The Ignominious Mister Tipp: The Pendywick Place, #8

By Alydia Rackham

An unlikely duo and an ice-cold murder case...

Lucinda Holliday--an educated lady with fiery red hair and an aloof disposition--must bargain help from the striking-but-volatile American, Mr. Tipp: a disgraced detective turned opium addict...
For he is the only man on earth who can possibly solve the mystery of her father's senseless murder.

Plunge into the romance and danger of 1870's London as this incompatible pair tangle with the cold case that destroyed both their lives, all while being haunted and hunted by the most elusive and insidious murderer in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224184088

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

Chapter One

LONDON

July, 1871

Lucinda Holliday sharply thrust two pins through her hat and into her hair— one, two—in the exact same places as always. She plucked her purse off the side table, took three steps, and paused for just an instant before the tall mirror in the corridor to cast a swift and critical eye over her pristine black-and-white-striped day suit, flowery straw hat, and white gloves. Her blaze of curly red hair had been gathered up and back in a fashionable style, and pearl earrings gleamed by her cheeks. 

Good. Straightforward and businesslike. 

Why, Lindy, I haven’t seen you dress up so prettily in a long time! 

Lucinda glanced back up the airy entryway to see her mother—all in oldfashioned, lacy black these days, save for the silver claddagh pin at her throat—step through from the parlor. Mrs. Holliday clasped her hands in front of her and softly smiled, tilting her greying head. Her brown eyes twinkled. 

I’ve always said that white compliments your features so well, her mother went on. Brings out that lovely bloom in your cheeks and lips—and it makes your blue eyes absolutely stunning! 

Thank you, Mother, Lucinda said crisply, facing the mirror again and frowning as she adjusted her glove. I have an extremely urgent appointment, and I am endeavoring to make a good impression. 

You always make a good impression, dear, her mother said amiably. Then, she sighed. I remember when you were younger, every time you appeared at a ball, you were the talk of the town the next day. What a beauty, everyone said! Such a beauty we’ve never seen. She’s sure to steal some nobleman’s heart or other.    Yes, well, Lucinda lifted her chin and secured her own claddagh pin on her collar. Thankfully, when a single woman turns thirty, people stop talking that kind of nonsense about her.

Oh, my dear, I’m sure they weren’t meaning to be unkind! her mother protested. 

Of course not, Lucinda said, then turned to her mother and drew herself up. I’ll be home by teatime. I’ve told Davis to organize the pantry, and Mrs. Clark to clean the stove. She says it doesn’t need it, but I say differently. And do not allow Tillie to leave this afternoon. Lucinda lifted a finger. She says she wishes to visit her sick mother, but I know for a fact she simply wants to dally in the park with that milkman.

Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Whatever you say, dear, Mrs. Holliday nodded, wide eyed.

Good morning, Mother. Lucinda opened the black front door and swept outside, shutting it behind her. She glanced back at the polished brass knocker, then across the three-story house’s face: the flawless white stones and black-framed windows, with the orange nasturtiums blooming in the boxes. She smiled faintly. Then, straightening up and facing the world, she descended the steps to the pavement where a hansom cab already stood waiting, the driver’s whip dangling over the back of a sleepy bay horse. 

The air smelled fresh this morning, since it had just rained the night before, banishing the usual London stench and replacing it with the welcome perfume of the bursting blossoms in nearby Hyde Park. The clouds had dissipated, save for the occasional puff from a neighboring chimney, and the sun shone brightly in the spreading blue sky. Lucinda strode up and stopped pointedly beside the hansom.

Excuse me. 

The driver jerked, lifting his hatted head, and looked down at her.

Ah! Yes—begging pardon, ma’am, he bumbled, then climbed noisily down from his perch, all the joints on the vehicle creaking. He landed on the pavement with a thud, then opened the cab door for her. He offered her his hand, which she took, and she hopped up into the seat, careful not to step on her skirts. As she settled herself, she tucked her purse into her lap.

