. A moment later, there was more screaming, but it wasn’t Neville or Suki.

“Gerim orf!” screamed a male voice behind Nan as she lurched off the bench and whirled. “Gerim orf!” She stared, unable to move for a moment. There was a man, roughly dressed in shabby clothing, thrashing his way out of the bushes behind her. Neville had fastened his talons into the man’s scalp and was plowing furrows into his skin with his beak, then, as Nan watched, stupefied, whipped his head down and clamped down on the right ear, scissoring it completely off. The man screamed incoherently and tried to pummel the bird, but Neville was already in the air again, hammering the man’s skull with his beak as he hovered above his head.

Suki ran, not toward Nan and Sarah, but toward the man, her face a mask of fury. Before Nan could stop her, she reached him and plunged her little knife into his leg behind his knee. He shrieked, and before anyone could react, he ran off, stumbling and limping, covered in blood.

Now Suki turned and ran for Sarah and Nan, throwing herself against Nan’s legs, wrapping her arms around Nan’s waist and sobbing into Nan’s skirt. Neville landed on the ground beside them, looking equally concerned for Suki and very proud of himself, ear still held in his beak.

“Get rid of that, Neville,” Nan said absentmindedly, as she embraced Suki’s shaking shoulders. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

Neville looked disappointed that he was not going to be allowed to eat it, but obediently flapped off and returned without the ear. I don’t think I want to know where he left it.

By this time a bobby had appeared, attracted by the screaming. Nan continued to comfort Suki, letting Sarah handle the situation.

He was gonna—he was gonna—Suki cried in Nan’s mind.

He was going to try, lovey, but we’re here, Neville got him, and so did you. And if he hadn’t run away, Sarah and I would have turned him inside out. She gathered from the murmurs on Sarah’s part that she was convincing the bobby that the man had actually attacked Suki, rather than merely thinking about it, and that he’d been frightened off when all three of them screamed. Certainly Suki’s hysterics were convincing enough, and by some miracle she hadn’t gotten any blood spattered on her where it would show. Nan held her little ward tightly while Suki showed her, in much more detail than Nan found comfortable, exactly what she had sensed in her attacker’s mind. It reminded her far too much of what she herself had seen in the minds of the men her mother had sold her to when she was a child, before Memsa’b took her in. Nan continued to reassure her until the bobby had gotten enough detail from Sarah to hurry off and make his report.

“He’s never going to catch the bastard, you know,” Nan murmured under her breath, as they both sat down on the bench again, with Suki between them, and Grey and Neville both now trying to offer their own sorts of comfort. “You described him before Neville savaged him.”

“Eyes.” Neville croaked angrily, making it very clear what his next target would have been if the man hadn’t run off.

“And how was I going to explain that our pet raven turned his skull into a dissection exhibit?” Sarah replied, reasonably, petting Suki’s hair and wiping her eyes. “We’re just lucky the park was empty and no one else saw what happened.”

Suki hiccupped a couple of times, and took the handkerchief out of Sarah’s hand to blow her nose. She took a long, deep breath, and the horrific images faded from her head. “Oi ’ope ’e bleeds t’death,” she said, hoarsely.

“Well, he’s likely to die of an infection,” Nan replied grimly. “Neville’s beak is anything but clean.”

“Oi!” Neville objected.

Nan looked over Suki’s head to Sarah. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That this was what you-know-who warned us about?” Sarah replied, just as grimly.

“Either the man was completely mad, or it seems a strange thing to do.” Nan set her jaw. “There’s no other reason to attack a child in broad daylight in a public park. And it wasn’t an impulse attack. It was Suki he wanted.” She looked down at their ward, who sniffed and nodded confirmation.

But then Suki spoke up. “I don’ thin’ ’e was gonna grab me ’ere. I thin’ ’e was gonna foller us ’ome t’see where we lived. On’y, I screamed an Neville went fer ’im.” She managed a watery smile and petted Neville, who purred. “Yer a ’ero, Neville.”

“Yes he is. And . . . damn it all. Whatever the cause, I don’t think we dare take the chance that this wasn’t aimed directly at us. I think you need to go back to Memsa’b, and I think you need to be a boy for a while, my love,” Nan said firmly, and Suki’s face looked a little less forlorn. Although she loved her pretty things, and preened in the lovely dresses Lord Alderscroft spoiled her with, she also loved the freedom being dressed as a boy gave her.

“All right,” Suki agreed, blowing her nose again.

