"Thank you for coming," Mr. Eckhert said, pressing his face into the metal posts as if he could somehow pass through. His nose and a small wing of blond hair protruded from between the bars. "I didn't know who else to call or what to do. Thank you."
"What happened?" I asked again, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the foreigner, despite my misgivings. Even dirty and a bit pungent, he was still very handsome. His blue eyes were soft and filled with admiration and gratitude.
I couldn't remember the last time someone had been so glad to see me.
"Can you get me out of here?" he asked. "I think . . . I think I understand that they'll let me out on bail. I don't understand your money system, but I sent you my cell-my phone. My telephone. As payment."
Something inside me shifted in the face of his obvious desperation and fear, and whatever hesitation I had about him evaporated. "Why have they arrested you?"
His forehead bumped against the bars, making a dull clunk and rattle. "They caught me trying to break into the museum last night. I was trying to get inside so I could look for the Sekhmet statue. I didn't know what else to do."
I lifted an eyebrow. "If you hadn't sneaked away yesterday morning without talking to me, I could have assisted you." I declined to mention I'd seen his Sekhmet statue only last night, and not at the museum.
"I know, I know," he said, bumping his forehead against the bars again. "It was stupid. But I didn't want you to ask me a bunch of questions, and I just wanted to . . ." He sighed. "Whatever. Mina, will you help me? I don't have anyone else, and . . . I want to go home. I don't belong here."
His blue eyes fastened on me. There was something in his gaze that tugged at me. At that moment, I realized I'd walk across a bed of nails for this young man.
I don't belong here.
How many times had I felt that way?
I tamped down the soft feelings welling inside and replied tartly, "Yes, I'll help you. I can arrange bail and release you, and even assist if charges are pressed. But I require two assurances in return."
"What? Anything, Mina. Anything."
"You'll tell me everything, and you won't abscond again."
"Abscond? Oh, yeah." He nodded against the bars. "I was stupid to run away. I've come to realize that if anyone can help me, it's Sherlock Holmes's niece. As weird as that might be," he muttered. "If you get me out of here, Mina, I promise you won't be able to get rid of me."
"Very well, then," I said, trying to subdue the burst of fluttering in my insides at his words. "I'll return as soon as I've made the arrangements."
I was just signing the last of the papers to release Mr. Eckhert into my custody when a familiar voice interrupted.
"What brings you to Scotland Yard, Miss Holmes?"
I managed to keep my handwriting from jolting. Nevertheless, I chose to finish authenticating the documents instead of turning to confront Inspector Grayling.
But the clerk behind the desk wasn't as circumspect. "Why, Miss Holmes here, she's postin' bail for a real shady character what we got us in custody down below."
Grinding my teeth, I shoved the papers at the clerk, then turned to Grayling. "I'm quite certain, Inspector, that my presence here could be of no interest to someone as busy as yourself. Surely you're needed at some crime scene. Far from here."
Grayling ignored my comment. "Posting bail for a criminal? What's he in for, Fergus?"
The clerk shuffled through the sheaf of documents and said, "Attempted robbery. Breaking, entering. Was appr'-hended trying to get into the museum last night."
Grayling's hazel eyes speared me. "So criminals are the sort you prefer to consort with, Miss Holmes?"
"Thank you, Mr. MacGregor," I said to the clerk, and snatched up the document granting Mr. Eckhert release. "I can find my own way to the constable." I lifted my chin and spun on my heels.
Despite my speed, I'd progressed only a short way down the passage when Grayling's long legs caught him up to me. "Miss Holmes, I don't know what you've become involved with, but-"
"Inspector Grayling," I said, pausing at the intersection of two corridors as I tried to determine which way to go. "I cannot imagine why you should concern yourself with my activities. Should you not be investigating the murder of Miss Hodgeworth? Instead of attending Society balls?"
"Miss Holmes," he said, stepping closer. I backed up into the wall behind me. He was as close as he'd been last night when we were waltzing, and the very realization set me off balance.
"Miss Holmes," he repeated, "I am investigating the murders of two young women, along with the disappearance of a third-likely also murdered. Everything related to them is my concern. Particularly since you attended a ball last evening in the place of one of the victims, using her invitation."
My mouth opened and then closed, and I could feel my cheeks heat. He must have learned from the Hodgeworths how I'd obtained the invitation. Not that I'd done anything illegal; Mrs. Hodgeworth had given Miss Adler and myself permission to take the card.
"I believe I've misjudged you, Miss Holmes." Grayling's Scottish burr had become more evident, and his eyes were as cold as the sea in December. "I supposed you were merely playing at detective, trying to be like your uncle. But when you returned from the Star Terrace last night after an extended period of time in the dark gardens-and not alone, I wager-I can only assume you have placed yourself in untenable situations. What is your intention?"
By now I had drawn myself up straight and was bristling. "My intentions are none of your affair."
His cheeks had gone ruddier, and his mouth was a thin, flat line. "Miss Holmes, when you returned to the ball after your lengthy disappearance, it was quite obvious in what sort of activities you'd been engaged. Your hair was mussed, your skirts were rumpled, and one of your gloves was missing. And now I find you here, at the Met, posting bail to release a prisoner. You are obviously fraternizing with the wrong sorts of young men."
Incensed by his accusations and assumptions, I could hardly keep from gasping in outrage. How dare he? I would have berated him in return, except that he was standing very close to me. So close I might brush against him if I should express my deep anger as passionately as I felt it.
"Does your father know of your nocturnal activities, Miss Holmes? And what of your uncle? If he were aware, I wager he'd put an immediate end to them."
His statements were absurd. My father cared little for how I spent my time. And Uncle Sherlock was only slightly more interested in me, simply because he knew I was a loyal audience for his lectures and that, unlike Dr. Watson, I actually learned from him.