The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Irish Gamble: The Pendywick Place, #4

By Alydia Rackham

The hunt for Professor Winchester's treacherous informant begins, drawing Victoria into the heart of London's deadly underground...

With Sherlock out of the city on a case, it is up to Dr. John Watson, and his new patient, to help Victoria with the investigation—which may build to a fatal confrontation on a foggy Halloween night.

"The Irish Gamble" is the fourth installment in Alydia Rackham's captivating Victorian mystery series. If you like a Dickensian atmosphere, Sherlockian thrills, and Austenian intrigue, you will love this adventure.

Snatch up "The Irish Gamble" today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224107025

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

"Often, the test of courage is not to die,

But to live."

-Vittorio Alfieri

Chapter One

Wednesday, October 5th

1882

WATER.

Black as ink, all around her, drawing her down, down...

Cold, heavy.

She tried to move her arms, but they felt sodden and slow...

Her clothes weighed on her. She tilted her head back. Up above, high above...

A light. A little light, shimmering down through the distant surface. Perhaps the moon.

She thought about kicking, fighting—but deep inside, she knew it wouldn’t help. Her lungs burned, swelled to bursting...

She turned to look down, blinking through the murk, fighting not to suck in a mouthful of water...

Someone.

Someone just past her feet.

A white, handsome face, caught in that faint moonlight. Eyes closed. Curly dark hair flowing languidly around his forehead. Arms limply stretched toward her. White hands floating.

She twisted, stretching out toward him—reaching with all her might to snatch at one of those white hands, to catch those white fingertips...

But she couldn’t reach.

He sank, further away from her—and disappeared in the dark.

She let out a scream—bubbles burst around her face—

Victoria opened her eyes.

Stared at the empty ceiling above her bed, slightly lit by the dawn seeping in through her curtains. The huge house lay silent beneath her.

She took a low breath. Heavy—as if still filled with water.

More than a month. More than a month it had been.

Yet, every time she closed her eyes...

The River Thames swallowed her. And it swallowed him.

Victoria gazed blankly out the window at the steady rain, her braille book open and forgotten on her lap. She stretched her legs out across the window seat, her blue skirt tumbling to the floor, and leaned her head against the frame. Thunder muttered overhead, rolling through the clouds. The fire in the hearth off to her left crackled. She sighed, and glanced around the parlor study.

Mrs. Butterfield hadn’t touched anything. Since all the furniture had been set to rights after the ransacking in August, neither she nor Victoria had shifted a single book of the piles of them all over the piano, nor lifted a paper from those stacked on the work table nearby, nor adjusted the chair behind the cluttered desk in the far corner. Every day, they turned on the lamps and lit the fire, and the book-packed, L-shaped study room where Victoria and Basil Collingwood had spent countless hours studying and talking, would fill with light.

As if they expected Basil to step through the door that very afternoon, shake the rain from his coat, and demand to sit down to tea without any more absurd delays.

Jack, their golden-furred, bright-eyed dog lay before the inner door on the rug, head resting on his paws, pointed ears laid back. His food and water bowl sat beside him. He couldn’t be persuaded to leave his post. 

Thunder rumbled again. Victoria turned back to the window, and studied the way that the water ran in little rivers through the narrow street, across the gleaming cobbles—how the few carriages that clattered past splashed through black, muddy puddles, their horses and drivers streaming with water.

She had managed to set one objective before herself this morning—an objective that had sufficed to get her out of bed, dress herself, pin up her hair, and nervously eat a small piece of cheese and bread—and that had been to go outside to the garden and pick a bouquet of roses to set in the kitchen for Mrs. Butterfield.

Now, even that had been taken from her.

So she kept staring out the window. Her cold hands limp across the textured pages. Waiting. Always waiting.

And refusing to think.

Louder clattering issued from outside. A hansom cab drew up in front of Pendywick Place and stopped. Victoria frowned.

In a few moments, the front bell buzzed. Mrs. Butterfield, her face downcast, strode up the back hallway from the kitchen, dusting her hands off on her black dress.

