A Study in Darkness (10 page)

As the vessel rose, he heard a cry go up from the soldiers, then a rifle shot rang out—but the
Red Jack
was too far away for that bullet to matter. Nevertheless, the shot had the same effect as a starter’s pistol. Suddenly the deck was seething—men running into battle position, stowing gear, bringing out weapons.

Then the ribbon of road came into view. The Schoolmaster’s Steamer still sat abandoned, but now it was surrounded. In the midst of the confusion of men, horses, and steam engines sat more harpoon cannons—these big enough to be pushed on wheels.

Black basilisks of hell!
None of it made sense to Nick. True, the Steam Council was cracking down on dissent. True, that included catching smugglers—especially those who supplied parts to unauthorized makers. But there had to be a hundred of Scarlet’s soldiers and their harpoon cannons out there. Since when did Captain Niccolo and the
Red Jack
warrant that kind of attention?
Since I met with the Schoolmaster
. Who was he? What was Baskerville? And why the blazes was Holmes involved?

Nick shut the storm of questions out of his mind for the moment.
One problem at a time
. The men knew better than he did what had to be done on board, and only he could get Striker and his package onto the ship.
It’s time to do what you do best
. Still, he could use an extra pair of hands.

“Smith!”

The young man was the dogsbody of the crew. He was little more than a youth, but he was strong enough for what Nick wanted him to do. “I need help hauling in a heavy load.”

“Aye, sir. But the baskets are all stowed, sir. Do you want me to go get one?”

Nick tried to envision stuffing an unconscious man inside a basket while dangling alongside a moving ship. It sounded awkward and—from the point of view of someone who’d done his share of aerial tricks—dangerously hard to control.
“No, I need one of Striker’s special ropes. The ones with the spring-loaded grapples.”

The young man ran to scrabble in a locker.

“You know you can’t stop,” Nick murmured to Athena. For all he meant to scoop up Striker, they couldn’t let the soldiers gain on them. He was the captain, and that meant there was only so much he could gamble, whatever his heart protested. “Keep steady.”

I know
.

He crossed to the west side of the ship, and there was Striker below, looking up. It was too dark to see his face, but Nick could imagine his alarm as the vessel lifted off without him. Nick tossed the ladder over the side, then Smith produced a dull metal rope fashioned in tiny flexible sections jointed like a lobster’s tail. A spring-loaded catch hung from either end. Smith fastened one end to an iron loop on the deck and handed Nick the other. Nick readied himself, crouching on the rail and calculating distance in his mind.

“What are you doing, sir?” Smith’s nervousness was plain in his voice.

“I’ll need you to haul up Striker’s load. Get Poole to help.”

“What about Mr. Striker?”

“He can get himself up the ladder if he’s not carrying another man.”

As the ship drifted toward Striker, moving faster and faster, Nick hopped off the rail, turned in place, and walked down the side of the ship, playing out the rope as he went. On the ground, Striker changed course, angling to intercept the ladder. The moment took Nick back to the circus ring, filling him with a mix of thrill and trepidation. He was dancing on the edge of disaster, but he was good enough to win.
So far, so good
.

Then, from his position halfway down the gondola’s hull, Nick saw a fiery harpoon arc overtop the
Red Jack
’s balloon. The sky lit up for a moment, the violent flare of light like a cry of wrath. Nick swore viciously.
Still finding their range
. But the clock was ticking.

Then Striker was in front of Nick, grabbing at the ladder, but the man across his shoulders hampered him. Nick snatched at the trussed-up figure, snapping the catch at the end of the rope into place around the manacles at the man’s wrists. He’d expected hemp knots or common handcuffs, but the contraption the man wore was far more secure. Once the catch was secure, Nick glanced up to Smith’s face. Poole was looking over the side with wide eyes, his grip on the rope secure. “Haul away!” Nick cried, and then swung to grab the ladder, transferring his own weight from rope to rungs. Smith heaved, and the man jerked into the air, hanging from his wrists. In a moment, the package began a slow ascent up the side of the ship.

But the sudden relief of weight made Striker stumble and lose his grip on the ladder. To Nick’s horror, the movement of the ship made it swing wide, lifting Nick into the air and leaving Striker stranded. “Run!” Nick yelled, blinking as another harpoon lit up the sky.

He pushed away from the hull with his feet, swinging Striker’s way. But the
Red Jack
was gaining too much in height, and the lowest rung was out of reach. Nick cursed himself for securing the prisoner first, however logical it might have seemed at the time. He cursed himself for—as usual—forgetting anything so mundane as a safety harness. He’d worked without a net for years, but then he’d been the one sailing through the air, not the entire circus ring.

His hand grazed Striker’s but not enough to grab hold. There wasn’t time to think. He pushed away again, swinging the ladder as far as it would go. He hooked his feet into the rungs, let go with his hands, and let himself fall, reaching out for Striker’s outstretched fingers. He grabbed both the man’s forearms, felt his friend’s lock on his, and then felt the drag of Striker’s solid weight as the man’s feet left terra firma behind.

Do not move
, advised Athena.

Nick swore as the
Red Jack
banked into a turn, picking up speed that left their harpoon-throwing enemies behind. He
didn’t move. He only tightened his grip on Striker, who was making a noise somewhere between an outraged ox and a whistling teakettle. Hanging upside down by his toes, Nick squeezed his eyes shut as the ladder gently swayed, trying to pretend he was back in the circus with little Evie Cooper cheering him on.

EVELINA TURNED THE OBJECT OVER IN HER HAND, STUDYING
its workings. It was small, square, and made of black metal, with a couple of tiny switches on the side. She’d pried off the cover and was peering at the insides, cataloguing the tangle of wires.