When they got back to their flat, they sent messages, first to Lord Alderscroft, who replied immediately that his carriage would be there within the hour to take Suki straight to the school, then to Memsa’b with the particulars. Neville was better than a telegraph office; he returned with Memsa’b’s short reply, Send her here at once! just as the carriage also arrived. And in the carriage were two very burly footmen. Lord Alderscroft obviously was taking the situation quite seriously.

One of the footmen stowed Suki’s small trunk on the roof of the carriage, while the other handed her in as if she was a princess, much to her delight. The girls stood on the stoop and waved to her until the carriage was out of sight, then went back into their flat. Already it seemed emptier.

“Sendin’ Suki back to school?” their landlady, Mrs. Horace, asked from the door of her own flat. And without waiting for an answer, she nodded wisely. “Almanac says it’s going to be a dreadful summer. Heat always makes sickness spread like wildfire. You’re wise girls to get her back to somewhere healthy before it starts.”

“That’s what we thought, Mrs. Horace,” Sarah replied. “I’m glad you agree.”

“I wish we could leave,” Nan said, as they closed the door of their flat behind them. “I wish Alderscroft would find us a job that needs doing somewhere on the other side of the country.”

“Wales would be nice,” Sarah sighed wistfully. “Or Scotland. We’ve never been to Scotland. The Scottish Highlands sound so romantic in Scott’s novels.”

Nan cleared away the supper things and put the tray out on the landing for Mrs. Horace. When she came back, Sarah was cuddling Grey in her chair at the hearth. Neville was in no mood for cuddles; Nan sensed he was still angry about the near-attack on Suki.

“Well,” Nan said aloud, settling into her own chair, where Neville was already perched. “Here’s the question. We’ve had a chance to calm down and our thoughts to cool. Was this random, or was it one of Moriarty’s henchmen?”

“You’re better equipped to determine that than I am,” Sarah pointed out. “Was there anything in his thoughts that suggested he was sent after us, specifically?”

Nan frowned as she examined the repugnant memories. “He wasn’t thinking about anything but Suki,” she admitted. “I didn’t see anything about him being ordered to find us . . . but I didn’t not see anything, either, if that makes any sense.”

“So it could be he was just looking for a victim—and it’s possible he wouldn’t have actually tried to abduct Suki at all?” Sarah persisted. “Yes, I know he wanted to, but she was with two adult women in a very public park. And we live in a respectable neighborhood where everyone knows her. One hint of a scream from her and half the neighbors would come boiling out with fireplace pokers and brooms in hand.” She rubbed her head as if it ached. “What I am trying to say is, yes, he was an absolutely horrible man and I have no doubt he has done horrible things to other children, but all we can tell for certain is that he was only thinking about doing them to Suki.”

Nan swore under her breath. “Which means, we know nothing, other than we certainly administered just retribution to someone who absolutely has earned it by his actions in the past.”

Sarah nodded. “We may have been jumping at shadows. But I think we did right in sending Suki away. Until we know that Sherlock has eliminated all of Moriarty’s men that are inclined to look for revenge, we should be alert enough to jump at shadows.”

Nan glanced over her shoulder at the nearest window, where the last light of sunset touched the roof of the building across the street. “Well, I still hope he comes to a horrid end,” she growled. “Maybe even more, now.”

Sarah nodded.

“And if we run across him again, I’m going to let Neville have his eyes!”

“And I won’t stop you,” Sarah replied. “In fact. . . .” She bared her teeth in something that was not a smile. “I’ll help.”

2

Mary O’Brien looked about herself with wide eyes. She had never been to a place like this in her short life. In fact, for most of her twelve years she had never been anywhere except to play in the streets, or work in whatever cramped little room the whole family shared, so this place was like one of those fairy palaces in a song.

She knew it was a pub, but she had never dared to go in a pub. Not because she would have been chased out because she was too young to be there—but because she would have been chased out because she was too poor to be there. Pa was a crossing-sweeper and she and Ma mended clothes for pawnbrokers, and her three little brothers collected dog shit for tanners and there was just never enough money to go around even for basics like food and rent. In summer especially there were weeks when they all slept rough in the street, their meager belongings stowed underneath them against thieves.

There were lots of places where you just didn’t go when your dress was more patch than dress and you wrapped your feet in rags in the winter because you didn’t have shoes. She probably would already be in service if she’d had one good, clean dress to be interviewed in, but nobody hired even a tweenie who didn’t have a good dress and a pair of shoes. As it was she’d been helping her mother with her mending and sewing work since she was old enough to be trusted with it. Never mind they were all supposed to be at school. School was only for days there was no work. At least she could write her name, and puzzle out words, and add good enough that she didn’t get cheated, so that was something.

