The Mysterious Lady Law

By Robert Appleton

In a time of grand airships and steam-powered cars, the death of a penniless young maid will hardly make the front page. But part-time airship waitress and music hall dancer Julia Bairstow is shattered by her sister’s murder. When Lady Law, the most notorious private detective in Britain, offers to investigate the case pro bono, Julia jumps at the chance—even against the advice of Constable Al Grant, who takes her protection surprisingly to heart.

Lady Law puts Scotland Yard to shame. She’s apprehended Jack the Ripper and solved countless other cold-case crimes. No one knows how she does it, but it’s brought her fortune, renown and even a title. But is she really what she claims to be—a genius at deducting? Or is Al right and she is not be trusted?

Julia is determined to find out the truth, even if it means turning sleuth herself—and turning the tables on Lady Law…

Dear Reader,

A new year always brings with it a sense of expectation and promise (and maybe a vague sense of guilt). Expectation because we don’t know what the year will bring exactly, but promise because we always hope it will be good things. The guilt is due to all of the New Year’s resolutions we make with such good intentions.

This year, Carina Press is making a New Year’s resolution we know we won’t have any reason to feel guilty about: we’re going to bring our readers a year of fantastic editorial and diverse genre content. So far, our plans for 2011 include staff and author appearances at reader-focused conferences such as the RT Booklovers Convention in April, where we’ll be offering up goodies, appearing on panels, giving workshops and hosting a few fun activities for readers. We’re also cooking up several genre-specific release weeks, during which we’ll highlight individual genres. So far we have plans for steampunk week and unusual fantasy week. Readers will have access to free reads, discounts, contests and more as part of our week-long promotions!

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For you, Mum.

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

Horace Holly had nowhere to hide. He thumbed his lapels and bowed for the thousands of adoring spectators gathered outside Westminster Abbey. How many of the youngsters even knew who he was? Their fathers and grandfathers might recall, but years had passed since he’d last braved public scrutiny on such a scale. The queen’s New Year’s Honours ceremony was something he’d read about but never imagined he would be invited to—to receive a Knighthood, no less, for “many extraordinary discoveries in exotic lands and gallant dedication to the teaching of young scientists and future explorers.”

Holly chuckled. How squat and unsightly he must appear next to the younger sportsmen, the upstanding war veterans and the distinguished men of science preceding him through the great entrance. He’d never been much to look at—his enormous sideburns, grey concessions to middle age, probably didn’t help matters—but that hadn’t stopped him from enjoying a full, some would say amazing, life. How impressed his fellow honorees must be by all this pomp and majesty. But they had not visited the great Temple of Kor, nor had they seen firsthand the fanatical reverence of the Amahagger for their queen, the great and terrible Ayesha. They had not trekked with Quatermain into the shadows of darkest Africa, discovered tribes never before seen by white men, nor tasted that petrifying fear of being hunted for supper in a hidden jungle.

He waved at a pink-cheeked little girl hoisted high on her father’s shoulders. The butterflies roused in his stomach. Fancy that—despite all he had survived, he was a little nervous, after all. Young Josh, his assistant, had been right. He would buy the lad a beer when he saw him next.

Silence gripped the crowd. For the first time he heard the howl of the wind and, during a lull, the creak and buzz of the airships struggling to maintain their circular flight paths high above the two gothic towers. People stopped waving. Holly glanced behind him. A post chaise halted and a smartly-dressed woman got out. Her face was hidden by the wide-brimmed black-and-white satin touring hat that exaggerated her bow to the crowd. She wore brown leather boots and marched with a schoolmarm attitude. The lady was small but powerful, with a lovely figure. Not altogether popular, though. Four constables escorted her as spectators whom he’d seen clapping and shouting “Huzzah!” now shook angry fists, grimaced and generally harangued this tiny woman. Others blew her kisses and cheered her on. Who was she? What had she done?

Holly was about to protest—a few obscenities were being tossed out from the crowd—when a moustached gentleman, red-faced and in a hurry, said to him, “You’d best get a move on, old boy. That’s Harriet Law. She’s the pox on any public event.”

Ah, so this was she. The infamous private detective who had managed to upstage the police in every investigation she had been hired to solve. Not most, mind, but every single one. Even cases the most seasoned Scotland Yard detectives claimed were unsolvable. Insufficient evidence. Zero leads. Apprehending Jack the Ripper had merely been the first in a series of breathtaking breakthroughs over the past decade. Some believed she was complicit in the crimes themselves, but her alibis always stood up. Others claimed to have spotted her in several places at once, but she laughed that off as celebrity mania. Was she really what she claimed to be—a genius at seeing and deducting things others couldn’t?

Yet what did any of that matter? Harriet Law had stepped in and not only caught the villains, but recorded her entire investigations, in dazzling detail, in the most controversial book of the last decade. The title of her recent memoirs, The Miraculous Case Files of Harriet Law, was now to be amended by her publisher, as per her official title after today’s honour, to The Miraculous Case Files of Lady Law.

Holly admired the fresh-faced, brazen young woman who, knowing she was likely to be received hostilely, had marched straight through the crowd for her prize. Very admirable. Something he and his old friend Leo Vincey might have done—to hell with the fickle public!

He picked up his pace. The Queen’s Grenadier Guards at the main entrance looked ornamental in their scarlet tunics and bearskin hats. Though the ceremony was ordinarily held at Buckingham Palace, much of that was still being rebuilt following the infamous airship crash last year. This venue was no poor substitute. On either side of the single aisle, ranks of opposing pews appeared almost full, though he couldn’t find young Josh in the section reserved for the honorees’ guests. The lad was generally about as punctual as a shooting star, but he’d practically begged Holly for this invitation. Disappointed, Holly lowered his gaze. He had no family and Josh was the closest to a comrade he’d had since he’d left poor Leo Vincey to his fate in Kor.

So much for that beer, then.

Enormous archways heaped medieval might upon the congregation. At the far end of the church, ornate stained glass windows towered to the rafters. Everyone remained still, their voices never rising above a whisper. That was…until she entered.

Holly groaned when he reached his seat in the second pew and heard the disgruntled swell following him. Queen Victoria had not yet arrived. So the hullabaloo could only be about her, the darnedest woman in London, who had already upstaged every single person in Westminster before a single honour had been bestowed. This was getting silly. Who cared if people didn’t understand her methods? Who cared if they objected to her feminist attitude, her unwholesome social life, or her flagrant disregard for public opinion? She put villains away, for Christ’s sake! The ends had to justify the means. The rest was gossip and innuendo not worthy of such a hallowed church.

He offered her a friendly smile when she reached his side. Ms. Law would have one friend, at least. Her big, intense hazel eyes struck him still, then she smiled back at him. Holly gawped at the freshest, prettiest creature he’d seen in years, not to mention the most brilliant.

A booming voice announced, “All rise for Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria…”

As he stood, Holly imagined the words, ‘…and the accused, Ms. Harriet Law.’

The ceremony passed pleasantly enough. Clapping, bowing, names he’d never heard before and would not remember, more clapping, more names, more clapping and even a few tears here and there. Queen Victoria handed out the medals, ribbons and quiet praise with her customary poise. She even winked at Holly as she touched his shoulder with her sword—he had regaled her more than once at the dinner table with tales of his exploits. For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt an aching sadness mixed with the pride. It was as if these were the closing chapters of his adventures, written publicly, from which he would not emerge.

“Congratulations, Sir Horace,” Harriet Law whispered in his ear as he returned to his seat.

“Thank you. Most kind. And to you, miss.”

The booming voice announced her name and she rose with that same nonchalance, a centred grace that had immunised her from the volatile crowd outside. She swept into the aisle, hiking her skirt over an obstacle someone had left on the floor. This drew gasps from those nearby, recipients of a glimpse of her shapely white legs. Holly cleared his throat and straightened his bowtie.

Now she had given them something to gossip about!

Out of the corner of his eye, Holly glimpsed a reddish flash behind Ms. Law, a few rows away. Bizarrely, someone else had left their seat to approach the steps to the throne. A well-dressed man. Broad-shouldered, with a misshapen prizefighter’s nose, he looked to be in his early twenties, around Josh’s age. But what was that…?

In his right hand, a copper steam-pistol.

An assassin!

“Watch out, miss!” Holly yelled, darting from his seat. The man saw him and bared his teeth. He bolted for Harriet Law, his copper weapon at the ready. Holly hurdled over the knees of the last two people in his row, tripped on the edge of the pew and crashed into the attacker’s legs, bowling him over. A ferocious scramble ensued. They smashed heads while fighting tooth and nail for the pistol. Holly thrust his huge right arm around the man’s neck. Try as he might, he couldn’t equal his opponent’s powerful grip on the gun. Holly had been incredibly strong once, but now the energy sank from his muscles, the weight of concrete set in its place. Just a matter of time. Another man tried to intervene but received a kick to the groin instead. Holly spat through clenched teeth, his hold lessening with each snatched breath. Not like this, you bastard…

He lost the struggle and the assassin launched an elbow into Holly’s ribs. Christ, that hurt. But the cry of agony that hurtled round Westminster Abbey was not Holly’s. He rolled, scrambled away and tried to gain a standing foot in that same motion. He overbalanced against the hard wood of a nearby pew, cracking his shoulder. Screams and the clattering of feet erupted all around the church. Through a tightening circle of red tunics he glimpsed a shiny two-foot-long blade. It had been thrust into the assassin’s chest. Its owner—Harriet Law—refused to let go. She remained bent over the man’s body, watching him die, one high-heeled leather boot pinning down his shoulder. In her left hand she clutched the hollow shaft of a parasol, from which she had unsheathed her surreptitious sword.

He heard many voices address him but he couldn’t discern the words. Minutes passed. He sat alone and gathered himself. Queen Victoria was long gone. When the chaos died down, a soft whisper in his ear brought him to. “I am in your debt, Sir Horace. I can never thank you enough.”

“Are you well, miss?”

“Fine,” she replied. “I believe you performed the heroics this time.”

This time? She was as beautiful as ever, but now he perceived the ice in her cool aspect, for after so shocking an episode, no man would be this unaffected, let alone a woman. What gave her such steel?

“I hope you will attend the conclusion of our ceremony, whenever that may be,” she added.

“I’ll…I will certainly try.”

“Well, thank you again.” She shook his hand, her intense gaze searing him.

“You’re very welcome, Miss—”

“Harriet. Please call me Harriet. I’ve had enough pomp for one day. And now—” she straightened her hat and turned to leave, “—it’s time to disappoint the mob.”

Chapter Two

Later that evening…

The dank smog dampened Julia’s already dismal mood. It was thicker than the gallery haze she’d stared up at all evening from her chorus line. At least there had been elegance in that svelte mist of pipe and cigar smoke. Wealthy eyes had coveted her and opportunity nested in the hearts of those anonymous patrons. Sooner or later one of them would be standing outside the theatre, top hat doffed, and would ask her out to dinner. It had happened to half a dozen girls in the show over the last couple of years. Where were those girls now? Certainly not working the music hall, kicking their legs up for a pittance night after night, that was for sure. Susie Gaskell had eloped with her Prince Charming within a couple of weeks of his grand backstage entrance—five bouquets and a debonair-as-deuce invitation to Cleopatra’s ballroom restaurant. Nonie Maguire’s beau had snagged her for much less with a New Year’s Eve promenade walk, but he was flat-out gorgeous. Then there was Bernice Lowe, Edie Carmichael, the big-breasted girl—Laura something…

She glanced down at the shape of her own meagre bosom and shook her head. Maybe that was the reason she had so few discerning admirers. Or perhaps men didn’t care for the odd combination of her coal-black hair and turquoise eyes, traits from her mother’s Polish ancestry.

Her best friend Mariah was a traditional English beauty—brunette locks, winsome brown eyes, full figure—and she had shocked the entire chorus line tonight by announcing her engagement to a mystery beau, a young steamship officer whom she’d apparently been seeing for over a year without letting on to anyone, Julia included. Talk about fancy footwork! It was her last night as a dancer, as Mr. Sea Legs had vowed to make Ms. Hot Legs a respectable navy wife in his Portsmouth home. Good luck there, chum.

But no luck for old Julia, left to walk home alone…yet again.

A steam-powered automobile spluttered by, its brass frame rattling down the cobblestone lane in front of The Swan’s marquee entrance. Julia glanced up the pavement. Her heart ached, then settled with that familiar, dampening malaise. Where was her man? The one she danced for every night and waited tables for on one of the grandest airships in London, with nary an afternoon to herself. The one she saw inside every lean silhouette, every accoutred carriage and the one she heard behind the hundred velvet voices wrapping her in shallow panache. He had to exist somewhere…

What she wouldn’t do for a bouquet of pink roses right now.

She tripped on the kerb and had to steady herself on the slick red postbox. Her left boot heel had broken. Marvellous. Another part of her life falling apart. The overgrown path between the post office and the ironmonger’s back fence was pitch-black. Probably muddy as heck after the evening’s rainfall. Beyond, white steam columned up from the arterial brass pipeline joining two aeronautics compounds. Decaux’s dirigible factories. As a girl, Julia had spent hours balancing barefoot on the brass pipe. Her younger sister Georgy had made them picnics to bring in the dead of winter, when sitting on that ever-warm piping would make it feel like summer. Of course, it would also turn chilled lemonade into undrinkable warm swill and something in the sickly steam fumes would mix with the winter air to give them sore throats and make them feel dizzy. But the pipe held many happy memories.

The urge to indulge one of those old reckless impulses left her feeling giddy. After negotiating the muddy path, she took off her boots and stockings, pulled her skirt and petticoats up by their flounces and leapt onto the brass cylinder. Its three-foot height had once seemed gargantuan. The warmth fizzed up through her and she shivered with delight. So this was what nostalgia felt like…anchorless, sublime, a tightrope walk over the past with no danger of falling. Her leg-of-mutton sleeves seemed to give her extra buoyancy as she held her arms out for balance. A boot in each hand, she walked the pipe with a grin on her face so wide the warm air tickled her gums.

“Oi, what you doin’?”

The bellowing voice startled her. Was it a security guard? The foreman working late? Lights flickered on in the gunmetal iron factory to her right. She leapt down from the pipe. After weighing her escape routes—back the way she came or deeper into the woods—Julia decided to brave the river path she hadn’t traversed in years. A pang of regret at having to cut short her adventure almost dispelled the magic. She lifted her skirts again and ran. Downhill and overgrown, the path kicked her into a reckless, exhilarating sprint lit by roving factory spotlights and moonlight jittering through evergreen treetops. Was anyone following her? Her foot sank into a freezing puddle. Laughing hard, she put her boots back on and kept to the soggy grass bank between path and trickling river.

Around fifteen minutes later, she stumbled onto lamp-lit Terry Street, a couple of hundred yards from her house. It had been an insane impromptu shortcut and the well-kept backstreets and lighting in the real world suddenly made her detour seem even more special, fantastical.

“All I need now is a posset, like Mother used to make,” she mumbled at the end of the row that led round to The Spinning Jenny pub. It was almost last orders according to the mechanized timepiece encased over the bar inside. Julia had never gotten home from The Swan as quickly without taking a hack. She bunched her shawl about her neck and delighted in the squelch her sodden boots made on the concrete.

Less than a mile away on the bank of the Thames, the Leviacrum’s enormous copper cylinder glinted back at her above the whorl-tipped hills of industrial smog. The vast, phallic telescope protruded from its roof. This headquarters of all scientific learning was one of the tallest buildings in London, thousands of feet high, and seemed to get taller every time she looked. These days, she rarely saw much else of London through the smog. She barely made out the docked airships’ bulbous silhouettes along the river and the tops of their grey metal elevator scaffolds, over a hundred feet high. They reminded her of work tomorrow morning and her second job as a dining room waitress-cum-hostess, a sky-hop.

A muddy flyer in the gutter advertising Great British Airships made her sigh. Its slogan had become the current Steam Age motto and appeared all across London. Ambition Soars. The World Is Yours.

“Pull the other one, eh, Purdy?” she said, stroking the next-door neighbour’s cat on her front step. She jiggled her key inside the lock. Georgy had promised to send for the locksmith…about five months ago. A perennial head-in-the-clouds, if Georgy spent half as much time seeing to their home as she did dangling beaus coquettishly on her every word and whim, 87 Freeborn Avenue would be a palace fit for Queen Victoria.

Inside stank of fresh mackerel and cheap perfume. Julia pinched her nose and shouted, “Disgusting, Georgy. If I had your sense of smell, I’d never leave the sty.” No answer, but Georgy’s corset and bustle lay over the back of her frayed cotton armchair, and the kitchen lamp was on. Julia slumped onto the couch. “Who stood who up? Paul, was it? Or Rupert? I forget. They’re all equally as doomed to torment. Georgy? I take it from your silence it didn’t end well. What did he say?” Still no reply. “Oh, come now, don’t tell me you were stood up.”

Julia’s fleeting satisfaction reminded her of that new word Mariah had come out with earlier. Her fiancé had taught it to her and it had repulsed everyone backstage. Schadenfreude. Feeling pleasure at someone else’s misfortune. She cringed at how despicable that made her. Georgy’s continued silence made her feel even more rotten.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle…It’s been a long day and I’m a tad cranky. Hey, did you ever make one of those possets, you know like Mother used to make us? I could rustle us up a couple if you want. I think I remember the recipe. Give me a hand?”

A very low crackle drifted in from the kitchen. Had the radio receiver broken?

She coughed and decided to get a glass of water. Still the receiver crackled. She glanced around the kitchen fully expecting to see Georgy propped on a stool against the worktop, reading one of her fashion magazines.

Not tonight. She must have gone to bed already, perhaps sozzled after one too many brandies to drown her sorrows.

Julia remembered the posset. Did they even have those same ingredients Mother used to use? Hot milk, cream and sugar, juice from two lemons, a dash of brandy? Would it taste the same with different brands? Maybe it was wiser just to make a hot chocolate instead.

She tripped…

Crack…slap!

Her shoulder smashed against the worktop and the palm of her right hand hit with full force on the tiled floor. Her fingertips smarted. A throbbing pain mushroomed up her neck as her head pulsed back to full awareness.

Georgy?

A pallid, tangled thing lay in a wedge under the table—blond locks and frothy layers of red-smeared undergarments folded up like vinegar-hardened cabbage. Legs outstretched, the stockings torn. One arm bent to an unnatural degree under the heap, the other covering a white face matted with bloody blond hair petrified to straw. It was a sight so alien, a thing so out of place, Julia muttered, “Georgy,” but could not join the image with the name. She sat and stared. The radio receiver crackled above, the odd distorted syllable escaping through a ceiling of flat nebulousness.

She kept hearing the word posset, but it was not Georgy’s voice.

The curtain over the sink had not been fully closed. One side gaped a few inches and for the briefest moment a person appeared in the back yard. The silhouette of a thin man dressed all in black. He appeared to be…peering in?

She saw his gloves and flat cap clearly, but she could not move, not even to remove her foot from the pool of blood.

Then came a knock at the door.

Chapter Three

“Hello? Georgina, are you at home? Miss Julia? Is anyone there?” The man’s voice blared through the flap of the letter box and around the house like a foghorn. She vaguely recognized its cocksure tones.

