Rebel Fire (22 page)

He scrunched himself down against the metal grille of the balcony and stared across the road. Four windows, none of them with any curtains, which was a blessing. One room with a man inside whom Sherlock didn't recognize, pacing back and forth. Another window with a woman staring out. She appeared to be wearing a nightgown. She caught Sherlock's eye and smiled sadly at him. Two rooms that were currently unoccupied.

He scrambled up the next ladder. The metal creaked and swayed beneath him. Sherlock wondered when it had last been checked for safety, and then he wondered if it had
ever
been checked for safety.

The next balcony looked across onto another four rooms.

The first two were deserted.

The third window gave onto a room with four men standing with glasses in their hands, drinking and talking. One of the men was Ives and one was Berle, the doctor. The other two men were unknown to Sherlock.

The important thing, however, was that Matthew Arnatt was standing with his elbows on the window ledge, looking out at the street. His gaze roved curiously from person to person, thing to thing. He looked unharmed; no bruising, no grazes. He also looked like he'd been fed; or at least he didn't look thin and hungry. He just looked bored and sad.

Until he saw Sherlock. Then his eyes lit up and his face creased into a huge, beaming smile.

Sherlock's heart surged to see that Matty was alive, and apparently in good health. The fear he'd been repressing throughout the entire journey suddenly released, threatening to overwhelm him. He blinked back tears of relief.

Sherlock raised a finger to his lips, shushing Matty. The boy nodded, but he was still beaming. Sherlock knew if the men in the room saw that smile they'd know something was up. Sherlock placed his fingers at the corners of his mouth and dragged them down into an exaggerated sad face. Matty frowned at him. Sherlock tried again, letting his eyebrows droop sadly as well, and Matty's own eyebrows shot upward into his hairline as he suddenly understood. The smile faded away from his face and his mouth moved back into the same downward curve that Sherlock had first seen on it a few moments ago, but his eyes were still gleaming.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock mouthed.

Matty nodded slightly.

“Are they treating you well?” Sherlock mouthed again.

Matty frowned.

“Are … they … treating … you … well?”
Sherlock mouthed again, separating the words to make it easier for Matty to understand.

Matty nodded again, very slightly.

“We're going to get you back!” Sherlock told him.

Matty opened his mouth and formed the words “I know!”

The men behind Matty seemed to conclude their discussion. Sherlock had a feeling that there wasn't much time. “Where are they taking you?” he mouthed.

Matty's lips moved, but Sherlock couldn't understand what he was trying to say. He frowned, trying to indicate that he didn't know what Matty was saying. Matty tried again, but whatever words he was forming were unfamiliar to Sherlock.

Matty's hand moved on the window frame, as though he was writing something. Was he leaving a message for Sherlock, etched in the dirt and dust? Then he pointed to the sill outside the window, then across the street at the old, dilapidated church Sherlock had noticed earlier. He raised his eyebrows, asking if Sherlock understood. Sherlock shook his head. Matty tried again—miming writing a note on the window frame, pointing to the windowsill, and then pointing at the church. In fact, he pointed at the top of the church. Then he added more gestures—holding two fingers up, then pointing at Sherlock, pointing at himself, and then holding up three fingers and shrugging, as if confused.

This was madness. Whatever message Matty was trying to convey, it wasn't getting through.

Sherlock was just about to indicate again that he didn't understand when one of the men crossed the room and grabbed hold of Matty's shoulder, dragging him away from the window. He didn't look outside, so Sherlock assumed he had grabbed the boy because he wanted Matty to go with them, not because he'd seen him communicating with someone. Sherlock looked away and tried to be inconspicuous. When he looked back, the room was empty. The men had gone, taking Matty with them.

Sherlock rushed down the ladder to the ground and raced across the road towards the boardinghouse. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he had to do something.

