A Study In Ashes Part 21

"I believe there were two ent.i.ties that night. One was Imogen, the other not."

"Do you know who the other might have been?" For the first time, the woman looked worried.

"Imogen had a twin, Anna, who died very young. Her spirit was the p.a.w.n of a sorcerer." Evelina still could barely believe it, and yet what Tobias had told her made perfect sense. "Anna is dangerous, but please understand that I have no proof that ent.i.ty was her. I want to contact Imogen again, but I've tried alone, and it didn't work. We need to find out the truth, and I don't have Madam's skills."

Miss Barnes looked down at her hands, clearly thinking. "No, you don't. You are powerful, but you are not a medium. And this case has complexities. You could do more harm than good."

Evelina already knew that, but she didn't like the idea of just standing by. "It's been two days since the seance, and I'm worried. What can I do?"

Miss Barnes swallowed. "Anna worries me. Spirits that wander too long begin to turn."

Evelina tensed. "What does that mean?"

"For a soul that's wandered too far, it's a long, painful, and tragic slide into madness. Some say the soul is well on its way to a demonic state."

"They turn into a demon?" Evelina asked, a little incredulous.

"A simplistic, inelegant way of putting it, but essentially correct."

"Miss Barnes, that is utterly ..." But she was well and truly lost for words. Imogen was at the mercy of such a creature. But not for long, Evelina vowed fiercely. She wasn't letting her friend down, if she had to march into the netherworld and drag her back by the hair.

Miss Barnes folded her hands in her lap. "I can see the determination on your lovely face, my dear, but it won't do."

"No?" Evelina's stubborn streak rose.

"My advice is to leave the matter with Madam Thala.s.sa. She has experience with wayward spirits. She will make your friend's case her immediate priority. And this is the point where the society's concerns and those of your uncle intersect. We will convince Keating to let you out of the college, and we will a.s.sist your friend. In return, there is something we want from you."

Evelina didn't want to step aside and leave Imogen's care to anyone else-at least not completely-but if Uncle Sherlock was involved, she had to consider what the woman had to say. "I'm listening."

Miss Barnes inclined her head, a bit like a schoolmistress. "I saw what kind of power you used. Once a sorcerer, as the saying goes."

Evelina shook her head. "I am not a sorcerer."

"If you say so. I make an observation about what I saw of your power, nothing more, and you may need that dark strength before this is done."

Now Evelina was worried. "Before what is done?"

The woman lifted her chin, her manner growing sly. "Do you recall the actress Nellie Reynolds?"

"I do." The case had been in the papers about a year and a half ago. The famous actress-the d.u.c.h.ess of Westlake's illegitimate cousin, as it turned out-had been accused of using magic and sent to Her Majesty's Laboratories. Many had thought the verdict unjust.

"She escaped."

"What?" Evelina sat forward. She'd never heard of anyone getting out of the labs. "Really?"

"We've never known precisely where the laboratories were," said Miss Barnes. "Now we do, and we know what's inside."

Curiosity flamed through Evelina, but she sat back, suddenly cautious. "I must say, Miss Barnes, that you are opening up some very dangerous topics. You could be punished for spreading such news, as could I for listening to it."

She wasn't positive that her statement was completely logical, given their talk of seances and demons and evading Jasper Keating, but the woman's manner had changed in the last few seconds, becoming even more authoritative. Every instinct was warning Evelina to be careful-and that wasn't a premonition, just common sense.

But then Mrs. Smith finally came to life and drew back her veil. "Miss Cooper," she said in a rich contralto voice. "Please hear us out."

Evelina's heart lurched. She knew that face. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Mrs. Reynolds!"

She had been a beauty once, but that had all changed. Her hair was still thick, but it had turned white, and deep lines of pain now traced the angles of her face. Evelina's throat tightened, wondering what other ravages the heavy fabric of the actress's mourning gown disguised.

"The laboratories are in Dartmoor, all but lost in the desolation of the moors," she said. "If one escapes, there is nowhere to run and many, many places to be lost forever. I was lucky. I stumbled onto a private estate and found a sympathetic protector in Sir Charles Baskerville. He hid me on the moors until I could be taken to safety. I slept in the stone huts left by the primitive tribesmen of centuries ago, and his serving man brought me food. It was the only way to hide from the Steam Council's soldiers, who searched every house and barn in the county. I owe him my life, and we all owe him a debt. If he hadn't intervened, everything I know about the place would have perished with me."

For all her trials, Nellie Reynolds had lost none of her presence. Evelina hung on every word. "Tell me, what happens in those laboratories?"

The actress flinched, and it clearly wasn't for effect. "The scientists employed by the Steam Council are interested in one thing. They want to understand how magic works, and why those of the Blood inherit the ability to use it. And once they find that out, they want to replicate the effect for their own use."

"Especially with machines," added Miss Barnes. "Whoever discovers how to control machines with magic will render all other forms of power irrelevant."

Which was in part why Jasper Keating had Evelina-a magic user with a technological bent-at his beck and call. "So they use the prisoners as experimental subjects?" Evelina asked. "Just like all the old rumors?"