The corner of Pall Mall and Carlton Gardens, please, she announced.

Yes, ma’am, he grunted. He slammed the doors after her and climbed back on top. The cab jostled, and Lucinda frowned upward—but soon the driver had seated himself, cleared his throat, and clicked to the sleepy horse.

The bay came out of its stupor with a snort and started forward, the little hansom rambling on behind it, the wheels clattering loudly over the cobbles. 

As they entered Knightsbridge, they joined a flow of constant traffic between the crowded buildings—cabs, carriages, horses, carts and pedestrians—all bustling back and forth, in and out. A slight breeze wafted through, relieving the mounting heat of the morning.

Lucinda hardly saw anything as they drove. Her vision unfocused and she frowned as she clutched her purse tightly in both hands. She felt the stiff crinkle of paper within it—and she gripped it harder.

The drive seemed interminable, but at last, the hansom pulled up at the bustling corner of Pall Mall and Carlton Gardens. Lucinda paid the driver, he helped her dismount...

And finally, she stood before a square, three-story building of pale stone, with stately ornamentation around the many windows and at the corners, and a flag flying over the imposing center door. A stone fence encircled the building, with a staircase flanked by lampposts leading up to the door. Lucinda set her teeth, lifted her skirt, and marched up the steps. At the landing, she grasped the door knocker and gave it three sharp snaps before returning her grip to her purse and raising her chin. 

In a matter of moments, the door opened to reveal an old, mustached butler in a flawless suit. He raised his eyebrows when he saw her.

Good morning, madam. How may I help you?

My name is Miss Lucinda Holliday, she replied. I am here to see Mr. Mycroft Holmes concerning an urgent matter of business.

Please come inside, Miss Holliday, the butler invited, stepping aside. Fortunately, Mr. Holmes is at home this morning, and I will let him know you have come. 

Thank you. Lucinda stepped inside, onto the blue-and-white checked marble floor of a fine entryway, where framed landscapes decorated the walls, and a brass chandelier lit the way to a regal staircase. 

You may sit here and wait, please, the butler advised, gesturing to a velvet chair beside a hanging mirror. His voice echoed in the towering space.

Thank you, Lucinda said again, and perched on the chair’s edge as the butler disappeared through a side door to her left. Lucinda watched him go. 

Silence fell, save for the droning tick...tick...tick of a massive grandfather clock in the far corner. The atmosphere in here carried the refined, masculine scent of books and pipe tobacco. Subdued voices traveled through several walls. Her frown tightened again as she sat still, listening. She couldn’t make out any words.

Soon, footsteps neared her again, and the butler reappeared.

Miss Holliday, he inclined his head. Mr. Holmes will be happy to see you now. Please follow me.

Lucinda arose and followed the butler through the door and into a sunny front parlor—then through yet another door...

Into a vast library. Lucinda paused on the threshold. 

Thousands of books were packed, floor to ceiling, within gorgeous mahogany shelves, lit by a broad front window and dozens of ornate hanging lamps. Persian rugs adorned the floors, and leather furniture created comfortable nooks for study and tea. Painted portraits of master authors hung in the few spaces between bookshelves, and a massive, antique globe commanded the center of the room. 

A young man stood with his hands clasped behind him, within the spilling sunlight near the window—he caught Lucinda’s attention instantly. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fashionable suit in the same cut and style as the royal princes wore. He had a broad forehead, hawk-like nose and penetrating dark eyes, and a secretly mocking mouth. 

Lucinda halted, staring straight back at him. Somehow, his gaze cut straight through her, to the very center of her being. 

And he noticed. His eyes flashed—and he smiled. 

Miss Holliday, the man greeted her. He had a smooth, deep, refined voice. I am Mycroft Holmes. James says you’ve come to me on a matter of some urgency. Lucinda gathered herself, took a deep breath, and nodded. 

