A Scandal in Battersea Page 25

  “Then you deserve a fine supper, old man,” he replied with great satisfaction. It was amazing what a change in attitude a decent sleep could give you. “Let’s raid those hampers.”

  Alf all but licked his chops.

  It was just after luncheon. Alf had “hired” five boys, all of them now sleeping away in the upstairs flat, after having stuffed themselves with food, none of them inclined to poke their noses out the door. Alf had told them, in the darkest of warning tones, that this was a test by their new Master—that if they didn’t stay in the flat until they were called for, they’d be dismissed on the spot and thrown straight out the door into the snow. None of them wanted to risk it. This was probably the first time any of them had been able to eat until they were full in years. It was definitely the first time they’d slept warm since last summer. The condemned do get a last hearty meal, he reminded himself with grim humor.

  “Although what we are going to do with five boys, I have no idea,” he told the mirror as he dressed for his foray into American abduction.

  I do.

  His hands froze in the process of tying his bowtie. He glanced frantically down at his feet—sure enough, he was standing outside the circle of protection on the floor. And now, it seemed the entity could reach out of the basement to read his mind as well as speak to him whenever it choice. This . . . was . . . terrifying.

  But he swallowed his fear, and instead asked aloud, “What do you want us to do with the two extras?”

  Bring them downstairs to me now. Then I will be able to help you control the three witnesses as you take them.

  “Right,” he gulped, and finished his preparations in a hurry.

  Alf was waiting in the kitchen, dressed in his coachman’s “uniform,” which consisted of a top hat and a black frock coat. He looked up and immediately read trouble in Alexandre’s expression.

  But before he could ask what was wrong, Alexandre told him, in hushed, tense tones.

  “The thing in the basement wants two of the boys right now. It says if we give them to it, it will be able to help us control the girls.”

  He had expected Alf to be alarmed, or annoyed, or a combination of both, but Alf stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So. The thing c’n talk t’ye hupstairs. An’ hit sez hit c’n ’elp yew control th’ girls, all three uv ’em. Tha’s new, too. So we feeds hit, hit gets stronger.”

  “So it would seem,” Alexandre replied, resisting the urge to pluck at his tie or his sleeves out of sheer nerves.

  “Look, guv, th’ big prollem wit’ th’ plan terday was keepin’ the girls we got unner control. An naow th’ thing says hit c’n take care’a that.” He nodded. “I don’ see a prollem. In fact that solves our prollem.”

  Bring me two of the five. I will hold the three. The mage merely needs to meet their eyes.

  Alf’s eyes widened for a moment. “Did yew ’ear that?”

  Alexandre nodded.

  Alf let out a puff of breath. “Huh.” Then he stood up. “Guess Oi better fetch them boys.”

  Ten minutes later, they were on their way, Alexandre in the coach and Alf on the box. Alf had handled the boys himself; he told the other three that the Master had come to take the two strongest to his country house. They’d been too sleep-fuddled, all of them, to do anything other than take the words in as Alf roused the two oldest and strongest and led them down the outside stair to the back door. By the time he got them to the basement door, they had figured out that something wasn’t right, but at that point, his iron grip on their upper arms prevented them from escaping, and once the heavy basement door swung shut, no one could have heard their cursing. And, being boys, they didn’t think to shout for help; instead, they tried to kick him.

  When one of them connected with Alf’s shin, they were about halfway down the stairs. With a curse of his own, Alf had thrown them both down the stairs. They landed within two feet of the void in the floor, and before either of them could scramble to his feet, the temperature in the basement dropped, the void had become a pillar, and the pillar had grown tentacles and pulled them in.

  They didn’t even get a chance to scream.

  And that was that. Alf and Alexandre headed for the coach. If the other boys gathered enough of their wits to look outside, they would have seen the two men heading for the vehicle, and they’d have assumed their erstwhile companions were already in the coach. They were probably too ignorant to be aware that servants would never have been permitted to ride inside—or if they actually did somehow know that, they’d think that being allowed inside was a mark of their new Master’s “softness,” all of a piece with the warm, comfortable beds, plenty of coal for the fires, the abundant food, and the run of a six-room flat that included an indoor bathroom.

  He knew what to look for, having observed Americans, and their women in particular, in the past. He didn’t want the extremely wealthy, the ones who had brought daughters over looking for husbands with important titles and large estates. He wanted the ones who were the equivalent of the English girls he’d been taking—wealthy parvenus. And he knew exactly what they looked like, or more accurately, dressed like. In clothing that was visibly expensive, at least marginally in bad taste . . . and visibly a copy of something out of a ladies’ magazine, made by a local American seamstress. That was partly why they came here—for new wardrobes.

  The hotels that Alexandre had chosen were each at a considerable distance from one another. Should one of the girls’ families realize she was gone and raise a hue and cry, he wanted to be sure the other two hotels were far enough away that the alarm did not reach to that neighborhood.