Nellie Reynolds held up a gloved hand, as if warding off the question. "Yes. Dissection, vivisection, augmentation-nothing is beyond them. And it does not matter overmuch if a prisoner has been falsely accused. They found a purpose for me, too."

She lifted her skirt-mildly shocking from the viewpoint of modesty, but what it revealed was far worse. "They cut off my legs and gave me these instead, just to see if they would take."

"Oh, dear G.o.d," Evelina blurted out before she could stop herself.

Beginning just above the knees, the woman's legs were a tangle of open wires, cables, and gears. "They left me my feet," she said in a carefully neutral voice. "They preserved enough pathways for the nerves and blood to keep the flesh alive. They wished to study the possibilities for mechanical integration with the human body."

As her stomach rose, Evelina felt herself growing dangerously hot. How many prisoners were there? What happened to the ones who couldn't get away?

She was relieved when Mrs. Reynolds dropped her hems and hid the ghastly sight. "I see," Evelina said, knowing it sounded inane. She didn't understand at all.

"And that was far from all. The scientists at the laboratories went unchecked by law or common decency, and their researches strayed down whatever path imagination decreed. When the quest for the key to magic stalled, they pursued other projects. Some sought to create the perfect soldier, others wished to defy mortality. Still others created monsters for their own sake, and tortured animals out of pure curiosity. There was a hound," she said, pausing long enough to gulp back her emotion. "It was a huge, brindled beast. They attempted to build a clockwork creature within its living flesh. It escaped once, but they dragged it back and locked it away. After that it became utterly savage and unmanageable-no doubt in utter agony. But the poor mad thing showed me the weakness in their security, and I used that knowledge to escape. It did not suffer in vain."

"Why are you telling me this?" Evelina asked, barely able to speak.

"We want to destroy the laboratories," said Miss Barnes in a down-to-business tone. "Your uncle claims it's something of a specialty of yours, and we don't have enough powerful magic users."

"And Madam Thala.s.sa wishes me to help?"

"Yes," said Miss Barnes. "News of Mrs. Reynolds's escape arrived just days before you came to the seance. Madam Thala.s.sa began making plans to follow up the intelligence at once. It seems that the laboratories have magic users as part of their guard. Those who would rather serve than be tortured."

"Collaborators?"

"Yes. However, you have a kind of magic the scientists have not found a means to completely control. You will be an effective weapon for our side. In fact," Mrs. Reynolds said, glancing at the bracelets, "those are the only means they have of even dampening dark magic. I've seen them at work plenty of times. They had to go far beyond just draping sorcerers in silver."

Evelina remembered Moriarty's words. I've never examined the mechanism, but both clockwork and magnetism are involved, as well as a rare element that reacts with magical energy to produce a chemical discharge.

Miss Barnes gave a vaguely bloodthirsty smile. "Once you get them off, there's no telling what you might be able to do."

It was true that the dark magic had been stronger at the seance, when Tobias had deactivated the mechanism. Evelina fingered the bracelets, thinking about having the full use of the dark power back. Fear tingled through her as she remembered her hunger rousing a strength and ferocity she'd desperately wanted to indulge. What if I can't control it once these are off?

But the labs needed to be stopped, and Imogen needed help. And she had made a promise to Nick. As much as it terrified her, she had to be mistress of her magic, not its thrall. Otherwise, she was crippled. "I would help, but these bracelets keep me here. Can you get them off?"

"If you're willing, we might be able to devise a means of setting you free," said Miss Barnes.

"I'm willing," she said, hoping she hadn't gone utterly mad.

Both Miss Barnes and Mrs. Reynolds stirred, clearly relieved. "Good," said Mrs. Reynolds, rising to her feet. "We'll find some way of getting you to Dartmoor. We're marshalling our forces there."

Evelina's heart started to pound with excitement and trepidation. "Where in Dartmoor are the laboratories?"

It was Miss Barnes who answered. "Near an estate that belongs to the Baskervilles. Sir Charles holds it, but he has an adopted son by the name of Edmond. Quite an engaging young fellow. Very fond of dogs."

London, October 1, 1889.

DUQUESNE'S RESTAURANT.

1:55 p.m. Tuesday.

"SO AM I TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU HAVE TAKEN A fifteen-year-old girl for a client?" Dr. John H. Watson asked as he watched his teatime companion demolish each dish of eggs, pies, chops, crab bisque, sandwiches, and tea cakes as rapidly as the white-coated waiters of Duquesne's could bring them to the table.

"Not precisely," Holmes replied. "I merely did young Miss Roth a good turn. She reminds me a little of Evelina. In fact, she wrote to request the cipher of that clock of theirs. You know the one."

"Did you give it to her?"

"Why not? It's their clock. And I have always been of the opinion someone needs to watch Lord Bancroft, even if it is his youngest daughter. She is the last of his children at home, other than her ailing sister. I'd rather Miss Roth knew that she could come to me for a.s.sistance."

And with that, the detective began piling his plate full once more. There was a shocking lack of vegetables involved, but Watson had to concede that getting something inside the Great Detective was better than the chemical subst.i.tutes that had been swirling through Holmes's bloodstream until a few weeks ago.

