The Case of the Masked Gypsy

Chapter 9 – A Knife in the Dark

After she jumped out the window, Esmé had barely an instant to think about what she was doing. Before she knew it, she landed first on what felt like a metallic ledge, and then crashed down onto the cold, hard ground below. Great pain immediately shot through her right ankle, her left hip, her left shoulder, and the left side of her head. She just as instantly let out a cry of pain. She then groaned once, then twice, and let out a few coughs before she forced herself to raise her upper body on her left elbow.

As she struggled to regain her breath – which had quite literally been knocked out of her – Esmé instinctively put her hand to her injured hip, and then her head. Her vision was now blurry, and she felt so dizzy and ill she feared she would either vomit, or pass out, or both.

But before her body could decide to do either, an old determination resurfaced in Esmé's mind. It shot through her head as much as, if not more so than, the pain she was still experiencing. She'd come so far already, and she had Lord Loxley's jewels, which were likely still intact since she landed mostly on her left side. Why could she let a few wounds stop her? They might not even be that serious.

Oh…! Obstacles could go jump in a lake as far as she was concerned. She hadn't come this far to be stopped now. No matter what, Esmé was going to see to her mission's completion, and no amount of pain was going to stop her, or even slow her down. And as for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, let him try to catch her. She outran him once, she could do it again. All she had to do was get on her feet again.

Though, to be fair, that was easier said than done. Even so, Esmé put both her hands on the ground, grit her teeth, and pushed upward. Now came the harder part. With all her strength, she put out her left foot, and raised herself onto her feet. She then shook her head a bit to get rid of the dizzy feelings, bit her lip as she looked down at the alleyway she'd traveled through only one night before, and braced herself before she finally took off as fast as she could down it.

Almost immediately, Esmé discovered just how hard running is when one has an injured foot. Fresh shots of pain traveled through her leg with every step she took, but she ignored them to the best of her ability. Still, she knew it wouldn't be long before she heard Mr. Holmes come after her, and it was even more possible than before that he might apprehend her. She also had to get to the East End to meet Josette and Victor, and that was still somewhat faraway. The thought of taking a cab came to mind, when Esmé remembered just as quickly, and much to her dismay, that she had no money. It then became quite clear to her. She needed to come up with another way of travel to get to her destination, and fast.

As she made her way through the dimly-lit streets, Esmé looked and listened for anything that could get her where she needed. But for what seemed like a thousand years, she neither saw nor heard anything, and the pain in her ankle certainly didn't help much. She wished she could simply grow wings and fly. Oh dear, perhaps that wound to her head must have rattled her brain a bit more than she thought.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. She did hear something. The sound of hooves clopping against the cobblestone road. Esmé turned her head in that direction, and her eyes widened with relief when she saw a large carriage rolling down the street, pulled by twin black horses, and likely owned by someone rather wealthy. Deciding that it was better than nothing, she looked left then right. And when she didn't see Mr. Holmes on her trail, she looked back at the carriage, took a deep breath, and headed for it.

Without paying heed to the attention she knew she'd receive, once Esmé believed herself to be in the right position, she jumped forward, arms outstretched, and latched onto the side of the carriage. Before she even grabbed on though, two pairs of alarmed eyes immediately turned her way, one being from the footman standing on the back, and the other from the coachman sitting in front. Still, in an attempt to humor either one of them, Esmé managed a smile and said, "Bonsoir."

Just then, a third pair of eyes met hers, this one coming from an older, well-dressed man sitting inside whom she assumed to be the owner of the carriage, and he obviously looked rather displeased.

"What the, what's the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

Holding on with one hand, Esmé immediately put her finger to her lips and shushed him to the best of her ability. "Save your alarm; I swear to you I'm not a robber!" she hissed quietly.

"Then state your business!" the man insisted.

Without stopping to breathe, Esmé explained herself as quickly as she could, but without giving away confidential information. "I'm being chased by a madman, and if he catches me I'm done for! Please, I only need the ride is all!"

The man opened his mouth, most likely to refuse her, but suddenly, someone took him by the arm, stopping him and causing him to look at them. Though Esmé couldn't see the person, as they were hidden in the shadows, she could tell from the wedding ring on one of their fingers, and the different type of voice she then heard, that it was a woman, possibly the man's wife. She then waited while the two spoke to each other, though she couldn't hear them above the creaking of the wheels and the clopping of the horses' hooves. However, she held on, bit her lip, and her heart beat anxiously as she waited for their response to her plea, knowing very well that the chances of a positive one were slim.