“It’s Rupert,” he went on, losing patience. “I say, it doesn’t do to leave a fellow cooling his heels without some sort of explanation. Georgina, I know you’re in there. I see the lights. Let me in, darling. Whatever’s the matter? Well, I shan’t go until you at least answer.”

That last word pricked Julia’s heart—‘answer’—something her sister might never, would never do again. No more Georgy? Enough blood had pooled about her twisted body to steal life from a man twice her size, and now she, or what she had lately been, had to be someplace else. Not here in the kitchen.

No, not here. Not ever again.

She heard the squeaking hinge of the letter box, the spittle of radio static, Rupert’s insistent voice, “This is getting beyond the pale. Should I be worried?”

In her mind, her mother’s calmest words rang, “How about I fix you both up a nice warm posset?”

Her stomach churned and squeezed upward, trying to spit the night’s sickening events out in a single horrific retch. She coughed and held her throat, then pressed a palm to her burning chest as the final realisation struck home.

She screamed until her larynx burned.

Thud, thud, crash!

Rupert burst in. Bracing himself against the kitchen door frame, his mouth agape beneath an impeccably waxed and trimmed black moustache, he blinked down at Georgy’s body. He wiped his mouth with a trembling shirt cuff. “Jesus. God Almighty. Oh Lord, what has she done?”

A lucid moment, as if beckoned in protest by her sister, roused Julia between heavy shakes. “What do you mean—‘what has she done?’” Rupert pivoted his head toward her, terror filling his gaze “Georgy never did anything to anyone,” she added, “so you can just shut your goddamn mouth!”

Barely acknowledging her, Rupert turned and staggered out. A chill draught tickled a few folds of Georgy’s ripped undergarments over her thigh. Julia grimaced and got up, skirted around the body and made straight for her place on the couch in the living room. Freezing air poured in through the smashed front door. She tucked herself into a ball and shivered. She reached for the old feather cushion and held it tightly between her knees, imagining the warm brass pipe she’d traversed barefoot that evening and the faint outlines of well-dressed Swan patrons high up in the gallery, admiring her dancing, wondering who she was and when she would be free, before plucking up the courage to ask her to dinner. She vaguely remembered it all happening…

Perhaps in a previous life, when it hadn’t been so cold.

The police arrived an hour later with a thousand questions and endless note-taking. The portly detective in charge muttered constant asides into his clockwork brass dicta-tape. The house had never been as busy, not even during Father’s union powwows on bank holidays. Every bobby in uniform offered her reassurance—“Don’t you worry, miss, it’s all over now—If there’s anything we can do—We’ll do everything we possibly can to catch whoever did this—You’re safe now, Miss…Barlow was it? Bairstow, I’m terribly sorry.”

But she felt neither safe nor at risk. Merely pending. Flanked by constables sitting on either side, Julia sank back into the soft couch and let her heavy eyelids close.

“There goes another investigation,” groaned a youngish-sounding man near the door. Julia kept her eyes shut and tried to imagine him—fresh-faced, slim, with striking blue-grey eyes and pianist fingers. A rogue in choirboy guise.

“I beg your pardon, Grant. This ain’t no public house. Kindly keep those impertinences under wraps.” Inspector Statham’s rebuke silenced the circus, at least for a moment.

“No disrespect, sir, but this is precisely why we end up kowtowing to Harriet Law more than we should. This whole area is a crime scene, not just the spot where the body was found. Lady Law’s case files have taught us that much. Check all the rooms, wake up all the neighbours, scour every last inch for boot marks, hair fibres, fingerprints. We’ve been embarrassed far too often recently, don’t you agree, sir?”

“Most emphatically not,” argued the inspector. “And anyway, all that is being taken care of. We have photographed the house, and…” he said in a lowered voice, “a postmortem examination will be more than sufficient after I am done here. Harriet Law be damned.”

“Indeed, sir. I was just concerned about all the thoroughfare passing through here. It rather muddies the evidence. But I’m sure you’ll need no help, sir. Might I offer to escort Miss Bairstow somewhere a little quieter, until this is all over?”

Julia opened her eyes in time to see the young constable approach her. She cleared her throat ready to answer him before he even spoke, so eager was she to get away from all the comings and goings, the questions—God, those endless questions. Rupert had done the smart thing and gone home after fetching the police. Now that Georgy’s body had been taken, Julia felt like a pariah in her own house.

“Miss Bairstow, if you’d like, we have a rather cosy rest area at the station. I can get the kitchen staff to rustle you up a snack and you’re welcome to all the quiet time you need. In the meantime, I will do my best to find you a guesthouse for the night.” He was older than she’d imagined—possibly thirty-five—and a stocky five foot six, with dark hair combed to a neat parting, eager brown eyes, and a kind face that she hadn’t expected. “Thank you, constable. That would be nice.”

He offered her his hand. How pleasant. And his courteous smile reassured her more than all the official platitudes she’d endured over the past few hours. Now she could look forward to a bit of calm—time to collect herself before she would have to come to terms with all this and…no, looking ahead never availed anyone of anything.

It was still dark outside when he helped her up onto the driver’s seat of his horse-drawn police carriage. He gave her a blue woolen blanket to keep her warm. It was big enough to wrap around her twice. During the half mile downhill trot to the station they passed three or four steam-chugging automobiles, one little Scottish terrier chasing its tail, and a shady fellow in a crooked top hat, whose fidgety behaviour started and ended with flickers of lamplight from a terrace window opposite, undoubtedly signals from a brother burglar. Grant whispered, “It’s quite alright, miss. One of the lads noticed them earlier. They’ll have a nasty surprise when they make a move. We have two men waiting front and back.”

“Good.”

“That’s us, miss. Early birds all through the night. Always on the watch. Always there when you need us.”

“Not always, constable.”

No response.

It was one thing for a policeman to criticise his colleagues’ shortcomings tonight and quite another for him to boast on their behalf. “I won’t be needing anything to eat,” she said, remembering his offer. “I may ask for a mug of hot chocolate, though. Do you have that there? You should have that there. That would be pleasant.”

“I’ll ask the night staff, miss.”

“Very kind.”

He briefly placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. The gesture took her by surprise, and eased through her toughest defences. Its gentleness spoke of a night that was, not the one she was stubbornly clinging to. Georgy had never hidden from emotion in her life. She would have said, “People in denial are acting the goat. It’s like picking your own pocket. Face facts, Jules, you’re not on stage. There are no encores for us now, no curtain calls in an empty theatre. There you go, just let it out.” Julia buried her face in the blanket and, in the muffled clickety-clop of hooves and wheels on cobblestone, gave in to bitter sobs.

“I’d lend you my handkerchief if I had one,” Georgy might have said.

He touched her shoulder again, but this time his hand trembled. His eyes were glazed as he glanced at her and then looked away, as if he had personal knowledge of this kind of pain. What had happened to him? She held his hand against her shoulder and hoped it wouldn’t leave.

***

Brrrrrring, brrrrrring…

Holly woke and lifted his head with a start. How long had the telephone been ringing? After the ceremony he’d drifted to sleep at his writing desk again and a sheet of paper, damp with saliva, had stuck to his face. He ripped it free and reached across the desk, knocking a tube of pencils and his brass telescopic hunting goggles onto the carpet.

“Goddamn it. I’m awake already.” He picked up the receiver. “Holly. Who is this?”

“Professor Holly, it’s Josh Cavendish. I need your help!”

“Eh?” It had to be something serious. Young Josh, his protégé, was a private lad, very discreet and one of the most promising young physicists in London. He had never disturbed Holly so late before, nor had he ever sounded so panicked.

“Sir, I don’t have much time. This is a public phone. I think I’m being followed. Oh God, he’s here. Before he sees me…please, Professor, in about twenty seconds I’m going to have to make a run for it…you have do something for me.”

Holly wanted to say, “Slow down, son. Give it to me from the top,” but time was against him. His forefinger squeaked across the brass receiver. “What is it, boy?” he urged.

“I saw an astounding thing, Professor. Something I can’t explain. I dare say it could change science forever. But whoever is behind it doesn’t want the world to know. God, he’s here! Go to 87 Freeborn Avenue and look after Georgina for me. In case I don’t make it, she’ll know where to send you. Please…Ah, hell. Goodbye, Professor.”

“Josh? Hello, Josh?”

Silence.

Lamplight illuminated one quarter of his study. In the surrounding shadows, mystery reigned. What had the youngster gotten himself into? What had he seen? Something astounding? Scientific? Deadly? All of the above? Was this the reason he’d missed the ceremony?

Holly dashed into the hallway and grabbed his boots, coat and hat. He repeated the name and address aloud, over and over, “Georgina, 87 Freeborn Avenue.” Who was she? Josh’s girl? He hadn’t let on that he had one. Not that Holly would expect him to. The lad was as reserved as they came, but damn good in the field, in a tricky spot. Their last African expedition had proved that. He had accompanied Holly on a field trip to Sossusvlei, Namibia, in search of the rare Scimitar Oryx. One evening en route, Josh had managed to pip a charging rogue lion in their camp when everyone else had either frozen or run, Holly included.

Once upon a time, Horace Holly would have felled any dangerous animal, of any size and with any rifle. But killing one’s own nephew, accidentally or no, tended to shake a man’s marksmanship to the core. He shuddered at the bitter memory—little Stuart’s fifteen-year-old, khaki-clad frame dashing across his line of fire on the hazy savannah; the world-ending retort; the horror zapping from Holly’s trigger finger straight through his brass goggles to his heart; the tiny spray of blood; the puff of dust enveloping his crumpled nephew.

He’d sworn never to fire a weapon again and had kept that vow.

But Josh was in trouble. He’d have to do whatever it took, including…No, anything but that. He ran back into his study and rummaged around in his stationery drawer for the key to his display cabinet. Where was the damn thing? There! No, he’d picked up an old spanner head.

“Sod this.” He grabbed his Cambridge cricket bat and swung at the glass case. It smashed. He snatched his six-inch hunting knife, still in its leather sheath, from beneath the shards, then ran out, crashed the door shut behind him.

The street was empty. Freeborn Avenue was less than half a mile away.

“Be at home, Georgina,” he urged, “whoever you are.”

One week later…

“Miss Bairstow, I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Grant bowed his head a little and hunched his shoulders as he stood at the doorway to her hotel room. “May I come in?”

Julia opened the door and attempted to smile.

“You might prefer to sit down,” he added, “before I explain the details of our investigation.”

“Please proceed.” She had no intention of sitting. The weeklong wait for this news had been an ordeal. Grant had been kind enough to attend Georgy’s funeral and Julia would never forget that. He’d also updated her as often as he could, but, being only a senior constable, he had had to wait until the inspector in charge had fed him that information. Her sedentary few days now had a solid ending, at least.

“Well I shan’t beat about the bush, Miss Bairstow.”

“Julia. Please.”

“My apologies. Julia.” His eyes narrowed, heavy under a wrinkled, officious brow. “It’s just that Inspector Statham told me I should feed you some cock and bull story about following up leads and collating evidence…you know, to make you think we’re making headway.” His fingertips played a nervous melody on the brim of the hat he held at his waist. “But the truth is—”

“You’re getting nowhere?”

“I’m afraid not. Whoever killed your sister managed to get in without breaking a single lock or window, left no fingerprints and escaped without being seen or heard by anyone. Your sister must have put up quite a struggle, though. We found broken crockery on the floor, dents and scuff marks on the cupboards and traces of her hair were found all over the kitchen. Our best guess is she opened the front door to someone who then fought his way in—you don’t have a chain—”

“We never got around to paying a locksmith.”

“I doubt if that would have stopped him at any cost. Georgina tried to escape the back way and that’s where the real struggle took place. Like I said, she fought bravely but the intruder knew what he was doing. Her knife wounds suggest this person had killed before.”

“How so?” She kept her focus on his cool performance, his masculine, understated body language—he stood solidly and averted his eyes only at the most grisly words. Watching him helped deflect from the awful images her mind played out in sickening detail, over and over until she saw exactly how her sister was murdered.

“You really oughtn’t hear the details, Julia.”

“Georgy would want me to know.”

“Very well.” He shifted his weight. His cheek muscle twitched and his eyes filled with pity. “The killer first stabbed her upward between her ribs, which is a fatal wound but not necessarily one an amateur killer would attempt. It was very clean. Then he slit her throat with a single, again very clean, wound.”

Julia felt her eyes darting, desperate to escape the imagery. The scene was closer than it had been even two feet away in the flesh. She clamped her hand over her mouth and turned from Grant. She shut her eyes tight. Someone had planned to end Georgy’s life. What sense did that make? What had she ever done to anyone? A part-time maid and nanny for the well-to-do over on Bond Street and Challenger Row? She would have been twenty-six next birthday. She loved big dogs and adventurous men.

Julia snatched up the brass clock from her bedside table. With a furious scream, she smashed it into a hundred pieces on the wall over her bed. When she looked down, sharp fragments had transformed the comfortable quilt into a surface she daren’t touch.

“Julia, I don’t want you to hear any more.” His gentle hands settled on both her shoulders this time. She flinched.

“It’s quite all right, Constable Grant. I’ve heard enough.” She paused, remembering Georgy’s disdain for propriety. What would she do in a situation like this? Certainly not stand back and hide under a veil. “Grant, what’s your first name?”

“Um, Aloysius.”

Glowing with her sister’s fire, Julia turned—how splendidly handsome he was, the type of man she and Georgy would have squabbled over in an effort to decide who saw him first—and kissed him on the cheek. No reaction at first. She expected him to recoil but instead he stared down at his feet, apparently perceiving her advance as a grief-addled impulse to be pitied, not acknowledged.

But then he looked up and offered her his arm, tears streaming down his face.

Chapter Four

“Walk with me?” Grant had already reached for the doorknob.

Julia plucked her yellow hat from the stand. “Of course. Let us get some fresh air.”

No sooner had she turned the key behind them when Grant let go of her arm to roughly wipe the tears from his face with both hands. He’d heard someone climbing the stairs. Very acute hearing, Julia decided, as she had to hold her breath to discern the faint creaking steps—perhaps two flights below…or three. No, a few moments later there appeared a decorative royal boater with a black feather plume. Next, the woman’s slender shoulders appeared, elegantly clad in a beige leather jacket that lay open at the front and barely reached the lady’s waist. She wore a smart Parisian lace blouse, a full-length black skirt with scarlet trim and pointy brown leather boots with stout high heels. It was a unique and stylish ensemble that screamed ‘more privileged than you’.

“Mr. Grant, is it? How nice to see you again.”

“Lady Law?”

“I did not know you had joined the force, sir.”

Awestruck, Julia curtsied before Grant had a chance to introduce her. And just like that, the most famous woman in Europe was standing before her, giving her—Julia Bairstow—a nod. No more than five foot two, Lady Law, even at first glance, was a mass of contradictions. Her sweet porcelain face would have melted butter, but her eyes—Lord, those big, hazel eyes—held a pinpoint intensity, as though her vision found no obstacle, physical or otherwise. Her dress and slim, stunning figure were aggressively sexual, her strict comportment radiated a potent, charismatic aura yet her voice was rather soft and silly. She reminded Julia of a strict schoolmarm turned adventurer, trapped in the body of a teenaged princess, trying to convince the world she meant business.

No one could deny she had succeeded at the latter.

“Miss Bairstow, is it? You have your sister’s complexion…” Lady Law commented as she stepped to one side, “…and an equally elegant profile.”

“Ma’am.” Not knowing how to respond, Julia flushed red but managed to maintain eye contact.

“Harriet Law. How do you do?”

“How do you do?” Julia’s elocution rose to the occasion. “I did not know you were acquainted with Georgina.”

“She cleant my house on Challenger Row twice a week. A lively and most agreeable girl. I would like to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you, ma’am. She never mentioned—”

“And to extend my services, free of charge, in seeing this investigation through to its conclusion. Georgina performed an admirable service one morning in September, at my neighbour’s house, when young Phyllis Redding gave birth prematurely. I was sadly of little help, for all my scientific qualities, but your sister proved quite the wonderful midwife. The doctor said she spared Phyllis a great discomfort.”

Julia swallowed hard, recalling her sister’s flippant account of the incident. “A girl next door had a baby today. Sweetest thing you ever saw. A mite small but cute as a button. Do you suppose either of us will ever have one, Jules?”

Lady Law’s unblinking stare switched to Grant, then back to Julia. She went on, “I feel obliged to extend to her that same dedication. Too many good people die each year with no one to speak for them.” It sounded rote, like a quotation from her book.

“If Georgina’s murderer is to be brought to justice, I submit that neither Scotland Yard nor the London Constabulary is equipped to achieve it. My sources tell me their investigation has already met a dead end. No offence to you, Mr. Grant.”

Her insignificant nod toward him reeked of petty disdain. “As you may know, Miss Bairstow, my investigative record of over six hundred and fifty cases stands at one hundred percent. I have never failed to identify the guilty party or parties in any instance and my reports have led to the arrest and incarceration of hundreds of dangerous criminals throughout the country. Time is my only handicap. Yet I am willing to set aside all pending cases to see that Georgina’s killer does not escape justice.” She paused. “Do I have your permission to proceed, Miss Bairstow?”

A part of Julia wanted to say no just to see what Lady Law would do, but how could anyone refuse a guarantee like that? The most famous private detective in the world offering her services unsolicited…and gratis? This had to be some sort of publicity stunt. Georgy had never mentioned that she cleant Lady Law’s house…or maybe she had. Georgy’s keyhole tales had featured a veritable rogue’s gallery of famous acquaintances over the years, everyone from Phileas Fogg to Rudyard Kipling. Julia couldn’t remember half of them.

“Perhaps Miss Bairstow needs a little time to consider your offer,” Grant interrupted.

Lady Law didn’t hesitate. “I apologize for pressing, I really do, but the longer we wait, the more convoluted the investigation may become. You see, the killer now has a weeklong head start and hindsight is a criminal’s best weapon. It affords him the opportunity to muddy his tracks, to revise his habits and to think omnisciently. Perhaps he will even procure false alibis or emergency funds to flee London, etcetera. The ideal time to start an investigation is within forty-eight hours of the crime. While my untarnished record suggests such constraints are of no import, I can safely say they are indeed vital—if not to the end result, then most assuredly to my own efficiency—for the quicker I can solve each crime, the more crimes I am able to solve. And that, my friends, is where you come in.”

Julia was about to shake her hand and give a gracious nod when Grant, dry-eyed, hands clasped behind his back, stepped forward. “Thank you, ma’am. Miss Bairstow will give you her answer shortly. Now if you don’t mind, we were about to take a ride on an airship.”

“We were?” Julia butted in.

He blinked at her. “Yes, don’t you remember? The Dover flyover I was telling you about. Professor McEwan begins his descent today.”

“Oh, the iron mole!” Julia enthused, cottoning on to his little escape plan. “I’m such a flibbertigibbet today.” She turned to Lady Law. “Yes, he was just about to buy me lunch on the Pegasus while we watch Professor McEwan’s burrowing machine. Apparently they are aiming to reach the earth’s core. I wonder where he will pop up when he reaches the far side?”

“Timbuktu,” scoffed Grant, offering Julia his arm. “Good day, Lady Law.” He turned his back before she had a chance to reply. What was it about her that he disliked so much? Where had they met before? Might they have been lovers?

