“Well, that explains a great deal,” said Catherine. She sounded amused. There was just enough light from the lantern to see that she was smiling. “And I have to compliment you on the lying—you seem quite accomplished at it.”
“Oh, it’s terrible, miss,” said Alice. “But once I get started, I can’t seem to stop. Going on about gathering eggs in the morning, how warm they felt in my hand, and the cornflowers in the fields, and my two brothers. About how I missed the farm, when I’d never been farther from London than a cab horse!”
“Oh, Alice, if only I’d known!” said Mary. “I couldn’t have paid you, but you would at least have had a roof over your head.”
“I couldn’t tell Mrs. Poole, miss. Not after the terrible lies I’d told.”
“Well, we’re going to go home and tell her. And then you’ll stay at Park Terrace until we can figure out what to do with you.”
“Home,” said Catherine. “That sounds rather nice—home.” She was not sure she believed in the concept.
It does sound nice, thought Mary. And that was what she’d been assuming, without realizing it—the house on Park Terrace would become a home. For Diana and Beatrice, and Catherine and Justine, and now for Alice. They would all live there together, no more going off to join the circus or perform in freak shows. Which might not at all be what the others were assuming would happen.
In the back of the boat, a different conversation was taking place.
“Your initials are on your handkerchief, which is tucked into the sleeve of your jacket. The pipe is in your breast pocket—I can see the stem, and you smell of tobacco smoke. There is ash on the breast of your jacket, which together with the distinctive smell allowed me to identify your preferred tobacco at once as Old Virginian. As you may know, I have written a monograph on the different types of tobacco ash and how to distinguish between them. You have the weathered face of a man who has spent years in a tropical climate and the bearing of a military man, particularly about the neck, so you could have been a soldier. But the knots at the end of your dock lines are distinctly nautical; even if they were made by your subordinate, you would have taught and supervised him. I deduced a man who had served on a sailing ship, most likely in the South Seas, and had come back to London to settle down. It would be easy and logical for such a man to run a steamboat up and down the Thames. You move your left arm stiffly, likely from an old wound, and there is a bullet on your watch chain, no doubt the very bullet dug out of that shoulder. You have the flushed nose and cheeks of a drinker, and your trousers are patched on one knee—a thick patch, carefully sewn around the edges. There is your conscientious and no doubt thrifty wife. Such a wife would object to your nights at the pub, and is not likely to refrain from scolding.”
“Ah, well, when you explain it like that, it seems obvious,” said Mudge.
“Of course, it always seems obvious once it’s been explained.” Holmes sounded annoyed, but Beatrice could tell he was scarcely paying attention to Mudge. He was worried about Watson.
“Put your hand on Dr. Watson’s forehead,” she said to Justine. “How does it feel?”
“Hot. Hotter than it should, I think.” Watson’s head was on Justine’s lap. She held him as tenderly as though he were a young bird in a nest. It is the way she holds everything—when you are as strong as Justine, the world is terribly fragile.
“I was afraid it would be,” said Beatrice. “He’s running a fever, Mr. Holmes. If I had my medicines, I could bring down the fever and fight the infection—but I have nothing. I only hope the hospital has what he needs. The state of medical knowledge in London is, let us say, not what one might expect of the largest city in the world.”
“I’ll get you there as quickly as I can,” said Mudge. “I’ll tell Mike to stoke up the boiler, then send him back here to meet you. He won’t believe it’s you, sir. What a night! We came down here because a party of gentlemen, fresh from a club in Mayfair and deep in their cups, wanted to go slumming, see what they called the real London. But they were supposed to be back hours ago. No doubt they’re dreaming in some opium den, unless they’ve been murdered already. I was cursing my foolishness in having agreed to bring them down here, but it’s allowed me to meet you. Life’s a rum thing, ain’t it? If I find a piece of paper somewhere, you’ll give me your autograph, won’t you, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes assured him that yes, he would be perfectly happy to autograph anything, if the captain would just get them to Chelsea as quickly as possible.
Mudge went to check on his boiler, and they sat in silence: the detective, the murderer, the Giantess, the Poisonous Girl, and the man who might die that night.
In the bow, Mary, Catherine, and Alice had also fallen into silence. What were our heroines thinking, as the boat moved upriver through the darkness?
DIANA: Now you really do sound like a penny dreadful! Anyway, how could you possibly know what was happening in the back of the boat, when you were sitting in the front?
CATHERINE: Because I asked Beatrice, and unlike you, she has an excellent memory.
BEATRICE: Please don’t interrupt. I want to know what we were all thinking. I remember what I was thinking . . .