He was too late. While he and Matty had been trying to communicate, one of the men must have come down to get a cab, while another had taken their luggage downstairs. By the time Sherlock had crossed the road they were already climbing into the cab. Sherlock got one last look at Matty's frightened face before the horses were whipped up and the cab drove off.

He looked around for another cab, but the street was empty of anything apart from people.

He felt a blanket of dark despair falling over him.

No. No time for that. He raced back towards the hotel as fast as he could, retracing the route he'd taken and unconsciously memorized, knowing that he had the hotel's letterheaded paper in his pocket if he got lost. His mind was working as fast as his legs, trying to sort out what Matty's last message had been. A clue, obviously. An answer to the question Sherlock had asked. But what?

Charades, perhaps? Was Matty trying to spell out the name of the place he was going in the form of syllables? As the stores, hotels, and street corners flashed past, and as the air whistled in Sherlock's throat and burned in his lungs, he tried to decipher the clues.

Writing. Pencil? Pen? Words? Letters?

The windowsill. Did he mean the sill itself, or the stone it was made from?

And the church. As his feet pounded on the sidewalk and as he pushed past slower pedestrians, Sherlock tried to remember what was on top of the church. A spire, obviously. And on top of the spire was—

A weathervane, moving to show the direction of the wind.

And suddenly it all fell into place. Pen-sill-vane. There was a place in America, somewhere nearby, called Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania. Was
that
what Matty had been trying to convey?

But what about the other message—the two fingers, pointing at himself and Sherlock, then looking confused while holding up three fingers? What did that mean?

Two—that might mean “to.” “Pennsylvania to—” where?

The Jellabee Hotel was in sight now. Sherlock's muscles were screaming in pain, but somehow he kept on running.

Matty and Sherlock and a third thing, something missing. Virginia! It had to be Virginia. That was a place as well as a girl's name!

“Pennsylvania to Virginia.” It still didn't make much sense to Sherlock, but Amyus Crowe might be able to explain it.

He burst in through the hotel front door and pelted up the stairs, virtually collapsing against the door to the suite. He hit his fists against it. The door opened and he fell inside. Virginia was standing over him, looking startled.

“Where's your father?” he gasped.

“He's not back yet. He must still be with the Pinkerton Agency.”

“I've seen Matty. They're taking him now.” He was having to force the words out past his gasps for breath. “Matty got a message to me—‘Pennsylvania to Virginia.' I think he was trying to tell me where they were taking him, but I don't understand. Are they going to Pennsylvania or Virginia? Or both? They're both places, right?”

Virginia shook her head. “It's simpler than that. The Pennsylvania Railroad runs trains out of its own station in New Jersey, across the Hudson River. They have a line heading to Virginia. That's where they're taking Matty. Must be.”

“We need to find your father and tell him.”

“There's no time,” she said. “If they're heading for the station, then we need to take a ferry and get there now and intercept them, try to get Matty back. We can't wait for Pa. I'll leave a note.”

She moved quickly towards a table, opened a drawer, and took out a roll of bank notes. “Pa left this here so it wouldn't get taken from his pocket on the streets. Not that anyone would have tried, but he's always careful. Anyway, we might need it.”

She scribbled a note to her father on one of the letterheaded sheets from the writing desk, then together they ran downstairs and exited the hotel. A cab was just depositing a passenger; Virginia jumped in and pulled Sherlock after her. Virginia called up to the driver; Sherlock couldn't hear what she said, but the cab set off at a fast trot.

“I promised him double the fare if he gets us to the ferry in ten minutes,” she said, grinning.

Sherlock and Virginia held on tight as the cab clattered through the streets of New York. Twice, potholes in the road caught the wheels, throwing them together, but they quickly drew apart.

By the time the cab pulled up outside the ferry terminal on Manhattan's west side, Sherlock was sore from the bouncing journey. After Virginia paid the driver, they just managed to catch a ferry as lines were being cast off. On the short trip across the traffic-filled water, there was no sign of their quarry aboard the boat. No doubt they had caught a vessel from a different terminal.

