A Study in Darkness (39 page)

“And good luck to you, because I don’t have her. But answer my two requests, and I’ll have my men mount a search.”

“Two?”

“Two.” The fat man rubbed his palms together, and then beckoned for another sweet. He tossed it into his mouth and talked around it. “I can’t stop at just one.”

Holmes was in no mood to bargain, but he could see it was expected. “If Magnus is off limits, I only owe you one.”

“No, this is your kin. Yes, Mr. Holmes, I’ve asked a few questions about your affairs. You’re fond of this Evelina, so the price goes up if you want my help.” Again, that ghastly split in the flesh that passed for a grin. “You can search all you like for free, but I don’t guarantee the Blue Boys will mind their manners if they catch you.”

Holmes felt his composure crack, fissures spreading through it like a piece of glass about to shatter. He took in a breath, long and steady, praying it would have some good effect before he grabbed his sword cane back from the guard and spitted the Blue King through.

He would die, of course. There were at least six guns pointed his way—two in the gallery, one behind the side door, and three in the hands of the lads in charge of pushing the Blue King’s chair. No doubt they thought he hadn’t noticed.

Fury seeped through the cracks, eating away his control another notch. He swallowed, now not daring to breathe.
If
you die, who will look for her?
Not Mycroft, who was too deep into his politics. Not Tobias Roth, who was so confused it was a wonder he could dress himself.

“Then two,” he grunted between clenched teeth. “But I need your help now.”

“After.” King Coal snapped his fingers, and one of the guards knelt on all fours. The king rested his heels on the man’s back. He wore nothing but socks with a hole in one toe.

“One before and one after,” Holmes finally said, light-headed from the heat and stink of the room. “I’ll solve your murders, and you’ll mount a search.”

“Excellent.”

“What is your other request?”

The raisin eyes shifted again. “Things have gone wrong. Orders changed. Confidences betrayed.” The king’s voice, already thin and wheezy, whistled like a broken flute. “I look around and wonder who did it.”

As if to demonstrate, the eyes rolled toward his attendants, but he was too fat to properly turn his head. The atmosphere shifted, as if every stomach in the room clenched with trepidation. Holmes braced himself, planting his feet a hair wider. Few ringleaders ever admitted such weakness in front of their lackeys, and he wondered where the conversation was going. But he didn’t have to wait to find out.

“I am thinking that I should kill everyone in this room, just to be safe,” the Blue King said so quietly that the utterance was barely audible. The threat in his voice sent skitters down Holmes’s spine.

It must have had a similar effect on the others. Three of the attendants rushed forward, offering food and drink. King Coal grabbed at it, weeping, touching each plate and cup as if to reassure himself that it was truly there. Two of the women leaned over the back of the chair, petting the Blue King’s hair, smoothing the collar of his enormous checked jacket. “It’s all right, Your Majesty,” one murmured. “The Great Detective is here to find out who did it.”

The melodrama of the scene was thick enough to slice. Affected by his fawning horde, the Blue King began to
blubber, nose running with slime. Holmes gazed desperately at the door.
Dear God, he’s barking mad
.

“Get away! Get away!” King Coal cried, waving his servants off, but not before stuffing a third sugarplum into his mouth. “Yes, Mr. Holmes will find him, and then we’ll boil the flesh from his bones. We’ll make a dinner out of him! I think with rosemary and a splash of Bordeaux and, oh, maybe a daub of quince jelly.”

Holmes kept his face utterly still and vowed never to eat any dish prepared east of Blackfriar’s. “Are you able to provide specific details? Of the treachery, I mean, not the culinary event.”

“You and I will have a private conversation about that,” said the king, settling back in his chair and planting his swollen ankles on his human footstool again, now perfectly calm. His upper lip still glistened with snot. “Best not to let on how much we already know.”

“Your Majesty is quite correct.” But of course, he suspected it was Jones. How many traitors could there be? “But I have a theory or two you might find interesting.”

The Blue King studied Holmes for a long moment and then flicked his hand toward the door. “We’re done here. You have your orders. Go, go. Bring me the Whitechapel Murderer and we will turn the town over looking for your girl.”

Is it a jest, or do I really walk away?
Holmes nodded his head, and edged toward the door, remembering never to turn his back to a king. Only at the last moment did he wheel and nearly sprint for freedom.

Benjamin darted after him, doing his best to catch up. “Mr. Holmes.” He finally broke into a trot. “Your walking stick.”

Holmes wheeled, walking backward as he accepted the cane, unable to make himself slow down. “My thanks.”

“What the king was saying about a traitor,” Benjamin said under his breath, jogging alongside.

“Yes?”

“I’d watch yourself. I heard about that bomb.” He stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

Holmes frowned, his interest finally piqued. They were in the doorway to the street now, the gray afternoon so close he could taste the air. He sucked in a huge lungful, expelling the stink of the Blue King. “And?”

“One thing you should know right away. The king said nothing about blowing you up. Someone else gave Jones those orders.” The little man leaned close. “Someone doesn’t like you much, Mr. Holmes.”

Only half of London
. And he could only assume that was the criminal half. Holmes narrowed his eyes, remembering the kiss of the gun barrel against his skull. “Jones was looking for Mycroft, my brother.”

“Was he?” Benjamin tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Mr. Holmes. An honor to meet you.”

Holmes stared after him, suddenly realizing that he’d been a fool. Keating and the Blue King weren’t running this show at all, and Jones could well be just a mask for the real traitor in King Coal’s court. There weren’t many men in London who could play a game with so many twists.
Dear God this Baskerville business goes deeper than I thought
.

