Mycroft Holmes (20 page)

Holmes recognized the first five immediately, from the calling cards that the men had used to reserve their places at the
Sultana
’s dining room table. He said as much.

“I assume the other three were aboard, as well,” he continued, “but did not make their presence known. Might they be known to you? Perhaps they are criminals of some sort.”

The baron stared at the names. Then he walked to his desk and opened a drawer, removed a file, and compared Holmes’s names with a list in his hand.

Finally, he shook his head.

“If they are miscreants,” he declared, “they have caused no trouble here.”

Holmes noticed Edward Dedos—Three-Fingered Eddie—among the governor’s list of criminals. There was also a Rickets, a Peter Rickets, but no others he recognized. So he turned his attention back to the list he had been given. There was something peculiar about the names…

The governor perused his list again, and compared it to Holmes’s. “We have no records of them at all,” he declared.

“That is because they are not criminals, merely businessmen,” Holmes murmured. Whereupon he picked up his list, quickly tore the names into strips, then positioned them in a new order.

As Douglas and Gordon looked at them curiously, Holmes explained.

“You see there? The first letter of each first name forms an acronym for the famous American vice president and seditionist, Aaron Burr. My hunch is that none of these men knew the others by sight before they embarked. Once they put down their calling cards in the grand saloon, any interloper would quickly be ferreted out, as his first name would not fit the acronym.”

“Aaron Burr?” Douglas repeated. “An American vice president who killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel? Why pick him, of all people?”

“I am assuming,” Holmes said, “that the names came first, that they are not pseudonyms. They would have utilized Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, if it fitted.”

The governor cleared his throat.

“Forgive me for pointing out an error in spelling, especially at such a crucial juncture, but…” He placed his finger between “Adam McGuire” and “Richard Nelson,” then continued. “Burr spelled his first name with two ‘a’s, not one,” he said.

“Quite so—” Holmes began, when he was interrupted by a hard knock upon the door.

“What is it?” the baron called out impatiently.

His supercilious aide peeked in.

“All apologies, governor, but it is a matter of some urgency.”

Holmes quickly gathered up the names and placed the pieces back in the envelope. The governor motioned Beauchamp inside, and the man handed him a note.

“From the chief of police in Port of Spain,” he said by way of explanation.

When the governor read it, he turned as white as a sheet.

“By h… heavens,” he stammered. “Not half an hour ago, your good captain, James Miles, was trampled in the streets by a runaway horse. He is, I am aggrieved to report, deceased!”

Holmes and Douglas glanced at each other.

“I most solemnly assure you,” Hamilton-Gordon went on nervously, “that this sort of thing never transpires on our fine little island. The drivers here are kind, considerate…”

“I noticed as much,” Holmes assured him as he and Douglas rose to their feet. “I am sorry to say, governor, that there is a conspiracy afoot. Have we your permission to interrogate a pickpocket, currently being held at the jail by the docks?”

“You have but to ask, Mr. Holmes. And whatever you discover, you may count on our full support,” Hamilton-Gordon announced, waving his hand in an arc, indicating his entire office.

Holmes and Douglas moved for the door.

“Perhaps we might issue a guard, to ensure your safety,” the governor suggested.

Holmes shook his head.

“Please do not take offense,” he said. “But at the moment, I am afraid the only ones we can trust are in this room.” He indicated the three of them, while clearly omitting Beauchamp, the aide who glared at them from the corner.

* * *

In the back of the cart, as the sky changed from violet to cobalt, the men’s internal organs were once again rearranged by the jostling about. Douglas turned to Holmes.

“So tell me why Aaron is missing an ‘a,’” he said.

“Because one name is not on the list,” Holmes responded. “Someone whom they all knew by sight, so there was no need.”

“Anabel Lynch?” Douglas guessed, though he didn’t see the point.

Holmes nodded.

“The boy mentioned her specifically. Remember when he cried out, ‘I done all you ast’? The men might’ve been the ones who paid him, but it was
she
who gave him his marching orders. He did it for her, Douglas. He did it for love.”

“You assume all those men knew her by sight,” Douglas said. “You think she is the one who gathered them there?”

“I would not go so far as all that,” Holmes said with a shrug. “Perhaps it’s simply that there aren’t that many women involved in… whatever this is.” He frowned, then continued. “Now all we can do is to see what the boy tells us.”

“If anything at all,” Douglas added pessimistically—for the mystery seemed to him to be deepening.

* * *

The West India Regiment’s barracks was a crumbling limestone building. Large Xs in red chalk were scrawled here and there. Douglas explained that it had been marked for demolition, and a police headquarters would be put up in its place.

“So where does Port of Spain hold its detainees?” Holmes asked.

“There are still a handful of cells here and there, maintained for those awaiting transfer to various prisons around the island,” Douglas explained.

“And security is lax?” Holmes inquired.

