A Study in Darkness by Emma Jane Holloway

“Jones? I know this one’s reputation—a sly rat, if there ever was one. How long will he be unconscious?”
    Holmes gave a slight shrug. “At least an hour.”
    “Good.”
    “He is really that fearsome then?” Evelina asked, still eyeing the manacles.
    The Schoolmaster frowned, which she took as a worrying affirmative. “Why did the Blue King send him here?”
    Holmes answered. “No doubt he wants what all men want from me—answers or silence.”
    No
, thought Evelina,
it’s not that simple. They think you know something you shouldn’t
. Now that the crisis was past, her mind was churning out questions. She knew that her Uncle Mycroft had his carefully manicured fingers in a great many pies, both literal and figurative—and apparently at least one pie was volatile enough to interest a steam baron and to make Holmes hide that fact from Evelina.
A shadow government? Baskerville?
    The Schoolmaster glanced down at his prisoner. “Shall we take him in, then?”
    She wondered where “in” was since she very much doubted that they were referring to the police. If her uncle had wanted Scotland Yard, he would have sent Wiggins for Inspector Lestrade. And who was this Schoolmaster? The steam barons would want to ask him a great many questions about those restraints. Makers weren’t allowed to ply their trade without the Steam Council’s approval.
    Holmes looked critically at Jones. “We’ll need a cab. The closer to the back entrance the better.”
    “I have a Steamer around the corner,” the Schoolmaster replied. He turned to Evelina, touching the brim of his hat. “If you’ll excuse us, miss.”
    She nodded mutely and turned to her uncle. “I was planning to have my trunk delivered from the station …”
    “Oh, by all means,” he said with a flap of his hand. “Mrs. Hudson has your room ready. When she’s back from her quest for constables, perhaps you could ask her to sweep up and call the glazier. In the meantime, some letters have arrived for you. Invitations and whatnot. I’m sure they will keep you occupied until I return.”

 
    London, August 24, 1888

BAKER STREET
     
    3:15 p.m. Friday
     
     
    FEELING SUDDENLY LOST, EVELINA WATCHED HER UNCLE and the Schoolmaster carry Jones out the study door with as much ceremony as if he were a sack of spuds. She had been sucked into the action the moment she had set foot in 221B Baker Street, but had just as suddenly been cut adrift. Hesitantly, she set the gun on the dining table.
    Evelina didn’t want to sip tea and read letters. Questions needed answering, and there was danger afoot. Besides, after spending the summer with Grandmamma Holmes in Devonshire, the last thing she wanted was one more minute of being polite and quiet.
Come now. Don’t be greedy. One explosion should be enough for any afternoon
.
    Evelina heard a door open and close downstairs. The back door; the men leaving. With a wave of an inexpressible emotion—maybe loss, maybe relief—she realized that she was alone in the slightly smoking silence of her uncle’s residence. As the tension drained out of her, she released a sigh and looked around.
What a mess
.
    Evelina looked out the window one last time. The crowd had finally wandered away, and there was still no sign of Mrs. Hudson. At loose ends, Evelina picked up the broom she had used on Jones’s head and pushed the debris littering the floor into a pile. The dining table, though still on its feet, had been swept clean by the path of destruction. She recognized piecesof Mrs. Hudson’s good Blue Willow china and felt a pang of regret. She bent down to gather some of the scattered papers, careful not to cut herself on the shards of crockery.
    The
Times
was splayed across the floor, the charred pages crumbling as she picked them up. Without intending to read, her eyes flicked over the words that were still legible, as if their fragility made them somehow more important. It was the previous day’s edition.
    Yesterday afternoon,