  The first hotel he had selected was the Langham, a block or so from Regent’s Park. There were plenty of exclusive shops on Oxford Street nearby, and American girls, he was told, were accustomed to walking miles in the course of the day. And, of course, Liberty of London was a mere three-tenths of a mile from the door of the hotel. Unlike the truly wealthy girls, who came back to London as often as every year for their new wardrobes, these girls got one trip to London, Rome, and Paris. After that, they would have to depend on their local seamstresses again to copy their London and Paris gowns. So a trip to Liberty of London was a necessity—they would travel home with a steamer trunk full of the laces, ribbons and trims they couldn’t get in San Francisco, or Kansas City, or Chicago.

  And as it happened, he was able to use that little tidbit almost immediately. From the lobby of the Langham, he picked out a lively looking young lady, marked the overabundant profusion of pink ostrich plumes on her hat, and followed the plumes to Oxford Street. Once there, he window-shopped, keeping an eye on her as she made several purchases, then followed her into a haberdashery, just in time to hear a clerk say “. . . but the best place for that is Liberty’s.”

  “Liberty’s? I’ve heard of that, and I need to go visit,” she said in somewhat nasal tones and that curiously flat American accent. “How can I get there?”

  Before the clerk could reply, he sidled up to her. “Beg pardon for intruding, miss, but my carriage is just around the corner, and I myself was planning on shopping at Liberty’s. I would be happy to offer you a ride there and back, if you feel comfortable accepting one from a stranger.”

  And the moment she looked into his face, he felt it. The cold, quiet hand of the entity, reaching out through him, as it had outside the theater.

  “I’d be delighted,” she said, and blinked in surprise, as if that had not been what she intended to say at all. But it was too late; he extended his arm, she took it, and the entity assumed complete control of her. They strolled to the lane where Alf had parked the coach; he assisted her inside and into the rear-facing seat.

  And there she stayed. As still as if she was already one of those mindless dolls the entity called a “witness.” I have her. Obtain the next, the thing said in his head.

  The Berkeley was the next hotel, in Knightsbri
dge, just off Hyde Park. This one was even easier. He followed a horsey-looking young woman who was clearly on her way for a walk in the Park. “Pardon me, miss, but I think you dropped this,” he called out, extending a filmy, lacy handkerchief to her—she met his eyes, and took the handkerchief, and his arm, and they walked mere feet to the coach, where she joined the first, who was sitting like a statue on the far side of the seat. The new girl took a seat next to her, and sat there, still as a stone. Except for her eyes, which were full of terror. He glanced at the first girl. Her eyes, too were wide with fear. He couldn’t help but smile. This was going splendidly.

  The last hotel was the farthest from the other two, the Great Eastern. Once again, he waited in the lobby, perusing a newspaper, until he heard a very loud young lady asking the desk clerk if there were “. . . any interesting old churches around.” The clerk directed her to the nearby St. Botolph’s and off she went, with an impressive and athletic stride.

  He followed, and arrived just in time to be witness to her voluble disappointment. “Say!” she was telling the rector, “This’s no nicer than the First Presbyterian in Denver! I thought England was supposed to be thick with fancy churches!”

  He strolled up to the two as the ancient rector sputtered a little in indignation, plainly at a loss for words. “If I might be so bold, young miss, my carriage is nearby and I was just on my way to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I’m sure you must have heard of that—”

  “Say!” she replied, turning to him. “You just bet I have!”

  “Then allow me to offer you the comfort of my carriage, so you need not avail yourself of a hansom,” he said warmly, meeting her eyes.

  And before the rector could interject anything, she had all but seized his arm and was hauling him out the door, chattering loudly about how nice English gentlemen were. Or she chattered until she was well outside, at which point she shut up in the middle of her sentence. He had never been more grateful for silence in all his life. Within five minutes, she was on the seat next to him, as statue-like as the other two girls.

  “We’ll have to drive around until it gets dark,” he said aloud, when they were well away from the hotel, getting further from the possibility of discovery with every passing minute.

  I am aware, the thing said in his mind. This will be of no difficulty.

  Following Alf’s plan, they crossed the Thames on Tower Bridge and, now well out of any range of hue and cry, joined the slow-moving traffic as they headed toward Battersea. It had been about teatime when he had acquired the third girl, and by the time they arrived in the lane behind the flat, it was dusk.

  He and Alf hurried all three of them inside and down into the basement, and arranged them in a circle around the void in the floor. Then he and Alf brought the three remaining boys down as far as the kitchen. Once there, Alf fed them brandy mixed with cherry juice until they were tipsy, then half led, half carried them down into the basement, arranging them with the girls. They couldn’t even stand up at that point, and sat on the floor, staring about them with bemusement, while the girls wept silently, tears pouring down their otherwise expressionless faces.

  The entity did something different this time; the void became a pillar of darkness, as usual, but the pillar suddenly expanded outward, engulfing them all at once, and contracted just as suddenly, leaving only a single pink ostrich plume on the floor.

  Alexandre waited patiently; he’d left his heavy winter coat on, but it didn’t help much; the basement was so cold that by the time the three girls came shuffling out of the pillar, one after another, he could scarcely feel his toes. He glanced at Alf.

  “Naow back in th’ coach,” Alf said, “Quick, afore someone notices hit’s been standin’ there awhile.”