“Everything on the island is lax,” Douglas said.

While Huan and Nico waited in the street, the two men entered the barracks’ dank little outer office. A gas light in the corner flared out what little illumination there was. The moment they stepped inside, a bored bailiff eyed them drily.

“If you seek the boy, he is gone.”

Holmes was about to ask how he’d know whom they sought, but Douglas shook his head, as in
don’t bother
.

“Port of Spain is a city,” he muttered under his breath, “but when it comes to gossip, it is the smallest of small towns.”

“Gone?” Holmes asked the bailiff. “Gone where? Was he transferred?”

The bailiff, with a pockmarked face and a permanent scowl, was seated behind an ancient desk that bore countless gash wounds upon its surface, along with a smattering of papers upon which a pair of handcuffs served as a paperweight, and a plate with what appeared to be the remains of a meal of chickpeas. He calmly finished picking his very white teeth with the pointed ends of a pair of scissors, wiped the blades on his trousers, stabbed them into the desk, and burped loudly.

“Bail,” he said.

“Someone provided bail?” Douglas repeated. “And who might that be?”

The bailiff shrugged.

“Not my never mind.”

In a flash, Douglas stood over him, his hand hovering over the scissor blades.

“We have come a long way,” he purred menacingly. “We are tired, hungry and cross. I suggest you give us a bit more information than that.”

The man stared up at Douglas.

“You are threatening me, mon?” he asked blandly.

“Assume what you wish,
mon
,” Douglas replied, his look filled with meaning.

“You talk fancy for a local boy,” the bailiff began. Scooping up the handcuffs that lay on his desk, he started to rise when he inadvertently glanced toward the door. His eyes registered surprise, along with a hint of alarm.

Douglas and Holmes followed his gaze.

It was Huan. He stood in the doorframe, grinning—one hand raised in greeting as if to the room at large. Then, with a shy bow, he ducked out again.

Without altering his expression a whit, the bailiff sat down. Then he turned his gaze upon Douglas and nodded pleasantly.

“Chestnut hair,” he said. “Fine mustache, nice looking, strange talking.”

“Strange talking?” Douglas said. “American, perhaps?”

The bailiff held up one finger. Then he balled the hand into a fist, and drove it into his solar plexus. This elicited a second, even larger burp.

“Might be,” he said, shrugging again. “Might very well be.”

Holmes and Douglas turned and hurried toward the door when he called out to them.

“Ah, and a woman!” he said loudly. They both stopped in their tracks.

“A woman was with the American?” Holmes repeated, turning around.

“No, mon!” He sounded exasperated, as if he had been trying to explain the same point for hours. “I am saying that the boy would not go with him. Then the woman, she comes in…”

“Describe her!” Holmes commanded.

“Calm yourself. Blond hair, blue eyes—as I live and breathe, a fine-looking woman. She did not speak, but she has a bracelet under the sleeve. Jumbie beads, local girl, I think…”

“On her right arm or her left?” Holmes interrupted, his voice unsteady.

The bailiff frowned and held out his arms. He looked at both, as if trying to picture her.

His smile grew more lascivious.

“Right,” he said. “It was her right.” Then he began to chuckle. “And the boy, when he sees her? He starts to cry.
Now
he go with the mon!
Now
he go! Pretty young lady, very persuasive indeed!”

And the bailiff laughed as if this were the funniest thing in the world.

HOLMES FOLLOWED DOUGLAS OUT OF THE DANK LITTLE JAIL. HE
knew what the next stop would be on this very strange journey he was on. He knew it would answer some questions while raising more.

He also knew it would be a crucible.

What he did not know was if he could bear it.

“She was on board all along,” he muttered to Douglas. “There would have been no other way into port. Georgiana is Anabel Lynch. That boy may’ve been one of the urchins she taught…”

“It certainly seems that way,” Douglas responded. “But why would she do this? Why bring the boy on a journey she wasn’t even planning to undertake until three days before the
Sultana
was scheduled to leave?”

“And why change her name? Why
any
of it?” Holmes groaned.

Douglas laid a hand on his shoulder but said nothing further. Holmes was grateful for the silence. After all, what was there to say?

Thick wisps of fog were beginning to appear as they approached Huan, who was leaning against the side of his gig, his arms folded across his chest. He eyed the two men warily.

“There are
douen
inside, then?” he said, only half joking. “For you have both lost your coloring—even you, Cyrus. You have gone nearly as white as your friend there.”

Douglas quickly changed the subject.

“I take it you knew our good bailiff?” he asked, his thumb pointing back to the edifice behind them.

Huan grinned. “Never met the man!”

“Well, he must have known of you,” Douglas responded, “for the moment he set eyes upon you, he suddenly became quite a bit more eager to assist.”

“Glad to be of service,” Huan said with a gracious bow—but he did not elaborate. “And now? Where do we go?”

Douglas looked to Holmes for the answer.