Yes, Mr. Holmes, she said. It may not be urgent to anyone else at this point in time, but nevertheless, it is urgent to me.

Please, do come sit, Mr. Holmes gestured to the armchair in front of him.

James, would you bring us some tea?

Right away, sir, the butler bowed and left the room. Lucinda stepped around the chair and sat down in it, still holding her purse in her lap. 

Now, Mr. Holmes took a step toward her, studying her closely, a deep line forming between his eyebrows. How may I be of service to you?

I come on behalf of my father, sir, she answered. He was murdered three years ago.

Oh? Mycroft’s tone lifted and he tilted his head. "I’m very sorry to hear that.

My condolences to you and your family."

Thank you, Lucinda said briefly. He was in New York City at the time, meeting with Andrew Carnegie. My father worked as an engineer for the White Star Line, you see.

Indeed, Mycroft said, still watching her as he delicately seated himself in an armchair across the table from her, set his elbow on the rest and draped his fingers over his lips.

Yes. He was staying at the Grand Union Hotel, Lucinda said slowly. And he died on November 10th, 1868.

Mycroft Holmes went completely still. His dark, unblinking eyes fixed on her, and his breathing slowed to nothing.

The Grand Union Hotel, he murmured. His eyebrows slowly lifted.

Then...your father was Burton Holliday.

Yes, Mr. Holmes, Lucinda said gravely. And I just received a letter from him. 

Mycroft Holmes said nothing for a long moment—then sat up a little in his chair. 

Do go on, he urged quietly, never taking his eyes from her. 

The letter arrived just yesterday, Lucinda said, reaching in her purse and drawing out the beaten envelope covered in stamps. Along with a packet of other mail addressed to us—dozens and dozens of bills and other letters. Apparently, due to some oversight, all these letters had been placed in the post office box of a Mr. Albert Holliday, who has been in France for the past seven years. The post office just now realized their mistake, and sent it all on to our home.

A spark of mischievous interest flashed in Mr. Holmes’ eyes.

Am I correct in assuming that you did not come all the way to a stranger’s apartments this early in the morning to discuss the shortcomings of the English postal service? 

Of course I didn’t, Lucina shot back. She set her purse aside and leaned slightly toward him. Three years ago, once I received word that my father was dead and that an investigation had begun, I followed the developments of the case very closely in the newspapers. Your name appeared more than once in that case—they started to call it The Case of Monte Cristo.

Yes, that was due to a quote that was found at each of the murder scenes, both in New York and here in England, Mr. Holmes recalled grimly. A quote from Dumas’ masterwork, The Count of Monte Cristo: ‘May the God of vengeance now yield me His place in punishing the wicked.’ He shook his head. Little did it serve in tracking down the murderer who still, it would seem, is lost to the winds.    Yes, I remember, Lucinda said quickly. Which is why I was so alarmed when I finally read my father’s letter.

Mr. Holmes frowned.

Indeed? What does it say?

Just then, James returned with the tea tray and set it down on the table between them. After a quick thank you to the butler, Mr. Holmes began to pour the tea for Lucinda and himself. As he did, Lucinda drew out the crumpled letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and held it up. 

This is addressed to my mother, dated November 10th, 1868, she said.

The very date of the murders, Mr. Holmes realized, setting the teapot down.

Lucinda glanced at him and nodded. Then, she took a deep breath and read aloud.    ‘My dear Cathy, I hope this letter finds you well today. I’m afraid I am embarking upon my daily letter-writing a little late! In fact, it is nearly dinnertime. I am pleased to announce that Mr. Carnegie and I had a very fruitful meeting today. He is a bold and amiable man with a mild Scottish brogue, and we talked for a quarter of an hour about the old country," as he calls it, before settling in to business. After the meeting, I strolled through the city streets for over an hour for my own enjoyment. London is a sleepy town compared to New York City, I must tell you! Thousands— millions—of people going this way and that, up and down, in and out, shouting and waving newspapers and blasting through doors and whipping horses. I fear I was nearly killed several times.

