The Baker Street Translation (15 page)

For a moment there was silence all around.

Then Laura said, “We're sorry for your loss. I mean, not for any money you might have lost, but for her passing.”

Reggie glared at Stillman and said, “So you're here looking for a letter that contains a will that would cost the potential inheritors several billions of dollars—which I'm guessing includes you—if you don't find it and destroy it before a court becomes aware of its existence.”

Stillman glared back at Reggie and said, “We're done here. If you're telling the truth and you don't have the letter—but you find it—you'll save yourself a world of trouble if you just turn it over to me. The law is far from settled on this. A cat at least has corporeal existence; Sherlock Holmes does not. And whoever is perpetrating this scam is just as likely to be found guilty of fraud as he is to obtain Ms. Clemens's money.”

Reggie was about to respond, but Laura put her hand on his arm.

“I'm sure you'll both be just wonderful at trial,” she said to Stillman. “But I don't have time to listen to you and Reggie wrangle legal doctrine all day. We have more important things to discuss. So shoo, please.”

“Sure,” said Stillman. He stood up from the conference table and turned to exit. But then he paused in the doorway.

Just one more thing,” said Stillman. “I'd feel bad later on if something happened and I didn't warn you.”

“About what?” said Laura.

“I'm only Ms. Clemens's attorney. I am not, in fact, an heir to her fortune. I'm not a relative. Regardless of what you think, I am not one of those who would stand to lose billions if this bequest were to take effect.”

“But you said she never married? She outlived her siblings, and there's no husband, and no surviving children?” said Laura.

“Right. But there's a grand-nephew. Actually, two of them. Before I flew out here, I tried to let them both know that I'm handling this—I reached one of them but not the other, and that second one is a pretty rough guy.”

“So you think at least one of them might be here?” asked Reggie.

“No telling,” said Stillman. “I don't control him. I can't control him. And I can't say what he will do or what lengths he would go to. But now you're warned.”

Now Stillman exited into the corridor and walked back toward the lift, his hard-soled boots clumping on the wood floor. Reggie and Laura followed. Stillman looked suspiciously back over his shoulder at Reggie; Reggie returned a glare, and then at last the lift doors opened, Stillman stepped in, and the doors closed.

“An estate worth billions of pounds,” said Laura as soon as the man was gone, “might possibly be sufficient motive for a kidnapping.”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “But it would be tricky. You can hardly present yourself as claimant at a probate hearing if you're going to be arrested for kidnapping when you show up.”

“But that would only be a risk if you could be convicted, wouldn't it?”

Reggie nodded.

“Well, our Stillman wasn't the man in the boat,” said Laura. “His voice is wrong. And he wasn't on the island, either. I saw shoe prints in the mud, but they weren't pointy-toed American boots.”

“He could have accomplices,” said Reggie. “He could be lying about not having an interest in the will. And people do change shoes.”

“Yes, and I know not all Americans wear boots, but I doubt that man takes them off even when he goes to bed,” said Laura. “Anyway, I don't think it was him. He's far too direct to resort to a kidnapping. But perhaps this grand-nephew person is another matter.”

Reggie nodded at that. Then he said something that he'd been dwelling on but trying to hold back.

“If there really was a kidnapping,” said Reggie.

“What do you mean? Trust me, I had to row the little boat out to meet them; the kidnappers are real.”

“It could all just be a ploy by Buxton to try to drag you back into his sphere of influence. He's got the funds to set it up, and the security team to manage the details, keep you in it, and keep it private.”

“That's just foolish. You don't even believe what you just said yourself.”

Reggie sighed. “Maybe not. But I don't like having you involved in this.

“Reggie, I can't simply abandon him.”

“You can walk away and let the professionals handle this. They can't make you do this.”

“No one is making me do anything.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because it's the right thing. And because he trusted me to do it. And anyway, I owe him this much.”

“I can't see that you owe Robert Buxton a thing.”

“Reggie, I owe him for posting your bail in the Black Cab case, if for nothing else.”

Reggie didn't like being reminded of that. Buxton had once posted a million pounds to get Reggie out of jail—on Laura's request. Reggie had not been able to prevent it—she had made the request over his objections—but he had known at the time that it would mean trouble someday. And apparently, that day was now.

“He already got his money back on that,” said Reggie.

“It's not a matter of the money. It's a matter of his being willing to do a major favor when I asked.”

“We both know why he was willing to do that. He didn't mind at all the prospect of my rotting in jail. We both know what he was after.”

“Fine, Reggie, you know so much, tell me—exactly what was Lord Buxton after?”

Reggie didn't answer. He couldn't think of a safe way to say it. He and Laura were both standing facing each other, near each other, but squared off in the corridor, and it just didn't seem wise to say it. Probably he'd already said too much.

“Very well, then,” said Laura. “I'm going home. Before one of us does some damage.”

She turned and pressed the button for the lift.

Reggie couldn't stop her. He knew that. But when she stepped inside the lift, he put his hand between the doors before she could close them.

“When they call again, promise me you won't go to meet them. You'll call me.”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with helping Robert.”

“I don't give a damn about Buxton, and he doesn't give a damn about me. But you're in this and I'm in it with you. So promise you won't go to meet them. And you won't rely on the bloody security team. You'll call me.”

“I can't see what—”

“Promise.”

Laura gave an exasperated sigh. “I promise,” she said. “May I go now?”

Reggie brought his hand back and let the lift doors close.

Then, as the lift descended, he went to the exterior window in his chambers office and looked down on Baker Street. He picked up his phone, and as he watched Laura exit the lobby below and flag down a cab, he punched in the number that he had gotten from her address book.

After just two rings, an authoritative male voice answered

“Alex,” said the man on the phone

“I take it you are the git in charge of Robert Buxton's security,” said Reggie.