“Actually, the Pegasus does not depart until eleven-fifteen.” Lady Law swept ahead of them onto the staircase and without turning her head, continued, “Miss Bairstow and I have almost two hours to chat before then. Am I right in assuming she wishes to accept my offer?” She was unbearably arrogant, but it was still an invitation Julia was not about to decline, not if it meant catching Georgy’s killer.

“Yes, I would be extremely grateful.”

Just before the next flight of steps, Lady Law turned and flashed Julia a narrow yet bonnie smile that made her look like a shy teenager posing for a class photograph. “I am glad. And what I have to ask will not take long, I assure you. Do you attend church, Miss Bairstow?”

“At Easter and at Christmas, otherwise only occasionally.” What on earth does church have to do with anything? “Georgy and I always go—went—to the carol service at St. Paul’s.”

“I only ask because I prefer to interview my clients in church. It may sound unorthodox but there is nowhere more conducive to trust and forthrightness. One need not think of it as a confessional, but even the farthermost pew in a church holds that same spiritual ease, that confidence where two people can talk softly and withhold nothing.”

“In which holy place will this interrogation take place?” Grant mocked, his entire demeanour now ice-cold.

“Wherever Miss Bairstow likes. The church was only a suggestion. If it is better to go someplace—”

“No, no, church is fine,” replied Julia. “I would feel more comfortable in a church.”

“Wonderful. I have transportation waiting outside. My driver will take us. And Mr. Grant, I will make sure Miss Bairstow arrives at the Pegasus platform in plenty of time.” With a quick, devilish wink, she added, “It will also give you the opportunity to change out of your uniform, sir.”

Grant mumbled something and then let go of Julia’s arm at the reception desk. “Lady Law, good day. Julia, I will see you shortly.”

She loved that he had called her Julia in public.

“Promise I won’t be late.” She grinned and offered him her hand, which he kissed like a gentleman.

Lady Law left him with another incomplete nod.

Outside, a bizarre, two-wheeled brass vehicle waited by the kerb. It appeared to be a kind of steam-powered penny-farthing bicycle with a scaled-down front wheel. Its rear half incorporated a compact steam engine with twin cylinders over the smaller wheel. Instead of pedals, pistons powered the front wheel via two outward-pointing, v-shaped cylinders and two smaller crank wheels on a long axle. Julia had never seen anything so…clumsy-looking.

“A new toy?” she asked.

“A prototype, yes.” Lady Law handed her a pair of goggles and ushered her around the far side, to a two-seated sidecar. This ran on three wheels and was attached to the penny-farthing’s frame by two long brass pipes. Julia frowned. The contraption didn’t look safe at all.

“I find it best to set trends, not follow them,” Lady Law added.

The driver, a gaunt man with the face of a starved ox, wore a canvas trench coat and a leather cap. He motioned to help Lady Law into the sidecar, but she waved him away like he was a pesky Portobello bum. Julia was all too glad to be given the VIP treatment, however, and grinned to herself as she climbed into the rear compartment, delighting in the knowledge that, for all Lady Law’s fame and fortune, when it came to dealing with ordinary folk she hadn’t the manners of a cancan dancer

Genuflecting on a weekday in an almost empty church put Julia in a strange, melancholy mood. Without Georgy at her side she didn’t feel like praying, and who could she whisper the day’s gossip to? The loneliness seeped through her. Then she thought of Aloysius Grant and his invitation to the Dover flyover—a marvellous first date, even though it wasn’t really a date. He’d improvised it on the lam. Or had he? He’d seen to her every want over the past few days, often personally. A senior constable had the power to delegate, but Grant had, it seemed to Julia, used every excuse to spend time with her. He’d telephoned her employers to ensure she would still have both jobs after her week off, helped her put together a shopping list and checked up on her three times a day despite having two constables watching the hotel day and night. Grant had become her guardian angel in blue.

“Lovely choir, are they not?” Lady Law whispered. Her reverent gaze toward the balcony over the altar lasted a good half minute, after which she led Julia to the middle of a pew near the rear of the church. St. Bartholomew’s was a tall, cavernous building, one of the oldest in London. A stupendous brass pipe organ behind the altar dominated the front of the church. The choir’s beautiful rendition of “Bring Flowers of the Rarest” soared among tight-ribbed rafters and ancient stone alcoves, the faint echoes of chords dovetailing high above.

Lady Law sat on the wooden seat then leant forward, shifted a tatty leather hymn book to one side. “Is it not the most calming sensation? That meeting of mind and moment. The whisper in an empty church. An unsurpassed solace, surely.

“What was the last thing you and your sister talked about?” Lady Law kept her gaze on the empty pew in front of her.

“I beg your pardon, but what does that have to do with—”

“Perhaps nothing. But it is usually a good way to set the client at ease when thinking of a loved one. Remembering them in an everyday context is one of the best ways to break the ice. I know how hard it can be, Miss Bairstow.”

“You lost someone?”

“My father…in India, when I was small.”

Julia stole a glance at Lady Law from the corner of her eye. “A coincidence then. Georgina and I were also born in India on a tea plantation. Our parents emigrated here when I was nine, but it was a shock when they found out how little a rupee bought in England. To make matters worse, one of Father’s speculative investments flopped and we fell from being moneyed landowners to working-class civvies in a matter of months. The old story, I suppose: the grass is greener ‘til it ain’t.”

“…E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me, still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee…” sang the choir, already on to the next song in their practice session.

“Nicely put, Julia. May I call you Julia?”

“Of course…” Julia waited for a reciprocal offer.

“England is the land of opportunity,” continued Lady Law, her soft voice settling into an affected, storyteller’s rhythm, “but only for a tiny, tiny minority. My father tried his hand at various small business enterprises here—a whole raft of them—throughout his twenties and thirties, without success, before he accepted a job as cartographer on a privately funded Himalayan expedition. Good money, good enough for my mother to sail to India and live with her uncle, a retired sergeant major. That’s where I was born. I spent less than a year with my father, all told, between his expeditions, before he was killed in the Zulu massacre at Isandlwana. That was the summer of my fourteenth birthday.”

“When did you move to England?” asked Julia, feeling closer to this superior woman than she had ever thought possible.

“When I was seventeen. My mother forbade it—insisted a single girl of no standing was doomed to a life of poverty in London. And she was right. By all trends and wisdom I ought not to be a lady with a title. Women marry into nobility or accumulate a fortune in business or, more often, inherit their place in that world. So how is it, you ask, that an unattached girl toting thirty pounds and no references managed to conquer Britannia herself?”

“I have not read your book, I am sorry to say.”

A sweet, feminine titter. “I will summarise it for you, Julia. It simply essays that justice, like any of Nature’s forces, is about balance. The same decade that poisoned London with Jack the Ripper also saw me arrive, from equal obscurity, with the means to apprehend him. If there is one way to describe my gift, it is as the antidote to an ever-worsening criminality. Muggings have become more vicious, killings more rife. I have at my disposal an intuition I cannot explain and it has stricken fear into the hearts of all potential criminals. I do not claim any supernatural gift. On the contrary, I consider this talent to be nature at its clearest. Every evil done can be undone. Wherever a natural poison is found in the world, nature also stocks a remedy nearby. I am here for a reason, of that I have no doubt. God gave me this talent for deduction and I will use it to assist the law as long as I am able.”

A series of thuds and then a smattering of laughter in the balcony cut short a chorus of “Those In Peril On the Sea.” One of the choirboys had fallen off his box.

Julia hurried to fill the pause, eager to hear more. “I must admit—your reputation does not do you justice, ma’am. The gossip about you and your investigations is sounding more and more like jealousy. It is an admirable philosophy you aspire to.”

“Thank you, Julia.”

“So it really is all bosh?”

Lady Law twitched her cheek. “The gossip?”

“Hmm.”

“Great bosh. Among the more unsavoury mail I receive are letters hypothesizing my methods. Everyone from pious parishioners, grieving persons whose cases I had to turn down, disgruntled scientists and literary figures—they all pretend to know how I do what I do.”

“How do they suppose you do it?”

“Satanic rituals; clairvoyance; doppelgängers; a network of criminals doing my bidding by setting up innocent people; lucky guesswork through a web of false evidence; and other such nonsense. Oh, and my personal favourite, a magic mirror.”

They both chuckled.

“So how do you do it?”

“How did Mozart write entire symphonies without a single correction? How can a dog find its way home from a foreign country, even stowing away on a ship across the sea, entirely on its own? How did a spider manage to spin a geometrically, infinitesimally perfect web in an underground Yucatán cave a few years ago?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Instinct, Julia. Inspiration. They did it by tapping into something that cannot be measured, something beyond their knowledge. Deduction ought to be governed by hard work. A to B to C, following a linear trail of clues. But my mind works differently. Let me give you an example.” Lady Law’s gaze rested on a slim, middle-aged woman reading a bible across the aisle to their left. From her pocket she retrieved a pair of odd-looking brass goggles that extended in segments, as though each lens was a telescope in its own right, with several magnifications. She put them on and fiddled with tiny knobs on the sides of the frame, adjusting the magnifications. After several moments of studying her subject across the aisle, she began, “That woman is a notary’s widow. Very recently. She has rheumatism, but her new beau, the pharmacist, has given her a fresh medicine to try. She lives nearby and makes her living selling bibles door-to-door. Either her husband’s or her new beau’s name may be Stephen.”

Julia’s pensive frown focused on the goggles. “Admit it, you made most of that up,” she challenged. “Notary’s widow! Now I’ve heard everything.”

“You heard a smattering, a trifle of what I could infer from a closer study. Observe the paper cuts on her finger and thumb, how she turns the pages not with those digits but with the nail of her forefinger; paper cuts are sore for a while after the wound is made. Then there is the darkening of her fingertips and the faint ink stains on the waist of her dress, mere spatters now, washed and washed again. The letter in her shopping basket has a smudged letterhead. She has lately sorted paper, and has touched ink consistently over a long period, but she is not a notary. Her husband was.”

“How—”

“She has recently switched her wedding ring to the opposite hand—observe the depression in her wedding finger. Then she looked up and swallowed when the choir sang “…on the feast of Stephen.” An emotional reaction. Either she misses her husband or it is a pang of guilt for her dishonourable liaison with the pharmacist. Stephen.”

Julia shook her head in mock disbelief. Of course, Lady Law couldn’t prove any of this. It was all supposition. But given enough time and resources, a mind this observant might very well best any problem by virtue of sheer deduction. With a woman like this on her side, she had nothing to fear.

“And the pharmacist?” she asked for fun.

“Oh, that one is a little trickier.” Holding her parasol at her side, Lady Law turned for a fraction of a second, then, without warning, yanked the butt of the handle. To Julia’s shock, the action unsheathed a two-foot-long blade, rapier-sharp. “Do not move. Two men entered the church, but only one remains. He wears a dark green bowler hat and is standing near the holy water trough.”

“You know him?” A surge of dread petrified Julia.

“No. The second man may or may not be waiting outside—a straightforward ambush.”

Ambush? Straightforward? “Eh?” Julia gasped. This was a church, not a Whitechapel back alley! What the heck was going on?

“They may be here for you, but I doubt it,” Lady Law suggested, her soft whisper sharpening for emphasis. “It will not be the first time I have been accosted. As you can imagine, my admirers are legion.”

“Admirers?”

“They tend to balk at twenty inches of steel.” Rising slowly, Lady Law’s diminutive form did not seem ruffled in the least. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, pocketing the goggles as though leaving to run a leisurely errand. “I will exit first, on foot, and leave my Hi-wheel for you. Direct my driver straight to the Pegasus. Mr. Grant seems hell-bent on keeping you to himself and you would be wise to indulge his protectiveness.

“Before I go, is there anything you wish to give me—any recollection of Georgina at all—to help me gain a foothold in the case? Anything she may have said, any unusual acquaintance she may have made, a debt, a fanciful tale, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Umm…um, no, not that I know of. She was a good girl. I didn’t know her friends very well. Rupert, her latest boyfriend, seemed harmless enough. I can’t imagine she’d get…I know she wouldn’t get mixed up in anything untoward.” Julia stifled the sudden urge to lash out at something.

“All right, Julia. You stay safe now and I will be in touch. Enjoy your flight.”

“You…you too. Take care, Lady—”

“Harriet. You may call me Harriet.”

Julia’s mind raced between the door and the hidden parasol blade. She reiterated, “Harriet.”

“Yes. All my friends call me that.”

Chapter Five

Her pulse throbbed, but Julia waited in her seat until first Lady Law, then the mysterious stooping man in the green bowler hat left the church, a few moments apart. Who was he? Did he mean her harm? If so, why show himself at all inside the church? Why not simply wait outside and take her by surprise?

The meeting had been a cordial one and Lady Law—Harriet—had revealed more about herself than expected. That, too, now struck Julia as a little odd. Almost nothing about the case itself had been discussed, nor Georgy for that matter. Not the most propitious beginning to an already late investigation.

An old couple and a vicar exited via the main doors. Reassured, Julia gave the sign of the cross and then followed them out, holding her breath while she scurried down the steps to the steam-powered Hi-wheel. “Driver, wharf number fourteen, please. Quick as you can.”

“Right you are, miss.”

She climbed in and put her goggles back on. A deep, prolonged sigh left her light-headed, even a little giddy as the machine accelerated, its steam cylinders hissing, the crank wheels and pistons working overtime to spin the front wheel. The man in the green bowler hat and his accomplice were nowhere to be seen. Where had Harriet led them? Up an alleyway? Would she use her blade or merely flash it to scare the living daylights out of them? What a woman! But who the deuce was she really? Beneath the Amazon-in-a-corset, what made her tick? Fighting crime and all that ballyhoo sounded good for the headlines but, woman to woman, there was something missing in Lady Law. Julia hadn’t put her finger on it right away, but the realization hit her now as though she were watching her mother’s face in those last moments in their old house—a chill feeling of finality, overwhelming them both—before their move to a new life condemned to the breadline. Julia shuddered. She had seen Lady Law’s cold poise before, felt that same bitter anchor tug at her in those few years before her mother’s death. Yes, Harriet Law was missing something. One of the things that Georgy had possessed in abundance.

Hope.

Lady Law was a woman sharpened to an angry point—a blade inside a parasol—and she had found something better than hope to see her through. She had a mind and a talent no one could touch. That made her formidable, cold…and perhaps impossible to truly know.

Julia tried to settle against the thinly cushioned backrest as the vehicle clattered over the cobblestone. She looked forward to seeing Aloysius Grant again, but how could she appear eager without coming across as a desperate spinster besmirching the memory of her dearly departed sister? Perhaps this was too soon. Living life like Georgy had couldn’t possibly end well while her heart was still so heavy. But wasn’t that the point? Prolonging a chance at happiness, even for a day—Georgy would not want that for her.

And after all, Grant had come up with the Dover flyover date, whatever his true feelings might be.

“Post is here for ye, Sir Horace,” announced Mrs. Barleycourt, Holly’s old housekeeper, in her usual flustered, irritable tone. “Or shall I toss these out wi’ the rest of ‘em, for all the good it’s doin’ to keep pilin’ ‘em up like this. You’re after bein’ behind on yer bills again if yer no’ careful.”

He slammed his pen down, glared up at her from his desk. “Are any of those personal letters?”

Skimming through the dozen-strong pile, she picked three out and checked the postmarks. “One looks Portuguese, and the other two—from Scotland.” Holly scoffed and resumed his note-taking. “The rest are from banks and loan companies—expedition business, surely,” she went on. “Sir Horace, does this mean yer’ve cancelled yer Africa trip?”

“What? What was that, woman?” He didn’t bother looking up.

“I said, seein’ as yer’ll nay open these bank replies, have yer changed yer mind about the expedition?”

“Fiddlesticks, woman! If I receive a letter from Josh, hand it over at once. Anything else, I couldn’t give two hoots. Now leave me be.”

He heard the slap of paper on the sideboard, then heavy marching steps and plenty of muttering in the hallway. Mrs. Barleycourt could be an unconscionable nag, but she meant well and had never skimped on a single chore in twelve years. Holly had grown almost immune to her abrasiveness.

Undeterred, he read on from Josh’s journal: “…yet the question remains: if a full-size psammeticum lens mounted on the Leviacrum telescope is only able to detect 4 millijoules of psammeticum energy from a collapsing star, how can my portable lens, at a fraction of that sensitivity, read hundreds of joules coming from somewhere in London?”

“Hmm.” Holly licked his thumb and eagerly turned the page.

“October 14th—After much trouble, have fine-tuned my prototype telescope. It can now detect cosmic psammeticum energy with decent accuracy. But the London reading is now even more troubling—forty-eight KILOJOULES of energy! From where? If only we knew what psammeticum really is, and what it means. That it doesn’t occur anywhere else in space that we know of, other than in the jaws of solar destruction, is a terrifying notion. London may be in very serious danger. This is my discovery, but lest I be humiliated, I must investigate this baffling phenomenon firsthand, and prove its authenticity beyond doubt before submitting my findings.

“October 15th—Have pinpointed the energy’s origin to a house on Challenger Row, No. 144. The psammeticum readings are very erratic: this morning, over fifty kilojoules; this afternoon, barely three kilojoules. Don’t know who lives there but they were not home when I called. I shall call again tomorrow.”

Scratching his sideburns, Holly checked back over the energy readings. A single kilojoule was not much, about equal to the amount of solar radiation received by one square meter of the earth in one second. But Josh and his scientific peers clearly hadn’t figured out what they were dealing with yet. Psammeticum energy, a recent cosmological discovery, had been found through the use of pioneering subspace lens filters, which was Josh’s main area of study. If anyone had the chops to perfect a reliable portable alternative, he assured himself, it was Josh.

“October 16th—Residents of 144 Challenger Row absent again. Damn it! An unexpectedly wonderful day, though. Met Georgina Bairstow, part-time maid at 144. Beautiful girl, wonderful dry sense of humour. Asked her to dinner tonight. She accepted! Need to iron my suit. Maybe Mrs. Barleycourt will do me a favour—I can put up with her cantankerousness for this!

“Will endeavour to find out who lives at 144. Georgina wouldn’t tell me earlier—integrity, how rare!—but I doubt the neighbours will be as tight-lipped. There are always ways and means. Can’t wait to tell all this to Professor Holly. No offence to him, but he has had enough fame and fortune. I must take sole credit for any discovery if I am to achieve anything like his eminency in Britain. This could be my ticket to a full fellowship. What will I find inside 144?”

Holly lifted his head slowly and snapped the journal shut. That was the lad’s last entry, and Holly hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Where was he? Seven nights had passed since the telephone call and poor Georgina’s murder. What a strange night that had been—a breathless jog through dank, empty streets to Freeborn Avenue and a sombre midnight circus of clattering hooves, bedroom lamps, police uniforms, neighbours shivering in dressing gowns, propping each other up, arm in arm at their front doors.

The inspector in charge had taken Holly’s information and promised to contact him with any news of Josh Cavendish. None had come in. Four days ago, after personally speaking to each of Josh’s friends, colleagues, tutors, lecturers and then telephoning Mrs. Cavendish in Portsmouth, Holly had reported to Scotland Yard that his young protégé was missing.