Before long, the man turned around again, and by now Esmé was feeling sweat begin to form on her forehead and on her gripping fingers inside her gloves. She desperately wanted an answer, whatever it may be. Any answer at all would be preferable to dreading what possibly lay ahead.

She watched as the man looked out the window at the coachman, and listened with utmost attention as he said in a commanding but no longer demanding voice, "Sawyer, drive on!"

At that moment, though her shoulders still hurt, Esmé felt as if a great weight had been lifted from them. She wondered if either the man or his wife heard the sigh of relief she unconsciously allowed to escape her lips, but a mere second later, she didn't care. Suddenly, however, she felt a hand grab her by the wrist. She instantly looked up to see that it was the footman.

"Come," he said, "You can ride here."

Esmé nodded, and moved her left foot around until she felt a solid ledge. With the remaining strength she had at the moment, and the help of the footman, she hoisted herself forward, and soon found herself standing by his side on the back of the carriage, looking almost as though she might be a footman herself.

And just in time as well, apparently. For just after she'd gotten the more stable position, Esmé heard the faint sound of a shout behind her. Fearing who it might be, but wanting to know nonetheless, she turned her head around, and immediately gasped when she saw a man whom she recognized even from this distance: Mr. Holmes. She just as quickly ducked down slightly, to escape exposure, and her eyes widened when she saw another man she recognized: Dr. Watson.

Esmé watched as the two appeared to speak to one another, and then split up, Mr. Holmes going to the pathway on the left while Dr. Watson went right. She could then only give a frustrated sigh. Oh magnifique, she thought sarcastically. As if having one man after her wasn't bad enough. Now she would have to outsmart two considerably intelligent men.

But for now, she was immensely grateful for the ride. She still kept herself low to the platform, as she wasn't about to take for granted the apparent safety. Even so, she considered it a blessing, now that she would be able to regain at least some of her strength. She wanted to hold off running again for as long as possible, as doing so would probably further disturb her already traumatic injuries.

Fortunately, the carriage didn't travel through any streets she wasn't familiar with, otherwise all the trouble she'd previously been willing to cause would have been for naught. But just as Esmé realized they might go down a different road than she intended, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a house that seemed as posh as Lord Wellington's. Had circumstances been different, she would have admired the lavish way it looked, but now was not the time. Instead, she eased into a sitting position on the platform, grabbed onto the edge, and made her way down, wincing at the new pain brought onto her ankle.

Still, she remembered her manners and called to the wealthy man in a voice the whole street hopefully wouldn't hear, "Merci Monsieur!" And without waiting for a reply, she hurried away from the carriage as fast as she had earlier hurried toward it, the faint fire of hope within her having been fanned into a flame much like the ones contained in the street lamps. She was not far from the East End.

However, it soon became clear to her that nature seemed to have decided to set up its own obstacles for her. Not long after she left the carriage behind, Esmé noticed how a fine, haunting fog had begun to settle as she ran deeper into the city. Just the cover a ruffian – or Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson – would need to seize her without warning. Though she knew she had it, Esmé felt on her right leg for her knife, and was immediately relieved to feel its hilt around her hand. Still, she ran on. Still, she ignored the near constant pain inflicted on her injuries.

Even so, it soon became unavoidable, and Esmé again pressed her hand on her sore hip. What she touched, though, alarmed her to the point where she had to look. Her eyes widened when she saw that not only did she have a possible fracture on her hip, but also an open wound, as a small amount of dark red blood had begun to stain her trousers. By now she was beginning to wonder if she would eventually simply collapse on the road, but it wasn't long before she heard a loud sound that instantly renewed her alertness. It was nature's version of the sound of a gunshot: a loud clap of thunder.

Esmé quickly slowed to a halt, and looked up at the pitch black sky to see a few flashes of lightning, after which came another thunder clap. Knowing that rain would only slow her down even further, she realized that the only shortcuts to the planned meeting place would be through the alleyways. It didn't bother her that much, though. She'd gone through the dark, tall tunnels twice before. Who was to say she couldn't a third time?

With a deep breath of determination and clenched fists, Esmé made her way through the nearest alleyway, ready to defend herself at a moment's notice, only to brace herself in the same manner before going through the next one.

However, just as she was leaving the second one, she very nearly ran into a tall, shadowed figure, whose face was illuminated by the lightning before she could do so. She let out a gasp of horror the second she saw the striking brown eyes and hair as dark as her own, for she knew this face to be none other than that of Mr. Holmes, who was also clearly surprised to find her.

For a moment, both stood frozen as though they were statues, neither knowing for sure what the other would do. Then, out of the corner of her eye Esmé saw his arm reach out. But before he could grab her, she dove out of his way and his reach, and ran faster than she ever previously did that night in an attempt to flee him, not daring to look back.

