Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Hunger nagged at her, reminding Evelina that she’d drained her power. And it wasn’t just hunger for food, but for darker things. She shoved it down, cursing Magnus for burdening her with the need. Death in battle had been too good an end for him.

She reached the bench by the library, the cold feeling more like November than September. Nevertheless, she sat down on the wooden seat, scanning the quadrangle. There were people hurrying between buildings, but their heads were down against the wind. No one was looking her way. She twisted around. Behind the ornate black iron frame of the bench, there was a gap in the mortar of the library wall. Between two of the smooth gray stones, she could just make out a corner of paper. She slipped off her glove for a better grip and tugged. The bundle of pages was fat and didn’t want to move. Dr. Watson must have wedged it in with force. Swearing under her breath, Evelina turned back to the quadrangle, taking another look around. A knot of students was coming her way. She tugged again, and the paper tore.

The other girls were too close now. Evelina dropped her glove, giving herself an excuse to fumble about for it until they had gone. Then she turned, jammed her fingers into the crack, and pulled out the packet with no regard for skin or the condition of her fingernails. She slipped the pages into her pocket and started back for her rooms in a better mood than she had been in all day.

It lasted until she opened the packet and started to read.

London, September 24, 1889

DIOGENES CLUB

3:30 p.m. Tuesday

SHERLOCK HOLMES ENTERED THE DIOGENES CLUB—AN INSTITUTION well known as a haven for misanthropes. Feeling as he did—nervous, headachy, and with his stomach in a roil—it was a comforting venue. It was the next best thing to a desert isle. Members were not permitted to acknowledge one another, much less talk. After three infractions of this rule, even an excess of coughing could result in expulsion.

But behind this curmudgeonly facade, the club was the unofficial headquarters of the wealthier members of the Baskerville rebellion. That, and a measure of fraternal curiosity, was what had brought him there that day.

Holmes was immediately shown to the Stranger’s Room, the only place visitors and conversation were allowed. The space was pleasant, with green walls and potted palms lending a vaguely tropical air.

The footman who had shown him in still hovered uncertainly at the door. Holmes gave another peremptory flick of his fingers, and finally the man bowed and left. As his footsteps faded, the only sound that remained in the club was the clop-clop of horses along the street below. The detective set his hat and stick aside and subsided into one of the armchairs. The breeze slouching in through the sash windows was unseasonably cool, carrying the scent of the Thames the way some men carried a libertine past.

His stomach, already unsettled, raised a protest. Damnation . Whatever Watson was dosing him with was only slightly less obnoxious than no medical treatment at all. Holmes stood to close the window, every fiber of his being protesting the motion. He sat down again, this time without his usual grace. A light sweat dewed his forehead, but he didn’t permit the moment of weakness to last.

What sort of a pathetic creature are you? Irritation stiffened his posture, and he snapped his cuffs straight. Holmes had his own way of dealing with his chemical habits, and that was simply ignoring any discomfort that arose whenever he chose to lay his syringe aside for a while. Bad habits had to be treated sternly. It was a question of fortitude.

Never mind that he felt like something scraped out from under the shoe of a hackney driver’s nag. Maybe Watson’s cures weren’t such a misbegotten idea after all.

He pulled out his watch, checked the time, and replaced it in the pocket of his waistcoat. His brother, punctual to a fault, would arrive in precisely one minute. Holmes wiped his upper lip, forcing his mind on something—anything—besides his own discomfort. Outside, he watched a flock of police constables—City of Westminster and Scotland Yard both—hurry by. The attack on the Clock Tower had garnered one positive result: London’s two police forces might still be incompetent, but at least they were for once united.

The door opened and Mycroft strode in, his size making the floorboards creak. He was every bit as tall as Holmes and built like a bear. With a huff of exasperation, he stopped a dozen feet away and gave Sherlock the full benefit of his ice-gray stare. “Are you in your right mind?”

Holmes leaned back, familiar irritation sparking along his abused nerves. “Do you mean that philosophically or medically? If the latter, I suggest you speak to Watson. He has a better grasp of the diagnostic arts.”

Mycroft pulled a chair close and sat near enough that he could keep his voice just above a whisper. “I mean pharmacologically. You look like someone just dug you out of one of the Highgate mausoleums.”

Holmes considered a moment, and decided with satisfaction that his horseshoe comparison was more creative. Sadly, Mycroft was prone to favoring the obvious over the poetic. “I assure you I am very much alive.”

“I heard Watson moved back in.”

“His wife died.”

“And he was obliged to clean you up.”

“The man needs a hobby.”

Mycroft’s mouth turned down, the contemptuous frown of the older brother. “Apparently yours involved a syringe. Are you an idiot, with all we have at stake?”

His brother’s words stung deep enough to stir the embers of shame. Holmes could come up with excuses for his lapses, from his failure to save the Ripper’s victims to his inability to protect Evelina from the Gold King. The last year had left his pride in pieces—but failure was not something he could discuss with Mycroft. Instead, Holmes shrugged a shoulder as if he didn’t care. “I don’t adjust well to boredom.”

“How can you be bored? We’re on the cusp of a civil war.”

“I have not been as involved as you are.”

“You can’t be. The Gold King has you under watch.”

“So he does.” Holmes steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Everywhere I go I trip over the Gold King’s men; it has impacted the efficacy of my work. And I am not the only victim of their influence. Crime used to be a relatively wholesome affair, fueled by anger, avarice, and lust. Now it is all political maneuvering with all the passion of a tuppenny whore. Our criminal class has lost its verve.”

Mycroft’s frown wavered into amusement. “I would never have put you down as a traditionalist.”

“I have a positive nostalgia for an everyday art thief. At least they were stealing something worth having.”

“Is rulership of the Empire such a poor prize?”

Holmes fell silent, wondering where to take the conversation. The Diogenes Club and the rebellion shared a founder in Mycroft Holmes—a supreme civil servant who acted as an informational repository in official government affairs. Unofficially, he had designed the shadow government meant to take over when the Baskervilles succeeded. He claimed to have orchestrated the new regime for sport, but Holmes had long doubted that was true. To begin with, his brother was far too invested for someone conducting a recreational exercise. Could it be that my brother has at last discovered the vice of ambition?

Even that much thinking made his head hurt worse, so Holmes got straight to the point. “The last I saw of you, you had broken free of Keating’s prison and were about to make for Scotland on the Red Jack .”

Mycroft’s gaze slid away. “You’re wondering why I came back to London.”