Josh used Holly’s spare bedroom from time to time as a kind of quiet study. The living room library contained many rare scientific tomes, not to mention souvenirs from Holly’s countless African and Asian adventures. The lad genuinely seemed to enjoy spending time here, away from the pressures of university life. He kept his journal in the spare bedroom, in his desk drawer. Holly had found it quite by accident—he’d been searching for an address book instead, or some other record of acquaintances Josh had made but not mentioned.

He scribbled ‘144 Challenger Row?’ in his tatty notebook. There came a knock at the door. He stuffed the notebook in his trouser pocket and slid the journal under a pile of Josh’s mathematical worksheets. Psammeticum calculations. Double Dutch, even to a Cambridge fellow.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Mrs. Barleycourt?” he yelled.

She shot back, “My hands are full. Can yer no’ answer it yerself fer once?”

“And I pay you why, woman?”

“Yer’ll be mullin’ that over come wash day, Sir Horace.”

Grumbling, Holly tromped to the front door and yanked it open. “Yes?” He swallowed too fast, stifled a cough. “I mean…how do you do, Miss…Lady—”

“Harriet. How nice to see you again, Sir Horace. May I come in?”

“Of course—” He reached for her hat, then realised she hadn’t taken it off yet, “—you may. Um, this way, Harriet.” He showed her into the living room. “Please ignore the pigsty,” then, turning to the kitchen, “Mrs. Barleycourt.”

“Yes, sir.” His old housekeeper huffed and puffed at the door.

“We have a distinguished guest. Tea and biscuits,” he said, and to Lady Law intoned, “Please have a seat. Is there anything else I can get you?”

He muted his gasp when she smiled and fluttered her eyelids, for she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he’d set eyes on since he’d first glimpsed Ayesha, Queen of Kor.

“Tea will be fine, thank you,” she replied. “Tell me, Sir Horace, how goes the planning for your latest expedition?”

“It does me good to see you.”

“Likewise. So are you making headway?”

“Oh, if only. I would give anything to…” He caught his smitten confession midgush, and paled “Oh, you mean the Africa trip? How stupid of me. Well I’m afraid I’m missing one key piece of equipment.”

“And what is that?”

“My protégé, Josh Cavendish, has vanished from the face of the earth. He was to be my companion to Namib…to Africa. He studies astrophysics in the Leviacrum, but his real passions are natural history and finding rare species of animals. My enthusiasm is mostly vicarious, I’m afraid. Without Josh, I have no intention of going it alone. But I wouldn’t mind seeing Africa one last time,” he waxed aloud.

“I can see that.” Harriet spent a moment scrutinizing him. “Actually, your protégé is the reason I am here.”

Holly snapped out of his daydream. “What? What about Josh?”

“Well, I am investigating the murder of a young woman, a Miss Georgina Bairstow, and it has come to my attention that Josh telephoned you the night of her death, asking you to go to her house and protect her.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know of any reason why Josh might be in trouble?”

“Not a one. He’s a quiet lad, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

“I see. Do you mind me asking what he was working on? Or perhaps a project you were both involved with? Something to do with your African expedition, by chance? The whereabouts of an archaeological site, say—a valuable piece of information like that could attract other, shall we say, interested parties. Far be it from me to make accusations, but Josh does have sizeable debts from his education. I understand he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

Holly didn’t like her loaded questions or, of a sudden, the Machiavellian nature of her visit. The Sossusvlei expedition was his and Josh’s closely guarded secret. It did indeed involve a priceless archaeological site, the whereabouts of which other interested parties would be eager to know, but it was not, not the kind of secret she was hinting at. In any case, Josh’s moral character was unimpeachable. Her suspicions did not add up…at all.

He no longer bathed in the spell of her eyes or her charisma. A chill grew between them, and he felt that he saw her properly for the first time. Mendacious, after all. Not to be trusted.

It was time to see exactly what she was made of.

Holly faked a frown. “You’re not saying…you don’t think…” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “…the map? You don’t suppose he’s in trouble because of…the map?”

Lady Law raised an eyebrow and leant in close. “Pray tell me…what map is this?”

“All aboard for the round-trip to Dover. Eleven-fifteen to Dover, all aboard. Fine weather this afternoon, light breezes, plenty of sun. Ticket holders for Dover, make your way to steam elevator fourteen. Single file now, that’s it. You’ll experience heat on your way up, but don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. Mind the slippery gangway just before you board the airship. Easy does it. All aboard for Dover! Professor McEwan’s journey to the earth’s core. Ticket holders only.” The moustached station guard touched his blue cap when he saw Julia—a nice gesture of recognition for a fellow sky-hop. Though she didn’t know his name, they’d served together on the Griffin a few times, in separate departments. “Have a good one,” he said with a wink.

“Thank you. You, too.”

The packed iron elevator squeaked its way up inside the brass scaffold. The hiss of steam dissipated as they climbed. Julia dabbed her brow and neck with her handkerchief, then smirked at an old woman wearing a rain-mate.

The air was much warmer than usual on the gangway—lucky that. She hadn’t really dressed for altitude. The giant curved ridges shaping the airship’s golden exterior reflected bright sunlight. They had been polished. Indeed, every inch of the Pegasus gleamed and glistened as though this were its maiden voyage. Much had been made in the newspapers about Professor McEwan’s subterranean folly, his “iron mole”, after the original patent holder for its design, Professor Perry of America, had ventured into the earth’s crust years ago and had not been seen since.

But what folly! The very idea inspired enough excitement for the fleet to spruce up its flagship for this one-of-a-kind afternoon flyby. Dover was some seventy-three miles from London, over on the coast, so she would have plenty of opportunity to get to know Aloysius Grant. So far, he’d proven tough to figure out. Outspoken in front of his superiors, yet taciturn in private—something of a paradox.

“Hello, Julia.” Varinia Wilcox, a striking redhead and one of Julia’s favourite waitress friends, waved from several tables away. She rose onto her tiptoes and arched her arm, pointing over the passengers filing past, toward the window on the far side of the dining room.

Alone at a small table with a grand view, Grant wore a smart mid-grey, pinstripe morning suit. Tempering her grin, Julia saluted Varinia and made her way over to him. She eyed the other women’s outfits, praying her four-piece ensemble was fashionable enough for the occasion. She wore a yellow silk jacket and flared skirt trimmed with lace, an undershirt bodice of ivory taffeta and her new yellow wide brim hat with a blue ostrich plume on top and pale blue tulle streaming down the back. It drew several approving looks from couples already seated.

“There you are.” She’d hoped to surprise Grant but he neither flinched nor looked up at first. He gazed out the window instead, then dabbed the end of his half cigar with a lit match and blew the first kisses of smoke out through moist lips.

She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon.”

Flicking out the flame, he responded, “Oh, good afternoon. How are you?”

His diffidence reminded her of her father when he wanted to be left alone of an evening. “Fine, thank you. I see you managed to get a window view. How, may I ask?”

“Simple. I beat the queue. Having a badge won’t make you rich, but it does have its perks.” As soon as she eyed the empty chair, he leapt to his feet and apologized, “Where are my manners? Please have a seat, Julia.” He held out her chair for her. “You’ll have to forgive my rusty social graces. It’s been a while since I invited a lady to dinner…or lunch.”

“So you’re not married?” She already knew the answer to that, but not why such a striking gent should be unattached.

“No.” Once again, Grant peered pensively through the large porthole window while he sucked at his cigar. “Not for five years now.”

Tense, she wound her purse strings around her fingers under the table. Well, that might explain—

“What did Harriet Law have to say?”

“Surprisingly little…for a famous interrogator. She asked me hardly anything about Georgy, and even less about the case. That woman works in mysterious ways.”

He didn’t so much as blink.

“I was meaning to ask you,” Julia said, “why you dislike her so much? I mean in the hotel, you were rather rude. Not that she didn’t have it coming—I’m certain she must have done something—but the frisson did seem somewhat personal, if you don’t mind me saying.”

He puffed away at his cigar. Who was he? Definitely not the same overly polite and concerned constable she’d come to like and to trust with her life over the past few days.

“Personal? You could say that.” He tapped the excess ash into the glass ashtray. “You could also say I am what I am today because of her.”

“What do you mean?”

He massaged the knuckle of his bare ring finger with an idle forefinger and thumb. “Madeleine was murdered five years ago this November. We’d been married for two. The authorities failed to produce a single name in their investigation—not even a suspicion of one—so I pleaded my case to Harriet Law and she turned me down flat. No apology, no explanation, simply a door slammed in my face. Her reaction, when I was at my most helpless, my most vulnerable, was inhuman. I didn’t speak to a soul for three months after that. She was my last chance to find out why Maddy was no longer here. And Harriet Law, Lady Law had shown me what life was going to be like from then on. A shut door.” He sucked in a mouthful of smoke, then leaked it out again. “So you see—it could be called personal.”

No wonder he cried the other day. Poor bloke.

“Then one morning I woke up and realised I couldn’t let that happen to another human being. I joined the constabulary and vowed to do everything in my power to keep that door open for others…always…regardless of mood or schedule or personal bias. Harriet Law is not interested in justice. She is an agenda unto herself. And that no one can reproduce her methods is not only highly suspect, it does not add up. When the brightest minds in the country, nay the world, can’t connect the dots in a substantial number of her case reports, there is something profoundly wrong with the woman’s process. That might have been a purely scornful remark five years ago, but now, from an experienced police officer, it is a very real and very troubling conclusion. Lady Law might solve every crime she engages, but she is not to be trusted.”

“Well, you’re not the first to say that and I dare say you won’t be the last. For my part,” Julia said as she plonked her elbows on the table, then, remembering where she was, quickly removed them, “it isn’t a question of trust. Lady Law’s results are unimpeachable. She does exactly as advertised.”

“Not exactly,” he argued.

“No, maybe not insofar as how she gets there. But, given the choice, I’d much rather know who killed Georgy and why than leave the case forever unsolved. I’m very sorry for your loss, Constable Grant, really I am, but Lady Law can provide me with that which you cannot. It might not be fair to all those other people soliciting for her services. It might even be a blinkered decision on my part—Lord knows, she is a well of secrets, and not someone I would trust as a person—but anyone in my position would do the same. You yourself went to her, did you not?”

Grant stubbed his cigar and waved for the nearest waitress. Goldie Buchanan. “You’re right, of course.” He gave a fake, assenting smile. “It’s up to us to fathom her secrets, her deceptions. You are being a loyal sister and it is not my place to question your decision. Would you like something to drink?”

“Thank you. I’ll have a lemon posset.”

He spoke up to the waitress, “One lemon posset…and one black coffee, then we’d like two copies of the menu, please.”

“Yes, sir. Ma’am.” The young blonde flicked Julia a wink.

“On your bike, Goldie,” Julia joked, immediately feeling a pang of reproach—this was the first time her workmates had seen her since Georgy’s murder.

“Nice day for it,” she said to Grant’s back as he craned his neck to watch the propellers kick-starting at the stern. He didn’t respond.

Hmm. Where to go from here? He was being civil and decorous for her sake, but what if his attachment to Julia didn’t extend beyond that oath he’d sworn? After he’d seen her safely to the conclusion of the case, perhaps he would simply move on to the next damsel in distress.

What if he wasn’t even capable of anything more from a relationship? Not that she could ever ask that. The heavy sponge thumping in her chest was full enough already.

The pianist eased into his gentlest repertoire at the other end of the exquisite dining room. Julia’s stomach tickled as the Pegasus began its purposeful rise. It was a long way to Dover. Too long for such tense, weighted conversation. The room looked so pristine and the faces so happy, so hopeful. She was determined this would not be an afternoon without gaiety. Without levity. Let Professor McEwan do the digging. She and Grant would not remain at odds any longer. There was music playing and she loved to dance.

Oh, how she longed for him to see her dance.

“It’s a smashing day for it,” he replied at last, eyeing her up and down. “And might I say how radiant you look in that dress? I always wondered what you would look like up close.”

“Excuse me?” Her blush couldn’t find its way through the plethora of questions. “What can you mean? You always wondered…when…where?”

He held his innocent poker face for a few moments, then let it lift into a cheeky grin, baring his teeth. The twinkle in his eyes left her feeling naked.

Oh my God. How long has he…?

Her heartbeat galloped. She fanned her face.

“So how long have you been a patron of The Swan?” she asked.

“Long enough. And yet…” He clipped the nub off a fresh cigar. “Not long enough. I could happily watch you dance forever, Miss Bairstow.”

“Oh?” Julia batted her eyelids at him, then giggled when he chuckled. “Only forever?”

“You have something else in mind?”

She glanced round the dining room, across to the oval dance area in front of the piano and the bandstand. “I’m sure I can come up with something. But do you dance, Al?”

He paused. “Al? Al—I could get used to that. And though I can’t dance a step, I’ll endeavour to try. I warn you, though, this might turn ugly.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

He shook his head, pretending surprise. “I didn’t know you were such a flirt.”

“Constable, I kick my legs up for a living.”

She smiled to herself.

Yes, Georgy would approve of him, too.

The hillside site at Dover was a veritable three-ring circus of photographers, police, picnickers, mobile sandwich and hot chestnut stalls, curious ramblers and more bespectacled men than Julia had ever seen congregated in one place. She guessed the latter were scientists and newspaper men. The Pegasus swooped low for a wonderfully close passing view of the iron mole, minutes before the start of its grand adventure. Other airships followed suit, then the convoy climbed, executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround and flew back over the machine, this time affording the passengers on the opposite side of the ships a clear view.

“It’s revving up,” Al enthused, responding to oohs and aahs from the far tables. “Come on.” He took Julia by the hand and hurried her across. A growl from below spun to a wiry squealing crescendo, much louder than she’d expected. No one would make way for Al, so to gain a better view he climbed onto a nearby chair. Julia offered to let him steady himself on her shoulder—the spectacle obviously meant more to him—but instead he helped her up onto a chair of her own.

Heady with excitement, she kept hold of his hand all while they watched.

The giant drill spun so fast she couldn’t make out its iron grooves. Its nose was a whirling monstrous cone of quite astounding power. Its silver body, a long, caterpillar cylinder covered with a spiral of toothlike treads, soon blackened under a layer of earth tossed up from the burrowing drill. A little over ten feet of penetration and already the debris cloud reached as high as the airships, masking much of the show.

Loud cheers and applause filled the Pegasus. Al beamed like a schoolboy at the fair. He reached over and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. She gripped his hand tighter. The Pegasus circled the cloud for a better view and she cheered along with everyone when the mole’s rear slid into the hillside and vanished, leaving a huge dark crater.

“It’s amazing,” she yelled above the furor.

“What’s that?” asked Al.

“Professor McEwan…he doesn’t even know what he’ll find down there.”

“I know. He’s a braver man than I…the magnificent fool.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” she asked.

Laughing, high on the moment, he hurled his hat and gloves at the ceiling and replied, “I don’t suppose he’s thought that far ahead. Relish it, Julia. He digs down, we climb high, the sun is out. This is a good day to be English!”

The small brass and woodwind sections finished their rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory,” then deferred to the string quartet for a lively number. Strauss’s “Tristch-Tratsch Polka,” one of her absolute favourites. Couples from all over the dining room, and even a few from the upper deck, scurried onto the polished, glittering dance floor and arranged themselves in a circle.

“Now or never,” Julia teased, holding her arms out for Al to lift her down from the chair.

He grinned and leapt to her aid with the agility of a swashbuckler. “Hey, do you even know this dance?”

“One way to find out.”

The dust cloud faded in the whorl of a breeze outside, permitting full, unfettered entry to the most brilliant sunlight Southern England had seen in weeks. It reflected off shiny crockery and bare tabletops and the roof of the spotless piano, blinding every dancer who spun in that direction. To her surprise, Al segued into the fast tempo with grace to spare, his compact, athletic frame matching her turn for turn. The feel of his hand on her waist made her giddy and his gaze found hers even when they changed partners. It inspired her to improvise during the ladies’ solo forays into the centre, and her bouncy quick-shuffles and spins soon drew generous applause from spectators. Al never once faltered. He was the steady glide to her soaring syncopation. This was her moment to shine. Hers and Al’s. While they were together, everyone else aboard the Pegasus faded away.

She had never enjoyed dancing more.

The gloaming descended early that evening, a little after five-thirty. Already the autumn fog visibly grasped at the quays and airship docking wharfs, its smog-fingers sliding along the Thames between factories, hangars, and around the Leviacrum. The Pegasus was the last to dock and Julia was one of the last to leave the dining room. Al had nipped to the bathroom a few minutes before and she waited for him at the exit. Patrons of every conceivable age and class acknowledged Julia on their way out with compliments on her dancing.

She checked her watch. Al had left her over five minutes ago. Was he all right? The only other person in the dining area was a bespectacled, rather hunched fellow wearing a thick, dark beard and a mop of curls, just returned from the bathroom. He looked familiar somehow. Where had she seen him before?

Strangely, he took a few steps toward the kitchen corridor, in the opposite direction of the exit. Hands low behind him, he paused. Deliberate sideways glances, short, measured paces back toward the bathroom doors, then out into the centre aisle. He stopped again.

Was he lost?

“Excuse me,” Julia shouted across, “if you’re looking for the way out, here it is.”

His somewhat theatrical bow in reply struck her as very odd. As did the dark green bowler hat he’d been holding behind his back, which he now raised and placed carefully onto his thick curls.

Perhaps he was drunk.

Julia stole into the doorway, her tired limbs now recovered. She was ready to leave in a hurry. Drunkards were far too unpredictable to take for granted, especially strange ones in an empty room.

“My husband is in the water closet, sir,” she called, appealing to his common sense. “He will be out at any moment.”

No response. He slid his hand into his breast pocket and started toward her. Julia stepped back onto the gridiron floor of the outer corridor, missed the rubber pedestrian mat. Her high heel snagged in the gap. She staggered. Hell’s bells. Still no reaction from the drunkard. Hand in his pocket, he strode after her at a quicker pace, his line unnervingly straight for an inebriate.

And what was it about him that…

God, the dark green bowler hat! Was this the man from the church? That same slouch?

She yelled, “Al!”

She wrenched her shoe free from the grid. The heel snapped. Christ. A few lopsided steps told her to lose the other shoe as well. Now she could run and run she did. The cold damp wrung through her stockinged feet all the way down the white-walled outer corridor, onto the freezing gangway—no Pegasus personnel to help her there—and across the final, uncovered forty yards that leaked wispy steam and a noxious petroleum odour.

She urged the elevator, “Come on, come on, you bloody thing.” But its squeak was out of earshot, its hiss so low she couldn’t even tell if it was running up or down! What the hell was happening? Where had everyone gone? First Al and now the docking staff?

A faint clank, clank, tap, tap had her spinning around so fast she slipped and crashed hip-first into a mooring cleat. The tautening stay rope scraped and tore skin from the back of her neck. Julia winced and scrambled to her feet. He’s coming. But what to do? There was still no sign of the elevator or of the Pegasus crew. Think, quick. This could all be a figment of my paranoia. The man in the bowler hat might be a deaf-mute and I could be running from nothing. She sucked in a lungful of icy air. The hatchway exit was now sheathed in light grey fog. No, no. It was too much of a coincidence.

Aquiver, she scanned the gangway for another way down. Nothing practical…except to jump into the Thames and that would likely kill her. It was too high. What else?

Tap, clang, tap, tap.

Erratic footsteps…nearing, quickening. Right. It was either wait until the very last second for the elevator, or stand her ground and—

The mooring cleat?