She did, though, hear him not just run behind her, but also rather unexpectedly call out to her in a rather concerned voice, "Wait! Stop!" But she ignored him and continued further, determined as ever to get away from him and find her cousins as soon as possible. Still, he tried to get her attention. "You're hurt! Let me help you!"

So he had noticed her injuries, much to her dismay. Esmé stubbornly refused to appear in any way vulnerable to this man, as that was one step away from being sent to prison, or worse, an asylum. Gathering up all her mental strength and determination, she shouted back at him in French, "Leave me alone!"

But her efforts proved useless. Holmes continued to chase her, and she continued to flee, ignoring the pain in her aching body that with every step became more unbearable. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep the hot tears in her eyes from descending down her cheeks.

Just as it seemed she could go no further though, before Esmé could consider whether or not to stop, she felt something – or rather, someone – roughly take hold of her ponytail. She instantly let out a painful cry, but before she could do anything else, let alone wonder what just happened, a harsh, masculine voice hissed in French, "Quiet!" And the next thing she knew, she was being held against what felt to be a stone wall of a man, wearing a familiar black cloak to conceal his face, and on her chest he had placed the point of something that nearly made her leap out of her skin: the blade of what appeared to be a brand new knife.

It instantly looked as though fate had come full circle as Esmé recalled the warning she'd been given just the night before. She felt as though she might as well be facing Jack the Ripper himself. Even so, feeling the need to at least try to escape, Esmé reached for her knife, but could only touch the tip of the hilt. And squirming about didn't seem to be an option, as her body ached greatly and no one had ever held her this tightly and this fiercely before. All she could do was look with fright at the weapon she'd once been threatened with, and then give a look of desperation at Mr. Holmes. Despite her previous feelings toward him, only he could save her from this assassin.

Holmes could only look on with astonishment at the scene before him. Could this possibly be a trap for him? Unlikely, he decided. Judging by her body language, the woman looked genuinely hurt, and based on almost all the criminals he'd seen, probably no partner-in-crime would treat her in such a manner. But beyond simple deductive reasoning, once his own startled eyes met her clearly frightened ones, Holmes put aside for the moment that fact that she was a thief. He could not allow for this to happen. He could not let her face a violent death.

Remembering that he'd brought his handgun with him, in case she had any "friends," he immediately took it out from inside his coat and pointed it directly at the cloaked man, who, in response, held the masked woman firmly with the knife to her chest, not moving an inch.

"Shoot at me," the man shouted, "and the girl dies!"

Holmes kept the gun raised, but he reluctantly stayed where he was, not wanting to endanger the Masked Gypsy any further. Instead, he asked, "What do you want with her?"

In an unexpected response, the man didn't reply with words, at least not at first. Rather, while still holding the woman, he used his knife to swiftly draw a new wound around her right upper arm before returning it to her chest. Though she gasped in both alarm and pain, she remained still and looked even more frightened than before.

"Do not condescend to me!" the man shouted, the intent to kill clearly evident in his voice.

In that moment, Holmes realized he needed to come up with a plan to save this woman, and quickly, otherwise he'd have a murder even he couldn't prevent. Just as he was starting to think one up though, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted on the road behind the cloaked man an all-too familiar friend of his, and immediately he had a plan in mind. As inconspicuously as he could he nodded to the man he was pointing the gun at, and his friend nodded back, allowing Holmes to give this man his full attention again.

In an attempt to both negotiate with him, and buy some time, Holmes said in his most serious tone of voice he could muster, "Listen to me. You don't want to do this."

"Why not?!" the madman asked as he continued to hold the Masked Gypsy, the heat of the tension steadily rising between him and the detective.

Holmes chose his words as carefully as he could, knowing the wrong one could immediately sentence her to death. "Because," he replied, "of what significance could someone like her possibly be to someone like you?"

The man continued to hold the knife against his hostage, but a moment of silence passed anxiously before he gave his half-snarky, half-vicious reply, "A great deal. She knows too much. You both do…"

Upon hearing those words, Esmé didn't allow herself to gasp. But amid her thoughts which ran through her head like a herd of wild horses, she did allow herself to wonder, if only briefly, what the man meant. But before she could think about it any further, the sound of a gun going off from behind instantly reached her ears, causing both a panicked scream to erupt from her lips and the madman to turn both of them around to see who had done it. Esmé saw with surprise that it was actually the last person she'd expected, indeed, the last person she was thinking of: Dr. John Watson.