One has to keep on one’s toes! One never knows what is going to come around the corner next.    ‘Speaking of which, Cathy, our Lindy has another admirer. That won’t surprise you, nor is it unexpected—but I must tell you this story, as it is amusing to say the least. As she’s been staying here with me, she’s naturally spent a great deal more time here at the hotel than I have, seeing as I’ve been out on business. While she’s been here in the library or in the tearoom, the head waiter, a Frenchman named Monsieur Christian, has become smitten with her. I noticed this right away, as the poor man always practically falls over himself when she simply asks for a teaspoon. Well, yesterday afternoon when I returned to the hotel, Monsieur Christian asked to see me alone. He seemed very serious, and rather nervous, and I feared something was wrong. So, I bid him come up to my room where we could speak in private. He then told me that he had a confession to make: his name is not Edmond Christian, as everyone believes. His name is truly Andrew Hall. And he is not French in the least! He was born right here in New York, and is the son of a mill worker. He said he was ashamed of his charade, but he had simply put on a French affect in order to get and maintain such a prestigious position at the fine restaurant of this hotel. He wished to tell me this because he is in love with Lindy, and wishes to ask her to marry him. He wants no subterfuge or lies to begin their marriage. I confess, Cathy, that I laughed and shook his hand, and wished him good luck. I know Lindy’s mind, and that she has no interest in this man—as she has very little interest in any of the silly men who have thrown themselves at her!—so I am certain she is safe. In fact, I don’t think she even notices that he exists! However, I told this Mr. Hall that he was welcome to ask her if he desired, as Lindy has always been given her own way in matters of the heart, and she is free to make her own choice. He said he dearly hoped she would choose him, for his entire life and happiness depended upon it. He did a striking thing, then: he spoke a quotation so solemnly, like an actor on the stage. He said: Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy. I was so struck by his delivery, I asked him from whence it came. He said it is from the novel The Count of Monte Cristo. I confessed to him that I had not read it, and he highly recommended it to me, saying it had changed his life. He seemed very pleased and happy, shook my hand repeatedly and thanked me, and said he would ask Lindy for her hand in the morning. After he left, I do believe I laughed for ten minutes.    Someone is at the door, Cathy. I believe it is the dinner I called up to be delivered. Lindy left on the boat this morning, and she will no doubt give you a full account of this silly story when she arrives back home. Still, I know how much craic you have looking in the mailbox for my letters— just as much as I have when I look for yours. With all my love, Burt."

Lucinda looked up from the letter to see Mr. Holmes staring back at her with an expression of profound astonishment on his face. She lowered the paper.

You see why I came, she said. 

Yes, I do, Mr. Holmes murmured. Did this man, in fact, ask you to marry him?

I do remember the head waiter coming to me as I waited for my cab in the library the morning I was leaving, Lucinda replied. He spoke as he always did—with a relatively thick French accent. He begged me to listen to him, then told me that he was in love with me. He asked if I could find it in my heart to stay there in New York with him, that he had enough money to keep a wife comfortable.

And...seeing as you are here in Pall Mall this morning having tea with me, and not tucked away in some attic apartment in New York City, Mr. Holmes finished wryly. I may conclude that you spurned his affections.

I was very polite, Mr. Holmes, Lucinda warned. As courteous as possible. But until my father mentioned it in this letter, I could not have even told you this man’s name. 

Ah. You receive many such proposals, then? Mr. Holmes smirked slightly as he sat back in his chair, sipping his tea. Lucinda’s expression hardened.

At one time in my life, yes, I did, she said. But none of them—especially this one—could be taken seriously. 

Interesting, Mr. Holmes said fleetingly. However, what is most interesting, both to you and to myself, is what this Monsieur Christian said to your father about his real name. And of course... he raised a pointed eyebrow. "The reference to The Count of Monte Cristo." 

