A Study in Ashes (34 page)

“There is hardly a case there,” said Watson. “My guess is that Sir Charles died because he helped the convict.”

“In all probability, you are standing closer to the truth than you know—but as always, facing the wrong way.”

“You already know who did it? Where is the entertainment in that?”

Holmes didn’t answer, but flagged down a cab. Once they had climbed inside, he resumed. “I need your literary talents, Watson. I need you to spin something out of these events.”

“I always do.”

“No, I need your invention beforehand.” Holmes fiddled with his walking stick impatiently. “Fiction is your purview. Concoct a reason that I will require my niece to join us. Something supernatural that only her talents can unravel.”

Watson knew little of magic, but he liked Evelina. Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him. “Isn’t that a bit tawdry, Holmes? A man has died. Why use his death as cover for our own purposes?”

“I would not be stretching truth too far if I said more may die unless we can free my niece.”

“Why? How can she prevent death?”

Holmes gave him a dark look. “Humor me.”

Watson made a gesture of surrender. “Very well, then. A family curse perhaps? A banshee?”

“This is Dartmoor, not Scotland.”

“A ghost?”

“Rather dull, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Watson said, growing annoyed. “What do they have there besides ponies? Little shaggy horses don’t make terribly convincing monsters. The Dread Pony of Dartmoor, whickering death to carrots across the—”

“No, it doesn’t quite work, but you’ve got the idea. There
are rumors of a savage dog roaming the place. Perhaps you can work with that.”

“Tell me the truth. Is this all a plot to get Evelina free?”

The detective made a face. “I require utter secrecy.”

“Always.”

“This morning I received word from a Miss Emily Barnes, a confidante of the renowned medium Madam Thalassa. Her group is assembling to assist in the dismantling of a laboratory notorious for experimenting on live human subjects without their consent.”

“Wait a moment.” Watson reached across the cab and grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him close so they would not be overheard. “You’re speaking of Her Majesty’s Laboratories? No one knows where that is.” As soon as he said it, everything fell into place.

Holmes’s gray eyes were hard as flint. “One of their charges escaped. I could regale you with word of their atrocities, but let us say for now that Nellie Reynolds is giving the performance of her lifetime.”

His shock sharper than the cold river wind, Watson let go of Holmes and reeled back against the seat cushions. His wits scrambled to right themselves. Surely this was treason—and yet Holmes’s loyalties were never in question. And then Watson did his mental sums.
Sir Charles?
“Don’t the Baskervilles live somewhere in Dartmoor?”

Holmes nodded slowly. “A dreadful coincidence, is it not? The murder victim was Sir Charles Baskerville. He found Nellie Reynolds wandering the moors and contacted Madam Thalassa. His adopted son, Edmond, is the one directly involved with a rebellion against the Steam Council. I have been acquainted with Edmond Baskerville for some years.”

Watson’s mouth went dry. “What are you proposing?”

“That we catch a killer, of course, and you make a story about the adventure.”

“And what are we
really
doing?”

“You are the medical doctor. Is there not an oath to do no harm? Might that promise extend to stopping those who break that oath?”

Watson bowed his head. What Holmes was proposing
was insanely dangerous. But then so was the moral damage of ignoring an abomination like the laboratory on the moor. And he was a widower now. He was free to take risks because there was no one waiting at home—just a lot of empty echoes reminding him that he had failed kind and pretty Mary Morstan when the fever took her. “There is an oath. We all swear to uphold it.”

Holmes crossed his long legs. “Then we are going to free my niece and unleash the one thing on the Steam Council that they fear.”

“What is that, Holmes?” Watson feared that he already knew the answer.

“Magic. We are going to free the magic users and burn Her Majesty’s Laboratories to the heath.”

“Magic? You, Holmes?”

“Rebellions are won with logic, but also with passion.”

Rebellion!
Cold terror trickled through Watson’s gut. “Won’t that be the next best thing to a declaration of war?”