She was standing in her uncle’s study, bending near the lamp on Dr. Watson’s desk. Holmes was reading the paper, saying nothing. That was just as well, as her entire being was focused on the object. Mrs. Hudson had retrieved it from the curb where Jones had fallen. Evelina had seen something similar once before—except that device had been a hundred times larger. She lifted a bit of metal with her fingernail and saw something inscribed on the inside of the housing: Keating Industries.

A flood of angry heat coursed through her. “I know this design. It’s a transmittal device. The Gold King developed it first as a means of delivering an electric shock at a distance. It was intended as a means of disciplining the domestic staff.”

“How charming,” Holmes said from behind the wall of newsprint.

A man named Aragon Jackson had invented the prototype, but Tobias had taken the theory of remote transmission far beyond the maid-zapping device. “This unit is for
sending signals at a distance. Like a telegraph, but without a wire.”

Holmes let the paper droop so that he could see her over the top. There was a sharp crease between his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“That’s how the bomb was detonated,” Evelina said urgently. “Jones had this in his pocket, and when he struggled to get up, he triggered it. The timing of the explosion didn’t make sense because it was an accident.”

Evelina put her back to the freshly repaired window. There was still a lot to fix at 221B—paint, paper, and curtains for starters—but at least the study was no longer alfresco. The memory of the blast and of the struggle with Elias Jones made her shiver. She hadn’t slept well last night.

Holmes was silent for a long moment. “Well done, Evelina. What else can you tell me about that infernal device?”

“It came from the Gold King’s workshop.”

“And yet it was in the hands of one of the Blue King’s agents?” Holmes narrowed his eyes. “That’s interesting.”

Evelina swallowed hard. “It’s Tobias’s work.” There, she’d said his name, and she’d done it calmly. “But you said the bomb was flawed. That’s not like him. He doesn’t allow his creations out of the workshop until they’re ready.”

“You forget the gunpowder on Jones’s cuffs. Perhaps he tampered with it.”

“Why?”

Holmes folded the paper. “Perhaps my death was not the ultimate object of the game.”

“He had you at gunpoint,” she objected.

“All right, perhaps creating an unrecognizable corpse was not the object. Perhaps the blast was merely meant to obscure evidence. Maybe it was necessary to leave some sort of warning to other detective busybodies. Have a care, my girl. This time, you were in harm’s way by chance. Don’t allow your curiosity to raise the stakes.”

Evelina said nothing, still mulling over the fact that Jasper Keating—and by extension, Tobias—had a connection to the bomb. That was more than interesting; that was significant. She simply wasn’t sure how, though she would bet her
last shilling her uncle had some theories. But he was back behind his newspaper now, keeping his thoughts to himself even after she’d handed him a particularly juicy clue. She wondered how Dr. Watson—a clever man in his own right—had lasted so many years without bashing his roommate over the head out of sheer frustration.

“You say that young Mr. Roth won’t be at the shooting party for a week or two yet?” Holmes asked.

“Correct.” Imogen’s letter had gone on to give specific dates. “Business keeps him in town.”

He snapped the paper straight. “Then perhaps this is an opportune moment to accept Miss Roth’s invitation. It’s high time you got back into Society, even if it’s only a country party. After all, you are young, pretty, and possessed of an unblemished reputation. You’re entitled to enjoy yourself for a few days.”

“You sound like Grandmamma.”

“I am your guardian.”

And it all sounded reasonable, except that jealousy had Evelina in its vise. Could she stay civil with Alice Keating in the same room? And if by some misfortune she did encounter Tobias, what would she say?

“Evelina?” her uncle prompted.

Maggor’s Close had turned out to be just south of the Scottish border, and the nearest railway station at Pletherow Saint Andrew’s was almost two days by train from London. Thus, distance was the first excuse Evelina grabbed at. “It’s a very long way away.”

“If you were an octogenarian, perhaps,” Holmes replied.

“Or I could say the invitation was blown away in the bomb blast.”

“In which case you would not mention the letter, since you could not possibly have seen it.”

“Naturally.”

Holmes scowled at the gossip pages he always read strictly for research purposes—or so he claimed. “I thought you enjoyed Miss Roth’s company.”

Of course she did. The chance to see Imogen meant everything. Unfortunately, there were complexities. “I don’t
know why she has to see me now. She could wait until we’re both in London.” Imogen had double underscored the fact that she had all kinds of news, but what could be that important? “Even if Tobias isn’t present, I’m not sure that it’s right for me to be there with his bride-to-be.” But she was stretching the point, since their courtship had never been publically acknowledged.

Holmes’s reply was uncharacteristically gentle. “Perhaps Imogen needs a friend right now. This must be trying for her as well, and she’s always been delicate, I believe?”

Mild as they were, the words hit her like a slap. “You’re right.”

“It happens occasionally.”

Evelina felt a stab of shame. “Of course you’re right. I adore Imogen. I adore them all. Well, maybe not Lord B, but he never speaks to me anyhow.” Her voice was rising, going shrill with panic. “But how can I face Tobias? I still have feelings for him, illogical though that may be. Besides, he shot you. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Mm,” Holmes replied, hiding behind the newspaper and no doubt wishing it blocked sound as well as sight.

“Or maybe you have,” she said acerbically. “It rather resembled the bomb that just blew us up—which he also had a hand in—except it was a tad more direct.”

The top of the newspaper drooped, revealing her uncle’s slightly wild-eyed face. He hated this kind of conversation. “My dear girl, of course I remember.”

“How am I supposed to feel about that? How am I supposed to go visit his family?”

“That is not the question on the tip of your tongue. You want to know if he still loves you, even if he is pledged to another. You want me to tell you to go. Or not go. But until you make up your mind, I cannot give you the answer you wish to hear since you don’t know what that is.”