Please move, Jack, she murmured, nudging the dog with her toe. Jack got up and stepped out of the way, watching her with mild interest. She opened the squeaky door and stepped out into the entryway. Victoria shut her eyes, her heart starting to beat faster, envisioning the housekeeper passing the coats that hung empty, the blackthorn canes that sat in isolation in the corner...

Mrs. Butterfield pulled the heavy front door open, and Victoria heard a masculine voice greet her. Mrs. Butterfield answered, bidding him enter. Double the footsteps creaked back through the entryway, an umbrella rattled, and then Mrs. Butterfield re-emerged in the company of a young man in a black coat, suit and tie, holding his top hat in his hand. Victoria’s breath caught, and she turned to look up at him.

He stopped inside the door—narrow, handsome face, long nose, neatly-combed, short, light-brown hair and piercing eyes—to smile and bend down to pet Jack’s head. Jack wagged his tail, sniffing his clothes rapidly.

Good lad, Jack, the man said quietly. I’ve missed seeing you. Then, he straightened, turned and took two steps, before pausing at the edge of the parlor, and finding Victoria.

Victoria made herself lift her trembling hands.

/Good morning, Mr. Holmes/ she signed.

Sherlock Holmes’ usually-sharp features softened as he gazed at her, and he smiled slightly.

Good morning, Miss Thulin. How are you?

/You’ve heard something,/ Victoria signed, straightening. /Found something./

Sherlock glanced at the floor.

No, I’m afraid not. He lifted his eyes to hers. Have you read the note I sent you? With my flowers?

Victoria’s mouth tightened.

/Mrs. Butterfield read it to me,/ she said. /But I haven’t looked at it since./

The skin around Sherlock’s eyes tightened.

Pity, he said quietly.

May I take your hat and coat, sir? Mrs. Butterfield asked him. A dull pang traveled through Victoria’s chest. She wished she could have gotten the roses—poor Mrs. Butterfield looked pale, with dark circles around her eyes.

I do wish I could stay for a while, even for tea, Sherlock said to her. But I’m afraid I’m on business of some importance.

Is anything the matter? Mrs. Butterfield asked.

No, not at all, Sherlock assured her. But I’ve been sent here by the Collingwood family to fetch Miss Thulin.

Victoria’s heart jumped.

No. No, no, no...

What? Are they in Town? Mrs. Butterfield’s eyebrows went up.

They are indeed, Sherlock said. They just arrived last week, all the way from their holiday in California. As you can imagine, it took some time for them to receive the news in the first place, then more time to travel across the country and then board a ship to return. They were quite exhausted.

Yes, poor dears, Mrs. Butterfield’s brow furrowed. Why did they not come here?

For the first, they wished immediately to inquire at Scotland Yard about the entire incident, Sherlock told her. So they chose the Grand Hotel, which as you know is a mere stone’s throw from the Yard. And, for another... Sherlock glanced at Victoria. They wanted to afford time to prepare themselves.

Victoria’s hands closed around her skirt.

Yes, Mrs. Butterfield nodded, her voice unsteady. Yes, I understand.

Sherlock stepped into the parlor further, and stood in front of the mantel, facing Victoria.

Miss Thulin, they very much would like to meet you. Mrs. Fleetwood—that is, Imogen Fleetwood, Basil’s sister—in particular, he said. I volunteered to escort you and make certain you didn’t catch cold in this dreadful rain. They’d like to host you for luncheon in their private suite at the Grand. Is that...agreeable to you?

Victoria’s heart beat strong and heavy inside her—uncomfortable and hot and tight. She squeezed her hands tighter. Sherlock almost smiled again.

I’m not certain if it was ever mentioned to you, but both Mrs. Fleetwood and Mrs. Collingwood are language experts. It seems to be a family hobby. I assure you that, the ladies at least, will thoroughly understand anything you say.

Victoria sat, locked in Sherlock’s gaze, for several moments longer, her pulse still pounding unsteadily. Then, slowly, she nodded.

/Thank you,/ she signed.

Not at all, he murmured. All too glad to be of service.

Victoria carefully shut her braille book—which she still could not read—and set it on the window seat. Then, she stood to her feet and crossed the room toward the hallway hangers, where Mrs. Butterfield already held her open coat out to her. Victoria put it on, along with her gloves, while Mrs. Butterfield fetched her hat.