But now . . . they were inside the door of a real pub. And she was openmouthed with amazement. To begin with, there were the loveliest food smells . . . the floor under her little bare feet was clean and polished, not greasy or full of splinters. There was glass in all the windows! The people here were all very much better dressed than Ma and Pa and herself; and as the three of them lingered in the doorway, she felt a rising fear that someone was going to come to send them out with hard words and blows.

But instead, a man dressed like the other people here came forward to greet them. “Ned, Meggie, yer in good time!” he exclaimed, as Mary’s sharp eyes saw money pass covertly from his hands to her Pa’s. But she didn’t get a chance to wonder about that.

“Now, I got us a table over ’ere.” He ushered them to a quiet, dark corner, out of the way, a table pushed up against the wall, near the door where people were coming out with dishes of food and going in with dirty dishes. There were two bench seats, one on either side of it. There was a big plate of food waiting there, and smaller plates to dish it into, and three glasses of beer. Mary’s mouth watered as she smelled fried ’taties and sausage, and she started to climb up onto the bench seat to sit beside her mother.

But the man took her by the shoulders and prevented her. “Not now, Mary, me luv,” he said. She looked at her Ma, who nodded as she shoveled ’taties and sausage into her plate. The man turned her around and gave her a little shove, and she saw he was shoving her at a big, red-faced woman enveloped in a huge white apron. Mary stared. It was the cleanest garment she had ever seen in her life. It was certainly whiter than any snow she had ever seen, at least where she lived, where all snow was gray by the time it fell, gray and dirty from the soot and smuts in the air. “Now you just go along of Rose there, an’ do what she tells ye. We’ll be along when ye’re ready.”

“Do wut ’e says, gurl,” her father told her, mouth full. “Yer gettin’ leg-shackled t’day. Jerry ’ere is goin’ ter Canada, an’ ’e wants a wife ter take wi’ ’im.”

Suddenly it all fell into place, and she got a funny, sort of scared, sort of good feeling in her belly. Mary’s older sister Sally had married a man that Ma and Pa had found for her that was going to Australia, just three years ago. They’d said it was better than going into service—if you weren’t being transported, the land was there for taking, you’d have your own farm before you could blink, and if you didn’t like farming, there were a hundred things a man could make his fortune doing. She didn’t care about a fortune, but going to Canada—that meant always having a full belly, and never being cold in winter, and living in a place where the wind didn’t whistle through cracks in the walls you could stick a finger in.

So Mary didn’t object, she just followed the lady named Rose through the big room, crowded with tables, then up a steep little stair, and from there, into a room like something out of a dream. There were rugs on the floor, and pretty pictures on the walls, three chairs that were all soft and padded, and something bigger than a chair that was just as soft and padded, and a table that had four good legs and wooden chairs around it that matched. And a fireplace, though there wasn’t a fire in it. In the middle of one of the rugs stood a big thing made of tin, full of hot water. Steam rose off it, that was how she knew it was hot. She stared, wondering what it was for.

“Take yer thin’s off, missy, an’ get in there fer yer bath,” said Rose.

Mary obeyed, meekly. She’d had “baths” before, but only rough ones, where Ma would take off her clothes and scrub her under the pump in the yard. Getting into a big tin pan full of hot water was strange, but after a moment, Mary decided she liked it. A lot.

She also liked the soft, sweet-smelling soap that Rose scrubbed her with, and used to wash her hair. She was sorry when the bath was over, and Rose wrapped her in a big piece of cloth and two men came to take the tin pan away.

But then Rose combed out her wet hair and braided it up on the top of her head, like a grown woman, and gave her new clothing to put on, and she nearly burst with pleasure. Stockings! She’d darned plenty, but she’d never had any of her own. Soft drawers with a row of lace on the bottoms! She’d only had drawers but the once, and that was when her skirt was so short it was a scandal, even in the East End. A sleeveless chemise with more lace! Then a real corset to go over the top, like a woman grown, and then two petticoats, not just one like Ma wore, and they were soft, creamy white, and light, not heavy flannel. And then a white blouse with lace at the neck and sleeves and all down the front, and a white skirt with three rows of lace, and a wide, white ribbon sash. And shoes! Beautiful white leather shoes! She’d never had shoes before, and even though they were too big and Rose had to stuff the toes with paper, she couldn’t stop admiring them. And then Rose put a square of lace on the top of her head and pinned it there, pinched her cheeks and told her to bite her lips.

“Yew clean up right pretty,” she said, genially, and handed Mary a bunch of violets with a white ribbon around them. “Now hold onter thet, stay where ye are. I’ll jest be going t’fetch yer Ma and Pa an’ the lad.”

