“Abscond? Oh, yeah.” He nodded against the bars. “I was stupid to run away. I’ve come to realize that if anyone can help me, it’s Sherlock Holmes’s niece. As weird as that might be,” he muttered. “If you get me out of here, Mina, I promise you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“Very well, then,” I said, trying to subdue the burst of fluttering in my insides at his words. “I’ll return as soon as I’ve made the arrangements.”
I was just signing the last of the papers to release Mr. Eckhert into my custody when a familiar voice interrupted.
“What brings you to Scotland Yard, Miss Holmes?”
I managed to keep my handwriting from jolting. Nevertheless, I chose to finish authenticating the documents instead of turning to confront Inspector Grayling.
But the clerk behind the desk wasn’t as circumspect. “Why, Miss Holmes here, she’s postin’ bail for a real shady character what we got us in custody down below.”
Grinding my teeth, I shoved the papers at the clerk, then turned to Grayling. “I’m quite certain, Inspector, that my presence here could be of no interest to someone as busy as yourself. Surely you’re needed at some crime scene. Far from here.”
Grayling ignored my comment. “Posting bail for a criminal? What’s he in for, Fergus?”
The clerk shuffled through the sheaf of documents and said, “Attempted robbery. Breaking, entering. Was appr’-hended trying to get into the museum last night.”
Grayling’s hazel eyes speared me. “So criminals are the sort you prefer to consort with, Miss Holmes?”
“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor,” I said to the clerk, and snatched up the document granting Mr. Eckhert release. “I can find my own way to the constable.” I lifted my chin and spun on my heels.
Despite my speed, I’d progressed only a short way down the passage when Grayling’s long legs caught him up to me. “Miss Holmes, I don’t know what you’ve become involved with, but—”
“Inspector Grayling,” I said, pausing at the intersection of two corridors as I tried to determine which way to go. “I cannot imagine why you should concern yourself with my activities. Should you not be investigating the murder of Miss Hodgeworth? Instead of attending Society balls?”
“Miss Holmes,” he said, stepping closer. I backed up into the wall behind me. He was as close as he’d been last night when we were waltzing, and the very realization set me off balance.
“Miss Holmes,” he repeated, “I am investigating the murders of two young women, along with the disappearance of a third—likely also murdered. Everything related to them is my concern. Particularly since you attended a ball last evening in the place of one of the victims, using her invitation.”
My mouth opened and then closed, and I could feel my cheeks heat. He must have learned from the Hodgeworths how I’d obtained the invitation. Not that I’d done anything illegal; Mrs. Hodgeworth had given Miss Adler and myself permission to take the card.
“I believe I’ve misjudged you, Miss Holmes.” Grayling’s Scottish burr had become more evident, and his eyes were as cold as the sea in December. “I supposed you were merely playing at detective, trying to be like your uncle. But when you returned from the Star Terrace last night after an extended period of time in the dark gardens—and not alone, I wager—I can only assume you have placed yourself in untenable situations. What is your intention?”
By now I had drawn myself up straight and was bristling. “My intentions are none of your affair.”
His cheeks had gone ruddier, and his mouth was a thin, flat line. “Miss Holmes, when you returned to the ball after your lengthy disappearance, it was quite obvious in what sort of activities you’d been engaged. Your hair was mussed, your skirts were rumpled, and one of your gloves was missing. And now I find you here, at the Met, posting bail to release a prisoner. You are obviously fraternizing with the wrong sorts of young men.”
Incensed by his accusations and assumptions, I could hardly keep from gasping in outrage. How dare he? I would have berated him in return, except that he was standing very close to me. So close I might brush against him if I should express my deep anger as passionately as I felt it.
“Does your father know of your nocturnal activities, Miss Holmes? And what of your uncle? If he were aware, I wager he’d put an immediate end to them.”
His statements were absurd. My father cared little for how I spent my time. And Uncle Sherlock was only slightly more interested in me, simply because he knew I was a loyal audience for his lectures and that, unlike Dr. Watson, I actually learned from him.
“If you please, Inspector Grayling.” My voice was clipped with fury. “I have more important things to attend to than continuing this offensive exchange. And I’m certain you do as well. Good day.”
His eyes bored into me as I edged away. I could feel his angry stare between my shoulder blades as if he held the barrel of a Steam-Stream gun there. And of course, the moment I was out of his presence, I thought of all sorts of cool, smart things I could have said to put him in his place.
I was so discombobulated I went in the wrong direction, and it took me some time to relocate the constable who could release Mr. Eckhert. However, a short time later, the newly released prisoner and I retraced those steps on our way to the outside. We obtained his meager belongings—a small sack which I deduced contained his foreign clothing.
I decided to take Mr. Eckhert with me to the British Museum when I went to speak with Miss Adler, and as it was approaching two o’clock, I felt the necessity to make haste. But that was not to be, for as we rounded the corner, passing several policemen dressed in their blue uniforms and sturdy hats, we came upon a small cluster of people blocking the corridor.
In the center of the group rose two heads that made my stomach plummet. One of them was that of a tall Scot with a high forehead and curling, rust-colored hair.
The other . . . oh, blast.
“Alvermina! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Hello, Uncle Sherlock.”
Miss Holmes
In Which Miss Holmes Gives a History Lesson
I looked up at the tall, spare man around whom the others had crowded. As always, he was clean-shaven and his dark hair neatly combed. He held a hat in long, slender fingers. His coat was brushed, and his trousers were without a speck of mud.
I tried not to think about the fact that he’d just announced my abomination of a name to the entire Metropolitan Police force.
“Greetings, Dr. Watson,” I added. My uncle’s cohort was shorter than he and of a stocky frame, but by no means chubby. He wore a close-trimmed mustache of chestnut brown and professional, yet out-of-fashion, clothing. Small round spectacles perched on his nose.
I avoided looking at Grayling, for I could only imagine the expression on his face.
My uncle had turned his regard upon Mr. Eckhert, who was staring unabashedly at him. My newly liberated friend exclaimed, “Sherlock Holmes! I can’t believe it’s really you!”
“You’re living at my brother’s house, I perceive,” said my uncle. “Since arriving in London, you’ve been a vagrant and homeless. But my niece has taken you in and now has had to bail you out on a charge of breaking and entering. The British Museum, if I’m not mistaken.”
Mr. Eckhert’s expression turned to one of shock and bald admiration—both of which were common to people upon experiencing Sherlock Holmes for the first time. I wondered if I would ever have that sort of effect on people.
“How did you know that?” my friend asked.
“It’s information there for anyone to see,” began my relative in his aggrieved way. “One must observe —”
“Never mind,” I interrupted. I was one of the only people in London besides my father who would dare do so. Even the shorter, less elegant but more approachable Watson was intimidated by his friend at times. “Uncle Sherlock, I’ll be by Baker-street soon to return the item you—erm—loaned me. You must be on an important case,