Do you need an umbrella? Mrs. Butterfield asked her.

Mine is large enough for two of us to fit beneath it, Sherlock said.

Very well, sir. What time shall I expect her back? Mrs. Butterfield wrung her hands—and Sherlock noticed. He reached out and touched her elbow.

No later than three o’clock this afternoon. Is that all right?

Yes, Mrs. Butterfield smiled painfully, then turned to Victoria. Do give the family my regards, and tell them I look forward to seeing them.

/I will,/ Victoria promised. Sherlock then opened the first door for her and she stepped through. He snatched up his umbrella, pushed through the front door, and the scent of cold rain washed in over Victoria. He opened his umbrella with a loud flap, and held out his arm to her. She took it, and together they strode out into the pouring rain, down the wet walkway, to the waiting hansom.

Victoria had often passed The Grand Hotel at Trafalgar Square—the creamy, eight-story palatial building bearing arches, ornate stonework, detailed railings and seemingly hundreds of little windows upon its face. Upon one morning stroll, Basil had slowed their usually-brisk pace to point out all its facets, and tell her its history.

Victoria hadn’t walked here in several weeks. Or much of anywhere, for that matter.

The hansom pulled up in front of the great entry arch and Sherlock hopped out, opened his umbrella, paid the cab driver, then helped Victoria step down. Together, they strode through the doors and into the luxurious lobby.

Victoria glanced absently through the towering marble room—all pillars and stone and elegant gold curtains, bustling and ringing with the activity of well-dressed guests. Sherlock lowered his wet umbrella and maneuvered her toward the stairs.

The two of them climbed several floors until they arrived at a long, quiet hallway, and Sherlock tapped on the third door.

Footsteps on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and an angel stood on the other side.

Victoria couldn’t help it—it was the first thought to enter her mind.

The young woman, perhaps thirty-five years old, had rich golden hair with russet in its depths, and she had pinned it up in a loose-but-elegant fashion. She had a face that reminded Victoria of a classical painting: full, perfect pink lips; long-lashed, lively, warm brown eyes; eyebrows like brushstrokes, skin like porcelain, delicately-blushing cheeks. She wore a simple, tasteful mourning dress, and little jet earrings that sparkled.

And in spite of her pure femininity and beauty, Victoria could glimpse Basil’s features in the hints and edges of hers.

Oh! Mr. Holmes—Sherlock, the woman amended, halfway smiling. She had a low, musical voice; precise, yet gentle. Please, do come in. She stepped back from the door, allowing Sherlock and Victoria to enter the suite. Victoria gripped Sherlock’s sleeve, feeling the heat drain out of her face. Red carpets and white walls, tall windows with gold curtains, arrangements of chairs and a couch around a table, a fire dancing in the fireplace, and all the lamps lit. And three other people, besides this woman, occupied it.

Mrs. Imogen Fleetwood, may I present Miss Victoria Thulin, Sherlock introduced, gesturing to her. Mrs. Fleetwood’s attention flashed to Victoria, and her lips parted.

I...Is it really? she said in surprise. Oh, my word. I’m so very pleased to meet you. Mrs. Fleetwood held out her hand, and Victoria pried hers loose, and took it.

Mrs. Fleetwood’s hand was warm, soft, and enveloping—and it shot the same warmth through Victoria’s whole chest. Shocking. Real.

She was here. Imogen—the faraway traveler, who never came home. Not on the continent, not in America.

Here. In London.

Miss Thulin, these are my parents, Mary and George Collingwood, Mrs. Fleetwood gestured to the couple near the couch. The lady sat, and the gentleman had stood up. Both wore black. The lady looked pale, her faded hair hidden beneath a mourning bonnet. But she had striking grey eyes that captured Victoria, snatching the air from her lungs. The gentleman wore his grey beard in trimmed mutton-chops, his throat swathed in a kerchief. He had soft features, but he had not smiled in a long time. Both the gentleman and lady nodded at her.

And this is my husband, Captain James Fleetwood, Mrs. Fleetwood finished. Another gentleman stood forward—tall, stately and just as stunningly-handsome as his wife was beautiful. He had reddish-blond hair, eyes that flashed nearly turquoise, and a