Alternating bouts of overwork and idleness had led Watson's old roommate back into the arms of recreational stimulants. The absence of his niece-Holmes behaved himself whenever he a.s.sumed his quasi-parental role-had only worsened the problem. The man didn't require a companion, he needed a leash, and perhaps a wrangler. Fortunately, Watson had learned to provide both without Holmes-for all his vaunted powers of cerebration-figuring it out.

"Shall I order more tea?" he asked brightly.

Holmes tossed his napkin aside and surveyed the wreckage of the tea cakes in a way that called to mind Wellington at Waterloo-satisfaction edged in sorrow at the loss of life. "Perhaps a French coffee. Something strong and bitter to temper the sweetness."

The man had to have ironclad digestion equal to one of Brunel's engines. Watson signaled a waiter and placed the order. Holmes picked at the cheese plate.

"Haven't you eaten enough?" Watson asked.

"There is always room for a good cheddar," he said around a toothpick.

"I'm beginning to think you are about to go into hibernation. Where in G.o.d's name do you put it all?"

"It is a question of will."

"Keep it up and it will become a question of dyspepsia." But Watson managed a piece of Edam all the same.

"I'm glad you're settling back into Baker Street," Holmes said, turning his attention to the view outside the window. The restaurant was on the upper level and gave a partial view of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament beyond. The trees mercifully hid the wound in the Clock Tower.

"I am pleased to be back," Watson replied, but stopped there.

Things were the same as before, but different. He should have been happy to resume his role as Holmes's caretaker and scribe-and occasional gunman-but the circ.u.mstances of his return weighed heavily on him. He had left Baker Street to marry, but he had returned because Mary had died, leaving his own house echoing with recriminations. What good is a doctor who cannot cure his own wife? What good was a husband who hadn't even given her the blessings of a family? Some men wouldn't question such things, but he did. Mary had given him her heart, and he could not help feeling that he had failed.

"You look pensive, my dear Watson." Holmes closed his eyes and sniffed at the steam rising from his coffee cup. "You need to exercise your mental faculties. I had two excellent cases last June, just waiting for your pen. Do you recall that affair in Bos...o...b.. Valley? And the beggar with the twisted lip?"

"Is work always your prescription for the blue devils?"

"It is the absence of mental exercise that will trouble me," Holmes decreed.

"So you a.s.sume I suffer from an absence of material to beat my brain upon?"

Holmes opened one eye, which glittered with sarcastic mischief. "Perhaps not so much as that. Brain beating has never been your forte."

Watson bridled. He knew he shouldn't, that he was sure to lose, but he simply couldn't help himself. "You speak as if a medical doctor never uses his powers of deduction."

"I do not deny it in the least, my dear fellow. Nevertheless, my observations must range beyond the quant.i.ty and quality of what arrives in a patient's bedpan."

The doctor choked on his coffee. "Really, Holmes!"

"Tut, don't be squeamish. I never am. Observe there."

Holmes flicked a finger toward the window. "See that man with the embossed portfolio under his arm?"

Irritated, Watson turned. "No doubt you will tell me his blood type and place in the Order of Precedence by the exact shade of his hat lint, I will fall down in awe and admiration, and the overweening self-love that springs from your intellectual superiority will be a.s.suaged. And preferably, it will appear in print so that the world might applaud."

Holmes gave a mild snort. "Ah, Watson, you know me too well. However, it is not hat lint today, but the ribbon pinned on his lapel that interests me."

"It is red. What does that signify?"

Holmes leaned in, lowering his voice. Their table was in the alcove of the window and away from the other diners, but caution was prudent. "The Scarlet King. The man is a government official, and a highly placed one, judging by the cut of his suit. Only someone who can afford a Bond Street tailor will wear such as that. I've seen these ribbons popping up recently and made inquiries. My brother, Mycroft, tells me they're a mark of allegiance to a member of the Steam Council. This one is red, ergo Scarlet."

"Why is that significant?" Watson wanted to know. "Merchants have always painted their doors with the color of whatever steam baron is their patron. The gaslight globes are colored depending upon the utility company that supplies them. Is this any different?"

"It appears that the steam barons are forming political cabals. Steam barons in Parliament-and therefore with the ability to create law-would be allowing the fox free access to the chickens."

"Can the queen or prime minister do anything to stop it?"

Holmes gave one of his lightning smiles, there and gone again in a blink. "I have it on very good authority that Keating Utility holds mortgages on every one of the prime minister's properties. There will be no help from him."

Watson pushed away his coffee cup, no longer interested in food. "And the queen?"

"The Steam Council has a long history, dating back to the 1770s and the colonial rebellion. At first, they were no more than a club of like-minded industrialists. Then they grew ambitious. The first time they proved a real threat was just after the Great Exhibition in 1851. I think seeing their inventions in the Crystal Palace went to their heads, but Prince Albert sorted them out quickly enough that time. The council was sufficiently repressed that it has taken over thirty years to rebuild its influence. Unfortunately, Queen Victoria is not in such a strong position now."

Since the 1850s were before his time, Watson took the history lesson as given-but he wasn't so sure about Holmes's last remark. "Why can't she simply declare them null and void?"