“Who are you?” said Alex.

“Reggie Heath.”

There was silence for a moment. Then: “Mr. Heath, you should not have this number. You can call Lord Buxton's standard reception line if you want to make an appointment.”

“If you make me go through channels, “said Reggie, “I will tell every channel I go through that I know why Lord Buxton hasn't been making any of his appointments.”

Silence again, then: “Laura Rankin told you?”

“She had no choice,” said Reggie.

“What is it you want?”

“You put her at risk. Don't do it again.”

“We took every possible precaution. We had everything under control.”

“Apparently, not quite everything. It was Regent's Park, for God's sake—it's surrounded on all sides by a major thoroughfare.”

“Obviously. What's your point?”

“And you couldn't keep a good-enough eye on things to stop them from getting away? What sort of control is that?”

“My team had all the exit points covered.”

“Again—apparently not. But I'm just letting you know: If you put Laura Rankin at risk again, I will ruin you.”

“From what I can see, Laura Rankin pretty much makes up her own mind about things.”

“Completely beside the point. If you send her out to meet the bloody kidnappers alone again, and harm comes to her, I will destroy you.”

“I'm a professional, Mr. Heath. What are you going to do, sneak up on me in an alley?”

“From what I can tell,” said Reggie. “a schoolgirl could manage that.”

Then Reggie hung up.

He closed his chambers door, locked it, exited Dorset House, and got in his car.

He hoped Buxton's security team would take his threat personally. But he wasn't about to take that for granted.

He sat in the Jag for several minutes, giving Laura's cab a head start. It wouldn't do to be caught tailing her. And then he started his car and drove toward Laura's home in Chelsea.

21

Robert Buxton was conscious again.

The same stench from before was in his nostrils. He felt like it was permeating his sinuses; he was sure he would never get it out of his head. But this time, it was the voice that woke him. Still the most annoying voice he had ever heard.

“You are still alive, Mr. Buxton. You may wonder, given what you see and smell around you. Imagine, if you dare, what it is like to spend every waking day for years in such a place. But you are still alive, at least. For the moment. If Ms. Laura Rankin brings us the letters on time, perhaps you will stay that way.”

“What letters?”

“You bloody well know, Mr. Buxton.”

Buxton tried to think. He did not bloody well know.

His vision was clearing more than his head was, or at least that's how it felt, but even so, he got only a general impression of the man's face: very pale, and just barely illuminated by a single electric lantern several feet away.

The letters. Buxton tried to think.

“Hell,” he said after a moment. “You mean the letters to Sherlock Holmes?”

The pale-faced man just stared back at him.

“This is about the bequest, isn't it?” said Buxton. “Are you from the States? You don't sound like it. But if this is about that will—hell, that was just a joke. It didn't mean anything. I was just playing a prank on Heath. That's all it was. You sure as hell didn't need to bring me here over that.”

The pale man still just stared and said nothing for a moment.

Then he said, “Is Ms. Rankin smarter than you? You may hope so. If she isn't, you'll never get out of here.”

“And just where the hell am I?” asked Buxton.

“You are about fifty meters north of the Albert Memorial. Several meters below a park that used to be a private hunting reserve for kings who would shoot deer for sport while the commoners starved. It was a bit of a slog getting you here, and I mean that literally. But if one is looking for symbols of British empire and decadence, and I am, this location will do.”

The pale man stood. He picked up the electric lantern and held it out at arm's length to give Buxton a better look at his situation.

“Two hundred years ago, this little ledge was used by the sewer maintenance workers to assemble their equipment. See, right here is a little nook for you to put your lantern—if you had one. Now you can jump down from here if you like—the sewer water here is only about three feet deep at the moment; it'll rise when it rains. But I've put new locks on both the exit grates, so you won't get far, whatever the weather, and I'd advise you to stay put.

“But if you do decide to jump down anyway, do you know what you'd be standing in? I'll bet you don't. Well, maybe you do, in a general sort of way. You can't see it in the dark, but I bet even you can smell it: the queen's shit. And I mean that in a very specific sort of way: the queen's. Though I bet you can't tell from sniffing it the difference between it and anyone else's. Or maybe you can. Do you think? If you had beef bourguignon for supper, would your crap smell different than if you had bangers and beans? Maybe. I haven't done a study.

“But I can tell you that royal shit is what you'd be standing in if you tried to get out, because we are directly under Hyde Park, and just two kilometers to the north of us is Buckingham Palace, which is a main contributor to this tunnel. Everything the royals grunt and strain out of their bums comes through here. Yeah, I know. I do. I know all about it. I spent ten years fixing these sewers back in the day—lively occupation for a young man getting ready to go out and about on the town, don't you think? So I know. Too bad they wouldn't let me make a career of it. But if they had, I would never have found my true calling.”

“And what would that be?”

The man with the lantern shook his head and started to turn away.

“Wait,” said Buxton. “Don't you have any idea who I am?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then think about it. You're mad at the royals, right? I get that. I do. Now, think about the newspapers I own. Think what I could do for your cause if I gave it coverage.”

“Your fish wrap is part of the problem. You make the royals a bloody national obsession.”

Buxton shrugged. “I can change.”

“Doesn't matter. You think I brought you here because of the trash you print? Don't flatter yourself, Lord Buxton. I mean, if you can help it.”

“Wait—I'm not even a real lord, you know. That's just for show. Not related to any royals, ever, no matter how far back you go.”

The man with the lantern looked back at Buxton, shook his head again, and then turned off the light.

22

It was late in the evening now, and Laura was at home in Chelsea, but she had no thought of sleeping. She made Earl Grey tea with milk and drank it for something to do, and it would be fine if it kept her awake.