Yes, Lucinda said, seizing on it. I looked over all the articles again last night, as I have kept them, and noticed again that seven men died in the Grand Union Hotel that night: Mr. Swoop Stafford and his business partners Elwood Roth and Gill Stapleton—all three of the advertising firm Stafford, Roth and Stapleton. The next three were Palmer Daley, Atwell Whitehouse and Eber Boyce. Each one of those men ran a newspaper or a magazine press. They were there for Mr. Stafford’s forty-fifth birthday party. They were all in the same private room and drank the same arsenic-poisoned wine. They all died at the same time— Lucinda pushed a forefinger down onto the letter. But there were two other men who died that night who seem to have nothing to do with the men at the party: my father Burton Holliday—

And the head waiter, Monsieur Edmond Christian, Mr. Holmes finished solemnly, nodding. He was visiting his mother, away from the city, and crashed his buggy into the side of a bridge. His body was found by two boys the next morning.   

Yes, Lucinda nodded decisively. "And until now, I have never heard any mention of the fact that Edmond Christian was actually Andrew Hall, or that he knew

The Count of Monte Cristo so well that he could quote it by heart."

Mm, Mr. Holmes mused, sitting back in his chair once more, his intent gaze distancing. 

I was able to learn more details when the investigation came to England, and the detectives interviewed Atwell Whitehouse and Gill Stapleton’s English family, as well as myself and my mother, Lucinda went on quickly. And then the unexpected murder of Whitehouse’s nephew led the detectives straight to Count Noel Eldred. She paused. Wrongly, as it turns out.

Yes. The count was found guilty and hanged for the murder of eight men, Mycroft sighed, flicking his fingers in annoyance. And three months later, Whitehouse’s sister was found dead with that same Monte Cristo quote hanging around her neck. He touched his forehead, his mouth tightening. The real killer was laughing in our faces while the innocent Eldred was turning in his fresh grave.   

But what if the inspectors were simply missing this piece? Lucinda spoke up, lifting the letter.

You mean your fraudster, Andrew Hall? Mr. Holmes pointed at the letter.  Yes, Lucinda said firmly. The head waiter dies in an accident with no witnesses the same night six other men are poisoned—poisoned by wine from the cellar of the hotel where the waiter worked, to which he certainly had a key.   

And what is your theory, then, Miss Holliday? Mr. Holmes countered. "That

Monsieur Christian—Andrew Hall—murdered those men in New York?"   

Yes, and more than that, Lucinda declared. I believe he did not die, and came here to murder Whitehouse’s sister and nephew, and to frame Count Eldred.   

Mr. Holmes smiled at her—a cool, calculating expression. 

It is an interesting theory, Miss Holliday, he allowed, steepling his fingers. A mere supposition, of course, as it is supported by no evidence whatsoever. You assume that because a man lies about his identity, he must have nefarious purposes. Or that a man cannot die on a dark road at the same time other men die in a hotel room. It could all very well be coincidence.

I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. Holmes, Lucinda countered. "There are

no such things. Not in this ordered universe in which we live."

Ordered? Mr. Holmes repeated in mild surprise. Your father was killed for some senseless reason—probably by accident, as the detectives in New York concluded—and the killer has never been caught, yet you assert a belief in order?   

Everything happens for a reason, Lucinda said, her hand tightening on the letter. The reason this happened is simply hidden. 

For a long moment, Mr. Holmes studied her—and then he smiled again. With real warmth this time. However, when he spoke, he shocked her to her core.

I am afraid I cannot help you, Miss Holliday.

What? she blinked. What do you mean? Why not? 

Because I am already engaged, he replied lightly, standing up from his chair. My business at the moment is far too pressing and engrossing for me to be able to devote the amount of time required to chase down such a flimsy lead to whatever unfruitful end.

Lucinda stared at him, her face heating up. Mr. Holmes lifted a finger.   

However, he said. If I may, I shall refer you to a man much more knowledgeable and capable than myself. In this matter, at least.   

