A Study in Silks

Holmes swung into action, ordering Watson to roll him forward. “Because you run an interesting business, Mr. Harriman.”

“Who the devil are you, sir?” Harriman demanded, pulling out of his cousin’s grasp to round on Holmes.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Keating said with a satisfaction dreadful to behold. “Your ship is sinking, Harriman. Start bailing.”

The man’s jaw dropped, but nothing intelligent came out of his mouth.

“You used to employ a number of Chinese workers, I believe,” Holmes said to Harriman. “They worked at the warehouse where the collection was unpacked, up until the time their dismembered bodies were found floating in the Thames. Some were goldsmiths.”

Harriman remained silent.

Keating looked at his cousin, and the chipped and dented vase in his hand, then at Sherlock. “Tell me.”

Her uncle pointed at the vase. “Evelina, hand me that travesty.”

She took the offending item from Keating and handed it to her uncle. The once-beautiful object seemed naked and fractured. She couldn’t help handling it almost tenderly, like it was a patient.

He took it one-handed. “They made casts of your treasures, then replicated them in base metals, then electroplated them with a thin layer of the original gold so that it matched precisely. Gems were easily replaced with glass.”

Keating had turned gray, looking from one display case to the next in visible panic. “Why did I not see the difference?”

“The replicas were cleverly done, though not perfect.” Holmes picked up a graceful urn in his good hand, turning it over. “If you look carefully at the bottom of this one, there is the faintest trace of a seam from the mold.”

“But surely this would be found out! This exhibit was to go to the British Museum!”

“Not before it was stolen,” Holmes said with a tight smile. “Lestrade uncovered that piece of the plot after interviewing the finest among the brotherhood of London’s thieves. Before the weekend was over, this entire collection would disappear in a robbery, and all evidence of forgery along with it.”

They all looked at Harriman, who looked dumbfounded. Evelina guessed this was news to him, too.

“I don’t understand,” said the duke, shouldering his way forward. “Why go to such a fabulous amount of work?”

“I would have never known the difference,” Keating rasped. “A staged robbery? I must have been robbed months ago, to allow enough time for the forgeries to be made. Even with slave labor, it would have been a long and expensive process.” He turned on Harriman. “Where is my treasure?”

“Melted down,” Holmes said for the man.

Lestrade had come forward and pinned Harriman’s arms. The man glared at Keating with a hatred that made Evelina’s stomach churn.

“I’m your kin, damn you!” the Gold King snarled.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harriman returned. “You lord it over all of us. What do you expect?”

“Those were priceless artifacts!”

“So was our pride.”

“Who were your confederates?” Lestrade snapped. “We shall want a list.”

“I doubt you shall ever find out,” Holmes interrupted again.

Holmes cast a quick glance at Evelina, as if to say that no matter how he felt about the matter, Bancroft’s fall would not come at his hand. But it was plain that her uncle’s reticence would not be enough to save the conspirators.

Keating’s jaw worked. “Leave Harriman with me and you shall have your list.”

Harriman sucked in a whistling breath.

“He’ll be off to Newgate,” Lestrade said. “The rest of this conversation can take place there.”

With that, he dragged Harriman toward the door. The crowd parted, and many hurried toward the cloakroom. The evening was over, and the entertainment had not been at all what they’d expected.

Keating fixed Holmes with a keen look. “Athena’s Casket?”

Her uncle gave him a sorrowful face. “I suspect it’s been melted. A tragedy.”

The Gold King turned away for a long moment, his shoulders hunched. When he turned back, his face was stern but composed. “Still, I thank you for uncovering this treachery. If it had been allowed to fester, who knows what havoc Harriman might have caused. I underestimated him.”

Holmes blinked lazily. “So it appears.”

“You shall be recompensed.” Keating frowned.

Sherlock glanced at his arm. “I shall remember to forward my bill.”

With a stiff nod, Keating stalked away to salvage what he could of the night. Evelina was free to scan the remaining crowd. “Where is Lord Bancroft?”

“He left as soon as the vase hit the floor.”

She looked at Holmes sharply as suspicion changed to certainty. “So he was one of them.”

“Undoubtedly. I suspect he was the key player. It remains to be seen whether Keating figures that out. I’m sorry for your friends, but it will be rough sailing for Bancroft if he does. That can’t be helped.”

She swallowed hard. He was telling her no more than the truth. “But what about Grace? And who shot you?”

Holmes made a face. His color had gone beyond white to a sickly gray. “The game is still afoot. It might be limping, but it’s not finished yet. Unfortunately, for tonight, I am.”

Chapter Forty-two

It had been up to Tobias to call a hansom and bundle his sister into it. Lord Bancroft had taken the carriage, and Tobias’s first priority was to exit the scene before anyone noticed that he and his sister had been left behind. After that shocking scene with Harriman, who knew what scandalous whispers the slightest misstep would cause?

The pater’s sudden departure said he was guilty, but how bad was it? Imogen had opened her mouth once or twice, but had not been able to force out a single word. Instead, she held her brother’s hand as if to comfort him. She was probably comforting herself.

Poor Im. She’s always the leaf caught in other people’s storms. And she’d been looking ill again the past few days. She wasn’t made to withstand so many shocks.

Jolting along in the cab, Tobias wrapped himself in the tense silence with a species of bloody satisfaction. Whatever his father had feared, whatever guilt he had tried to hide, little Evelina Cooper and her peculiar uncle had found it. It served his father right for keeping it—whatever it was—from his own son. He’d assumed Tobias was too incompetent to be of help, but who was the family disaster now?

Tobias let the petty monologue run riot around his brain until the hansom reached their house. Bigelow, with the instinct of a well-trained servant, had already opened the door before Tobias reached the front walk.

“What’s going on?” Imogen asked once they were safely inside.

Tobias mused a moment, studying his sister’s worried face. The worst, he knew, was yet to come. “Go look after Mother. I’ll try to talk to Father.”

“Tobias,” she grabbed his sleeve. “Grace Child …”

“You don’t really think Father killed her do you?” He did. He had since the disastrous dinner with the detective.

“I don’t know. There are moments I think I do. Other moments I’m so angry that I wish I could.” Imogen’s eyes were dark with fear. “But what do we do now?”

“We do what we need to.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re the sane one. The rock. You have to be strong for us.”

“But I’m not strong. I’m the one who is always ill.” Her voice shook just enough that he caught the tremor.