Miss Pillbody held up her shackles and rattled the chain that linked her wrists and then did the same with the one that was looped through the chair she was sitting on. ‘So I have exchanged one prison for another?’
‘For the moment,’ said Mrs Gregson. They were in the stone-floored, beam-ceilinged kitchen of a ramshackle farmhouse to the north-east of London, en route to the Port of Harwich, which was served by the Great Eastern Railway whose tracks ran within a mile of their current location. They, though, would be driving to the port. The longer they could keep Miss Pillbody shackled, the happier everyone would be. And that would be difficult on the train.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a pitch pine table and chairs and a Welsh dresser devoid of any crockery, but it was warm thanks to a cast-iron range. Mrs Gregson wasn’t sure how Nathan had located it, but it would do the job nicely.
‘I don’t know what you think I’d do if you uncuffed me. Bite you?’
Mrs Gregson did not answer directly but pointed behind her. ‘This gentleman is Mr Nathan,’ she said.
Nathan nodded in Miss Pillbody’s direction and opened his jacket to show an automatic pistol shoved into his waistband.
‘Pleased to meet you, too,’ said Miss Pillbody.
Mrs Gregson pulled open the door of the kitchen. Outside in the corridor was bucktoothed Hiram Buller, who raised his bowler as if greeting a lady on her stroll to church. Only the shotgun held in the crook of his arm added a note of incongruity.
‘Mr Buller.’ She closed the door. ‘Do not for one moment think we underestimate your determination or resourcefulness. Both men are fully prepared to shoot to kill.’
Miss Pillbody gave a smile and a nod of appreciation; as if this were the highest compliment she could be paid.
‘Why did you kill the warder?’ Nathan asked.
‘Bitch. Deserved it.’
‘You have put us in a very difficult position.’
‘Because you feel guilty? Because if you hadn’t dreamed up this plan, that woman Gray might still be drawing baths and folding towels?’
Mrs Gregson said nothing, but the damned woman had touched a nerve. Now, she was complicit in a murder.
‘Send me back then.’
‘You know we can’t do that.’
‘I do. Because you might join me on the gallows. You’ve been lucky so far. All that nonsense with the balloon—’
‘Nonsense?’ Mrs Gregson blurted. She was proud of the scheme. ‘It was a modified version of the woman-overboard escape I used at Foulness.’
Miss Pillbody snorted. ‘That didn’t work, though, did it?’ Mrs Gregson had faked a leap from a ship and then stayed hidden on board until the hue and cry died down. She had been caught, but not due to any flaw in the plan’s execution, just by dint of a keen dockyard guard. ‘How long before they realize that the body isn’t me?’
‘Given the damage to the facial features, which are consistent with a fall from a great height, a few days, if ever. Long enough so they won’t be looking for you at the ports just yet.’
Valentine from St Barts had provided the body that was dressed in prison clothes. It was the cadaver of a young woman from the East End who had died from exposure after a night – or more likely several weeks – gorging on bathtub gin.
‘Can I get something to eat?’ Miss Pillbody asked. ‘If I am to stay in this position until morning.’
Mrs Gregson glanced out of the window. A faint overture of dawn had appeared and the birds were singing. She almost allowed the feeling of exhaustion to overcome her but took a deep breath. ‘Mr Nathan?’
‘There’s some bread and cheese in the car. And we can make tea.’
‘Tea! Hallelujah!’ sneered Miss Pillbody. ‘All is well with the world.’
‘That will be fine,’ said Mrs Gregson to Nathan. ‘And fetch the clothes, will you?’ Nathan handed Mrs Gregson the Webley as he left, his expression a warning to use it if in the slightest doubt.
‘I think shooting me now would rather spoil the party, don’t you?’
‘Oh, we have contingency plans.’
‘Really?’ Both eyebrows went up. ‘I thought you were making this up as you rolled merrily along.’
‘You think you can hire the most accomplished illusionist in the country on a whim? Or one of the few balloonists who can fly over London at night?’
The plan had been both complex and simple. Miss Pillbody had never left the roof, but had hidden in the cleft of two chimney stacks, along with a length of rope dropped from the balloon, with which, after a few hours, she descended the outside wall of the prison to where Nathan and Buller had been waiting, with hood and ropes and a fast car. The woman ascending the rope, witnessed and sworn to by guards and neighbours alike, was an illusion projected by David Devant onto sheets slung from beneath the balloon, using his theatreograph system, mounted on a nearby rooftop. Mrs Gregson had assisted him, such was the shaking of his hands due to his illness, but he had enjoyed creating the show. ‘What a shame there is no audience to applaud,’ he had said when the masquerade was complete. But there had been an audience and they supplied something much more valuable than applause – sworn statements that the illusion was actually a genuine event.
