man turned at just the wrong moment. Rather than knocking him out, the broom handle glanced off his temple with a hollow crack, sending him stumbling into the basket chair next to the rug.
Then Holmes was on his feet, hammering the man in the jaw with a hard right hook. The gun went spinning away, clattering under the table. The man dove for it, but so did Evelina, using her speed and smaller size to wriggle between the chairs first. For the second time that day, he grabbed her foot, this time trying to use it to drag her out of his way. Then Holmes was on him. That gave her enough time to grab the slick handle of the revolver. It was still warm from his hand.
Evelina kicked the man off and twisted around so that she was on her knees. Holmes hauled the man back and punched him again. This time the man stayed where he fell. Evelina felt a bit ridiculous, crawling out from under the table and trying not to get tangled in her petticoats, but she eventually got to her feet.
She pointed the gun at the writhing man’s belly. “Don’t move,” she said, squeezing the weapon so that it would not shake.
“You bloody hoyden.” The man’s face twisted as red streamed down his lip and chin, bubbling with his wheezing breaths. “I didn’t plan on killing you when I started, but I can see you’re an apple off the same tree.”
“Confine yourself to answering questions,” she said crisply.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve, staining the fabric crimson. Evelina winced in sympathy—there was little doubt Holmes had broken the man’s nose—but she kept the muzzle of the revolver squarely aimed. His eyes, red- rimmed and blurred with pain, were still bright with anger.
Holmes, with the air of one who is about to put out the trash, strode briskly toward them. He bent and, quickly and efficiently, searched the man for other weapons. He found a knife, a pocketbook—which he examined, taking out several papers and looking them over—a small flask—which he opened and sniffed—and a ticket stub from a music hall. Holmes set the items aside and took the gun from her. And however little she liked the idea of holding a man at gunpoint, Evelina felt oddly bereft as she surrendered it. A primitive instinct had already marked the intruder as her prey.
“My dear,” Holmes said, “would you please reassure the crowd outside that nothing is amiss?”
She suddenly became aware of the hubbub in the street. “What shall I tell them?”
“Whatever you like, but if you see a scruffy young lad named Wiggins, would you ask him to call for, um, just to call for our mutual friend?”
Evelina stared for a moment but knew better than to ask for details. Gingerly, she picked her way across the blasted room. Shards of glass framed the view of the brown brick building across Baker Street, with its neat white sashes and bay windows. Mrs. Hudson’s lace curtains lay in shreds.
Carefully, she put her head out the hole in the shattered pane. There was a crowd gathered below, their upturned faces all wearing identical looks of bald curiosity. Someone in the street shouted a halloo, and Evelina waved. “Nothing to worry about. Just an accident with the kettle. No need to concern yourself.”
A boy of about twelve, wearing ill-fitting clothes and ragged shoes, cupped his hands around his mouth to yell up at her. “That musta been some cuppa!”
“Yes, it was a very large kettle,” Evelina replied. “Are you Wiggins?”
“Indeed I am, miss.”
Evelina cast a glance over her shoulder, but her uncle hadn’t moved. She knew he employed street urchins from time to time as a kind of messenger service that not even the steam barons could infiltrate. Wiggins had to be one of them. She turned back to the boy. “Mr. Holmes wishes to speak to your mutual friend.”
“Right you are.” The boy did an about-face and bolted down the street at a dead sprint. Apparently that mutual friend was well-known.
She pulled her head back inside, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Who is your friend?”
“Someone equipped to take this charming specimen into custody,” her uncle said flatly.
The man swore.
Holmes gave him a freezing look. “Silence. There is a young lady present.”
The man shifted, his face sullen.
“Mrs. Hudson already went for the constables,” Evelina said.
“Won’t find any,” their prisoner put in. Perhaps he had friends who were keeping the local plods occupied. Evelina hoped it wasn’t anything worse than that.
Holmes looked unimpressed. “Even so, we dare not waste time.” Impatiently, he waved her over and handed her the gun again. “Keep him still.”
With that Holmes crossed to his collection of chemical supplies and surveyed the racks of bottles intently, clasping his hands behind his back as if to deliver a lecture on the laws of aether. He stood for so long that Evelina grew bored and longed to let her gaze roam around the room rather than keeping her attention on the man on the floor. She’d caught glimpses of the soot-stained walls, the paintings hanging crooked. The explosion appeared to have emanated from a spot near the window.
“What blew up?” she asked.
“A brown paper package.” Holmes finally selected an amber glass bottle from the chemical supplies and then began rummaging in his desk. “It was badly placed and badly made, if the intent was to obliterate my rooms and everyone in them. Although this looks like a great deal of damage, an efficient bomb would have reduced 221B Baker Street to a smudge.” Eventually he took out a leather case and opened it, revealing a hypodermic needle. He took it out and began filling it from the vial of liquid.
Evelina’s stomach squirmed at the sight of the long, sharp instrument. “I hope that’s a sedative.”
Holmes gave a flicker of a smile, but otherwise ignored the question as he squirted a few drops out the needle. “This individual—Elias Jones by name, and his pocketbook concurs with that identification—entered the premises on the pretence of hiring my services. He brought with him a package wrapped in butcher’s paper and string, and proceeded to spin a tale about a mysterious Dresden figurine I would find inside the box, and how it held the clue to the grisly murder of an elderly aunt and her fourteen cats, and how he had been cheated of his inheritance.”
“Fourteen cats?” Evelina echoed in surprise.
“It was not clear whether they were among the victims.”
Her throat tightened as he turned, hypodermic in hand. She tried to keep her voice light. “Perhaps the felines conspired to steal the old lady’s fortune?”
He gave her a dry look. “My would-be client’s laundry needed attention, and the box had a distinct chemical odor inconsistent with fine china. It was evident to me that he was attempting some sort of ruse. Accordingly, I refused his case and told him why. Then he became obstreperous and began demanding information. I summarily threw him out the door for his trouble, before he even had a chance to resist.”
“Or draw his gun,” Evelina observed, feeling more than a little queasy about what might have happened.
“Quite.” Holmes looked uncomfortable. “I apologize for tossing an armed man so close to where you were walking. That was unforgivably careless of me.”
“I’m sure you were quite occupied at the time.”
“I was annoyed,” Holmes replied. “Mr. Jones seems to be under the misapprehension that I know more than I do about Mycroft’s work, and that either of us has a connection to the rebels.”
That made Evelina’s breath catch. The rebellion against the Steam Council was growing and had been more and more in the papers over the summer. Anyone identified as a rebel automatically faced the gallows.
“What about it, Mr. Jones?” Holmes asked in a terrifying voice, holding the needle just where the man could see it. “Did your masters give you the order to insinuate yourself into my confidence in the guise of a client, and then search my quarters for evidence of treachery?”
Evelina swallowed hard. Uncle Mycroft worked for the government, but the Steam Council had so many politicians in their power, it was hard to know where the elected officials ended and the steam barons began. Loyalties were nothing if not complicated—and it was far easier for her to concentrate on more immediate problems. “If he knew his cover story was blown, why run back inside?”
“Indeed, why?” Holmes asked, leaning yet closer.
Jones grunted, flinching away from the needle.
The detective gave a thin smile. “Very well, keep your confessions for now. I spoiled your plan when I saw