She considered the idea and immediately tossed her purse aside and pounced on the four-hooked iron anchor. Unscrewing it from the gangway took all her strength but it soon lifted free. The rope’s loop slipped loose when she heaved the cleat up onto her shoulder. Julia daren’t breathe. The iron thing weighed a ton and the major mooring rope, connecting the Pegasus to the ground, was only several yards away.

With a final shoulder-buckling effort she hooked the cleat onto the declining rope, slid it over the railing, and used its weight to steady herself while she climbed up. Crazy perhaps, but she’d seen acrobats perform this feat more than once. She couldn’t see the ground through the smog. God, please let there be no obstacles.

The railing rattled while she teetered, plucking the courage to fall.

Hissss! Squeeeeak!

Her heart froze and she gripped the railing at her feet with a free hand. Thank God. The elevator. What a reckless thing she’d almost—

The man dashed at her from behind. His bowler hat flew off during his terrifying spurt of acceleration. He lunged with an outstretched blade and slashed at her thigh. She felt a tight, curling pain, but only the hilt had caught her. He attempted to drive the knife into her stomach but Julia kicked off from the railings, out into nothingness, her fists clenched for dear life. She watched as he peered after her and then bolted for the elevator.

Julia slid backwards as she clung to the swaying curved prongs of the lopsided cleat. It fed her down, down to a mouth she couldn’t see. A never-ending descent. The muscles in her arms and fingers and shoulders leaked something flammable into burning blood. Through the mist below she spied concrete, a brick wall, grass.

Almost…there. Her soles slid for balance, she let go of the cleat and thump!—her backside landed on the grass and she bounced and fell sideways.

Her mooring cleat clashed with the one on the ground inches from her right ear. She flopped onto her side. A light-headed desire to lie there waiting for morning tempted her for a moment. The constant hiss of the steam elevator sputtered. Moments later, a faint metallic crack woke the mist. Someone slamming the elevator cage doors open? Julia stopped untangling her petticoats and staggered to her feet.

Please, Al, where are you? There was no time. She turned inshore and headed for the nearest light she could see. The ticket office? The Leviacrum? No. Her heart floundered. Lit by a wharf fog lamp, the silhouette of a man stalked the path between them, his blade protruding, questing for his prey through the smog.

Oh my God.

Away to her left, she couldn’t tell how far, another light blazed on before it flickered twice and blinked out. But at least she had a direction to aim for. Nowhere near her pursuer.

She hiked her dress and scurried across the lawn toward the dim, empty scrawls of London.

Chapter Six

“CLOSED.”

The brass signpost loomed at the foot of the stone steps, barring her way into the Westminster Observatory. The maze of thick cordon ropes had not yet been removed and a dim yellow light glowed inside the building—proof that someone was still in the process of closing up. A caretaker? Where was he?

Julia wanted to scream for help but that would give away her position. There was yet a chance her attacker had taken a wrong turn in the fog. She sank to a crouch, hugging her aching ribs, exhausted. She glanced round. Damn it. Her stockings, soaked by the damp wharf grass, had left footprints on the concrete pavement and likely over the iron canal bridge as well. All right, this was it. The observatory might provide a place to hide or, even better, help from someone inside.

The distant, staccato click, click of running steps rushed her up the stairs to the heavy oak doors. Her heart flipped when the left-hand door groaned open with a push. She eased it closed behind her. Someone had propped open the inner doors—a large crack ran through the crimson stained glass—with a mop and bucket. The marble foyer was empty. The light she’d seen came from a solitary gas lamp perched on the reception desk to her right.

No one at all came to help her.

She held her cry to a whisper. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Repeating it down each corridor scraped her throat like sandpaper. No sooner had she touched a hand on the varnished banister when a sliver of cold air tickled her neck. Creeeeak! Julia half turned, glimpsed a bulge in the flickering shadow near the door.

She hiked her dress and flew up the staircase two steps at a time.

Click, click, click…

He was following! Faster, faster—a surge of energy shot her up two more flights. The third floor was very dark indeed. Left or right? The latter room, though blacker, looked bigger, felt more inviting. She tore along a strip of carpet and hurdled a sagging cordon rope.

Planets?

Dark spheres of every size sat suspended in midair around the exhibition, each connected via a brass pipe to the central hub, the largest sphere of all—the sun.

Julia remembered she’d been here before, a few years back, with the girls from dance class. The orrery. An enormous mechanical model of the solar system. Fancy. Expensive. The only place she could think of to hide was the centrepiece attraction, inside the sun.

Click, click, click…

She ducked under Neptune. The show had cost her half a crown last time. She dodged Mars. Gasping, she slithered round to the far side of the sun.

Cold, gloom and the spokes of a sleeping mechanical beast surrounded her. In the daytime, this whole heliocentric exhibit hissed and wheezed and revolved for minutes at a time, a magnificent brass roundabout unlike anything else in the world.

Click, click.

Her pursuer stopped, then resumed his measured steps. But in which direction was he headed? She fingered the sun’s smooth, cold surface, trying to locate a seam or a handle. If he chose this direction she would be cornered. No way out.

There. The large cloth-covered knob, well-protected if the sphere overheated. She eased the hatch open moments before his footsteps resumed. Definitely in her direction. Oh, God. No time to unfold the stepladder. Breathless, she climbed onto a pipe, pulled herself up between the two rows of seats inside, then, bunching the layers of her dress about her knees, inched the door ever so gently closed.

The entire circumference of the globe was one-way transparent. Those inside could see out, but no one could see in. Julia didn’t want to take any chances, though. She stayed on the floor between the seats, tucking herself into a ball.

Minutes passed. No sound, no sign that he was there. Yet at any moment the hatch could fling open and a shadowy arm could reach in to stab her. She forced herself to look one last time—she couldn’t see him anywhere—before sinking back into her haven and closing her eyes.

She thought of the hard, inexpensive pew in the church, of hot cross buns in a shop window, of smoking cigarettes backstage at The Swan and of the comfort of resting her head on Al Grant’s firm shoulder during a polka to die for.

The lights blazed all at once, from every angle. Brilliant amber from the sun, blue from the earth to her right and Pluto far behind that, red from Mars. Julia shrank to a bottled gasp. The bastard had the measure of the mechanism! A sequence of stutters, grinds and whirs overlapped a rising hiss, hiss from the four corners of the room.

This was it.

The steam-powered solar system was starting up.

Julia gripped the seat back as the sun shuddered into a slow-grinding spin. The amber window filter permitted her a spectacular, terrifying view of the orbiting planets. They revolved at different speeds, while the entire spectrum of colours reflected off their brass pipe-spokes, creating a dazzling optical effect that was part whirligig, part kaleidoscope.

But where was he?

The outermost planet, Pluto, illuminated a brass dashboard to the left of the entrance. She saw a number of gears, wheels and buttons but no sign of the bearded man. Rather than pivot her head frantically, try to chance upon him in the phantasmagoria, she remembered Lady Law’s method of deduction. Calm. Measured focus. She let the sun rotate her line of sight, then studied each corner of the room for shadows and silhouettes.

The door flung open.

“There you are, bitch.”

She screamed and kicked at his hideous bearded face while he clambered in. There was so little room to manoeuvre and her kicks landed with such force that he spilled backward onto one of the pipe-spokes. Julia seized upon the chance to escape while the sun rotated away from him. The next three spokes sat close together. She scurried out onto the centre one. It was warm and smooth, like the factory pipe she and Georgy had picnicked on. Except this measured under two feet in diameter. Her dancer’s sense of balance helped her reach the far side, which was the planet Saturn. But the bastard was at her heels. She dove onto Uranus and slid down the far side to land with a sideways thump, smashing her shoulder.

The man vaulted another pipe, knife at the ready. Julia crabbed away, ducking under Neptune and rolling under its connecting spoke. She saw the massive exit and made a beeline for it. Her attacker dashed in front, barring the way.

“What do you want?” she cried.

The man’s knife flew from his hand. She flung her arms over her face for protection.

Clang!

One of the pipes buckled and broke, ejecting steam. A tangle of limbs writhed about on the floor where Pluto had been. Like a billiard ball, the sphere rolled to one side, clattered into Neptune, then continued on to double kiss Uranus.

The bearded man got to his feet, but was dragged down again. Seizing the opportunity, Julia dashed for the exit.

Yet she spied someone on the floor with him, throwing vicious fists. Someone smaller but stockier, someone…

“Al!” she yelled.

“Run, Julia, run!”

He took a heavy blow to the jaw. The man seemed to be getting the better of him, punch for punch, but Al fought like a bulldog. He landed an uppercut that sent the bastard reeling. Where had Al come from? How had he found her? Shaking, Julia wanted nothing more than to flee, but now he was in trouble.

Now it was two against one.

She wiped her brow with a frilly sleeve and then ducked low to ground, questing for the knife. An easy find. It was tiny compared to the spheres but on the bare marble floor it stood out like one of Jules Verne’s rocket ships. She hurdled two pipes and grabbed it from near the sun. The most deafening clatter she’d ever heard shook the entire room. A man’s scream and the rolling growl of thunder gathered momentum behind, from where the fight had…

Jupiter? Startled, Julia hurled herself out of the Jovian giant’s path as it sped across the floor toward the sun. Steam hissed out of its side, scalding the bearded man whose arm appeared trapped in the twisted, broken piping. He yelled for help, but she would give him none.

She watched, horrified, as another globe hit the rolling reddish leviathan and accelerated it further still. A clatter of breaking glass curtailed the bearded man’s final scream. He fell, Jupiter and all, through the blacked-out window. A distant splash heralded his watery grave in the canal below.

The lights of the solar system flicked out. The planets ground to a halt. And Al, against the wall by the dashboard, having turned the orrery off, appeared no more than a phantom in the hissing gloom.

Julia crept toward him, felt her way along warm pipes and moonlit black marble. Lost in the cosmos, with only his form to guide her.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he grabbed her and held her tight.

She flung her arms round him and swore she’d never let go.

Chapter Seven

Insistent tram bells drew Julia’s attention to the street outside the fish and chip café. Not many people out walking for late morning on a weekday, and those she could see were muffled tight. An old butcher ambled by her window, his apron flapping in the Arctic gusts, his cold breaths inches from the glass.

She shivered.

The red double-decker tram rocked through its sharp turn onto Piccadilly. On an advert covering its side, the familiar red, white and blue lettering meant to signify the Union Jack, read, Ambition Soars. The World Is Yours. Fly British Airships. Julia felt like resigning then and there. No one had come to her aid on the Pegasus. Indeed, no one had stayed around long enough to hear her cries for help. So much for security. Bloody tin-pot outfit.

Thank goodness Al had come through in a pinch, despite being locked in the bathroom like that. She took a bite of her French toast and chewed slowly, trying to connect the dots of his rescue. He’d explained it to her once, at the station, but her dazed state had blurred all but the affection in his unblinking, adorable eyes.

“How was it you found me again?” She slurped a mouthful of hot—too hot—chocolate. It dribbled down her chin but she caught it with a napkin.

“Hmm, it was luck,” he replied. “I guessed something might be amiss when I heard a raised voice, though that didn’t unduly alarm me. The locked door on its own would not have, either. But the two together—I kicked the door a dozen times before its hinges buckled.”

He paused, sipped his coffee. “By that time you’d vanished. All I had to go off was the broken heel of a shoe. I ran outside and that’s where I found the dead crewman. His throat had been cut right in front of the elevator shaft. I hoped that you’d gotten away and that the murderer was an elevator descent behind you. Little did I know you were a trapeze artist, Julia.” He winked. “But the cage clearly wasn’t coming back up, so I had to climb down the tower’s exterior frame—”

“Wait, that gets scalding hot with all the steam.” Julia cut in. “Your descent was as harebrained as mine!”

He chuckled. “Gentleman’s gloves, two pairs for five shillings and nine pence. Good for rolling snowballs and sliding down hot brass in pursuit of murderers. Actually, the trickiest part was figuring out where the deuce you’d fled to. That darned mist! I’ll never forget how hopeless it felt…I was ready to tear the bastard apart—pardon me—if only I had a clue which way to go. The only light I could see through the smog seemed as good a gamble as any. The wet footprints clinched it. I remembered you’d broken a heel and figured you wouldn’t want to run with a limp, so that was how I knew they were your tracks.”

“Bravo. Not too shabby.”

“Good old blunt luck.” He fidgeted with his cuffs. “I could have easily gone the other way, bowled over a few fat members of Parliament in frustration. Come to think of it, I still might.”

Julia grinned as far as her mouthful of hot chocolate would permit.

“And you know the rest,” he added. “The clincher came when I heard the machinery start up. I ran up the stairs and saw the goddamn aurora borealis in full beam. Didn’t know what in hell to expect. You’ll have to excuse my language, Julia. It’s just that it still fires me up, thinking of that brute cornering you like that. And we have no idea who he is. It’s only a matter of time, though.”

Bunching the ends of her shawl about her collar, Julia rotated her taut shoulders. What an ordeal it had been! Crazy to imagine it, let alone to realise she had lived through it.

“I can never thank you enough.”

“You already have, Julia. Seeing you again is more than I could have hoped for.”

“You’re sweet.” She blushed, tried to hide it by nibbling her piece of toast.

Al reached for his cigar case but seemed to change his mind and instead melted her with a wry curl of his lips. “I promised myself I’d cut down. Tobacco seems to play havoc with my physical stamina,” he explained. “The chase somewhat took it out of me yesterday. Lucky I had enough left to finish the brute off. So have you given any more thought to Inspector Statham’s suggestion?”

“Which one is that?” she quizzed.

“About leaving London. He seems to think you would be safer away from here for a while, until we put the case to rest.”

“And what do you think, Al?”

“I think that if you were compelled to go, I would be obliged to follow.” He allowed a passerby to distract him from Julia’s gaze for a moment. “Hey, who else is going to keep me on my toes? Dancewise,” he added feebly.

“What are you saying?” She knew the answer before the question, or she hoped she did.

“Hmm? I was simply saying…I would be sorry…very sorry to see you go. The Swan would have lost a gem of a dancer.”

Al looked away again and she rolled her eyes. What was it that separated men from their emotions? They could flirt all day and drop a girl flat at midnight if her corset wasn’t for coming off. They could fight wars for money and happily squander those earnings at the local betting shop. They boasted they could do practically anything bigger and better than women, on the whole; yet, a simple declaration of affection snatched the wind completely from their sails.

At least Al had a legitimate reason for being cagey. Yet five years was a long time, long enough for at least a measure of healing. And she felt certain he wanted to open up to her.

“And you’d miss me, I suppose, for more than my dancing?” she fished.

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What else will you miss me for?” Julia teased, anchoring her gaze on his darting brown eyes.

“Um, well there’s…I mean…you always…Ah, hell, why did I have to quit smoking today?”

She smiled in triumph and then heaved a sigh, for he was having none of it. Not yet. She would have to find the most propitious moment to coax Al Grant into discussing his feelings. Perhaps a romantic dinner.

“Shall we?” she said, getting up. “I must have a chat with Eddie Castle, my boss at The Swan, to tell him I mean to start dancing again next week. Will you escort me? Or have I taken up too much of your time already? I know this is your day off, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Al paid the bill, gathered his frock coat and hat, and then held the door open for her. As she passed, he said, quite matter-of-factly, “We can have an early dinner together tomorrow, if you’d like. I’ve been known to cook a mean beef casserole. And my sister is dying to meet you.”

“Thank you. I’d be delighted.”

The following morning, Embrey, the red-haired constable stationed in the corridor outside her room, brought Julia a copy of the London Daily First. She thanked him and then rushed back to her bed, eager to find out what had happened in London—specifically, was there any further mention of her ordeal in the Observatory?

Page one had a wonderful artist’s rendition of the iron mole. She felt a lump in her throat when she began the accompanying article, titled “The World Beneath Our Feet!”

Is this the beginning of a new era for scientific exploration? At five-thirty last night, a Morse code message received from ten thousand fathoms under the earth’s surface announced the existence of a lost subterranean world. Professor McEwan detailed his first glimpses of the exotic land many miles beneath us. His discovery marks the first successful burrowing venture into our planet’s crust, though many are now speculating that Professor Perry, the American designer of the iron mole drill, who vanished during his own expedition three years ago, may be alive somewhere in this underground realm.

Professor McEwan described “breathtaking flora,” “a vast, subsistentocean kingdom with its own weather” and “pockets of strange, biologically generated, purple light.” He conjectured that the latter “may be emitted by some type of abundant organism, endemic to this underworld.”

While officials wait for his next message, scheduled for tomorrow morning, plans are already in motion for a second expedition, to be funded this time by the Royal Science Institute, the same learned body that first dubbed the venture ‘McEwan’s Folly’ early this summer. Officials meeting in the Leviacrum have yet to comment on Professor McEwan’s success, although—

A deliberate knock at the door made Julia sit up with a start. She folded the paper, straightened her skirt and blouse, and answered.

“Hello, Julia. How are you?”

“Harriet?”

“I’m not intruding, am I?”

“No, I was just…Please, come in. I was just reading the most amazing thing.” Julia picked up the newspaper and pointed to the drawing of the iron mole. “Have you heard?”

“Yes,” Harriet Law answered, unexcited. “He has done well, if it is true.”

“You doubt Professor McEwan?”

Harriet tapped the drawing with the tip of her parasol. “Until a thing is proved, sadly it can only be fiction.”

“Oh, but you must have been young once,” Julia protested. “Is it not the most exciting thing in the world, or even under it?”

“If he returns with evidence, then yes, it will go down in history. But that is unlikely.”

Julia shuddered. Lord, that was eerily reminiscent of her mother’s cynicism in those last, bitter days. Allergic to dreams and optimism.

Somewhat deflated, she asked, “So what news have you got?”

“You may want to sit down, Julia. I prefer to be as thorough as I can,” Lady Law suggested, brolly tucked under her arm as she scanned the rest of the drab hotel room. She picked up Julia’s book on the bedside table to check the title. The Moonstone. “Mm, you have good taste. Wilkie Collins is a marvellous writer.”

They both sat on the bed.

“So what have you found out?” Julia suddenly felt anxious to dispense with the small talk.

Lady Law set her parasol down, then crossed her legs. “It was a tricky case to solve, with an unexpected outcome. A downright peculiar outcome, in fact. Have you ever heard the name Joshua Cavendish?”

“Yes. Constable Grant mentioned he was friendly with Georgy. He disappeared last week.”

“How about Sir Horace Holly?”

“Of course. Everyone knows his adventures.”

Lady Law offered a reassuring nod. “The very same. It so happens that one of those adventures—or rather, a forthcoming adventure—lies at the crux of this case. Sir Horace and his protégé, a science student named Joshua Cavendish, had planned a secret expedition to Namibia, Africa, to find a priceless archaeological site. Their map, probably obtained by Sir Horace on one of his journeys to the Dark Continent, is a valuable commodity. Sir Horace had sworn the young lad to secrecy. As it turns out, Joshua was under a lot of strain at the Leviacrum, due to his academic commitments. No doubt planning for the expedition took its toll as well. He was prescribed a mild sedative—one that I learned can result in erratic behaviour. A rare side effect, but all too coincidental here, as you will see.

