A Study in Ashes (31 page)

Foreboding crept through him as he flipped open the card and read:
I see you have your allegiance, just as we have ours. But your allies do not know you, whilst we do not forget
.

What in the infernal depths?
He flipped the card over. There was a Chinese character on the back, drawn in carefully shaded pencil to mimic the strokes of a brush. The shape of it looked vaguely familiar. He had no notion what
the symbol meant, but a burst of irritation shot through him, followed quickly by an instinctive fear. With a sharp intake of breath, he dropped the note on the table. Then he glanced around, but no one appeared to be watching.
Perhaps I am being irrational?

Or perhaps not. Every one of those Chinese craftsmen he and Harriman had hired to steal gold from the Gold King had been a loose end, walking evidence of the crime. Bancroft knew better than to ignore such danger. Consequently, the workers had wound up floating in pieces in the Thames. That had been the final task of the foreman, Han Zuiweng. Later, Bancroft had shot Han himself, for all the brutal bastard had been acting on orders.

He’d almost wiped the entire distasteful episode from his mind. And, in truth, he had no black-and-white reason to revisit it now—except for his own unease. How could approaching the Chinese to do business stir up the past?
No one could have known about what happened
. Or so he fervently hoped.

We do not forget
. Disgusted, Bancroft tossed his napkin over the extravagant dessert and rose. Someone was playing games. Surely there could have been no witnesses, for it had all happened underground.

Still, Bancroft couldn’t suppress a shudder when it occurred to him that Harriman had died in his jail cell, convicted of theft and forgery. Others involved in the scheme had confessed or fled the country. Only Bancroft had walked away—and only because Tobias had agreed to be Jasper Keating’s maker and his son-in-law. Everyone else had paid.

Bancroft stared at the note, then snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket before he stalked from the restaurant.
We do not forget
. He snorted. No one wrote cryptic notes like that unless they were minutes away from naming their blackmail price. He just wondered what the hell it would be.

HOLMES AND THE
Schoolmaster left the restaurant and hurried toward the Thames.

“We need that coal,” said the Schoolmaster. The young man’s look was expressive, and Holmes felt his worry.

“We do,” he agreed, doing his best impression of a seasoned cabinet counselor. “I am willing to bet there will be open warfare within weeks. The potential hangs like a stink in the air.”

Especially since the heir to the Empire was critically ill.
The crown prince is the last of all those children that the queen raised around her. What will happen when he is gone?
And when would he be gone? How long did the Baskerville enterprise have before the heir’s death forced their hand?

Westminster was near, the crowd in the streets mostly dark suits milling in a self-important bustle. There was scaffolding shrouding the Clock Tower and apparently it would be there for some time. The damage from the mosquito-shaped airship had been significant.

Bloody waste
, Holmes thought, although a tiny impertinent voice deep inside had to admit the visual of the bug in the clock had been amusing. Someone out there had a healthy if destructive sense of the absurd.

But any spark of humor evaporated as he saw his brother striding their way. Mycroft wore his bear-with-a-migraine expression.

“You are early,” Mycroft said to the Schoolmaster without looking at his watch. Since he was punctual to a fault, there was no need. “And I didn’t expect to see you.” He shot Sherlock a narrow look, as if wondering what mischief he meant to cause.

“I am precisely on time,” the Schoolmaster replied grimly. “I am where I mean to be at this moment.”

Mycroft frowned. “But I was going to Duquesne’s.”

“And I have already been. I spoke with Bancroft already.”

The effect of his words was immediate. Mycroft’s features flushed, his nostrils flaring as he grabbed the Schoolmaster’s elbow, pulling him into the passageway between two buildings. Sherlock darted between them, shoving his brother back against the wall. Mycroft was a big man, and
he knew from experience that his brother’s fierce grip could hurt.

“Have a care, brother mine,” Sherlock said between clenched teeth as he jammed his forearm beneath his brother’s chin. “Remember to whom you speak.”

