A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(48)

The surgery was not that far away; it seemed ridiculous to take a cab so short a distance. This, of course was necessary for the ruse that John and Mary lived over the surgery, rather than above Sherlock in 221C. It was much easier to slip over two streets on foot without being observed than it would have been if cabs had been involved. Holmes had many enemies, and he was well aware that if they could not get to him, they would try to use his friends against him. It was safer for the Watsons to be close at hand—and safer for Holmes to have help directly upstairs if he needed it.

Sherlock led the way; a bell over the door, like that over a shop door, rang as they entered, but the detective went down the narrow hall, papered in pale green stripes, straight through the first door on the right into the tiny but comfortably appointed reception room, and through that to the examination room.

“Ah, good, Holmes, you brought them,” Watson said, looking up from his patient as they all crowded into the chamber. Watson had a girl sitting in an examination chair, rather than lying on a table, and from where they stood, they couldn’t really see very much past Watson. It was a bit of a squeeze and there was some fumbling as they all got out of outerwear and got themselves sorted out. Nan finally freed Neville from his carrier, and Sarah did the same with Grey. Once cloaks and carriers were disposed of, they joined Watson around Elizabeth Penwick.

Nan’s initial impression was of nothing so much as a giant wax doll, and frankly, the way the girl looked made her skin crawl. Elizabeth Penwick sat rigidly upright in the examination chair, hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead. The only proof that she was alive lay in her breathing. She would have been a pretty thing, with a round face, curly, light brown hair, and a slight figure, if she had not been so uncannily without expression. That was not at all helped by her eyes. She had brown eyes . . . but you could only tell they were brown by the thinnest of rim of iris; her pupils seemed to be dilated to their fullest extent.

“John, is she under the influence of a drug?” Nan asked doubtfully. Not that she was at all familiar with the effects of drugs, but some foolish women used belladonna to dilate their pupils to make their eyes look bigger, didn’t they?

“Not so far as I have been able to determine,” John Watson replied. “It was the first thing I thought of to account for her state, of course. But any drug I am familiar with would have interfered with her balance and other automatic reactions, and I found no such interference—and a drug would surely have begun to wear off by now; she’s been in police custody since ten in the evening yesterday. She is exactly the same now as when she was found.”

“If she was found yesterday evening, why did it take so long for her parents to be informed?” Sarah asked sharply.

“I am sad to say that the police initially thought she was an opium-eater, and merely locked her in a cell to wait for the effects of the opium to wear off,” Watson replied. “I find it hard to fault them for that; in the ordinary run of things, if this had been a girl having a ‘thrill,’ they could have questioned her and turned her over to her parents or guardian by morning. It was only when the descriptions of the missing girl from West Ham began to circulate by messenger to the other precincts that they realized this was Elizabeth.”

Sarah shook her head. “It’s a shame there is no telegraphy office in every precinct,” she observed, as Grey leaned down off her shoulder to peer into Elizabeth’s eyes. “You would think in these modern times people would be clamoring for such a thing.” After a moment the parrot went bolt upright with an alarmed growl. “What’s wrong, Grey?” Sarah asked, as all attention turned to the bird.

“Careful!” Grey replied. “Danger!”

John Watson stroked his moustache. “I . . . did not expect that reaction. I am having second thoughts about you using your talent on her, Nan.”

“That’s why I have Neville,” she pointed out, with determination. “And if any sense is going to be made of this, I don’t think you have a choice except to allow me to proceed.”

“Well said, Miss Nan,” Holmes approved. With a nod to him, she flexed her hands to limber them, stripped off her gloves, and put her fingers on the girl’s temples, closing her eyes to better concentrate.

There was . . . silence.

For a moment, she feared her telepathic talent had suddenly deserted her, for there was . . . nothing there, nothing there at all. She had been inside minds in shock; there was generally something like a great wall of terror, behind which were the memories of what caused the shock, and behind that a second wall of protection, behind which the self cowered. She was a powerful and well-trained telepath; unless someone was just as good as she was, it would be impossible for anyone to keep her from penetrating their barriers and reading their thoughts.

Yet she sensed Neville’s thoughts, and Sarah’s, and Grey’s—and a little distant from that, Watson’s warm compassion and Sherlock’s calculation and blinding intellect. No, her talent was in perfect working order.

Here there was . . . nothing. No emotions. No memories. No “self.” This was an empty, echoing, soulless hulk, which moved, and lived, and breathed, but with nothing animating it.

Nothing within this girl but a void. A void where a personality, a soul, had once been, but was there no more.

Impossible.

Nevertheless, it was the truth.