Holmes gave a smile that was gone in an instant. “I’m afraid that horse has already left the stable—or that pony the moor. No one has admitted it yet, but the war has already begun. And this is the piece of it you and I have agreed to take on.”

Watson folded his arms. He’d seen war already, and he hadn’t much liked it. “I’m glad we had a good luncheon first.”

October 2, 1889
SOUTH OF LONDON
1:30 p.m. Wednesday

THE SCHOOLMASTER HURLED AN ACORN AT MICHAEL EDGERTON
, hitting the back of that morning’s
Bugle
with a resounding clatter. The paper dropped and his friend’s scowl appeared over the top.

“Are we bored?” Edgerton asked dryly, shifting his back against the tree trunk where he was leaning.

It was a lovely morning, if one were a sightseer. Birds chirped, the sun shone, and the air was filled with the rich scent of early autumn. Part of the Schoolmaster’s prickly mood was the pain of having to resist the urge for an impromptu holiday.

Instead he kicked at a stone, sending it hurtling into a patch of brambles. “I’m wondering how I plan to rule an empire when I can’t organize one party of people for a train journey of a few hundred miles. This should not have taken two days.”

He should have gone alone, but one thing led to another, as happened when there were too many details circling like noisy seagulls. And, of course, the moment one let people off a train into the fresh country air, getting them back on was a challenge.

“You’re grumpy when you aren’t in charge,” Edgerton replied coolly.

“Being in charge is my destiny, or so I’m told.” Though
“in charge,” he had already discovered, was a complex and fluctuating condition. At the moment, the real monarch was the lure of a magic airship. Despite—or maybe because of—the dim view the authorities took of magic, everyone involved in today’s expedition was eager to recover the magic-driven navigation device.

Edgerton folded the newspaper, clearly doing his best not to look aggrieved. “You’re the one who suggested stopping here.” He waved a hand around. “Wherever here is.”

The Schoolmaster sighed, irritated by and appreciating his friend’s blunt manner. Much of it, he knew, was just teasing, but it kept him from floating off into dreams of princely greatness in a way nothing else could. “This side trip makes sense. Captain Niccolo was picked up in these woods by patrols. There was no point in having him come back alone and get arrested all over again. Five young gentlemen on a country ramble won’t be as tempting a target.” Bucky Penner and Captain Smythe were with the air captain, looking for the place where he’d buried his navigation device.

“Especially when they’re armed.”

“It’s a point of conversation during any unwanted encounter.”

“I suppose providing a body guard is the least we can do, given the advantage Captain Niccolo represents.” Edgerton gave a wry smile. “And I do enjoy watching a pirate rummage through pine cones for a magic box.”

“Unfortunately, it’s taking rather a long time. We’ll miss the next train out.”

Edgerton opened his paper again. “Do make up your mind whether a revolutionary species of dirigible is more or less important than making it to Baskerville Hall by tea.”

“You’re grumpy when you don’t have something to do,” the Schoolmaster shot back.

“Forgive my disgruntlement. I had a perfectly nice career planned before the Steam Council ruined my father. Now I’m your lackey.”

“You’re a lackey the way a mastiff is a lap dog.” But he
got the point. Edgerton had lost his future, and the rebellion was his only chance at getting it back.

In stark contrast, the Schoolmaster’s prospects had always been open to debate. He could ship out to Australia and lose nothing but a chance at a huge
what if
. He’d never known his royal family, except through the stories Sir Charles had told. Contact had been strictly forbidden for everyone’s safety—there had never been a birthday gift, a letter, or a secret visit from a bereft mother. Not once. He’d gained in safety but lost any emotional pull to his birth family.