Who is that? she demanded. 

His name is Mr. Tipp, Mr. Holmes clasped his hands behind his back again. This is, in fact, his area of expertise.

Lucinda frowned incredulously. 

You mean...Valentine Tipp? That cowboy who joined the English investigation? 

Oh, Miss Holliday, he led the investigation. And he was never a cowboy, Mr.

Holmes said pointedly. I fear he would be gravely offended if anyone thought so. But he is an American, and an educated gentleman. 

An American gentleman. Lucinda lifted an eyebrow. Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?

Mr. Holmes gave a light laugh.

Besides, Lucinda watched him narrowly. I heard he had committed suicide.   

What? Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holmes chided—though she saw him give a slight wince. I admit, he certainly isn’t in his prime at the moment, after the ignominy that came with this particular case. But he is your answer, Miss Holliday. If anyone this side of the Atlantic can help you, it is he. 

Lucinda refrained from grinding her teeth, then folded the letter again. 

Very well, she bit out. It seems I have no choice. Where can I find him?   

He lives in the bottom floor of number 26 Brick Lane, just off Montague Street, Mr. Holmes answered.

Lucinda stopped right in the middle of putting the letter back in the envelope.

She stared up at him.

Montague Street, she echoed. That’s in the East End.

Indeed, he nodded. Have you been there?

Of course not, she snapped. I’m not a fool, Mr. Holmes.

Of course you’re not, he acknowledged mildly—a hint of that smirk returning. 

Lucinda pushed the letter back into her purse and rose to her feet, facing him squarely.

Then perhaps you would send one of your men with me for protection, she

said. Along with a letter of introduction for Mr. Tipp.

Mr. Holmes watched her for a moment, a hint of that secret light in his eyes again. Lucinda waited, and did not move. At last, Mr. Holmes inclined his head.   

Of course, Miss Holliday. I would be delighted. He turned and headed toward a splendid red desk in the other corner. I have a strapping young lad named Lewis who will do for the job. And I’ll give him cab fare to conduct you thence and hence. He sat down at the desk, drew out a piece of stationery and a pen, and began to write—quick and precise. Lucinda approached the desk and waited in front of it, tapping her finger on her purse. In a few seconds, Mr. Holmes had completed his letter, fanned the paper to dry the ink, then folded it and put it in an envelope, and sealed it with his family crest in red wax. 

Here you are, Miss Holliday. Mr. Holmes arose and held out the letter to her.  Thank you, Mr. Holmes, she said as she took it, and put it in her purse next to her father’s letter. 

Mr. Holmes then rang a bell, and James responded. Mr. Holmes had him send for Lewis, which he quickly did. In less than five minutes, Lewis—a tall, blond young man of perhaps nineteen—appeared in the drawing room. He was clearly a downstairs servant, clean and pressed. In a few sentences, Mr. Holmes explained that he was to conduct Miss Holliday to Number 26 Brick Lane, to wait for her there, and escort her back to her home after she had concluded her business. Lewis said yes sir, he understood, and took the money for the cab fare. 

Good day to you, Miss Holliday, Mr. Holmes bid her. And best of luck in your endeavors.

Thank you, Lucinda answered distractedly, turning and striding toward the door, Lewis in tow. The next minute, they were out the door, and Lewis hailed a cab. He helped Lucinda into it and climbed in himself, calling out the address to the driver. Lewis shut the doors. And as they sped off through the clamorous streets, Lucinda tried to take a deep, steadying breath.

London’s East End. The most vile, filthy and treacherous borough of the entire city. And she was heading straight into the heart of it. 

Chapter Two

LUCINDA SMELLED IT before she caught sight of any of its visible portents: a rancid, rotting, unholy scent—stagnant and heavy as fog. A noxious cocktail of coal fumes, abandoned garbage, and the decay inherent to human dilapidation. She fought against covering her nose—though her eyes started to water. Clearing her throat, she straightened in her seat, and kept a watchful lookout. 