ALICE YEARNED TO GO HOME. SHE COULD SNEAK OUT, SLIP
back to her pretty bedroom in her father’s house, and pretend that nothing had happened. In that dream place, she’d never met Tobias, never heard of Evelina Cooper, and would never have a baby. She could be innocent again.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Her tan leather suitcase yawned open on the bedspread, half filled with clothes. She’d left behind everything purchased for her trousseau, and just packed the things bought before she’d lost her mind and fallen in love. She would have preferred to leave the suitcase as well—she’d purchased it thinking she’d have a honeymoon in Italy—but there was nothing else to carry things in.

This was the second time she’d packed since her wedding, and it would be the second time she unpacked. Her father had made a deal, and he would keep his part of the bargain. She belonged to Tobias now and would not be going home. Her father had told her as much in no uncertain terms on her wedding night, when she’d wept so hard that Lady Bancroft had feared for the child.

The only thing that had changed in the last five days was that Tobias had finally tired of the hotel and moved her to Hilliard House. There would be no honeymoon, but she
didn’t mind. In truth, she had started to dread the idea of being alone with her husband.

Alice pulled a shawl out of the suitcase and wrapped it around her shoulders, snuggling into the fuzzy blue wool. She didn’t feel well, the baby inside her objecting to anything approaching solid food. It was raining outside, the dripping of rain on the window echoed by the tick of the longcase clock on the landing.
Last year, I would have been at a tea, or a lecture, or a musical performance. I always had the best gowns, my choice of entertainments, and a steady stream of pretty young men with an eye on my father’s gold
. She’d thought she’d found something more meaningful than an endless parade of expensive novelty, but she’d been wrong.

I started out this wedding with a husband, a honeymoon, and a set of emerald jewels. I must be a dolt to lose all three
.

Something had to change, and soon, before she lost her mind—and before she became so bitter it poisoned her entire future. But today she couldn’t think of a thing she could do.

Alice lay down on the bed, curling around the suitcase so her head reached the pillow. She could have moved the case, but that would have meant standing up and she didn’t have the energy.

It was only when she rolled to face the door that she realized Tobias was there. The sight of him filled her with a profound dislike she’d felt for very few people—a far cry from the adoration that had once left her breathless every time he walked into the room. Or maybe a person needed one to really dig down to the other.

“Going somewhere?” he asked dryly.

“Daydreaming.”

“Less than a week and you’re already planning your escape.” He closed the door to the hallway, crossing the room so that he stood where she could see him without moving her head. “I’m sorry about the trip. I have something to clear up. You understand, I hope.”

“No,” she said. Somewhere about Tuesday she’d exhausted the well of wifely understanding. She was just a beginner, after all.

“Oh.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at
his toes, the angle of his face showing the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s a family thing. Something I think I could clear up if I could just get to the bottom of it. Of course the pater will have his own ideas.”

Alice tucked a bit more pillow under her head so she could see him better. It was the first time he’d actually talked to her since the wedding.
He looks awful
. “Your father really won’t like—whatever it is?”

“No.”

“Well, you can love your father without agreeing with him. I know that well enough.”

He gave her a cautious look. “I suppose you do.”

Great Scot, did we actually have a civil exchange?
She gave him a faint smile. “Can I help?”

“No. It’s family business.”

And I’m not family
. “Fine.”

He gave the suitcase another look, as if it might snap shut around his ankle. “I must go.”

She didn’t bother to answer or even move until he had left the room.

TOBIAS STRODE DOWN
the corridor, down the stairs, overshot the door to his mother’s sitting room, and turned around. He could see her through the half-open door, the muted tones of her dress blending into the quiet shades of the walls and curtains, gray on gray. Outside the window, the deep green of the trees was flecked with the first gold leaves. It was as if life lay beyond the walls of the house, and only ghosts dwelt within.

The rot that was killing the family had its roots in the automatons and Magnus and whatever the bloody hell had gone on with his father when he and Im were children. Anna had died—sad, but children did die. No, something more than that had happened when his father and that mountebank had made those hideous mechanical dolls.

It was as if a curse had followed them, along with the trunks. His father had abandoned his love of creation. His mother had faded to nothing. Secrets and schemes had sprung
up like weeds in an abandoned yard, choking out any room for an actual family life. And, horribly, those schemes resulted in the whole forgery escapade. That had finally landed them in Keating’s trap, resulting in the ruin of his life and—yes, he had to face the fact—that of poor Alice. She, least of any of them, deserved what had happened.

The automatons had power, or Magnus would never have taken them. And it had to be more than what his father had said. A magical backlash if they were destroyed? The father Tobias had grown up with would have regarded that as a dare. No, something more profound was at work.

Tobias pushed through the door, then closed it behind him. His mother looked up, her face shadowed by the brighter light through the window. He saw Imogen curled up in the chair to the right, a blanket over her knees. She always seemed to be like that lately—curled into a ball as if she was trying to burrow into the furniture.

“Tobias,” said his mother gently, her tone holding neither question nor reproof but somehow managing both.

“Mother. Imogen.” He grabbed another chair and dragged it close, putting it where they couldn’t fail to notice him, and sat in it. “I need to talk about something that happened when we were children.”

Lady Bancroft blinked. “Shouldn’t you be spending time with the mother of your future children?”

He was tired of that song. “I think I can move forward more easily when I have the past put to bed. In case you weren’t aware, Mother, Dr. Magnus is still among the living. There is every chance he still has father’s automatons and will use them for whatever purpose he originally intended.”