Chapter 9

The man whose discussion with Macnaghten had been so pressing was named James Monro, the former Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He had resigned on the day of Mary Nichols' murder, livid with Commissioner Charles Warren for a number of reasons, but tipped over the edge by Warren's refusal to hire Macnaghten for the open position of Assistant Chief Constable underneath Chief Constable Adolphus Williamson. Andrew filled us in on the details after we returned to Baker Street, warming our hands in front of the rekindled fire.

"Macnaghten, I should have remembered the name!" Andrew had cursed himself. "Monro's quite fond of the story. He was Inspector General of the police force in Bengal for a number of years until '84. Macnaghten was assaulted by natives in '81 while maintaining the plantations and Monro handled the case. They were inseparable after that. Since Macnaghten came back last year, Monro's been trying to land him a position. Warren keeps shooting him down."

"That doesn't sound like the only reason Monro dislikes him," I said casually to Andrew two days later, as we strolled down a path in Regent's Park.

"I suppose that was only the tipping point," Andrew said, stopping to examine a knot on an ancient elm tree. "Every seasoned officer in the Yard is jealous of Warren. They've toiled here half their lives and then Home Secretary Matthews brings in a soldier with no previous policing experience."

"Well, surely he just wanted to bring more military discipline into the ranks."

"Of course he did, Commissioner Henderson wasn't seated for very long after my father, but he left behind enough of a mess. Of course everyone's blaming Warren for the chaos, seeing as he brought such a radical change."

Naturally," I replied with a nod. "Such is the course of humanity. We blame the newcomer rather than his antecedent."

"How long did Holmes and the Doctor say they would be gone, again?"

I sighed heavily. "However long it takes them to track down and interview the dozen Robert Pauls they set aside."

Andrew shook his head, mouth tilted downwards. "Cross's statement smacks of something more than a hasty lie or misinterpretation."

"I see, you're finally viewing the world as I do."

"Not everything is meant conspiratorially, Emily."

"Or so they would have you believe."

From about a half mile up the road, the bells of Saint Matthias' church chimed one o'clock. Andrew met my gaze. "We should head to the Bethnal Green dispensary," he said grimly, and I nodded and took his hand as we made our way towards the cab stand at the gate.

While Holmes and my brother interviewed every Robert Paul who lived and worked within a five mile radius of the murder, we had been instructed to visit the dispensary near Doveton Street and see that Charles Cross was doing well and able to give us some information on his statement and attacker.

Our carriage ride to Bethnal Green felt swifter than it was, the minutes flying by with our spontaneous and natural conversation. I felt myself with Andrew, and though I was at last beginning to feel at home with the others, I was still slightly stiff, subconsciously convinced that I had standards I must rise to meet. But with Andrew, it was relaxed, mature yet as casual as child's play.

I noticed the building much more than I had the first time, the situation being just as professional but much less urgent. The building had obviously been converted from a bank or school of some sort. It was long, but not very tall, and stood out regally while still being grimy enough to blend in with the surrounding area. The place was enclosed by a wrought iron fence, the spikes half as tall as the building itself. The black paint of the fence was chipping, and in several places had been etched or scraped off entirely with a knife, stick, or even someone's fingernails.

Once inside, the windows were high and arched, looking almost like a grand palace, but the decor was scant and the walls stained and faded. The only part I had truly had the time to observe was the hallway in which we had waited to find out if Cross would even survive the harrowing attack.

Andrew caught a passing doctor by the arm and quietly asked him where we could find Charles Cross.

Bewildered, the man looked back and forth between us. "But...the young lady with you was just here this morning. She checked him out herself."

Andrew's gaze slid to me, and I slowly shook my head. "I most certainly didn't, the last time I was here was when we admitted him."

The doctor pursed his lips together and shook his head. "I am very sorry, but at first light today, a young woman - your exact spitting image - came in and inquired if he was well enough to be released. I argued that he should be kept at least another day, but she insisted that she would care for him."

"She was taking him back to his place of residence?" Andrew asked, eyes narrowing.

"Indeed sir, that's what she told me."

"Emily, come on, we've got to get over there," Andrew informed me gruffly, taking my arm and sprinting towards the exit.

The looks we received as we raced through the dispensary courtyard and towards number 22, Doveton Street nagged at some core construct of my psyche, but were instinctively brushed away as unimportant. I wasn't quite sure what was going on, but whatever it was, it seemed to have grabbed ahold of Andrew's well-trained sense of urgency.

The slightly lopsided door of the tiny, two-roomed residence hung ajar on a single hinge. Andrew held out an arm and pushed me ever so slightly behind him, so close that I could feel him breathing hard as he withdrew a pen-knife from his pocket and flipped it open, nudging the door inwards with his toe.

The kitchen and living area were bare. No dishes, no table, no bed, no wardrobe. Nothing except a single, solitary female figure standing with her back to us, shoulders straight, staring with absolute impassion out the small window, still shattered.

