Chapter Thirty-Six

Under Arrest

"Holmes was arrested?" I cried.

"That's what I said," replied Lawler. "Not entirely sure what for, but something about breaking and entering and framing a minor. It's the talk of the town; the Sheriff's never arrested a fella on a Sunday morning before."

I could hardly believe my ears. "They've taken him to the jail?"

Lawler nodded. "Reckon so."

"This is ridiculous!" I cried.

Lawler's lips tightened. "I'm afraid most people don't think so. It's easier to believe a pompous ass from Britain is in the wrong than a sixteen-year-old from the next town over."

"I need to go to Sac City," I said.

Lawler glanced at his watch. "You best hurry; the next train leaves in five minutes."

"Right," I replied, tugging on the brim of my hat to secure it.

"It's four blocks south from here; you can't miss it," he added. "Good luck, Doctor!"

I would have thanked him, but I was already dashing headlong for the train station. My side ached, but I did not slow, and I made it without a second to spare; the train began to move before the door was closed behind me. I sat in the frontmost seat, aware that the eyes of several others on the train were fixed on me. At least now the chugging of the train would render my heavy breathing a little less disruptive. From the Sac City station, I took the route to the jail at a rapid clip and threw the door open without knocking.

Sheriff Sweet sat at his desk, reading some document, with Marshall Reagan leaning over his shoulder. They started when I entered.

"Doctor Watson!" greeted Marshall Reagan. "Good morning to you."

Something about his friendly tone irked me, but I managed to keep my tone even. "Marshall, Sheriff, dispense with the pleasantries and tell me what in God's name is going on."

Reagan and Sweet exchanged an uneasy glance.

The Sheriff spoke. "I'm afraid your friend Holmes has found himself on the wrong side of the law."

"How?" I demanded. "Tell me what happened."

"Reagan came in early this morning and found a bag of gems and a note allegedly from Brogden's son, confessing to have held Mrs. Blomberg's gems. Well, something seemed fishy about it, and he came to me. The handwriting is clearly not Bill's, but it does look suspiciously like your friend Holmes'. Have a look." He handed me a slip of paper. The writing did look oddly like Holmes' own. He told me had left a note, but it was too ridiculous to imagine that this was the note he wrote.

I shook my head and handed it back. "Holmes would never do something like that."

Reagan shook his head. "Believe what you like, Doctor, but we headed over to the Brogden's and they did see signs that someone broke in. It added up too well, so we collected Holmes before he could do any more harm."

A surge of anger welled up in me and I clenched my teeth to keep from saying all of the rude things I wanted to say. "How on earth can you be certain it was him?" I asked. "For all we know, this is something Wright's accomplice contrived to put Holmes behind bars."

Sheriff Sweet pursed his lips. "Who on earth would set up something so elaborate to put a private detective in jail?"

"I don't know," I replied with heat, "Perhaps the same person who would kill two men for a pile of jewels and work with one of this country's most infamous killers?" I shook my head. "This is preposterous; we are supposed to be on the same side."

The Sheriff gave a heavy sigh. "I wish we were."

I decided to ask the practical question for which I dreaded the answer. "How high is the cost of his bail?"

"Seven hundred dollars," the Sheriff replied. "And not one cent less."

My heart sank. Even if Holmes had brought that much money with him, which I doubted, we would have already spent a good deal of it on travel and lodgings. How on earth was I to raise such a sum?

"I'm sorry, Doctor," said Reagan. His tone was gentle. "That's just how it is."

"I understand," I replied, though I did not. I turned to the Sheriff. "How is your arm?"

"Improving," he replied, "though not fast enough for my liking."

There was silence for a long moment.

"I'd like to speak with him," I said.

The Sheriff nodded. "Go right ahead."

I stepped to the door to the cells. Reagan made to follow me in, but the Sheriff stopped him.

"Watson's all right," he said. "Leave him be."

I stepped through the door and closed it behind me.

In the farther cell, Wright lay on his cot with his hands behind his head wearing a smug smile.

"Well, well," he said. "You've come to visit your poor jailbird of a pal. How sweet."

I ignored him and turned my attention to Holmes, in the first cell. He sat rigidly upright, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

After a long moment, Holmes met my gaze, and I did not like what I saw. Sherlock Holmes, the ever-closed book never let fear or shame past his mask of self-assurance. I wanted to shout at him, tell him we would fix this yet, but I restrained myself.

"Hello, Watson," he said, and shivered. The damn fool was wearing only a light jacket.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

Holmes glanced around his cell and shivered again. "I have been better."

I lowered my voice. "Your bail is seven hundred."

Holmes nodded. "I have about two-forty in total, including the money for our passage home."

I felt a little relief; I was not certain he would have even that much. "I have a little over one-seventy," I said. "Between us, that's four hundred ten, so we need another two-ninety. I'm afraid I'll have to polish a lot of shoes."

Holmes did not smile. "We have little time."

"How am I to raise so much?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I do not know."

"Well," I said. "I could ask everyone we've met for five dollars. I suppose I'll start with Sweet and Reagan."

"Avoid Reagan at all costs," Holmes snapped.

"What?" I asked. "Why?"

"Who do you think planted that false note?"

I shook my head. "No, no. Why would he do such a thing? He's on our side of the law. Or—well—you know what I—"

"Recall what we know about P.T.C.," he whispered. "He's intelligent, ruthless, and skilled at theft; his presence has been unnoticed; and he has a source of intelligence close to the investigation."

I frowned, comprehension dawning. "You do not mean to insinuate..."

Holmes nodded. "That is precisely what I mean."

Wright chose this moment to join the conversation. "Lucky for me and him, you've got no proof of that and you're stuck in jail with only your blundering biographer to help you." I was near enough to Holmes' cell that the wood and metal separating the two cells prevented me from seeing the man, but his voice dripped with mockery.

"But why would a thief impersonate a man of the law?" I asked, lowering my voice further.

"I imagine he believed it to be the quickest way to track down the remaining jewels, those that Hieman acquired that night on the train."

I was still processing that Reagan, that young, ambitious upstart of a Marshall was the criminal behind all of this. "It's horrible to think," I said slowly, "but it all adds up too well."

Holmes nodded mutely.

I was all at once overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation. I looked to Holmes, the man who was always ten steps ahead, who could plan ahead or think on his feet, who never gave up on a case. "What on earth are we going to do?"

He looked away. "I do not know."