And yet, it was the thousands of lives broken by the Steam Council that made that
what if
a chance worth taking. His friend, as just one instance, had lost more than a career. He’d lost fortune, position, and a father he’d deeply loved, all because the council wanted the Edgerton foundries for its own purposes. And that was a single tale in a litany that went on longer than the
One Thousand and One Nights
. Everyone in the Empire had a story to tell about the oppression of the steam barons. The Schoolmaster didn’t consider himself more than usually high-minded, but if he could do something about the problem, it was his moral responsibility to stand up. Sir Charles Baskerville—as much a father as any boy could want—had raised him right.

Sadly, none of that relieved the boredom of watching Edgerton read the paper. “Is there any good news in there?” he asked.

“No. The Exchange reports the domestic market is shaky. There’s cholera in the poor districts. Soho is mentioned. Gilbert and Sullivan are fighting again.”

“Any news of blockades?”

“None.”

“Then there is good news. They don’t know we’re on the move yet.” Their war machines were mostly outside of London, the makers and their workshops hidden from the Steam Council. The drawback was that it would take time for them to assemble and march on the capital. The Schoolmaster had sent word as soon as he was sure war was inevitable, but coordinating their scattered forces would be a challenge. That was where the
Athena
would be key.

The Schoolmaster glanced down the road—more of a dirt track with birch trees arching overhead. They’d been standing guard in case a patrol came by, but the traffic had been nonexistent. It seemed their time would be better spent hastening the search. “I’m going to go check on the captain’s progress.”

Edgerton was instantly alert. The newspaper vanished into his overcoat, and a slender, three-barreled weapon appeared. It was somewhere between a rifle and a gun and the Schoolmaster had seen it blast through a brick wall.

“We’re going for a stroll in the woods, not storming the Tower,” the Schoolmaster said with a smile, but he pulled his own weapon nonetheless.

“Part of being a lackey is keeping you alive.”

The Schoolmaster huffed. “I’m not helpless.”

“You’re a target,” Edgerton complained, following him into the woods. Their feet crunched on fallen leaves, releasing a sharp scent of loam.

“No one knows who I am.”

“You’re still a target. It’s not who you are—yet. It’s what you did. You organized every rogue maker in the Empire.”

That was true. The craftsmen had fought the Steam Council first, one forge and workshop at a time, organizing in secret to carry on their trades. And that had been all the rebels had needed as a starting point. Mycroft Holmes and the aristos like Bancroft had come later.

The Schoolmaster pushed a branch out of his path. “Figures I’d be gunned down for illicitly assisting in the repair of a butter churn.”

“Let it be known that no matter is too small for the attention of the Baskervilles,” Edgerton said mildly.

“Don’t quote me at me. And I tried to keep the Baskerville name out of it.”

“People need a white knight, so they nominated you. They love you as a hero. They’ll like you even better when they find out you’re their next king.”

They walked a moment in silence, the only sound birdsong and their crunching footfalls. The Schoolmaster broke
the silence first. “They want freedom. That’s why we’ll prevail.”

Edgerton smiled brightly. “Plus, you’ll look better on a postage stamp than Jasper Keating.”

“Maybe I’ll clap you in irons.”

“You’d never find your way to the royal loo without me.”

Probably not
. If he did manage to succeed, he was going to need every friend he could get. Running an empire wasn’t a one-man show.

They found Bucky Penner and Smythe lounging against a boulder and smoking cigarettes. They were Edgerton’s friends from his school days and each had proven his loyalty to the rebel cause over the last year—although neither Smythe nor Penner knew the Schoolmaster was of royal birth. The two were an odd pair, preferring to avoid each other’s company unless assigned to the same mission. At the moment, they stood as far apart as they could without appearing ridiculous. Evidently, there had been a duel over a fair maiden at some point in their past, and their friendship had never recovered.

Captain Smythe looked odd out of his cavalry uniform, as if he might as well have been wearing his nightshirt. Penner looked somber, but that apparently was his norm. The Schoolmaster had heard about an ailing lady love—but the man kept his private matters to himself. Still, the Schoolmaster wondered if it was the same woman who was the object of the duel.