  They had to physically guide each of the girls, leaving one in the kitchen while they took the first two out to the coach. And Alf had a good plan; a flawless plan, in fact.

  They drove into Battersea Park; the road was heavily used, even in winter, and even in winter there was enough activity around the bandstand that it would be impossible for anyone to tell their tracks from anyone else’s. They left the three girls standing passively inside the shelter of the bandstand. Then Alf brought the things he’d piled on top of the coach while Alexandre had been inside waiting for the entity to finish what it was doing—a huge amount of wood, a tin of paraffin oil, and a lot of rags. He and Alexandre made a bonfire with paraffin-soaked rags in the center, then he left a long wick leading into the rags and lit it. They ran for the coach. They were well away, and actually out in traffic, when the flame finally met the rags, and there was soon a bonfire merrily ablaze, attracting attention from all over.

  And, of course, rather than drive away, they did what everyone else was doing—drove toward the bonfire. They were by no means the first people there—and the first to arrive soon discovered the three girls standing there like wax dolls. By the time Alexandre got out of the carriage and approached the bandstand, police had arrived.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, and got several confused answers. Some people thought the girls had made the fire “as a lark.” Others were sure the girls had boyfriends or brothers waiting in hiding who had started it. Seeing the police taking the three away only cemented this in the minds of the onlookers. Alexandre went back to the coach, in time to be intercepted by a constable.

  “’Scuze me, sir,” the man said diffidently. “Is there any chance you saw anyone larking about here before we arrived?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Alexandre replied, apologetically. “My man and I were on Battersea Park Road when we saw the flames. By the time we were in the park, there was—” he gestured at the crowd, “—all this. I wish I could help, but we really didn’t see anything, not even someone running away.”

  The constable sighed, and pulled on the rim of his helmet. “Thenkew very much, sir. That’ll be all.”

  Alexandre didn’t look at Alf; he knew he’d be unable to suppress a snicker if he did. Instead he swung back up into his seat. “’Ome?” asked Alf.

  “Definitely. It has been a long day for both of us,” he replied. “You, especially.”

  “Yew c’n say that agin, guv,” Alf sighed, and touched the whip to the horse, who moved off, leaving behind the chaos and mystery that they and they alone had the key to.

  15

  “THREE of them!” Sherlock snarled. “And left in the bandstand in Battersea Park! It’s as if he is mocking me.” He came to the end of the rug, turned, and paced back toward the hearth. Sahib’s study was full of tension right now, but the normally controlled Holmes was producing enough tension all by himself for two men. Grey and Neville’s heads swiveled solemnly, following him as he paced.

  Nan nodded in somber agreement. It was extremely rare for anyone to see Holmes lose his temper, but he certainly had for at least this brief moment. Within minutes, however, he regained his usual calm. Outwardly, anyway. He had been here with Sahib when Nan and Sarah had arrived, and he had been pacing even then. “Have you learned anything?” she asked carefully.

  “My theory that the chemicals used to turn humans into zombies was at work here is incorrect,” he replied. “I learned that much from the three newest victims. Our foe made the fundamental mistake of releasing his captives in such a way that the police found them almost immediately, and I, of course, was summoned soon after. I was able to test all three of them for blowfish toxin, which is, according to my researches, the most common way to create such slaves. I was also able to examine them for nearly every other toxin known to me. I then checked all three of them for puncture marks in case some agent unknown to me had been introduced by needle, and I was able to employ gastric lavage, to check for any residue still remaining in the stomach. There were no puncture marks anywhere on them, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in their stomachs.” He frowned. “I am now forced to consider, Watson, that you are correct. That these women were ren
dered mindless by magic.”

  The last word was pronounced in tones of extreme distaste. Nan actually felt some sympathy for him. Magic irked Holmes. It violated his sense of a properly ordered world, in which everything could eventually be reduced to scientific principles. He didn’t mind psychic powers, because to him those were merely abilities akin to any other sense. In his shoes, she would have been irked too.

  Everyone involved in the case had gathered together at the Harton School—even Puck, which was why this meeting was taking place in the Harton School in the first place. Puck today looked like a man of indeterminate age—not young, but not middle-aged either, unless that middle-aged man was very fit and had “ageless” features. He had been introduced as “Robin,” with no last name, and as a colleague of John Watson’s—which was technically true. Holmes probably assumed Puck was a member of Alderscroft’s White Lodge.

  They were all in Sahib’s study once again, disposed in various chairs and the two sofas, with Agansing, Selim and Karamjit leaning against the bookcases with folded arms and Holmes striding restlessly back and forth in the center of the group.

  The three sets of parents—all American; was that significant?—had been absolutely hysterical when they discovered the condition their daughters were in. Fortunately for Holmes’ ability to conduct his investigation—particularly the parts about “examining them for puncture marks” and “gastric lavage”—the various parents had not been located until late in the day following the incident in Battersea Park. Their insistence on having the young women whisked away to “the best facility in London!” would have severely hampered his ability to pump their stomachs and strip them naked to examine them for wounds.

  So now all six of the victims were together. And no one was any closer to finding out what had happened to them and if it could be fixed—much less locating and apprehending the one who had done this to them.