Page 10 of Fortune's Ashes
‘Great! Thank you!’ Buffy blew me a kiss. ‘So what’s going on? Why the strange chanting and the sudden rush to get here?’
Buffy might keep her promise about not revealing my pregnancy, but she’d definitely tell Lady Sullivan that I was a Cassandra. I wondered bleakly if she’d already worked it out from my involuntary verbal explosion.
‘I received a tip-off. Early this morning. I couldn’t work out what it referred to and then I realised it was to do with this street.’ The best lies are those that stick close to the truth. I’d learned a lot from questioning suspects, both innocent and guilty, over the last year or so. Whether I’d fool Buffy or not was another matter. At least I had to try.
‘Elementary?’ she asked.
‘Yes. And something about innocent blood.’ I didn’t refer to the images I’d seen flashing though my head. I couldn’t explain those.
Buffy’s eyes widened. ‘So it’s a threat.’ She seemed more excited than dismayed. ‘Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go and check things out! There’s a man over there wearing a very suspicious hat. We should interrogate him.’
I hated myself for following her gaze. The man in question was wearing a deerstalker hat and carrying a magnifying glass. ‘He’s dressed up like Sherlock Holmes, Buffy.’
‘Sherlock who?’
I pressed my lips together very hard. ‘Listen. I mean this is in the nicest possible way but piss off.’
‘Pardon, detective?’
‘You’re a civilian and this is a potential crime scene.’
She grinned. ‘Emphasis on “potential”. You can’t stop me from being here. I’m simply out for a stroll.’
‘Do you want that advice later or not?’
She sucked in her cheeks and considered. I stared at her. Was she actually serious about this romantic advice business? Why on earth would she come to me?
‘Fair enough,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She wagged her finger. ‘But don’t die between now and 2pm. I won’t accept that as an excuse for you to wriggle out of our agreement.’ She moved her finger towards my belly. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘while you might resurrect in twelve hours, who’s to say that your baby will as well?’
I felt a sudden rush of blood to my head and a chill descended down my spine. Bloody hell, she was right. There was no guarantee that any babe in my womb would be protected as I was.
Buffy twirled her fingers in the air. ‘Toodle-pip! I’ll see you in a few hours.’ As she twisted around and skipped away, I gazed after her, my mouth dry. It was only when she disappeared around the corner that I shook myself and refocused my attention on Baker Street. I wasn’t the only person in this world with problems – and I had a damned job to do.
ChapterFour
Imarched down Baker Street towards most of the tourists. One of the images I’d seen had been of a fallen flag underneath a black boot; now that I thought more about it, it had been the sort of flag tour guides sometimes used to corral their groups and keep people together. It made sense that tourists would be involved in the forthcoming incident, whatever it might be.
I pulled back my shoulders, ready to do business. ‘I’ve got this,’ I muttered aloud. ‘And it doesn’t matter that I can’t let myself die.’
A startled woman pushing a pram stared at me before hastily stepping aside to give me a wide berth. Yep, crazy woman. That was me. Then I glanced into the pram and the blue-eyed child blinking up from its snuggly depths. Huh. Cute kid.
I shook myself and walked on until I was standing next to a cluster of people in front of the Sherlock Holmes museum. I noted two bored-looking teenagers and a boy of about eight or nine years old who was zipping on and off the pavement. He definitely seemed to have already had far too much sugar for the day, even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. There were also various adults, none of whom appeared to brandishing knives. Not yet, anyway.
I frowned. What if my vision wasn’t for the near future? What if it was for an event due to take place tomorrow? Or next week? Or next sodding year?
‘The museum isn’t open yet,’ somebody said helpfully, doubtless registering my expression.
I glanced at the woman and managed a polite smile. ‘Thanks.’ I must have passed muster as a tourist.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.
I doubted it. I leaned to my left, checking for anyone suspicious. There was an older man wearing a trench coat that looked like overkill, given the relatively warm weather. I looked him up and down. He could be concealing a weapon.
‘You’re thinking that Sherlock Holmes lived at 221B Baker Street but this museum is at different number,’ the woman continued. ‘When Arthur Conan Doyle wrote those books, this part of the street didn’t exist – it was added later. And when 221 was added, it was a bank, not a house.’ She pointed. ‘See?’
I ignored her, my attention still on Mr Trenchcoat. He slowly raised his hands towards the top button of his coat and I stiffened.
The woman either didn’t notice that I wasn’t interested in what she had to say, or she didn’t care. She stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Mr Trenchcoat. ‘There’s more to Baker Street than Sherlock Holmes,’ she said.