The coal smoke descended into the narrowing streets, covering the sunny day and crowding the lanes in shadow. Before long, Lucinda caught snatches of unsettling sounds, such as dogs barking, glass breaking, rough shouts and laughter, and coughing, all muffled by ragged curtains in glassless windows, or by the thready turn of a gaunt, gloomy alley.

The people walking on either side of the hansom, or standing within doorways, had altered markedly in appearance to those in Lucinda’s neighborhood, or even in the common areas of London. The people here were ragged and dirty, with faces marred by coal smut, their hats askew, their shawls threadbare, their shoes held together with twine. They stared at her as her hansom passed, blank and piercing, and they did not look away when she met their gazes. Lucinda clenched her teeth, forcing her attention to fix on the space out past the horse’s ears.

Suddenly, the hansom slowed and stopped. The horse snorted and tossed his head. Lewis turned in his seat and called up to the driver.

Pardon, sir, but is this Brick Lane?

No, the driver answered. But I’m afraid I’ll go no further.

Sir, Lucinda spoke up. We’ve paid you to take us to Brick Lane.   

I’m sorry, ma’am, but no fare is worth my ‘orse’s life, nor mine, the driver answered. Now, if you’re goin’ to Brick Lane, it’s just three streets on down that way, to your left. But if you’d rather I take you back where we come from, I’d be ‘appy to do that, too. What’s your pleasure?

Begging your pardon, Lucinda replied icily. I did not hire you to take me sightseeing. I hired you to take us to Brick Lane, sir, and that is what you will do, or I shall lodge a complaint with your superiors.

Ma’am, my superiors would be not at all glad to ‘ear that I’ve come even this far, the driver retorted. Now are you gettin’ down ‘ere, or comin’ as I turn around?

Lucinda promptly stood up in the hansom and opened the door. She glanced at the young man beside her and arched an eyebrow.  Are you abandoning me as well, Lewis?

No, Miss Holliday, he said quickly, hopping around her and dismounting the

hansom. I wouldn’t dare go back to Mr. Holmes if I did.

Lucinda didn’t speak as he helped her down into the filthy street. The cabman hardly waited for her to clear the stepladder before he lashed the horse and turned the hansom round in the street, and took off back the way he had come. He soon vanished in the smog. 

Lucinda’s eyes narrowed as she watched him go. Then, she hiked up her skirt to keep it from trailing in the muck of the medieval gutter.

Three streets that way, Lucinda muttered, striding closer to the buildings and on down the filthy cobbles. Her hem would be ruined in spite of her pains to keep it above her shoes. She ignored that thought, and the stink.

Dutifully, Lewis fell in beside her, on her right-hand side and closest to the street. Lucinda felt the eyes of several vagrants locking onto them and following their movement, but she kept her attention pinned ahead of her, her head uplifted. Her heels clicked sharply on the damp stones. 

This is it, ma’am, Lewis said quietly, nodding toward a metal sign affixed to one of the buildings, reading BRICK LANE. Lucinda paused at the turn of the corner and peered on down the crowded street. 

Tall, brick-made buildings did tower their shadows over the lane, with tattered front awnings drooping over the doors. Carts and wagons cluttered one side of the way, while the traffic was forced through a slender path often disrupted by broken paving. People in thin coats and beaten hats traipsed back and forth, or guarded their wares in the battered carts, or stood in shop doors, shouting to each other or into the air, raising a clamorous noise that echoed up and down against the stones. 

Number twenty-six, Lucinda murmured, and plunged into the lane. Lewis came with her. 

They threaded between the fish mongers and the button sellers, Lucinda scanning the numbers on the buildings as they walked. At last, she drew to a stop in front of a plain building much taller than the others, with two chimneys. The top windows had been whitewashed opaque, the middle windows had been boarded shut, and the lower show windows bore faded painted signs that read: MISTER MIRACLE’S APOTHECARY. Dim lights flickered inside, and Lucinda noticed someone moving about. Steeling herself, she gripped the dented brass doorknob, twisted it, and stepped across the threshold.

