“’scuse me, Miss?”
“What is Mr. Holmes paying you to keep your eye on me?”
“’e always pays a shillin’ per job and a guinea if we does somethin’ special. Plus expenses, Miss.”
“Well, I shall give you thrice that sum if you will allow me to pass.”
After a long silence, Rattle resumed his guarding tactics. His right hand clasped upon my cape, he glared at me. “I ’as me orders, Miss,” he repeated.
I withdrew coins from my bag. Oh, God, I thought. I am tempting a child into doing my bidding, just as Sherlock does. Despite this, I held the coins in my open hand in front of him and cast a tempting little face at him. “Thrice what he promised you, Rattle. Think what you can buy with this. Think, Rattle. Mutton. Sweets. Pudding. And you won’t have to steal a lick of it.”
He withdrew his hand and shuffled backwards. “I don’ like stealin’,” he said. “Fat’s ’ow yer get lagged ove’ t’ prison. I know some been quodded no end of times fer i’” He thought a moment. “But what’ll I tell Mr. ’olmes?”
“Leave Mr. Holmes to me, won’t you?”
“Right.” He swiped the coins from my palm and said, “Fen I’ll be on my way, Miss.”
“Be careful, Rattle!” I called to him as he gave out a shrill cry of joy, ran up the street, and disappeared.
I turned to face the house. I crept up to the window next to the door and peered in. It was completely dark and there was no movement. I opened the door, stepped inside and called out to my aunt. Then I called out Martha’s name and Genabee’s. A bit panicky now, I called out, “Mum? Are you here? Michael?”
No one answered.
47
The house was too quiet, devoid of voices or activity from down below, and neither Sappho nor Little Elihu came to greet me. The trembling in my arms was like ripples on a pond, constant and swelling. My hands shook as I lit the oil lamp in the foyer, and I saw a note leaning against the silver bird perched on the rim of the ornate calling card holder on the marble table. It was where Aunt Susan always left notes for me and Uncle Ormond. She had written that I must join her and my mother at the Langham and that I was not to stay in the house or ask questions. After I read it, I put it back on the table and started to walk through the house. I thought I heard footsteps near the drawing room and headed in that direction. The door was open and I looked inside. There was nothing, no one. I started to amble through the rest of the house.
I called down to the area that contained the kitchen, scullery, the servants’ sitting room and the pantry. Again, there was no response. I didn’t hear a sound; I didn’t see anything out of order. I looked in the sitting room, the drawing room, the dining room, and Uncle’s study. This house where I had spent most of my time for a decade suddenly felt unfamiliar, cold, desolate. I continued my journey in silence.
When I got to Aunt Susan’s morning room, I opened the door and stared through the darkness at her piano, hearing in my head the last piece she played. I could hear the notes in my head - the 1st movement’s agitation and despair and heartache, the violent beginning of the scherzo and its second gentle, reflective section, the mysterious 4th movement with its endless running triplets and the finale... the one filled with horror, ending with the victim being killed by his entrapper on the final minor chord. It was that section that pounded in my head as I moved toward the library door.
I stopped and pressed my ear to the door. Hearing nothing, I was about to make my way up to the bedrooms and the garret when a voice came from the shadows. “Eh, yup, Dr. Stamford, we meet again,” a man said as he put his hand on my shoulder. I jumped with a start.
He rushed forward and grasped my arm. I nearly dropped the lamp as he jabbed something against my neck. I felt the slightest prick.
“If you do not do as I say, you will be dead in four minutes.”
48
“Open the door, Dr. Stamford.”
Seeking to place the voice, blinking and trying to focus, I heard my own rasping breaths. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Open the door.”
I took deep breaths and complied. I let my eyes move hurriedly around the room. They found Sherlock slumped in a wing chair near the fireplace. His head drooped and blood dripped down his face. I was certain he was unconscious.
The man gave me a slight push and I moved forward. I started to walk toward the fireplace, hoping I could grab a poker, but he nudged me toward the other chair and said, “Have a seat. You and Mr. Holmes have made a grave error and we are here to rectify it.”
I stumbled toward the chair and sat down. That was when I realized that Sherlock’s head was bleeding profusely. I turned to look at our captor. When I finally had a chance to see the man’s face, I realized it was Zhèng, the Oriental man from the museum. He had a pistol in his hand - Sherlock’s. He was pointing it directly at Sherlock.
I stared at Feng Zhèng with a mixture of incredulity and terror. With all that had happened that day, I’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to deliver the Buddha statue. But he was not here to deliver a trinket. The terrible certainty hit me. Mr. Brown was not the British Museum murderer. It was this man and he had come to tie up loose ends.
My hands, my mind were shaking, my blood froze. One fact consumed me with fear. It seemed impossible, but this
