The Game

of abduction suddenly hit a rough patch that sent it through the roof.

“Hey,” said a familiar voice. “What’s going on here?”

O’Hara stepped in front of Holmes as if he might conceal a six-foot-tall man with an insensible maharaja on his shoulders, and I reached for my gun, only to freeze when the figure down the hall-way stepped under a lamp, a large Colt revolver in his hand.

Thomas Goodheart.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The tableau held for six long breaths, seven, and then all hell broke loose. Another figure appeared beside Goodheart, dressed in the uniform of a chuprassi with a scarlet turban and an outraged voice.

“What is this thing?” the newcomer demanded in the lilting accents of the Indian, looking from us to him. “You have found dacoits stealing the master’s treasures, oah, sir—”

But to my utter confusion, Goodheart raised his revolver and pointed it, not at us, but at the red puggaree. The servant choked off his words in confusion and stared at Goodheart, as flabbergasted as I.

Tommy started to gesture with his gun, saying “You’ll have to come—” when the man broke, turning on his heel to sprint for the outside door. Without a moment’s hesitation, the American shot him.

Instantly, he turned and said urgently, “You two come fetch him, then stay in that room until I join you.” And without a word of explanation he fled up the passageway and burst outside into the courtyard gardens.

O’Hara and I looked at each other, then he kicked open the toy room door for Holmes and we ran to gather up the chuprassi. The servant had died instantly, shot through the heart. We took him, shoulders and feet, and scurried back to dump him inside the blue door.

“What the hell was that about?” I demanded of Holmes, but he could not enlighten me. I looked down at the dead man, but he, too, could tell me nothing apart from the obvious: that Goodheart had shot him, and not us.

“I think you two should get into the tunnel,” I said.

“I will wait here,” O’Hara said, but I was already shaking my head.

“You’re stronger than I am,” I told him. “Easier for you and Holmes to carry the maharaja five miles than Holmes and I.”

I did not wait for the men to agree, merely ripped the red turban from the dead man’s head and hurried back to where he had fallen, thinking that I might remove the worst of the stains from floor and wall, thus delay a full- scale search of this specific area. I shook out the tightly wrapped fabric and was just kneeling down to scrub at the stains when more gunfire cracked the stillness, followed by shouting voices. Or rather, a shouting voice.

I pinched out the oil lamp over my head, then ventured down the corridor to the nearest window onto the courtyard gardens. There I saw a puzzling sight: Thomas Goodheart, swaying like a foundering sailboat, seemed to be arguing with a pair of chuprassis.

“These god-damned bats!” he roared. “They drive a man insane with their infernal chatter. All night, in and out, get in the rooms and try and roost in your hair! I’m going to shoot every one of the accursed monsters.”

Quieter voices could be heard, apparently pleading for reason; the servants continually glanced over their shoulders at the dark rooms above.

“I won’t give it to you, damn you both!” the American raged. “I tell you the bats are—what’s that?”

More rapid conversation, much patting of hands in an attempt to reassure, and Goodheart swayed again, then suddenly relinquished his gun. The relief of the two servants was palpable and immediate, and the one with the gun took a step away from this obstreperous guest. The hand of the other hovered near Goodheart’s elbow, urging him back in the direction of the guest quarters, and he succeeded for a time. But when they reached the shadowy edges of the gardens, Goodheart shook the hand off. I heard him shouting again, something about leaving a man alone to have a quiet smoke.

Both servants immediately retreated. Goodheart slumped into a bench, his legs alone visible by the light of a lamp on the nearby terrace; then came the flare of a lighter, followed by the unsteady waver of a cigarette. His voice said something else, quieter now but still threatening, and both of the servants went away across the terrace into the hall.

I was not particularly surprised when, before I had reached the end of my muslin turban and the bloodstain was faded and nearly colourless, the man appeared at the far end of the passageway, moving without the slightest sign of drink, and without a cigarette. I stood up, bundling the last end of the sticky fabric into itself.

“Captain Russell?” he asked dubiously, peering into my face.

“And his sister as well,” I said. After all, I was armed, he was no longer; I could afford to experiment with honesty.

“Thought that might be the case. Where are the others?”

“In the toy room.”

“Where’s that? And once you’re there, how do you think you’re going to get out of here? That was the maharaja you had, wasn’t it?”

But I was not about to give him the secret passageway, not yet.

“Look, who are you?” I demanded.

“You know who I am. Shouldn’t we get out of this hall-way?”

He did have a point. I led him to the toy room, pulled a candle from my pocket and lit it, sheltering it with my hand while I bent to feel the chuprassi’s pulse. Yes: dead. Goodheart knelt beside me at the man’s side, tentatively pushing on one shoulder to reveal the face and the bloody chest. After a minute he stood up, unnecessarily wiping his hands on his evening jacket.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never . . . I didn’t intend to kill him. But he had to be stopped.”

“Why?”

That distracted him from staring at his victim. He stared at me instead. I hoped Holmes and O’Hara could hear all this.

“Oh God. Don’t tell me you’re kidnapping Jimmy for ransom?”

“What other reason might you imagine?”

He heard in my voice not an answer, but a test question. He nodded slowly, and looked around him into the darkness, clearly searching for my accomplices. “I think it’s very possible we’re both working toward the same goal.”

“And what might that be?”

“Jimmy’s clearly . . . unbalanced. But I wouldn’t guess it’s easy to arrest a native prince openly on his own ground.”

I let the words stand, and waited, cocking my head at the darkness. Goodheart waited, too, although he could not know for what. In seconds, I had my partners’ answer.

“Bring him,” said Holmes’ voice.

Once inside the hidden passage, we let the door click shut. I made cursory introductions. “Thomas Goodheart, Mr O’Hara, and you know my husband.”

Hands were shaken, and Goodheart said, “Mr Holmes, not Mr Russell. The purser told me, the day after the fancy-dress ball.”

“So the costume was an accident?” Holmes asked.

“Er, not entirely. I’d heard one of the passengers, a lady from Savannah, talking about Sherlock Holmes. At the time I just thought she meant that you looked like Sherlock Holmes, not that you were him. I hadn’t meant any disrespect.”

“I shouldn’t worry, young man. A lady from Savannah, you say? I don’t remember meeting her.”

“Yes, odd that. She must have left the ship at Aden; I didn’t see her again.”

“Holmes, can we leave this for later?” I suggested.

“Indeed,” he said, although the puzzle remained in his voice.

It proved impossible to shoulder our still-limp burden down the narrow passageway, but with one each at his