Andrew pushed me farther behind him, leaving me to peek breathlessly over his shoulder as he edged with the utmost caution towards the unmoved young woman.

Before he could reach out to touch her shoulder or dared to call out, she turned, slowly but deliberately, and Andrew gasped and took a step backwards, straight into me.

There has to be a mirror there, that must be a mirror, when did that mirror get here? My brain tried to rationalise it another way, any other way.

There is no mirror there.

Ariana stood before us, eyes sharp and clear but without emotion.

That is not my sister. That cannot be my sister.

That is my sister.

Her face was devoid of any recognition as she looked coolly upon our faces. "It's a wonder you didn't come after this information sooner," she said, taking a small pocket watch from inside her cloak and glancing at it. "If you'll excuse me, I must be going."

Without another word, leaving us stunned in her wake, she lifted her skirts and jumped cleanly out the window into the alley.

A split second later, Andrew released me and hurdled the window frame after her, but as I numbly crossed to peer outside myself, it was futile. The alley was empty except for a dead cat.

"Holmes, I swear to you, there is no other explanation for this," Andrew said gravely, his arms crossed tightly as he stood resolute near the mantel, staring at Holmes with hidden terror in his eyes.

"But it's simply preposterous," Holmes returned icily, each syllable driving another hole into my damaged heart. "Emily, is this true?" He turned to me.

I did not answer. I had not spoken a word since our return, nor could I seek out within myself any desire to confirm or deny anything. I sat rigidly on the sofa, feeling suspended in time and space, the only thread attaching me to reality the sight of an untouched mug of tea before me.

That was not my sister. That was my sister. That was not my sister.

"She's still in shock," murmured Andrew's voice, far away, as he went to the linen closet and returned with a thick blanket to drape over my shoulders.

"I pray we can expect Watson back shortly," Holmes drew out, leaning forward and steepling his fingers in front of him, throwing deeply concerned glances in my direction every few moments.

"Why isn't he here?" Andrew inquired, taking a seat in the wicker basket chair across from me.

"One of the Robert Pauls we located was admitted to Lincoln's Asylum yesterday due to acute psychological distress. Watson alone has the necessary qualifications to be allowed into the solitary confinement wards. You said the house was otherwise empty?"

"Stripped bare. Absolutely no trace that anyone had lived there at all."

"And you're positively sure of the identity of the...person in question?"

"Holmes, I am courting this girl," Andrew said, gesturing wildly in my direction. "Believe me when I say that I have taken the liberty of committing every curve of her face to my memory. I'd know an imposter anywhere, and she was certainly not one. That was Ariana."

"Andrew…" Holmes warned, with a glance in my direction.

"Holmes, she's practically catatonic," Andrew said wearily, lowering his face into his hands. "We are free to speak."

I was not catatonic.

"Andrew, our young Emily might be emotionally overwhelmed by this...development, but let me assure you that she is completely with us."

Thank you, Holmes.

"The question now is why." Andrew kept his head bowed, shaking it with absolute bewilderment.

I was wondering that myself. Only I did not want to know. I wanted to leave, go somewhere happy, somewhere safe. But I couldn't even muster the energy to detach myself from the mug of tea holding my sanity together.

Finally, my mind allowed me to have a brief respite, and I could recall nothing from then until some time later when John arrived and I started at the noise of the door opening.

"Holmes, I'm not so sure this one's it either, he seems absolutely incapable of having done more than ramble on about cabbages...what the devil happened here?" I heard the crinkling noise of him shoving his notebook in his pocket without closing it as he crossed the room in a few great strides and bent down in front of me to ascertain that I was indeed capable of more than rambling myself.

Holmes sighed deeply and Andrew tapped his foot, staring at the floor. Neither of them seemed fit to answer, so I found myself opening my mouth. Someone had to do it. "Ariana."

John's brow furrowed, obviously having not heard the name in a considerable amount of time. "Who?"

Holmes snorted and leapt up from his armchair, agitated. "Her sister, Watson! Your sister."

Remembrance dawned on my brother's face, which promptly fell again as he turned to look over his shoulder at Holmes. "But isn't she-"

"Missing? Indeed my good fellow."

"Then what on earth-"

Andrew sighed, massaging his temple. "We went to the dispensary to visit Charles Cross, and the attending physician said a young woman, one who looked exactly like Emily, had checked him out this morning. We went back to his house and there was nothing there except for...her."

"Don't leave out the most telling part, Andrew," I said quietly, shaking my head. "She didn't recognize me. It wasn't...her. Her eyes had no emotion, just...nothing."

"Someone please explain to me how this makes sense," John said warily after a moment.

"It doesn't," spat Holmes from behind gritted teeth. "It ties in to absolutely nothing."

John sighed and took my hands in his, squeezing warmth into them. "Andrew, go downstairs and fetch Emily a fresh cup of tea, this cold one won't do."

"What happens now?" I asked as John tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders.

"You do your best not to think about this," he replied, his hand on my shoulder as he made solemn eye contact, "and you retire quite early tonight."