Mary stood as still as she could in the middle of the rug, but standing still didn’t prevent her from looking down at the rows of ruffled lace on the bottom of her white skirt, or marveling at the pink color of her own hands, now completely free of grime. A little giddy giggle escaped her. Sally hadn’t gotten it half so good when she’d got leg-shackled! Just three skirts and waists from the pawnshop, and a few underthings, and she’d been married off in a little street chapel by a street preacher. Not even church, and they were church people. Church gave out better things to the poor than chapel did.

But it wasn’t just Ma and Pa and the man she was going to marry that came up the stairs, it was Ma and Pa and two men. One was the one she recognized, Jerry, who was going to be her husband. The other was an old man, dressed in rusty black with a bit of white at his collar, and carrying a book. That must be the preacher.

He looked at her dubiously. “How old are you, child?” he asked. She started to open her mouth to say she was twelve, but Ma stepped on her foot and Pa said loudly, “She’s fifteen. Jest small fer ’er age. She’ll fatten up right quick i’ Canada, an’ sprout up like a weed.”

Fortunately Ma had stepped on the paper the toe of her shoe had been stuffed with, but Mary took the hint. Don’t speak until you’re told to. So she stood quietly, clutching her flowers. When the preacher asked her if she would take Gerald Baker as her husband, she said yes. When he asked her to repeat the words he told her, she repeated them. It was all over very quickly. Everyone shook hands. Her new husband gave the preacher some money, and she was told to make a mark on a piece of paper, which she did, printing her name carefully and with great effort, and her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. The preacher gave the paper to her new husband, and just like that, she was a married woman.

“You folks go an’ hev yerself a time,” said Mary’s husband. “We’ll be go board ship now, she’s off fust thing i’ the mornin’ an’ we don’ wanta miss ’er.”

“But what ’bout—” Ma began. “Jerry” laughed.

“I got clothes fer the wee gal, same as I bought the weddin’ dress, an’ it’s all aboard with me bags, in a good stout case,” he said, and patted her shoulder. “Don’ yew worry. I’m doin’ Mary right.”

“Well, all right then,” said Pa. “See, I tol’ yew this’d be Mary’s big chance!” And before Ma could say anything else, he took her elbow and hustled her away down the stairs.

The man looked down at Mary, who was still clutching her violets with both hands. “Yew c’n call me Jerry,” he said. “Or ’usband. Time t’go.”

“Yis, ’usband,” she said meekly, and took the hand he held out to her, even though she was dreadfully disappointed that she wasn’t to get any of those ’taties and sausage. But she was more used to going hungry than not, and maybe there’d be food where they were going.

He led her down the stairs, and then they began a long, long walk, far out of the neighborhoods Mary knew. It had been about teatime when she and Ma and Pa had arrived at the pub, they walked for miles and miles, until the sun had started to really drop, and she and Jerry were still walking. In fact, it was so long she began to wonder; the docks weren’t that far, surely?

But why would he lie about going to the ship?

It was nearly sunset when they finally arrived—but it wasn’t to a dock or a ship. She was so tired that her head drooped, and all she paid attention to was putting one foot in front of the other. Then he suddenly turned to the left, pulling her hand so she would go with him, and she looked up, and saw they were approaching a big house, set off the street a little way, with its own bit of yard around it. It was a nicer house than she had ever seen before, all white. It was set back from the street, and had a set of three white stone steps leading up to the big front door. As he led her up the stairs, she thought about saying something about them supposed to be on a ship right now—then thought better of it. He’d lied, but maybe he’d had his reasons for lying. Like maybe he thought Pa and Ma would drink off all the money they’d been given, and then come looking for more. Which . . . was pretty likely.

And the dress was real. The shoes were real. The money he’d spent to marry her was real. The house he was unlocking right this minute was real. How was this worse than going to Canada?

So she looked up at him just as he got the door open, and asked, voice tremulous with weariness, “Is this yer ’ouse, ’usband?”

He looked down at her, unsmiling. “’Deed ’tis, wife,” he replied. “I mebbe fibbed to yer Pa ’bout Canada so’s ’e’d let us get hitched quick an’ make no fuss. Now we’re gonna go inside an’ ’ave our weddin’ supper.”

Before she could answer—and tell him the truth, that she only knew how to cook a very few things, like a sausage, or a baked ’tatie—he led her by the hand inside, locked the door behind her, and then led her through a dark passage with closed doors on either side of it. He took her all the way to the back of the house. There he opened a door on what proved to be the kitchen with a lovely lit oil lamp in the middle of the table and a red-checked oilcloth on it and not just the bare table. She’d only seen a kitchen but once, when there’d been money for a room in a house with a shared kitchen. This one was nicer, and much cleaner.