“Some time in the week preceding Georgina’s murder, she became romantically involved with Joshua. I don’t know where they first met, but several eyewitnesses saw them enjoying a meal together at the Red Lion pub-restaurant on Marlborough Street. Apparently they seemed close, affectionate, and in good humour. They also had a fair bit to drink that evening.”

Julia repressed a smile. Imagining Georgy while she flirted with a new boyfriend—perhaps her last moments of pleasure on this earth—struck a bittersweet chord in her heart. Poor Rupert would have been left bellowing through the letter box in any event!

Lady Law continued without a trace of sentiment, “The night of the murder, Joshua telephoned Sir Horace at his home and told him to make his way over to Freeborn Avenue, to look after Georgina. He said she was in danger. Now that was the first Sir Horace had heard about the girl, so naturally, when he turned up at the murder scene and found police there, he was more perplexed than anyone. No one ever saw or heard from Joshua again. That is, until he showed up on the Pegasus and tried to kill you, Julia.”

“Excuse me?” Too many facts at once, too little sense. “You’re saying Georgy’s boyfriend murdered her, then tried to murder me?”

“I’m afraid so. It took some time to identify the body from the canal. But it was Joshua. His beard was fake and his clothes were borrowed, perhaps stolen, but it was definitely him.”

“Why? Why would he want to kill us?”

Lady Law retrieved a folded-up sheet of paper from her pocket and passed it over.

“What is this?” Julia was hesitant to even touch the thing lest it cause her mind to spin further.

“Take a look.”

It was the most well-drawn, detailed yet unintelligible map Julia had ever seen. African place names littered the scrawled or shaded background of mountains, desert, oases and rivers. A cross marked a spot a few inches right of centre.

“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” Julia challenged, losing patience.

“It is a copy of Holly’s map. The genuine one—Joshua’s map, that is—has been taken into evidence by Scotland Yard. I found it in your garbage.”

Julia bunched her face into a scowl and shook her head.

“My conclusion is this,” Lady Law announced, her eyes burning with momentum. “Joshua walked Georgina home after dinner and he accidentally left the map there. He’d had a lot to drink. Maybe it slipped out while he took his jacket off. Later, after he’d left, Georgina, a little tipsy herself, thought it was a piece of rubbish and threw it out. But when Josh realised he didn’t have the map, he became frantic. A priceless secret like that, in someone else’s hands. He rushed back to Georgina’s house and accused her of stealing it from him. Perhaps he’d boasted about it earlier over dinner. She was still a little tipsy and didn’t recall throwing away that piece of rubbish. But he grew furious. Georgina didn’t care for his accusations and ordered him out, said it served him right for flaunting it in the restaurant.

“Flared temper, too much alcohol, stress from his Leviacrum studies, a prescription medication with erratic side effects, losing a priceless secret belonging to his mentor and idol: Joshua simply lost control and snapped. Georgina fought back bravely. I found hair fibres and traces of Joshua’s boot polish in your kitchen. Then he murdered her and fled. Before he got home, his mind addled with guilt and alcohol, among other things, he telephoned his mentor with a fanciful tale—said he was being followed, and that Georgina was in danger. A poor attempt to cover his tracks. That’s when he disappeared and also why he disappeared. He knew that if he showed himself, the police would want to question him, and they would soon find out he was the last one to see her alive. Am I going too fast, Julia? Please tell me if I am.”

“No, no. It may take a while to sink in, but please go on.”

“Very well. That leads us to the horrific events of two days ago when he attacked you, too. I submit that by that time, his mind was irrevocably turned. He was no longer thinking rationally. A character such as his—withdrawn, tightly-wound, given to anxiety—is most susceptible to the queering aftermath of trauma. The guilt fed his paranoia and he became convinced you were his biggest threat. Georgina’s sister, her confidante, you were the one most likely to have the map, and the one most likely to pursue the investigation—pursue him, in effect—indefinitely. He approached us in the church, remember? The man in the green bowler hat?”

Julia bowed in deep concentration, then gave an emphatic nod. “Yes, I remember him.”

“Well, I thought he was going to follow me into the park, but he must have waited and tracked you instead. He bided his time throughout the Dover flyover, then made his move. The rest you know.” Lady Law paused. “But we will never truly know what went on in his twisted mind. It is a shame; he was a highly promising young scientist, well thought of by Sir Horace. What strain he must have been under to snap like that. Yet, that can never excuse a murderer, nor should it.”

Silence. A busy, interminable moment, for Julia couldn’t quite grasp how a benign man could turn so ruthless and insane in so short a time. Over a map? A treasure map? Such things abounded in adventure books and cheap fiction but not in the real world and certainly not on Freeborn Avenue, where nothing more exotic than a half-Canadian milkman called Frank had ever shown up. No, Lady Law’s account might fit neatly enough into one of her miraculous case files, but it was all a little too, for want of a better word…miraculous.

Julia eyed the tight, creamy pallor of the lady’s face. Untouchable. Sculpted in beguiling and hardened wax mystery. But hollow somehow, inanimate inside. Lady Law ought to be a showpiece in Madame Tussaud’s, if she wasn’t already.

“Well I’m sorry to run, but I have another appointment, Julia.” She got up, stiffer than Julia remembered her in the church. “I just wanted to tell you what happened personally. Unless there’s anything else I can help you with, I’m glad to say the case has been solved. Scotland Yard will confirm it with you later.”

“So that’s that?”

“Yes, I must go on to the next, I’m afraid. For what it’s worth, your escape the other night was one of the most admirable feats I have come across in all my years. I have earmarked it for a special mention in my next book.”

“You’re most kind.”

“My pleasure, Julia. I wish you well.”

“Goodbye, Harriet and thank you.”

Julia watched her leave, then sank back on the bed, studying the map. If this was the crux of the whole affair, its story had better be a good one. Sir Horace Holly? She hadn’t realised he lived in England, or for that matter, that he was still alive. But Al would help her find him. He had to. This investigation would not become just another footnote in Lady Law’s memoirs. Perhaps Al’s protests had made her sceptical of anything Lady Law said, but the more Julia considered the woman’s account, the more far-fetched it felt. It would undoubtedly read well and convince the rest of the world, but…

There had to be more than…Oh my God. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before?

She slammed the map onto the mattress and jumped up, then listened through the open window for the Hi-wheel leaving outside.

It was time to get to the bottom of another mystery.

Chapter Eight

By five o’clock the gas lighter was already making his rounds, lighting the streetlamps with surgical precision. Steam-powered cranes billowed white clouds as they raised workmen to dismantle scaffolding from the new submarine factory. Tired shopkeepers dragged their advertisement stands inside, paid the window cleaners and errand boys, and then set about tidying their storefronts. Men with faces blackened by oil and coal lumbered home from the factories. As dusk descended, London wound down for the day.

Meanwhile, Al snapped at the reins to rush the horses and police carriage over a junction of tram lines. Julia held her black touring hat in place, but the wind ripped out one of its red feathers. With her free hand she waved to Francine Mowbray, one of the girls in her chorus line who stood outside a hairdresser’s shop.

She turned to Al and shivered at the fierce determination in his face, the rage spurring him on. Longing swarmed inside her. He was in rare form and it was woe betide anyone who stood in his way this evening.

“How much farther is it?” she yelled over the clattering hooves.

“Not far now. Three more blocks, then it’s at the far end of Wellington, adjacent to the park.”

Though she might not look the part in her red, two-piece walking suit trimmed with black lace, Julia suddenly felt like one of Wilkie Collins’s detectives, speeding to solve a labyrinthine case. All she had were inklings. Al’s long-held suspicions didn’t add up to much either. Indeed, if they were to confront Lady Law, it would have to be as a triumvirate. Sir Horace Holly had said over the telephone that he possessed actual evidence of her deception. More than that, he was willing to use it. His protégé’s good name depended on it.

But what exactly was his evidence?

Al stopped the carriage outside a small detached house with Tudor style windows. The curtains were drawn, two lights on downstairs. The front door was a heavy, gothic-looking thing, its brass knocker like something one would find on an Eastern European castle.

She knocked three times.

A short, appallingly ugly man with huge greying sideburns answered. He blinked small but alert eyes at each of them in turn, as though his mind were taking photographs. “Good evening Constable, Miss Bairstow. Horace Holly at your service. You may call me Holly.”

Julia gave him a nod. “How do you do?”

“Come in, come in. My housekeeper is away for the evening, so you’ll have to excuse the mess.” He led them into his study which was dimly lit by a single oil lamp next to a large pile of papers on his desk. He lit another lamp on the sideboard opposite.

“Please have a seat,” he said.

Al let Julia take the comfy armchair, while he sat on a wooden stool near the glassless display cabinet.

“Anything to drink?” Holly motioned to a crystal bottle of port on the sideboard. They declined. Rather than spin his writing chair to face them, he straddled it the wrong way. “Very well. Where shall we begin?”

“What on earth is that?” Julia pointed to a brass telescope, two feet long, lying beside the pile of papers on Holly’s desk. Strangely, its segments were notched and a silver oblong piece of metal, about eight inches wide, bisected the shaft.

“That is why you are here,” Holly explained, retrieving his pipe from his trouser pocket. “If my assumption is correct and my protégé’s findings are reliable,” he said as he stuffed a few pinches of tobacco into the pipe bowl, “then Lady Law is going to have the surprise of her life.”

He lit the pipe and then added, “That instrument is the one thing she didn’t factor into her fiction.”

“Please explain, sir,” Al intrigued. “You said something on the telephone about evidence?”

“Indeed, my boy. I did indeed.” Holly fetched a journal from his desk drawer. “This belonged to Josh Cavendish. He wrote in it almost every day. His last several entries are of particular importance.”

He read Josh’s account of the portable psammeticum telescope, of the finding of 144 Challenger Row and of his brief acquaintance with Georgina. Then he described the desperate telephone call he’d received the night of the murder, which was also the night of Josh’s disappearance.

“That’s quite a tale, Holly. But what does it all mean?” asked Al, keeping a watchful eye on Julia.

She leaned forward, rapt in the carpet’s nondescript pattern, as realization washed through her. “I think I know.”

“Miss Bairstow?” inquired Holly.

When she didn’t answer, Al looked at her. “Julia?”

“Hmm. Yes, it’s all beginning to make a weird sort of sense,” she mused aloud. “Tell me, Holly, is the occupant of 144 Challenger Row…Lady Law?”

“Yes.”

“And did you trick her about the map? About its importance, I mean?”

Holly drew his pipe away from his mouth, midpuff. “Why, yes. How on earth did you—”

“I put the two halves of the story together, that’s all. Yours and mine. Each on its own would make little sense. But side by side…”

Al and Holly shared a look of bewilderment, as if to say, “If a woman can see through this, why the hell can’t we?”

“Please give us your account of the map, Holly,” Julia urged, “before I jump to any wrong conclusions.”

He cleared his throat. “Very well. You’re confoundedly tight-lipped about all this, but I’m glad to help. It was no great gambit. Lady Law visited me the other day and inquired after my upcoming African expedition. She seemed to know about the priceless archaeological site Josh and I had found. She wanted to know more about it and said it might be the reason why Josh was in trouble. I knew she was lying but I played along to see where she went with it. So I told her about a secret map Josh had in his possession—a map we were going to follow to make us rich.”

“But it’s all hogwash! The map, the archaeological trove and the stakes of the expedition. Josh and I were going to Namibia to find several rare species of animals and to bring them back. Nothing more. We drew the map for a new adventure book I’m preparing. Readers love a good treasure hunt. One has to blend fact with fancy if one wants to turn a profit these days. It isn’t the most honourable thing to admit, but that’s entirely the point. The map was a complete phony. Lady Law, on the other hand, took it as a vital piece of evidence. And from what you told me, Constable Grant, she has spun it quite ingeniously into her own fictional account of the crime.”

“Exactly,” Julia piped up, full of vinegar. “She claimed she found the map among my rubbish. Even said it was the reason Josh turned murderous. But what if …” She paused to think, pressed the side of her fist up to her chin, “…what if Josh saw something he shouldn’t have in Lady Law’s house. She had him followed, even kidnapped him, to make sure he couldn’t tell anyone what he’d seen. That was when she found the map on him. Maybe he really had been showing it off to Georgy, to impress her. In any event, Georgy had to have let Josh into the house in the first place, so whether she saw anything there or not, she now had to be killed. To protect Lady Law’s secret.”

Al shot in, “But why would Josh try to kill you, Julia?” A frown rippled his wide brow. “On the airship, in the museum…” He left off, deep in thought. “Unless—”

“It wasn’t Josh,” Holly confirmed. “I can tell you that without equivocation. Josh Cavendish was no killer. The body they found in the canal—the body I identified—might have been his…” His voice faded and he lowered his gaze “…but there’s something missing. And as we’ve disproved Lady Law’s entire theory about the map, Josh would have had no motive to murder either you or your sister, Miss Bairstow.”

He sat up straight, his eyes widening. “No, it is painfully obvious now…the man who chased you from the airship was one of her goons and when he fell into the canal, she switched his dead body with Josh’s whom she had already murdered. She had orchestrated the whole grotesque plot and doctored the entire case to serve her own ends.”

“To protect her secret,” Julia agreed.

Quiet gripped the study. Holly drew several long breaths of pipe smoke through his pursed lips, while Al poured himself a glass of port and swigged it down in one go.

“In that case, there’s only one thing left to do.” Al announced, then capped the port bottle. “We take that thing,” he pointed to the prototype telescope, “and find out once and for all what Lady Law is hiding. Her plan was far too well-executed. Too well-timed. Switching bodies in the canal? Dressing Josh’s corpse up to look exactly like the man who attacked Julia? There’s something very clever and very dangerous at work here. Indeed, most of her cases have been too bloody clever! I hate to say supernatural…but that’s all I have, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, it isn’t supernatural, old boy,” countered Holly. “Josh was a man of science and he found her secret, whatever it is, through science. Bear that in mind. And don’t let the woman’s reputation start you off on the wrong foot either. I’ve hacked through jungle with Quatermain. They’re all just people, flawed, frightened of one thing or another. Harriet Law murdered Josh and Georgina in fear…fear of her secret getting out. She tried to kill you, Miss Bairstow, because you were a question mark. Georgina might have told you something in confidence, perhaps something about Josh and his discovery. Harriet Law couldn’t take the chance of you putting two and two together. She sized you up and found you too bright, too determined. When you survived, she had to make her case quick, so you’d let it rest. But here you are, and here we are, all thanks to this.” He placed the psammeticum telescope and its attachment—an energy meter that resembled a clock barometer—gently into a duffel bag that already bulged with something. He held a deep breath before snatching up his long, silver hunting rifle from the side of the cabinet—as though he’d been pondering the decision all day. “Purely a precaution,” he answered Julia’s worried expression. “But I fear a necessary one. Shall we?” He motioned to the door.

Al halted them in the vestibule. “On second thought, I really ought to telephone for assistance. You two should not be put at risk when there are trained—”

“Fiddlesticks,” argued Professor Holly, his chin jutting defiantly as he slung his rifle onto his shoulder. “Miss Bairstow and I are the only ones on cordial terms with Lady Law. We have a small measure of her confidence. It may be possible to trick her into a confession or at least catch her off guard. A police consignment would put her immediately on the defensive.

“Then there is the matter of evidence,” he went on. “We have mere supposition and not even a theory as to her methods. She has the body of a man plucked from a canal, from the scene of an attempted murder. In other words, as a police officer you must tread carefully. A wrongful arrest is all the licence she would need to bury your career, as well as her own transgressions.”

“You have a point there, sir. And given her unimpeachable reputation, the magistrate would be loath to issue any kind of warrant against her unless it was on solid grounds.”

Julia tugged at Al’s sleeve, glad he was seeing sense and not—horror of horrors—barring them from the main event. “Then it’s settled. We’ll take her on three-to-one, see if she can squirm out of that.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to drop you off at the hotel, Julia?” Al countered as they stepped out into the cold evening. “This will be at best an unsavoury confrontation.”

“Will it, indeed,” she retorted, appalled that he’d even consider leaving her out of the finale.

He cast her a suspicious glare. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist—”

“No, you don’t, Constable! If this is unofficial, I’m afraid I have the right to insist. Georgy was my sister. And you’re going to need my help to untangle the web Lady Law will spin.”

After shaking his head he helped her up, and then let Holly into the police carriage.

“I say, it’s been a while since I rode in the back of one of these,” the professor admitted. “Didn’t much care for the destination then, either.”

Chapter Nine

“Whoa.” Al eased the reins back as far as they would go, stopping the horses in the shadow of the last house opposite the top of Challenger Row. “No need to sound the bugle,” he whispered to Julia. “This way we can catch her completely off guard.”

He lifted her down and then let Holly out of the carriage. The professor didn’t say a word, instead offered them each a steam-pistol—the other items he’d packed into his duffel bag.

“Much obliged.” Al made sure his was loaded.

Julia’s dad had explained to her how steam-powered weapons worked, but he’d never let her try one. She watched how Al ejected and then reaffixed two copper appendages to the underside of the chamber. The largest contained separate quantities of water and acid, which created the build up of heat and pressure for steam propulsion when combined. The smaller appendage contained the bullets that sprung into the chamber one at a time. Pressure release and the long accelerating barrel did the rest. She snatched her pistol out of Holly’s hand. Throughout her years of dancing she’d always been a quick study, but the weapon proved far heavier than she’d reckoned and it slipped from her grasp. It clattered on the cobbles. Al retrieved it for her, but kept it in his grasp. “You’ve never handled one of these, have you?”

“No, never.”

“In that case…” He wiped the grime off the gun’s grip with his sleeve. Julia was sure he wouldn’t give it back. “You’d better use it with both hands.”

He handed it to her. “Keep it concealed. We’re only here to ascertain the truth, and if Holly’s right, she’ll try to outsmart us and pull the wool over our eyes, nothing more. But if something should happen and you have to fire, then aim for the chest. It’s the safest target. Never go for the head.”

She nodded in acknowledgement. Grateful that he hadn’t patronized her for being a woman, she leant in and kissed his cheek. His coarse stubble prickled her lips. A marmalade cat with a bell-collar slinked around the streetlamp opposite 144 Challenger Row. It looked like a snooty little thing. Then Julia recalled Georgy’s nickname that all her maid friends used for this area, for this street in particular—Spiffy Row—to describe the wealthy but transient tenants. Indeed, the servants’ contracts tended not to be with the tenants, as one landlord owned most of Challenger Row. With such frequent leases, he preferred the continuity and maintenance only a permanent staff could provide. That was how Georgy had come to serve in Lady Law’s house.

A crescent of large, beautiful terraced houses bathed in amber lamplight on a litter-free cobbled street, Challenger Row had to be the warmest, safest-looking place in London. Fit for a Grimshaw painting.

“Now we’ll see if this thing works.” Holly affixed the psammeticum lens onto Josh’s telescope and attached a copper rod, coiled with wire, to the energy meter. He fastened all the components together in quite an ingenious fashion.

“For Josh…” Julia muttered, “and Georgy.”

Holly pointed the contraption skyward. The meter’s needle twitched, sank, and then danced a little. Tiny, tiny readings of a far-flung stellar event from eons past. He lowered the telescope and roved it across the row of houses. Nothing at the bottom end. A flicker of the needle while it pointed at Number 140, then a steady rise at Number 142…

“Two kilojoules, six, twelve…” Holly slowed his lateral arc, “sixteen, twenty-six, fifty…that’s much higher than anything Josh recorded.” He gave the energy meter a slight tap and then pointed it square at the living room window. The needle leapt off the scale and clung for dear life to the right edge of the dial.