Her relief, however, was short-lived, as right then the man in the sinister black cloak held the knife against her neck. All Esmé could do was stay as still as possible, feel her pulse beat violently throughout all of her still aching body, and take short, quick breaths, knowing that each one she took could possibly be her last.

She allowed herself to watch, though, as Dr. Watson kept the gun raised, and said to the madman in a rather commanding voice she didn't expect from him, "Let her go, or the next bullet goes into your head!"

Once he finished speaking, Esmé shut her eyes closed, dreading what she knew would come, truly believing that she was about to die. As she felt the sharp point against the base of her neck, she couldn't recall a time in her life when she felt more terrified, and she silently began saying her goodbyes and apologizing to her father, Josette, and Victor, for failing all of them.

However, the sharp swipe of the knife never reached any part of her. In fact, as if in defiance to the expectations of Esmé, Holmes, and Watson, the madman swiftly let go of Esmé, shoving her to the ground, and then ran off through the city, into the black night that seemed to absorb the nefarious shadow into the folds of its darkness.

Holmes and Watson both watched as he made his escape, leaving some blood on his trail from where he'd been shot in the abdomen. But the moment he left their sight, both their concerns immediately turned to the woman on the ground in front of them, and the two quickly made their way towards her.

Although Esmé wanted to contemplate how she could have possibly escaped her fate, she quickly turned her attention almost instinctively to the sound of footsteps approaching her from in front and behind. Lifting herself up, she beheld two familiar faces before her. Though she was of course grateful that these men had practically saved her life, she still wasn't exactly happy to see either of them so close to her. Almost immediately, she looked away.

"Don't, touch me," she muttered painfully at them both.

"Ah," she heard Mr. Holmes say in a somewhat surprised tone, "so our French thief does speak English after all."

It was only then that Esmé realized she had not spoken in her native tongue, as she had usually done so in this disguise. She bit back, quite literally, the desire to naughtily mutter a curse. Instead, she sneered in English, "That's none of your concern!"

Holmes retorted, in a voice devoid of sarcasm, "It is my concern if you are hurt."

Right then, Watson asked in alarm, "Hurt? What do you mean?"

As if she was not there to hear them, which she rather resented, Holmes explained, "She jumped out of a second-story window before I could catch her."

"What?!"

"Indeed," Holmes agreed in a calmer tone, "I was quite surprised to see her on her feet again, let alone run from me as she did."

Without waiting for a response from either of them, Watson shook his head and declared in a voice that revealed his made-up mind, "That's it." He then turned to the woman before him and his old colleague, and said in a concerned but serious voice, "Madam."

Though she hesitated at first, Esmé made herself look up at him. But her eyes widened somewhat at what she saw. Instead of a co-conspirator just as determined as his friend to see her get put behind bars, she saw a rather fatherly looking face, one that reminded her so much of her own papa it was all she could do to keep from crying.

"Listen to me," he said in the same tone, "I'm a doctor. If you're injured, you must let us help you."

Though she could tell he genuinely desired to help, Esmé allowed herself to wonder if she should. She admitted, her admiration for both men, especially Mr. Holmes had grown somewhat, considering that they'd just saved her life. But still, she didn't really trust the detective, and she knew his former colleague even less. Even so, when Esmé turned her attention to her body, she was rather surprised to discover just how much she ached, and how ugly her injuries looked. While her instincts told her to flee, she knew that the wiser thing to do would be to seek help where she could find it.

So, reluctantly, Esmé turned again to Dr. Watson and nodded. "Very well," she sighed.

"Good lass," he nodded back at her, "Can you stand?"

"I don't know," Esmé shook her head, which actually took almost painful effort to do.

"Here, then," Watson said. In a somewhat unexpected course of action, he reached his arms out to her, and took her entire self up in his hold, cradling her as though she were a small child while she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was then, as though the heavens themselves felt confused over the night's events, that a light rain began to fall on the three.

Before the doctor walked on though, he turned around and asked his friend, "Are you coming Holmes?"

Holmes, as though attempting to avoid the uneasiness of the situation, was looking up at the ominous black sky. When he heard his name, he first looked at Watson, then at the woman he held. Once he did, he felt an odd feeling he could not immediately name. It seemed to be a strange mixture of concern for her well-being, and the need to distance himself from feeling such, as he hardly knew her, and he all too rarely allowed himself to get emotionally involved in his cases.

Remembering to keep himself composed, as he was used to in front of his friend, he nodded at Watson and replied, "Of course. We do have unfinished business."

Watson nodded back, and together, the two men walked briskly forward through the dismal atmosphere that seemed especially grim tonight, paying little to no heed to the current, otherwise troublesome weather, and keeping their attention focused on their respective plans for this masked woman.

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