“Sit yersel’ down,” he said, gesturing at the little table pushed against the wall, with a chair on each side of it. She was so glad to get off her weary feet she didn’t even ask what he wanted cooked.

But it seemed he didn’t need a cook. He went to a cupboard and took out food; ham, cheese, onions, pickles, bread, butter. She recognized “ham” only because she’d had it a bare couple of times—at Christmas parties for poor children given by whatever parish church they were nearest at the time. And then the slices of it had been so thin you could practically see through them, just one slice per child. As she stared hungrily at the food, out came plates, glasses, and knives and forks, and he laid out the table himself. He cut ham and cheese for her, indicated that she was to help herself from the bread, onions and pickles, and turned back to the cupboard. She stared. Such thick slices! Why . . . he must be rich! No wonder he’d lied to Pa. If Pa knew her new husband was possessed of such a house and such bounty, Pa’d come touch him on a regular basis for certain. Or maybe even try to move the family in! Suddenly she felt rebellious. Why should she share this lovely place and this wonderful food with them? Half the time when there was food in the house, Pa and Ma ate it, or gave some to the boys and let her go hungry. It would be horrid having them here!

When her husband turned around again, after she had taken a little onion and pickles and piled it all on a slice of buttered bread, he had a bottle in his hands. He poured it out into the glasses; it was a beautiful color, a deep red. Gingerly, she tried it, when he gestured to her to drink.

She almost spat it out, but didn’t. So sour, though! At least it wasn’t as bitter as beer. Still . . . whatever it was—wine?—it must be expensive and she shouldn’t waste it by not drinking it. She watched him closely before starting to eat herself. He had piled his bread with ham and cheese and pickle and onion, but instead of picking it up with his hands and cramming it into his mouth like Pa would have done, he cut it into neat bits and ate it with his fork. She did the same so he wouldn’t think badly of her.

They ate and drank together in silence, and when she had finished the glass of liquid, he poured her another. By this time she had gotten somewhat used to the taste, and drank it with a bit more enthusiasm. But when the meal was over and he had put the food in the cupboard and the dishes in the sink and she went to stand, she found herself a bit wobbly and light-headed.

He didn’t seem to notice. Instead he took her by the hand again, and led her up a set of stairs at the end of the kitchen, down another passage, and into a bedroom.

She knew it was a bedroom, because there was a real bed in it. Not just the sort of broken-down thing that the whole family had crowded into to sleep when they had a bed and not the floor—and in winter, piled every scrap of clothing they had on top of themselves to try and keep warm. This was a tall, proud, brass creation, with pillows and blankets and a coverlet, with a rug at the side, and a china thing under it instead of a leaky bucket if you need to “go” in the night. And there was a stand with a pitcher and bowl for washing up, and a big wardrobe, and a chest at the foot of it. And it was all so splendid all she could do was stand on the rug and stare with both hands to her mouth.

“Bedtime,” Jerry said, and she nodded, because this was something she knew about—after all, Ma and Pa just went to it all the time, regardless of whether the kiddies were awake or asleep, so she knew she was going to have to get undressed and into that splendid bed, and he’d put his tackle in her cunny. Then there’d be some heaving and grunting and then she could go to sleep in this beautiful, soft, wonderful bed!

So she began by untying the lovely ribbon sash, and laid it over the chest, then took off her skirt and did the same, unbuttoned the waist and folded it neat and then came the petticoats. She was a little worried about getting the corset off by herself, but it hooked up the front and hadn’t been pulled at all tight, so that was all right.

And then, just as she unfastened the last hook, she heard the door close, and looked up, and realized she was alone.

Well . . . that was odd.

But maybe he didn’t want to undress in front of her? Peculiar, but today had already been full of peculiar things, so she just shrugged, and slipped out of the drawers and stockings and that pretty little chemise, and climbed into bed naked, and waited.

And waited.

And as the last of the blue dusk light faded, and out past the curtains it turned into black night, she fell asleep, still waiting.

* * *

She woke with a start, still in an empty bed.

It was long past when her Ma usually woke her, in the first light of predawn. And the reason she had awakened was because there was someone else in the room.

Not her new husband. This was a wizened little thing in a dark dress with a white apron and cap, who had placed the jug from the washstand on the floor and was filling the jug from a pail of steaming water. The little old lady put the jug back on the washstand and turned, and saw her staring from the bed.

“Breck-fuss i’ kitchen,” the old woman said, abruptly, and turned and left, taking the pail with her.