After the boat docked, Sherlock and Virginia were first down the gangplank, racing into the massive train station. It was a scene of controlled chaos, with people heading in all directions across a massive marble hall. At the opposite side of the hall a series of arches led to what Sherlock assumed were the platforms. Boards hung on hooks announced the destinations of the trains, and the stops along the way. Even as he watched, some boards were being taken down and others put up.

Sherlock ran along the line of arches, checking all the signs. After a few moments he became aware that Virginia was running beside him.

Chicago, Delaware, Baltimore … It occurred to Sherlock with a sickening lurch that Virginia was a state, but the destinations on the boards were
towns
. Back in England he would have known that Southampton, for instance, was in Hampshire county, but here, in America, he had no idea which state contained which towns.

“There!” Virginia called. “Richmond—it's the state capital of Virginia. Track 29.”

She led the way through an arch, and Sherlock followed. A guard in an impressive blue uniform and peaked cap scowled at Sherlock's ripped jacket and dirty cap and tried to stop them, but Virginia ran past him. He tried to grab Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock pushed him out of the way.

They were running along the platform now, beside the carriages of a seemingly endless train. The engine at the front was invisible around a curve. Unlike in British stations, where the platforms were raised to the same level as the doors at either end of the carriages, in here the platforms were lower and steps led up to each door.

Sherlock was scanning the windows as they ran, looking for Matty's face, but it was the burned, scarred face of John Wilkes Booth that he saw first. He pulled Virginia to a halt, then drew her back along the carriage to the end.

“We don't have much time,” he gasped.

Virginia looked in both directions along the train. Apart from a small group of people boarding further up, there was nobody who might help. Even the ticket collector who had tried to grab them just now had vanished—possibly to fetch the police.

“We need to find a guard on the train,” she said, and started climbing up the steps. “He can stop the train from going.”

Sherlock could only follow her up the steps. He wasn't sure she'd thought this through, but then again he wasn't sure that he had any better ideas.

They found themselves inside a carriage. An aisle ran down the centre, between wooden seats covered with upholstered cloth.

Halfway down, in facing seats, were Ives, Berle, John Wilkes Booth, and a kid who was, judging by the shape of the back of his head, Matty. The men were talking intensely and Sherlock ducked down between two seats before they saw him.

Virginia looked around for the guard. Sherlock's heart flipped in his chest when he heard a whistle blow outside, a sharp, shrill burst of sound.

The next thing that happened was that the train began to move.

 

T
WELVE

Sherlock's initial instinct was to run back to the door and jump off the train. He grabbed Virginia's arm and pulled her towards him, but she resisted.

“We need to get off!” he hissed. “We haven't got tickets, and we're leaving your father behind!”

“We can get tickets from the conductor on the train,” she replied, “or tell him that our pa has the tickets and he's in another compartment. And we can telegraph back to Pa when we stop and tell him where we are. The important thing is that we don't lose the men who have Matty. If we do, we've lost them forever. We need to track them until they settle in another hotel, or a house, or something.”

“But—” he started.

“Trust me! This is my country, I understand how it works. I've made train journeys by myself before. We'll be okay.”

Sherlock subsided. They'd ended up where they were by accident, but they ought to make the best of it, now they were there. Getting off the train and going back to the hotel would waste all the effort they'd gone to in getting to America so far.

“Very well,” he said. “We'll stay.”

“We don't have a choice now,” Virginia pointed out. She indicated the window. Outside, the platform had vanished and the train was speeding up as the line cut across wide dirt streets. He could feel, as well as hear, the
clack-clack clack-clack
as the wheels of the carriage passed over the joins in the track every hundred yards or so.

Sherlock glanced back down the aisle, towards the men who were holding Matty. “They're all settled down,” he said. “We should find a seat and work out what we do next. Are we just following them, or are we going to try to get Matty away from them?”