“What does that mean?” Al leant over Holly’s shoulder. “What in the hell is going on in there?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, lad, but we do seem to have arrived at an opportune moment.”

“For what?”

Julia took a big breath of night air. “That’s what we’re here to find out. After you, gentlemen.”

Al cast a concerned glance at her before marching ahead, holding the pistol inside his jacket.

“Hang back, Holly,” he said on the turn. “We don’t want to alarm her right away.”

“All right. Proceed, lad.”

No lights were on downstairs, only the faint corona of one upstairs, between not-quite-drawn bedroom curtains. “Al, be careful,” Julia vehemently whispered after him, up the front steps. He gave her a quick wink and then knocked.

The tail end of a whistling breeze dropped silence upon the street. Holly loitered behind the front railings, which were as tall and bronze as Olympian javelins. Julia suddenly feared what Al could say to gain entry, even if Lady Law did answer. Without official permission, this was a specious visit, not subject to any theory or evidence they might present, and a wily woman like Harriet Law could point-blank refuse to let them in. Then she could up sticks and disappear before they ever obtained that permission from the magistrate. All her secrets—pfft—gone.

A scream from inside the house forced Julia to raise her gun. Al opened the letter box, peered through. It went quiet again.

“Did you hear it, Holly?” she asked, pressing both palms against the warm brass grip.

“Yes. Sounded like it came from upstairs. You’d better stand behind me, miss.”

She obeyed and felt a tad safer knowing two men stood between her and danger. Another scream—no, a sequence of screams, now a loud moan and a thud. Al stepped back, nodded to Holly and then booted the door open. Holly dropped the telescopic contraption. In one motion he retrieved the hunting rifle he’d slung over his shoulder, bounded up the front steps and dashed inside the house after Al.

What on earth was going on up there? The cries had sounded shrill and desperate and the thud rather too violent for his liking. Holly tightened his grips on the stock and barrel of his old rifle. In its heyday, he’d pipped targets over a hundred yards away…Christ, little Stuart had been about that distance away when—

No.

He reached the landing in a single breath, his stout legs ready to scale Kilimanjaro if need be. Grant rattled the door handle to the first bedroom but found it locked. Before Holly could caution him, the young constable battered the door with his shoulder, splintering the frame and lock.

A roar of obscenities greeted them from the four naked occupants. Holly didn’t know where to look or what to say.

A scene of debauchery such as he hadn’t witnessed outside the native marriage rituals of certain African tribes left him stunned The lone female, her limbs splayed and tied to all four bedposts, was being ravaged. Two of her three assailants, muscular men in their twenties and thirties, climbed off her. The third, sitting on a chair by the dresser, stopped nursing his bruised ankle long enough to reach for a bizarre black metal case with tiny green lights shining from its locks. Holly had never seen its like before.

“Halt. Nobody move,” Grant trained his pistol on the man on the chair. “What’s happening here?”

“Professor Holly! Help! Please help,” the petite woman cried.

Holly gasped. “Lady Law? What—”

“Oh, Professor. They broke in. I—I was helpless, and they…Oh, God…”

Furious, Holly thrust his rifle at the nearest man. “Untie her now, you bastard.”

He obeyed and Lady Law dragged herself to the far side of the bed, trembling. She turned to face Holly and parted her damp blond hair, revealing a petrified red face.

“Right, you three sons of bitches are under arrest.” Al barely contained his rage as he directed them toward the left side of the room. “Slowly. Face the wall.”

“Are you all right, Lady…Harriet?” Holly suddenly felt ashamed at the reason for his visit. He lowered his rifle and removed his frock coat, ready to drape it over her.

“I—I think so. But I’d rather not touch a man’s coat—not—not right now. Not ever.” Her voice broke as she rose and, in a daze, opened the wardrobe door. She retrieved a turquoise dressing gown and something he couldn’t see, which she set on the floor. Her slippers?

“Of course. Would you like me to fetch you a doctor, ma’am?” Holly asked.

After putting on her dressing gown, she appeared to slide an object across the carpet with her foot. “No thank you, Professor. I must see these wretches behind bars first.”

He admired her pluck. It reminded him of her death-dealing action in Westminster.

One of the men shot back, “Jesus, Harriet? Are you just going to sit—”

“Shut up, idiot!” she yelled.

What?

Holly scowled and stepped forward. “You know each other? What is this?”

“He’s been following me for weeks. He and his friends have been…obsessed.” She glanced sheepishly at Holly, and then slid the object again with her foot. It cracked against the skirting board where the farthest man stood.

She spun confidently, her gaze focused on Holly. Her dressing gown agape and revealing far too much, she walked round the bed toward him.

He stepped back.

“I’m sorry you had to see all this, Holly. I’m really quite fond of you. Would it surprise you to know that—”

“Nothing would surprise me about you, madam. Nothing.”

“Really?” She clicked her fingers.

“No. Not after what we’ve—”

“Look out!” Grant fired a shot, and then yanked Holly out of the room by the breast of his coat.

Harriet Law dove out of the way as the cad she’d signaled to snatched a bizarre, oversized handgun from another black case on the floor. He unleashed a deafening spray of gunfire. Hellfire. Bullets ripped into the framework and thudded into the wall with unbelievable rapidity. It was a kind of portable Gatling gun, but far more vicious.

A second gun joined in, demolishing the top of the banister and surrounding plaster. Holly levered a round into the chamber of his ’94 Winchester, then clutched the barrel upright, waiting for his moment. On the opposite side of the door, Grant crouched ready to pounce.

The bitch! How plausible she’d been. Playing the victim like that, drawing out his chivalry—and he’d been completely taken in. Unforgivable.

Who the hell is she?

The shower of bullets could have wiped out a herd of elephants, but they were all hitting the walls. These cads were amateurs. Or maybe sharing the same woman, having a buttered bun like that, had soured their aims!

The firing ceased. Holly didn’t think, instead swivelled on one knee into the cloud of plaster dust. He aimed and fired at the faint outline of a man standing at the window. Glass shattered. He lunged back to his shelter. Thump-thump. The man and his weapon hit the floor.

The notion of killing a person did not queer his resolve as he’d feared; rather it exhilarated him, fuelling that old talent for self-defence he’d long thought lost in Africa.

Grant shot twice before the dust settled. It didn’t sound like he’d hit anyone.

“Easy, lad.” Holly gave his young friend a reassuring nod. “I think we have ‘em.”

An emphatic shake of his head signaled Grant had seen something to the contrary. But what? The constable jabbed his thumb at the wall, as if to say, “They’re right there, backs to your wall.”

Oh, hell. They really were insane. Ready to dart out and exchange fire at point blank range on the landing? Holly nodded in acknowledgement, pursed his lips and slowly rose to his feet. On tiptoes, he rocked back and forth, summoning the courage to tear across the open doorway and into the bathroom. At least from there, he and Grant could pin the buggers where they were and stop them from escaping downstairs.

Grant mouthed three, two, one…

Heart in his throat, Holly lunged out into the line of fire and face-first into an outstretched metal weapon. His forehead cracked the side of the thick, flat barrel. An ear-splitting avalanche of bullets roared overhead as he ducked. Instinctively, he swiped his rifle butt at the weapon and knocked it high to one side. Grant couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Holly, so he thumped the half-naked man with his pistol instead.

They both raced into the bathroom.

Loud thuds and splintering wood emerged from the bedroom. Before Holly could reload, one of the men stumbled out onto the landing wielding the door itself. He planted it squarely in front of Holly as a shield. Then came the tapping of quick footsteps as someone escaped along the landing.

What were those sounds they’d heard from outside? Al and Holly had rushed to the top of the stairs and were now face-to-face with…whatever the hell was going on up there. Julia heard voices. She waited before creeping into the vestibule, expecting yet dreading another loud noise. She wiped her sweaty right palm on her dress. The steam-pistol quivered in her left hand. She peered up the pretty, floral-carpeted stairs and placed her free hand on the varnished wooden banister. Wearing such a clumsy hat probably wasn’t a good idea, so she hung it on the banister post.

Crack! Brrrrr! Crack! Crack! Brrrrr!

She ducked, almost lost her footing. The single shots had to have come from pistols and rifles, but what on earth were the others? She back-stepped and thought about running out for help. No. Her extra gun might make all the difference. She shut her eyes and panted through clenched teeth. More chaotic shots from aloft. An avalanche of gunfire, smashed glass, overlapping yells. This was it. It sounded like Al and Holly were vastly outnumbered. Right, one foot after the other, gun in both hands. Squeeze the trigger at the first figure that isn’t Al or Holly. Aim for the chest.

She placed her foot on the first step. Several bullets devoured the top of the banister. She reeled back. Fingernails dug into her scalp, then yanked her sideways. It felt like her hair had caught fire.

“Get off!” she cried, dropping her gun.

Whoever it was didn’t have much strength. Julia dug her own fingernails into the gloved fists pulling her hair and managed to prise them loose. She spun round to face her attacker. Immediately the masked person, dressed all in black, dove for the pistol. Julia kicked it away across the polished wooden floor. It passed a black flat cap. A light had been switched on somewhere near the back of the house. The attacker stood up straight, pivoted after the gun, then paused to face Julia. With a frame that petite, it could only be a woman.

“Who are you?” Julia called out, matching the masked figure’s glances toward the gun.

No response.

Julia suddenly remembered a memory she’d lost to the trauma of over a week ago—the silhouette of a figure dressed all in black, peering in through her kitchen window. She spied her attacker’s black gloves, the flat cap lying on the floor. Had this woman witnessed Georgy’s murder? No, had this woman murdered Georgy?

She recalled what it had felt like sitting helpless on the kitchen floor with her sister’s crumpled body: the crunching radio static, the dwindling kernel of hope that it was all a horrid nightmare, the bloodied blond hair petrified into straw, the smothering cold. Her fists tightened. Another cavalcade of gunfire ripped her every muscle taut, curled her into a bitter fury.

She screamed, “Biiitch!”

She hurled herself at her attacker, tore at the eyes in the mask. The woman squealed and kneed Julia in the stomach. A blunt tack of pain. Incensed, Julia yanked the woolen hat off, then scratched at the pale face beneath.

“Julia, Julia!” pleaded the woman. “It’s me. It’s Harriet! No more…please.”

Julia let go for a moment, only for a moment. Harriet Law’s porcelain beauty was long gone. In its place, a flush, dishevelled, even more striking-looking woman glared up, eyes half-cool, half-aflame in the dim amber light. She backed away with careful steps.

Then she bolted. Toward the light in the back. To where she’d emerged from? Julia swivelled, midchase and retrieved the steam-pistol instead. This was Lady Law’s lair. No use running into a trap unarmed. She kicked her pesky shoes off. Also no use in giving away her position with every step. A huge, ugly clock watched her down the corridor, past a broom cupboard to the left and a gloomy, moonlit drawing room on the right. Wood to carpet to a soft, Persian rug—the floor buzzed, crackled underfoot as though it were electrically charged. Every step tickled the soles of her feet.

More gunfire upstairs kicked her into a jog. She noticed the door to the basement had several bolts and padlocks but stood wide open. What the hell did Lady Law want to hide so badly?

Julia gripped the brass gun with both hands and slinked down the cold stone stairs. Gone was the buzz underfoot. A heavy, sooty odour pinched at her sinuses. The stone floor at the bottom gave way to a slick, black rubber mat. Brass legs appeared next—grooved, spidery limbs, six of them, supporting a copper-coloured sphere in the centre of the basement. The sphere smouldered and seemed to emit the noxious fumes. It nearly reached the ceiling.

Julia stopped to scan the room for signs of Lady Law. Might she be hiding on either side of the opening? More than likely—the devious bitch! No sound except the hissing of steam from valves at the joints between legs and sphere. Okay, left or right? Julia held her breath and dashed out. The edge of a swinging blade missed her right arm by inches. She sprinted on hurdling a brass limb before she reached the far end of the room. She spun round and aimed the pistol. Lady Law, in hot pursuit, stopped in her tracks.

“Drop it or you die,” Julia threatened. “Now.”

Panting, Harriet Law lowered her parasol sword. A swathe of blond hair stuck to her glistening face.

“Back up…to that chair in the corner…slowly,” ordered Julia. “Any quick moves and the answer will be quickest.” Harriet Law complied, sinking glacially into the old, torn leather armchair.

“All right, this will have to be brief,” Julia declared. “Who are you? What is this bastard thing hissing behind me?”

“An electricity generator. I had it installed the other day.”

“I ask again, what is it?” Julia took a step closer, pointed the pistol at her captive’s breast. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”

“All right, all right. It’s a machine for reading thought patterns. I can tell what anyone in London is thinking at any moment. Look, the fumes rising from the sphere are from electrochemical reactions turning thought waves into complex binary code.”

Intrigued, Julia cocked her head. “And what has that got to do with Georgy?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Julia squeezed the trigger, blasted a hole in a glass bottle above Harriet Law’s head. The shards rained into her blond hair. “One more time, I’m warning you.” She aimed again, lower this time. “The truth or a bullet.”

Harriet Law bowed, shook the glass from her hair, and then answered, “Georgina let that idiot Josh Cavendish in while I was down here, shortly after the Westminster ceremony. He saw my machine. I couldn’t let him escape. The sap would have told every newspaper in London, just to make a name for himself. Never mind that I was helping rid the country of dangerous criminals.”

“So you use that thing to read criminals’ minds?”

“Yes.”

Julia pondered the case for a moment—the fake map, Horace Holly and the easy way he’d duped Lady Law. “So you tie up all your loose ends by using that machine? Read their thoughts? You already know what everyone has done before you interview them?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Then why didn’t you know Holly’s map was a fake?”

Silence. A lucid, piercing stare from the most famous woman in Britain.

“Aha! Caught in another lie. Well I told you what would happen. This is for Georgy.” Julia closed one eye and took careful aim. For added effect, she bunched one half of her face into a scowl, baring all her teeth.

“No, wait!”

“You’re too late. I’ll see you in hell, Lady—”

“No. I’ll tell the truth. I promise I’ll explain it all. It’s a time machine, Julia. My fortune belongs to a time machine. No, don’t shoot. Please…”

“A time machine?”

“Yes! Think about it. For the love of God, think it through. How else could I know how everything happened, unless I’d travelled back in time and witnessed each and every crime as it occurred? You glimpsed me through your kitchen window after Georgina’s murder, did you not? The phantom apparition? The silhouette?”

“Yes.”

“Well there it is. There I was. I travel back to watch every crime—to watch, nothing more. I become a silent eyewitness, a recorder of clues and trails of evidence, which I then collate into watertight cases against the guilty. That’s how I caught Jack the Ripper. That’s how I’ve convicted hundreds of culprits in hundreds of cases. It’s all in the name of justice, I swear.”

Julia lowered her gun. “Where did you get a time machine?”

“Are you kidding? You don’t really think I was born in the nineteenth century, do you? For all my forensic skills and my talents for deduction, I couldn’t even hold a job as a policewoman in my own time. They never took me seriously. But here, I fight crime and they give me titles. They make me rich.”

“Your time?” An icy shiver clamped Julia’s spine.

“My dear obtuse woman, don’t you know I’m from the future?”

“What future? How far?”

“Mmm, further than you can count, you music hall bitch.” With a giddy shudder, Lady Law burst into convulsions of desperate hilarity that shook her entire slender frame.

Julia had heard enough…for now. She marched over, cracked the butt of her gun against the woman’s head and knocked her out cold. Then she lashed Lady Law’s hands behind her back with the black cord used for a belt on the woman’s dark ensemble. Finally, Julia tied her to the chair with lengths of cloth from one of the shelves.

“This is for Georgy.” She ran over to the copper sphere. Round the far side, its door gaped open. A brass panel of gears and levers and switches buzzed and crackled with that electric charge she’d experienced underfoot. The psammeticum energy Josh had discovered? Two whirling crystal globes seemed to constitute the hub of this…time machine. She obliterated them with a bullet apiece and then spat on the glittering smithereens.

Only then did she realise, with a sharp ache in her stomach, the opportunity she had just squandered. For with time travel at her fingertips—and history hers to revise—Georgy need not die, after all. She cocked her arm, ready to hurl the pistol into the cluttered shelves.

But Al was still in trouble! He needed her help. After several steadying breaths, she left the basement, hiked her skirt and flew upstairs two cold steps at a time.

Chapter Ten

“Run, Julia, run!” Blood and splinters covered Al’s right shoulder as he stumbled downstairs, holding his pistol limply at his side.

“What happened? Where’s Holly?” Ice washed through her veins at the sight of his injury—a bullet wound. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s not bad. A clean wound, straight through.” His pale, glistening face told a different story.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

He didn’t argue. “It’s a stalemate up there. Holly has them pinned down across the landing. Their guns are rapid, but they can’t match the aim of his rifle. God willing, he’ll be able to hold them off until I can find help. Come on, let’s go.” Favouring his right side, he winced as Julia supported his left arm. He almost keeled over on the doormat.

“Can you make it to the carriage?” She thought of the quickest route to a hospital. Down Liverpool Street…turn left onto Maturin Avenue…past the old market square and through… “Al.”

He collapsed on the front steps. Julia tried to soften his fall but his weight dragged her down with him. Her knee and hip bore the brunt of the impact. Untangling herself from beneath him, she felt no resistance or movement whatsoever from his heavy limbs.

Oh my God. He’s passed out.

She checked his wrist. No pulse. Was she even doing it correctly? How about his neck? She’d read about doctors trying that.

Christ, Georgy, where are you when I need you?

A quick exchange of gunfire upstairs made her jump. Lights were now visible all along Challenger Row with curtains parted and doors ajar, enough for frightened residents to peer into the street from the safety of their own homes. But not one person rushed out to help her.

“Someone call the police!” she yelled. “Tell them a constable’s been shot. And send for an ambulance.”

No response. Please God, let someone have the sense…

She eyed their carriage at the top of the street. Much, much too far away. More shots erupted upstairs. They seemed to echo down the road, their acoustics gathering momentum.

No, something was approaching. Clattering…metal…a lumbering junkyard on wheels…

A steam-powered automobile.

“Miss Bairstow, are you all right?” Holly rushed out of the house and leapt the last few steps. He didn’t wait for her response, but felt Al’s neck instead. “He’s alive for now. But we’ve no time to waste. Quick, help me lift him. I’ll carry him on my shoulders.”

She bent low, using all her strength but Holly did most of the lifting.

Brrrrr!

Bullets ricocheted off the pavement, one snatched through her dress between her ankles. The shots came from behind, from the top of the street. Two half-dressed men sprinted toward her, brandishing guns she’d never seen before.

Holly made ready to drop Al and use his rifle.

“How about that?” Julia urged, pointing him to the automobile as it steered a slow one-hundred-and-eighty away from the gunfire. Before she’d finished, Holly was on his way. Despite the weight of a stocky man on his shoulder, he covered the distance in no time. The vehicle was an expensive two-seater. Upon seeing Holly’s rifle, the driver, a slick-haired man wearing goggles, leapt out and sprinted for the nearest house.