But Mycroft was looking right past him to glare at the Schoolmaster. “What do you mean by exposing yourself like that? Now Bancroft knows your face.”

The Schoolmaster’s cheekbones grew flushed as his temper flared to life. Sherlock had not met the man’s mother more than once or twice, but he recognized the stubborn set of the mouth. “I can’t let others do all my work. It’s not wise.”

In other words, he needed first-hand information, not just the facts that Mycroft and his cronies saw fit to share. If that was the only lesson he ever taught the Schoolmaster, Sherlock would have done his job as a friend.

“That’s why we’re here—I’m here,” Mycroft said much more humbly. “To keep you safe.”

Sherlock watched the Schoolmaster ruthlessly rein in his mood. “I’m the leader of a rebellion. Safe isn’t on the table.”

“And what did you just gain by taking that risk?”

“Probably a shred of respectability. Bancroft is a viscount, and Edmond Baskerville is the vaguely eccentric but charming adopted son of a minor baronet. I don’t usually lunch in such exalted company.”

Mycroft huffed in disgust. “Bancroft is a snake.”

Sherlock smiled, finally releasing his brother. Mycroft stepped back and snapped his jacket into place, his gaze trained on Sherlock like twin poignards.

“Snakes eat vermin.” The Schoolmaster pointed to the Clock Tower. “We have an infestation.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Does that make us a pack of stoats?”

The Schoolmaster grinned. “If I have to be the exterminator in chief, so be it.”

Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back, fighting with his scowl. “Just keep in mind Lord Bancroft has a penchant for disaster. He barely escaped Disconnection once. Got on Keating’s bad side.”

“He seems too crafty for that,” the Schoolmaster said.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look. “There are times that Bancroft is too clever for his own good,” said Mycroft. “Every utility was switched off. My informant said Bancroft had to do some impressive backpedaling.”

Disconnection was serious. Once that happened, a family was socially dead, plunged into metaphorical as well as literal darkness. Their bank accounts vanished, their credit was ruined. No school, no social club, and no drawing room would accept them. Eventually, they always disappeared, slinking away into obscurity. It was no wonder that anyone who could afford it festooned his house and gardens with every conceivable type of light. Although it was enormously expensive, a bright glow showed just how secure the family was in the steam barons’ favor.

“So you see what he risks,” Sherlock added. “The gentry who follow the rebels face utter ruin.”

“All the more reason to look him in the eye.” The Schoolmaster looked away. “When war finally comes, it won’t be just my fate in the balance. I need to know who is with me.”

Mycroft gave a mordant smile. “A good policy, and while you are about it, always be sure you can see both their hands. When are you leaving for Baskerville Hall?”

Holmes’s ears pricked up.

“Very soon.” The Schoolmaster sighed. “Very soon I get on a train and face my destiny. I might even splurge and go first class.”

“Who will go with you?” Mycroft asked. “As always, I must stay with the queen.”

“If you broke your routine, the world would know something was afoot,” Sherlock observed.

“And if you left Baker Street,” Mycroft shot back, “the world would suspect a crime.”

The Schoolmaster looked from one to the other. “I shall travel with Edgerton.”

Mycroft looked sour at Edgerton’s name but for once didn’t argue.

“Perhaps you should go alone,” Sherlock suggested. “Whether we win or lose, it might be the last time you are
free to travel in private, your face known only to friends and family.

“But be careful. We need you alive more than ever.” Mycroft leaned closer, dropping his voice to almost nothing, “Your Highness.”

A beat passed between them, the noise of the busy street vanishing behind the thunder of blood in Sherlock’s ears. Mycroft had blundered.

“I told you not to call me that.” The Schoolmaster’s voice grew icy. “Schoolmaster. Baskerville. Never the title.”

Mycroft straightened, his own expression frozen. “I’m glad you retain some sense of your peril.”