‘It must have cost a pretty penny,’ said Miss Pillbody.
‘Sometimes, the name Sherlock Holmes brings out the best in people.’
‘Ah, but it’s the other one you want to save, isn’t it, Georgina?’
Mrs Gregson recognized an attempt to upset her, the gentle press of a knife between the ribs, presaging the sudden twist. ‘I want them both home,’ she said flatly. ‘They are old men who deserve a rest.’
‘What are the clothes you mentioned to Nathan?’
‘You can’t travel in that prison garb. We shall be taking the ferry as Red Cross VADs. A perfect cover. And we can hide your restraints under the long cape.’
‘There are submarines and mines in the North Sea.’
‘We will take our chances.’
‘I can’t swim with these.’ She held up the manacles.
‘Then you will be taking somewhat more chances than the rest of us.’
Miss Pillbody stuck out her lower lip and blew a strand of hair from her mouth. ‘Will you at least allow me to brush and pin up my hair to keep it out of my eyes? All this running around has made it quite wild.’
Mrs Gregson could see no harm in making her look presentable. And VADs, like regular nurses, did tend to wear their hair up. ‘Yes. In due course.’
‘And you are certain the Germans at the border will accept me in place of a piece of propaganda like Holmes? My masters are not sentimental types, you know. They won’t even trust me, thinking I have been manipulated by the British. I will be treated with suspicion for many months. I might even end up in prison there.’
‘I wouldn’t put a wager on that, Miss Pillbody. Not with your silver tongue.’
A flash of a smile. ‘And what does Mr Holmes think of this scheme?’
Mrs Gregson must have betrayed something with her response.
‘Hold on a moment. He doesn’t know, does he? Is that right? Holmes is going to offer himself up and you wish to pre-empt that.’ Miss Pillbody began to laugh so hard that the metal of her chains rattled. ‘Oh, perfect. At this moment you have no more idea where Sherlock Holmes is than I do.’
My Dear Watson,
By the time you get this, I will either be dead or on my way to the eternal sleep of death. The thought of this journey is lightened by the knowledge that you will be spared any more suffering and can go home to a well-deserved retirement. I would recommend bees, but I know you never shared my enthusiasm for the wonders of the hive.
I am well aware that you – and Mycroft – consider me naïve in the ways of the world and especially politics. It is true I have only dabbled in my brother’s sphere when I thought I might be of some assistance to King and Country. But even I appreciate that due to my having – in no small part thanks to your commendable efforts – a certain public standing, that once I am in the hands of the Germans they will seek to exploit that position. I am old now, frailer than I was, although, again with thanks to you, much better than when we were on that blasted island together. But I have no illusions about what methods the Germans might use to bend me to their will. A man can hold out for some time but few can guarantee they will not, at some point, snap like the brittlest of reeds.
Therefore, I have prepared a poison that I will release into my body as soon as I am certain you are safe in the hands of our forces.
Do not grieve. I have feared the slow decline of old age more than any of the other evils I have faced. I have peered into the abyss of senility and know it isn’t for me.
I am already in Holland as I write this. I intercepted the instructions for the exchange from Von Bork at the post office, before they were delivered to the hotel. The hotel, I have noted, is being watched. Which makes me suspect there are those who would – nobly but wrongheadedly – thwart me in this undertaking. Mycroft, whom I told only half the truth to? Or your redoubtable Mrs Gregson? Or Kell. Or Churchill, perhaps. The watchers are of English origin, at any rate, that much is obvious. A naval man and two ex-army types I have deduced. One of them plays cricket regularly.
So my task now is to make sure the exchange takes place and you are safe at home in England.
I say again, do not grieve for me. Ours was the most wonderful of times, you were the best of companions and colleagues. And friend, of course. What adventures we had. But I fear that the world that will emerge from this conflict would ill suit me. I shall leave copies of this letter with Mycroft and post one to your club and another to Cox & Co. Mycroft has my will. Do not fret, I have not left you the bees.
I wish you many more years and assure you that, should you decide to unearth some of the cases yet to be put before the public, I will be in no position to object. Just do not dim your own considerable light at the expense of mine, as you are wont to do.
I shall see you on the bridge, John. It will be a pleasure to greet you one last time.
Your friend as ever,
Sherlock Holmes