Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Anna was wearing identical clothes, with the very same smudges and tears in the hem. Revulsion reared up inside Imogen, almost masking her fear. “Can’t you even get your own dress?”

“But I want to be you.” The tone was soggy with mockery.

With a stifled gasp, Imogen began walking across the beam, knowing she was risking too much but needing distance between them. Anna had been a bully as a child and she didn’t expect anything different now.

“You’re still alive,” Anna said matter-of-factly. “I can’t take your body until you give it up. The sooner you do, the sooner this ends.”

Imogen quickened her pace, nearly breaking into a run. When she got to the other side of the gap, she finally allowed herself to turn. She put one hand on the thick chain that hung down from the upper levels, feeling better with something solid in her hand. “It’s an obvious question, but I have to ask: What makes you think I’ll give anything up to you?”

“You will. You always do.” Anna smiled with lips identical to Imogen’s own, but the effect was chilling.

A cold claw of terror struck deep into Imogen, but she refused it. “Bollocks to that, Annie. We’re not in the nursery anymore.”

“No, we aren’t. There’s no one here to stop me.”

That was all too true. Evelina had tried to reach Imogen twice, and had failed both times. Who else even had a chance? The thought made Imogen quail, but she grabbed at the chain anyhow, fighting down the knot of fear clogging her throat. Nerves made her fumble the chain before she caught it again and started to climb, her shoes poor protection against the heavy links of brass. She struggled up, hand and foot, hand and foot, in a ridiculous scramble that was no escape at all.

Anna stood below, silently watching with flat, gray eyes.

London, September 29, 1889

HILLIARD HOUSE

2:05 p.m. Sunday

POPPY WAS SURE that there was something wrong with the longcase clock on the stairway landing. It was still keeping time, but the tick sounded unwell and it had been making peculiar creaks and clicks, almost as if there were mice inside. She examined it carefully, peering closely for any signs of cracks or rust.

She had to stand on tiptoe. The clock, far taller than Poppy, was made from beautiful rich walnut rubbed to a shining gloss. The top was arched with finials at the corners, giving it the look of ears. There were seven moving dials besides the usual clock face, each with its own measurement of time and weather. The Scorpion followed the Scales across the top of the clock, and the moon phases—currently in a state of one-eyed wakefulness—cycled below.

Most interesting were the coded messages the clock spit out from time to time. Poppy had never cracked the cipher, but she’d heard that Evelina had done it. Her father had concocted it with Dr. Magnus long ago, back when they were still friends. Poppy supposed that being not only evil but dead, the doctor wouldn’t be coming around to make repairs.

“What are you doing?” Tobias asked blandly.

“I’m looking at the clock.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t sound right. Did you ever find out the cipher for the clock’s messages?”

“No, it’s Father’s.”

“But you said once Evelina knew it.”

“Then I suppose Holmes does,” Tobias said, almost to himself.

That was an interesting tidbit. Poppy came down off her toes and then turned to face her brother. He looked like he’d slept badly, and he had the hectic flush of someone running on nerves. She forgot about the clock and decided to worry about him instead.

The bags under his eyes were only the first sign that something was amiss. To everyone’s surprise, he’d suggested the family go to church together. He’d settled down quite a lot since marrying Alice, but Poppy couldn’t ever remember him initiating a Sunday gathering, much less one involving sermons. But they had gone and now Tobias, Alice, and Jeremy were there for a meal. Lady Bancroft was delighted, but Poppy was bemused.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

He gave an uneasy shrug. “Work.”

“Are you still trying to figure out the brass bug?”

“I am,” he said so quickly that she knew there was more. “And right now I’m going with Father to see about a logic processor. One of his cronies has an Italian pleasure craft with a processor that might be the same as the brass bug’s brain.”

“Why does that matter?”

He flashed a smile. “How many personal crafts are there in London, much less Italian ones? It should be fairly easy to trace where it came from.”

With that, he sprang down the steps with more energy than she’d seen from him in months. A few moments later, she heard her mother’s moan of dismay when she heard the menfolk would be late for the meal. Oh well, Tobias needs a victory more than he needs a roast of beef . Mind you, that roast did smell delicious.

Poppy decided there was nothing more that she could do about the clock and drifted downstairs to the drawing rooms. Alice was in the smaller, brighter of the two with Jeremy in her lap. Tobias was there, shrugging into his coat.

Alice gave him an admonishing look. “You shouldn’t be working on a Sunday. You need to rest sometime.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek, but it was a real one, not a quick, formal peck. “I’m not working, I’m looking.”

She gave a huff. “Which means you won’t be fixing, tinkering, or otherwise applying tools to any fabricated surface. I will check your shirt cuffs when you return.”

By way of reply, Tobias poked Jeremy in his round tummy. The baby made a squeak and giggled, his fuzz of ruddy hair floating with the movement.

“I’ll be back in good time to take you home,” Tobias promised his wife.

“You’ll be back sooner than that,” Alice admonished in a gentle tone. “You mother is holding the meal. We poor ladies will be getting nothing but tiny sandwiches until you return.”

“But I have to catch my amateur airman before he flies away for a fortnight.”

Alice clutched his arm in mock distress. “Then hurry. We might starve.”

“I can’t have that. Besides I want some of that sherry trifle. Don’t let Poppy eat it all.”

“What?” Poppy protested.

Tobias raised his eyebrows, lowering his voice to a stage whisper Poppy could hear perfectly well. “It’s the only way Mother lets her drink. It’s sad, watching my little sister squeeze out all the cake to get at the liquor.”

“Get out of here!” Poppy cried with a stamp of her slipper, which made Jeremy squeal in excitement.

Tobias disappeared with a laugh and a swirl of coattails, and Poppy and Alice were left alone. Jeremy, now wide awake, began a quest to grab the shiny brass buttons on Alice’s dress—a task that seemed to also involve much wiggling of feet.

“He’s in a fine mood today,” Poppy said, squeezing a tiny foot just to see him squirm.

“Tobias played with him for hours this morning,” Alice said, struggling to keep hold of her son.

Poppy sat down across from Alice. “Before church? He must have been up early.”

Alice gave up and set the baby on the floor. Jeremy was too young to crawl, but engaged in a determined sort of slither. “I’m lucky to have a husband who can keep our son entertained. I can hardly get a proper cup of tea when it’s the nurse’s day off. Our upstairs maid is a good girl, but not an expert when it comes to babies.”

Poppy didn’t know what to say to that. She was the youngest and hadn’t witnessed child rearing up close. The whole business sounded unforgivably damp. “Good for Tobias.”

“He turned out all right.” Alice gave a small smile that made Poppy’s face heat. “But I do worry about how hard he works. I’m not even sure when he came home last night. Father has him out at all hours.”