The Schoolmaster laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “I’ve been in hiding since I wore nappies. I’ve met ice cream with a better chance at longevity.”

It sounded melodramatic, but Sherlock understood. Alert to the Steam Council’s schemes, Prince Albert had secretly placed his youngest son in the care of a loyal subject. It had been a piece of brilliant foresight. Since then, all the prince’s brothers and sisters had died one by one, and the eldest was about to go. Many suspected the hand of the steam barons at work, but there had been no shred of evidence to support such an incendiary accusation.

Now the country was on the brink of a civil war, and revealing Prince Edmond’s identity would plunge the Empire into chaos. Unfortunately, the rebels consisted of amateur gentlemen and a passel of crazy inventors—not exactly a dream army. It was a wonder the only remaining prince hadn’t run screaming to the Antipodes.

“Your Baskervilleness, perhaps?” Sherlock suggested.

At the quip, the Schoolmaster seemed to catch himself. He looked up at Mycroft. “Forgive my ill humor, but I haven’t earned the title of prince yet. Until the day I blast the Steam Council from the face of the Empire, I’m nothing but a traitor about to set fire to this land.”

Mycroft looked astonished, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you being rather harsh on yourself?”

The Schoolmaster smiled, but it was bitter. “You told me
history is written by the winner, Mr. Holmes. If I want a happy ending, I’d better get my troops in order.”

“Any particular order?” Sherlock asked dryly. “Alphabetical, perhaps?”

Prince Edmond, falling into the spirit, waved an imperious hand. “You know. Pointing at London. Otherwise, they’ll fall in the water.”

“Very good, sir.” Sherlock tipped his hat, including Mycroft in his glance. “You may trust the Holmes brothers to see the proper arrangements are in place.”

London, September 30, 1889
LADIES’ COLLEGE OF LONDON
5:30 p.m. Monday

“FORGIVE ME FOR CALLING ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE AND AT
an unconscionably late hour of the afternoon,” said Miss Emily Barnes, taking a seat in the chair where Nick had been sitting the night before. She was wearing a green and white striped dress that reminded Evelina of a circus tent three seasons out of fashion. “I promise not to stay long. Far be it from me to interfere with a young lady’s evening plans.”

“That’s quite all right,” Evelina said, all too aware that the woman’s visit would be recorded in the matron’s report to Keating. It was just fortunate that she was supposed to be cultivating the leaders of the Parapsychological Institute. “I’m honored that you thought to call. And to bring your friend.”

The other woman sat silently. In contrast with Miss Barnes’s gaily colored outfit, she was wearing the thick black garb that denoted mourning. A veil hung from her hat brim, shadowing features that might have been attractive in a mature way—but it was hard to tell. She had been introduced as Mrs. Smith, another member of the institute.

Evelina crossed to her worktable, which was doubling as a sideboard at the moment, and began to pour out tea into the college’s utilitarian white china cups. Steam rose in lazy clouds, catching the late afternoon light from the windows.
It had been sunny that day, although the autumn beauty had been all but lost on Evelina.

“Our interests are obviously aligned in many ways,” said Miss Barnes. “It would be remiss for me not to pursue an acquaintance.”

“I’m delighted to hear that.”

“I am a firm believer in possibility. A bright young woman who combines such special talents with academic rigor is quite an exciting prospect for our institute.”

As flattering as that was, Evelina stifled a yawn while her back was to the woman. She was still reeling and exhausted from the night before. Nick had been gone by the first birdsong, but it was not as if she had been able to rest that day. Agitation had kept her pacing the floor.

First, there had been Nick’s miraculous reappearance. That had brought a measureless joy that still fizzed through her. Nick was alive!
Alive and whole and in my arms, if only for one night
.

But then there had been everything that notion brought with it. Last November, during their interlude in Miss Hyacinth’s house of pleasure, they had pledged their futures to one another, and both vowed that commitment had not changed. But circumstances now complicated everything.