She paused for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. She wrinkled her nose. Outside, it smelled like refuse and rot. In here, the stink took on a peculiar, chemical flavor. The floors were dirty tile, the ceiling hidden in darkness. Upon every wall stood dark shelves gleaming with hundreds and hundreds of labeled bottles, most of them shrouded in dust. 

Across the room, by the light of one lamp, a wizened Chinaman worked behind a counter, humming to himself and carefully spooning white powder from a clay pot into a short bottle. He wore a grey tunic and long skirt, a cap of the same color, and a long, thin grey beard. He had long, careful fingers, and measured each spoonful with slowness and precision.

Excuse me, Lucinda called, stepping forward. Lewis came right behind her.   

The Chinaman’s hand stopped, and he lifted brilliant black eyes to hers. He smiled, and deep lines appeared around those eyes. 

Good morning, madam, he greeted her pleasantly, with only a hint of an accent. I am Mr. Miracle. How may I help you? Are you suffering from headaches? I have an excellent powder for you—just put it in your tea, your headache will be gone. He gestured to one of the nearby bottles—then held up a finger. Or freckles! I have a cream to put on your beautiful face, day and night, and your freckles will disappear. It is like magic.

No, thank you, Lucinda drew up to the counter. I was told that a Mr. Valentine Tipp lives in the lower level of this building. I wish to speak to him.

Ah! Mr. Tipp? Mr. Miracle’s eyebrows raised, and he set the spoon down. Yes, yes, he lives here. He tilted his head, studying her. Though...you do not look like his usual company. Could Nancy not come today?

I don’t know anything about a Nancy, Lucinda answered. "I am Miss

Lucinda Holliday, and I’ve come on a matter of business. It is extremely important. I would be obliged if you could show me in." 

Ah, yes, Mr. Miracle nodded, still thoughtful, then beckoned to her. Come this way. 

Mr. Miracle shuffled around the counter and made his way to a rear door. Lucinda followed him as he opened it. Its hinges creaked and groaned as it revealed a short, dark flight of stairs. A gust of queer, heady scent hit them all. Mr. Miracle then started down, grunting as he did. 

Would you like me to go first, Miss Holliday? Lewis asked her quietly.

Thank you, Lewis, I’ll be fine, she answered as she stepped down after Mr. Miracle, very careful with her skirts.

The flight ended after ten steps, and Lucinda found herself in a small, bare room before a door. Some sort of grey vapor seemed to hang in the air, clouding around the single wall lamp, and the strange smell intensified. 

Mr. Miracle lifted a hand and rapped out a complicated rhythm on the rattling door. 

Mr. Tipp, I have brought you visitors, Mr. Miracle called.

Come in, Jaio-long, came the low, casual reply. Mr. Miracle twisted the knob and opened the door. A high, thin cloud of that vapor rolled out and clung to the ceiling. Mr. Miracle, unaffected, shuffled inside. Lucinda held her breath and plunged in after. 

The three of them entered the lurid light of a bizarre and shabby set of apartments. Threadbare brown carpets clung to the floors by the edges of nails. The plaster walls were stained, the overhead gaslight drifting with cobwebs. This initial room was furnished with chairs, a couch and coffee table that had once been sumptuous, upholstered in scarlet, and framed by polished mahogany wood. Now, however, tears and holes marred the fabric, and scars lined the wood. A coal fireplace stood against the far wall beneath a crowded mantel, and for a moment, Lucinda’s attention cast across its contents: Three stacked tin boxes, a long pipe, a pocket watch hanging from a stand, a set of silver spurs, and two small, standing photographs: one full-length of a man and a woman, clearly a wedding picture; and a newer portrait of a different young man, very arresting, with a neat handlebar mustache,