“You’ll have to drive,” Holly insisted as Julia climbed onto the rolling car. He turned the wheel for her, just enough to steer it into the centre of the road; then he ran, panting, round the other side. He tossed Al onto the passenger seat. “Go! Go as fast as you can,” he shouted after her. “Ease the lever forward and let it gather steam.”

Julia obeyed, and the moment the brass lever nodded past vertical, a burst of steam sizzled behind her. She barely made out Holly’s cry, “Make for the hospital on Bleeker Street.”

Without brakes—she didn’t know which lever to pull or push for that—the car accelerated over the cobblestone like a toolbox on wheels. The violent clattering blurred her vision, battered her behind and tickled her gums. Now even faster, the constant hiss was even louder. Her ears popped and a gentle, xylophonic ring quenched the noise for a moment. A horse and carriage swerved to one side, out of her way. She beeped the car’s horn, persuaded another automobile to clear a path near the bottom of Challenger Row. Seconds before the turn.

Oh God, please let there be no one turning up here.

She gripped the rickety wheel and readied her shoulders for a hellfire left turn. How fast was she going? Too fast. Al’s body jumped off the seat when the car’s wheel hit a pothole. Julia reached across, grabbed his limp outstretched hand. Here we go. Whatever happens, make this turn.

No traffic that she could see.

A scorching force threw her forward against the wheel. Sour hot steam gushed up her nostrils. The automobile exploded, hurling her onto the brass bonnet and then onto the wet cobbles. There was no pain right away. Several feet to her right, Al lay crumpled in a heap. She crabbed toward him for all her worth, as though the hurtling vehicle would only flatten her if she shielded him in time. When she looked up, the car lay on its side, a mangle of shredded brass panels and filthy black innards wrecked upon a lamppost. A billowing cloud of white steam enveloped Challenger Row. She heard nothing but a muffled ring. Not even Al’s coughs when she crouched low over him and put her ear to his mouth.

Julia lay there instead and rested her head on his chest, unimaginably awake. Heat from the burning wreckage intensified on her bare calves. She slowly tucked her knees up to Al’s thighs and whispered the first words that came to her. “Don’t leave me. You love me.”

Four bare feet stopped at her side. Foul. Men’s feet. A small pair of black shoes joined them.

Too weak to move, Julia mouthed the words, “Help him,” but no sound emerged.

Two of the bare feet swivelled and appeared to overbalance. She flinched and began to shake when a large, half-naked man hit the ground behind the other two pairs of feet; blood leaked from a hole in his forehead; in his hand was a bizarre black gun with two grips. Something she’d never seen before.

From the future?

Julia stirred, and then summoned the effort to look up. Another half-naked man took a shot to the chest and collapsed like a rag doll. That left a slender woman, dressed all in black. She raised her hands aloft, and then knelt to the ground, head bowed. Through the heavy strands of hair, fierce hazel eyes watched Julia…waiting, hating.

Julia wanted to explode with joy when Horace Holly jogged into view. He stopped for a moment, kissed his rifle. Then he marched over and knocked the woman out cold with his rifle butt. After checking the corpses of the two men, he hurried over to Julia and spoke vital words she couldn’t hear. He seemed the gentlest man she’d ever met. Not ugly at all, but like a dear uncle she longed to spend more time with. He fetched the carriage in seconds—someone had driven it down the street. Holly lifted her inside, and then carefully placed Al next to her, cushioning Al’s head with his own folded-up jacket. Lastly, he lifted Lady Law, unconscious, onto the driver’s seat with him.

The carriage soon sped down Liverpool Street.

For a moment she imagined Georgy sitting there, on the seat opposite, about to regale her with the remarkable things she’d got up to today: those lively adventures, close scrapes and colourful people that only Georgy ever seemed to find.

The cobbles ended. Julia drifted away on a smooth, yielding road of dark and blinking amber.

Chapter Eleven

“Come now, Miss Law—you mean to tell this court that you cannot see the guilt in your actions? Bear in mind you have been charged with two counts of murder, one of attempted murder, one of conspiracy to commit murder, and over six hundred instances of fraud.” The old, bewigged crown prosecutor adjusted his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. His dissection of the case had so far been masterful in terms of evidence. He had expertly questioned Julia, Al and Holly; a selection of Harriet Law’s previous cases now lay scrutinized, skewered and unraveled in a haphazard pile on the evidence table, but the prosecutor had yet to elicit a confession from her.

With customary arrogance, she’d opted to mount her own defence. “You can charge me with poisoning Alexander the Great if it makes you feel better. It doesn’t change the fact that my investigations, temporal or otherwise, have uncovered evidence beyond the means of Scotland Yard. As a time traveller, all I did was discreetly observe the crimes being committed. As far as possible, I did not interfere, for the fabric of time is much too unpredictable. What is done is done and to meddle with that would not be scientific. I merely made notes on the crimes and brought that evidence back to the present, in essence no different than a forensic investigator.”

She continued haughtily, “Where you cry fraud, sir, I proclaim justice—justice for the victims of these heinous crimes. My methods of procuring evidence ought not to be under scrutiny when I have achieved such undeniable success. A rational society would embrace the use of a time machine to protect its citizens. Indeed, the very knowledge of such a device would serve as the ultimate deterrent for criminals everywhere. If they knew they had no chance whatsoever of escaping arrest, none would dare consider breaking the law. Think on it, gentlemen of the jury. A crime-free London, overnight and at no cost to anyone. How can—”

The prosecutor slapped his desk and weighed in, thrusting an adamant finger at her. “Yet, you yourself have admitted to tampering with certain events of the past to ensure this so-called ‘evidence’ matches your version of what happened. This is more than silent observation, Miss Law. I submit this is a deluded attempt to procure fame and fortune, to hoodwink all parties into believing you have simply deduced these facts, unaided. And how can we possibly trust the word of someone who, by her own admission, has willfully changed the past to satisfy her own ambition?”

Pursing her lips, she turned to the judge. “If I may be permitted to answer without the gentleman’s soapbox tactics.”

“Go ahead, Miss Law,” answered the judge. He eyed the barrister. “Prosecution will resist the urge to preach from now on. He is here to question, not to answer for the witness.”

The prosecutor cleared his throat and straightened his collar. “My apologies, Your Honour.”

“Thank you.” Harriet Law’s beautiful face was cold and inscrutable. “As I was saying, the how and the why of my strategies are beside the point. First and foremost, I have proved the guilt of over six hundred and fifty dangerous criminals. My evidence is incontrovertible. Disputing that is to dispute the veracity of every police officer and Scotland Yard detective who ever gave testimony in a trial. Impugning the integrity of a time travelling detective, merely because she travels through time, is illogical. My method is no different than a Scotland Yard official traipsing through a crime scene and picking out evidence. He can tamper with that evidence just as easily as I can.”

“But that man is licensed to investigate by the Crown,” argued the judge.

“Bad form, Your Honour,” she replied. “You forget I am a private detective and am therefore also licensed to an extent.”

“Hmm. Proceed.”

“And need I remind everyone here present that no law exists to govern the legality of time travel. Apart from the charge of attempted murder on Miss Bairstow, which I emphatically deny, this entire trial is unconstitutional. Fraud? Whom did I defraud? My clients paid for a service I rendered to their satisfaction. His Honour and his distinguished colleagues passed sentence on every one of those culprits I brought before them. If I am to be held to account, then certain implications must also arise.”

The judge’s birdlike head pivot tickled a man sitting in front of Julia, as did the hammering he gave his gavel. “Be careful, Miss Law, before I find you in contempt.”

“Sorry, Your Honour. I’ll move on.”

“Please do so.”

“And now, as a point of order, I must dispel the prosecutor’s claim that I have solved these crimes merely to satisfy my own ambition. In my own time, crime detection was so advanced that I was nothing more than an amateur. But my father served as a police officer all his life, as did his father. It was his one wish that I should follow in his footsteps, to uphold the family tradition. Eleven times my application was rejected. I never found out why—not until after he died, when I discovered a curious item in his will. It was listed as ‘the heirloom’ and was located in an underground storage locker beneath our tower block. I learned that my father had been under investigation for years, but no one could ever explain his leaps of logic or his intuition. He died penniless and ostracised. A life spent removing criminals from the streets and what did he have to show for it? A misfit daughter and an empty copper time machine.”

Her voice threatened to break, but after dabbing her eyes, she held her composure. “I never found out how he came by the machine or who gave it to him, but I did realise that that was his legacy. And whatever else I did in my life, I would have to perpetuate that legacy. So I chose Victorian London and the advent of modern science. He often spoke of his fondness for this era. Here I could learn to blend in, to start from scratch and using the deductive talent bequeathed me by my father, to make a difference. After I solved the riddle of Jack the Ripper, fame and money came swiftly. People love a celebrity. At least at first. And it is true that I sought this prominence, this notoriety, though not for the reasons the gentleman implies. Put simply, the more famous I became, and the more impressive my record, the more I hoped criminals might think twice about crossing the line. Alas,” she quieted, looked down to her lap, “it never worked out that way.”

As Harriet Law gazed up into the reserved spectators’ gallery, perhaps pleading for a little empathy, Julia glowered back remorselessly. There was that absence of hope in the woman’s big, chilling eyes again that Julia had first perceived after their church meeting—as though Harriet Law had carved out the last of her compassion long ago, and a hollow, ladylike facsimile was all that remained. She was all cogs and gears beneath the porcelain aspect.

Julia shuddered, and then tightened her fists. If she’d had a noose in her hand, she would have tossed it down onto Harriet Law’s lap and insisted the bitch do the honours herself. This testimony was all misdirection—justifying her plight by focusing on the crime-fighting, not the murders. And given her oratory skills, and the fact she was by far the cleverest person in the courtroom, she might well escape without punishment.

Julia had heard enough. Before her hatred exploded, she prodded Al’s good arm and whispered, “I need to get some air. Come with me?”

“Yes. After you. I don’t like where this is going either.”

The crowd outside the Old Bailey had grown to an angry multitude. Placards declared Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live, Time Travel is the Devil, Evil Begets Evil and Side with Lady Justice, not Lady Law.

“I think we’d better wait inside.” Al eased his arm around her waist, coaxing her away from the steps.

A familiar squat figure stood to greet them from a bench in one of the secluded alcoves. He threw down his newspaper and flicked them both a salute.

“Holly!” Julia gushed, saluting him back. “I didn’t think you’d stay.”

“Oh, I’m as much a prisoner as Harriet Law, at least for this afternoon.” He nodded in the direction of the mob. “They have the appetite of piranhas…and the teeth. How goes the trial? I’m afraid I rather gave up when she pleaded her innocence for the hundredth time. The words wall, brick and head sprang to mind. She’s still at it, I presume?”

“Like a terrier on a leash,” Julia replied. “She even claimed her henchmen weren’t from the future at all—that they were hired bodyguards from Manchester and that they were taking sexual advantage of her when you broke into the bedroom.”

Holly gave a mirthless laugh. “The nerve! It was the furthest thing from rape I’ve ever seen. One woman pleasured by three men at once, and she was still the one orchestrating…I beg your pardon, Julia. It was a terribly sordid what have you. Best we leave it at that, right Grant?”

“Absolutely.” Al looked neither of them in the eye. It reminded Julia of the time he’d described Georgy’s murder to her—reluctantly and with as little eye contact as possible. She loved that concern he had for what a lady should and should not hear.

She broke the uncomfortable silence for his sake. “But I think the jury is having a hard time grasping her last-ditch time travel. Between her in the bedroom and her at the bottom of the road, it all rather wrings the brain.”

Holly chuckled. “I’ll say.”

“I think I’ve untangled it, though. Hey, they should ask me back to the stand,” Julia boasted. “See if I get this right.”

The men shared a knowing smile, then listened intently.

“You caught the four of them in debauch,” she explained, “whereupon they opened fire with…what do you call them…automatic guns?” Simultaneous nods. “The standoff continued for five, ten minutes? Meanwhile, a second Lady Law attacked me on the staircase. I fought her off and followed her down to the basement to her time machine. After tying her up, I left the house with Al. My poor Al.”

She patted his stomach.

“Upstairs,” she went on, “Lady Law—the first Lady Law—escaped into a dumbwaiter in the back bedroom. From there she lowered herself into the basement, freed her other self, who I’d tied to a chair and then entered the time machine. She travelled back ten minutes, to before we’d arrived, changed into her black stealth outfit, and surprised to find me barring her escape, she tried to strangle me on the stairs. So her time travel had completed its loop.”

“Except that her other self, now in the future, freed from being tied up, was able to gather her henchmen and chase us down the street. They went out the back window, round the top of the street and followed us in the carriage. That was how they got by Holly. One of them shot our automobile, exploding the steam cylinder. But in the nick of time, good old Holly saved us from a sure execution.”

Breathless, Julia palmed her chest. “Did I get it right?”

“Succinctly and lucidly,” affirmed Holly, a little distracted.

“Bravo,” added Al. “And I must thank you once again, Holly, for your brave show. You’re a handy man to have around.”

“And with that rifle, a regular Quatermain.” Julia let go of Al, moved toward Holly. Waves of emotion furrowed the old man’s brow and he went to turn, to hide it from them. She caught him by the shoulders and held him in a tight embrace, her dear friend, her saviour.

“I swore I’d never fire another shot,” he confessed quietly.

Julia wanted to ask why but it was his affair. She wouldn’t press if he wasn’t forthcoming. “Well, it’s all over now,” she whispered. “And we’ll always be thankful that you picked up that rifle. Always.” Her tender kiss on his whiskered cheek felt like the seal on a friendship that would last a long time.

“As will I,” he said proudly as he recovered.

When she finally let go, Al stepped in and treated him to a manlier handshake. “What say we make a run for it,” Al proposed with a defiant glint in his eyes.

Julia shivered all over. With each passing gesture, he seemed to grow more irresistible, to fit ever more snugly into her most improbable dreams of what a man could be. Only he wasn’t a dream. Nor was he perfect. Al Grant bore scars that would perhaps never heal.

But, more and more, she was learning those scars by heart. For they were her scars now, as well.

“Very well. On three…if we stick together, we’ve proved we can get through anything,” Holly urged, readying himself between his two friends, grabbing each of them by the arm. “One…two…tallyho.”

Epilogue

“…and so begins a lifetime of incarceration for a woman who, less than three years ago, became a peer of the realm by special invitation from Queen Victoria herself. For her role in the murder of two young Londoners, Harriet Law has received a twenty-seven-year prison sentence; a caveat from the judge, however, stated that Miss Law would be eligible for early parole if she cooperated in the instruction of a new Scotland Yard detective bureau. Nicknamed ‘The Back Yarders’ for their time traveling role—specifically into the past, to gather evidence using Miss Law’s repaired machine—this unit and its implementation is to be strictly monitored by the Ministry of Defence in the Leviacrum.

“In an exclusive, given to this newspaper by the MOD, those names selected to the task force so far are: Messrs. Talbot, Pearce, Umbize, Vaughn-Britton and Holmes. More details to be published soon.”

Julia stopped reading and shielded her eyes from the blinding African sun. “So that’s that.” She shrugged and handed her copy of The Times to Holly, who immediately flicked to the cricket scores.

“They’re wrongheaded and there’s no more to be said. Bloody wrongheaded,” he snapped, futilely waving away a squall of Africa’s peskiest flying insects from the entrance to his tent.

“It’s damned irregular.” Al chomped on another cigar. “Tossing her in the clink and immediately emulating what got her into that mess in the first place.”

Julia reached over and caressed the back of his hand. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s all in the past.”

“Literally,” scoffed Holly, throwing jabs at the mosquitoes. “Oh, hell, this is intolerable. What say we press on? Shouldn’t be too far now. A few more hours, I dare say, Al?”

“Something like that.”

“And we can brainstorm on the way.” Holly clapped for his native bearers to pack their supplies for the final outward leg of their journey. “Josh and I had our whole epic worked out—more surprises per chapter than a halfpenny comic. But this is our story now. Let’s make it a good one.”

By the time Tangeni, their trail guide, hacked away the last of the bracken to reveal a vast, rolling red desert cotton-budded with low clouds, the sun had dipped into a cavity between two high dunes—the gateway to the bowl of Sossusvlei. A florescent sky tide of pinks and reds and violets signalled it was time to camp for the night. Holly dabbed his brow with the end of a kerchief, then stood, gawping at the view.

It had been a long slog across Africa, insect-ridden and mostly uncomfortable, but Julia would not have missed it for the world. It had gifted her several precious months with the man she loved. Al Grant spoke often of the future—when they would marry, where they might live and what Horace would make of their expedition in his new adventure book—but he rarely mentioned the past.

That had been Africa’s gift to them. The passage of time—the great healer. They’d been alone in a lost world, with only an old-school adventurer and the natives’ easygoing ways to keep them company. A world beyond maps and technology. Indeed the new century had birthed over a continent behind them, for Africa’s only timepiece was the sun, and its nature was more flamboyant and unpredictable than anything she’d ever set eyes upon.

“We’ll make camp here.” Holly began bellowing instructions to the Ovambo in their own tongue.

“We’re almost there, according to the map,” Al explained to Julia. “We’ve almost reached Holly’s fictional treasure trove.”

“Oh? And what will you take back with you,” she teased, “besides a pocketful of sand?”

He dropped his rucksack and reached to her waist. Tucking his fingers inside her belt, he pulled her toward him, his brown eyes unblinking, overflowing with desire.

Julia gasped, rode the thumping rhythm of her heart. With a gentle but firm hand he cupped the back of her neck, caressed and eased her toward his lips. She touched the waist of his khaki jacket and closed her eyes. Their lips met and a distant bird caw she’d never heard before, high up, sank subliminally into the kiss, and not even the whooping and applause from a dozen giddy Ovambo could break the promise of passion.

“To Africa,” Al toasted over the embers of their campfire later that night, for which he had invited all the natives as well. They all sipped a little grog from their earthenware cups. “May she never change.”

Julia stood and raised her cup. “And to the sweet adventurers we left behind, who would have both loved to be here with us…indeed, who are here with us. To Georgy and Josh. This expedition is for you.”

They all drank another sip and laughter broke out when one of the natives coughed up his grog.

“And last but not least…” Holly leapt to his feet, raised his hip flask. “To the new century! May it be filled with hot air, cool horizons and, just for Julia, the most undrinkable beverage ever inflicted upon man. To the posset!”

“To the posset,” they all shouted.

About the Author

While Robert Appleton’s favored genre is science fiction, his diverse list of published stories ranges from a Victorian steampunk mystery to a crocodile attack set during WWII (based on true events). He currently writes for several major digital publishers. To date, he has nineteen titles under contract, including three novels and several novellas.

Robert lives in Bolton, Northwest England. When not writing, he loves to kayak whenever he can (not often enough), underachieve at soccer with his long-standing 5-a-side team, and climb the occasional mountain. His favorite authors include Patrick O’Brian, H. Rider Haggard and H.G. Wells. He is also a film buff (with a degree to prove it) who adores Harryhausen, Spielberg and Oliver Stone.

The Mysterious Lady Law is his first title at Carina Press.

To learn more, visit his website, www.robertappleton.co.uk, or swing by his blog, http://robertbappleton.blogspot.com.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9115-1

Copyright © 2011 by Robert Appleton

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