“Well, if that’s true,” said Harold, “then since you’re the one investigating me, since you’re the one playing detective, maybe you’re the one who killed him.”

Ron stood motionless, thinking this over. Harold nodded toward Sarah, who gave Ron a polite smile as the two walked out into the street. Alone, Ron was lost in thought.

CHAPTER 27 The Strange Tale of Emily Davison

November 12, 1900, cont.

Arthur stood perfectly rigid as his gaze leaped between the hard steel pistol in Emily’s hand and the hard steel expression on her face. Her skin was firmed smooth and taut with rage. The millennial seconds drew long. Arthur realized that he was not breathing, though when he attempted to open his lungs to air, his body did not respond. He stood just between Bram and Emily. He could neither hear nor feel his friend behind him, though Bram could not be more than three feet away.

“You bloody butchers!” whispered Emily. “You killed my Sally. And you killed my Anna. You close your evil eyes now, and you picture their faces while you die.” She shivered with anger, her right index finger vibrating against the trigger.

“You misunderstand,” said Arthur through quivering lips. “We haven’t killed anyone.” He raised his hands above his head, giving the universal sign for surrender.

Behind him, he thought he could faintly hear the motion of Bram’s coat. Bram’s revolver, Arthur realized, was back in his pocket. Was he making a go for it?

“I catch you standing here, right here, guilty as sin, and all you can do is lie!” Emily raised her voice as she became more set on pulling the trigger. “I didn’t expect to find two of you. But when you’re done, I’ll still have four bullets to spare. The two of you for two of mine, then? I’ll wager the trade is fair.”

Arthur hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. But from the look in her eyes, he knew she’d kill him whether he understood or not. He heard another rustle of cloth behind him. Bram was going to get them both killed.

“Elementary!” cried Arthur with every bit of air he could muster.

Emily frowned. Her lips pursed, and then loosened, as her face expressed a series of confused expressions.

“Elementary?” she asked.

“I am Arthur Conan Doyle,” he said. “And you’re the one who’s been trying to kill me.”

Emily appeared shaken by this information. She stared Arthur dead in the eyes, as if trying to read the truth on his face. Was he really Arthur Conan Doyle?

“I shaved my mustache,” he explained. “Yesterday.” Emily’s rage seemed to subside as she evaluated his statement.

“You are Arthur Conan Doyle?” she asked, her whole body twisting with confusion.

“Yes.”

“And who are you?” She looked over Arthur’s shoulder.

“My name is Bram Stoker.” Emily’s face gave no sign of recognition as Bram spoke. “I’m a friend of Arthur’s.”

“Who are you?” asked Arthur of Emily, as if addressing a child.

“Emily… Emily Davison,” she replied.

“Miss Davison, you sent a bomb to kill me in the mail,” said Arthur. “There was a clipping from the paper attached. The murder of your friend. You wrote ‘elementary’ on it, I haven’t the faintest idea why. I investigated the case. There were clues the Yard had missed. I followed them. To this house. I followed them to you.”

Arthur watched Emily Davison inhale deeply, her chest pressing outward as it filled with air. Arthur suddenly noticed the sweat that had formed on his brow and beneath his arms. He felt damp and unclean.

Emily lowered her revolver. Arthur could feel the blood returning to his face. As he blinked, the girl’s demeanor changed completely. She flopped herself down on one of the chairs beside the couch and rolled back her head. She looked as if she’d just been holding up a great weight and now she’d let it go.

“I can’t believe it worked,” she said quietly. “I hoped… my God, I hoped so much that it would. I can’t believe… How did you find me?”

“Your tattoo,” replied Arthur cautiously. He was unsure of what to make of this woman and her sudden change in demeanor. “We found the man who’d painted it. You and your friends were imprinted with matching tattoos, were you not?”

“Oh, but you are good, aren’t you? I knew you would be. I prayed you would be. But you weren’t supposed to come here. You weren’t supposed to find me.”

“Who were we supposed to find?” asked Bram.

“The man who killed my friends. The man who killed Sally and Anna. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you must believe me. I was trying to hire you.” The girl let herself sink into the massive couch. She discarded her revolver onto a long coffee table as if it were a ring of keys. She appeared suddenly harmless.

Arthur took the opportunity to turn his head around. Behind him Bram inched his hand toward his coat pocket for his revolver. Arthur shook his head at Bram. Bram raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you sure? Arthur nodded. Yes. He was sure. The immediate danger had ended. What was required now was talk, and lots of it.

“Perhaps you had better explain,” suggested Arthur.

Emily paused, considering this for a long moment. She looked as if the idea of having to explain herself to Arthur had never crossed her mind. She pursed her lips and made a face that sank with both gravity and exhaustion.

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I had better. We have much to discuss. May

I offer you gentlemen some tea? Please? It is the least I can do. I’m not sure if I’ve still got milk, but I know there’s some fresh honey in the cupboard.”

“Thank you, no,” said Arthur as he sat down beside her on the couch. “Did you send a letter bomb to murder me?”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup, if you’ve got one handy,” said Bram. He took a seat on an armchair opposite Arthur. Emily stood up and went to her kitchen, where she put on a pot of hot water.

“Yes,” replied Emily after she’d returned to the drawing room. “And a thousand apologies for that. But I’d no intention of murdering you, you must believe me.” She sighed. “It was just supposed to give a little pop and a burst of smoke. It’s only that it was my very first letter bomb. I think I used too much dynamite. I would never have hurt you. Do you understand? Not you.” A weariness had crept into her voice, fully replacing the anger which not two minutes before had seemed completely to consume her.

“Might we start from the beginning?” suggested Arthur.

“The beginning?” she said. “But it’s so hard to say when that might have been. I’ve been a woman all my life, you know.” At this she smiled ruefully. “But I suppose I’ve been a suffragist for less time than that.”

“Why don’t we begin there?” said Arthur reassuringly. “You and your friends Sally and Morgan-er, I believe you said her real name was Anna? You, Sally, and Anna were all suffragists?”

“I’m not ashamed to say I was rather more committed to the cause than those two. But I think that’s plain as day, isn’t it?” She stopped herself and straightened her back. “Oh, but this is coming out all wrong! You deserve an explanation, Dr. Doyle, and soon you may even deserve my thanks. There were four of us. Sally, Anna, Janet, and, of course, myself. We met at Caxton Hall over the years, as we all went to the meetings. I wasn’t yet seventeen when I joined the NUWSS, if you can believe it. The others were older. We’d see one another from time to time at the meetings, and then one evening about two years ago-BANG.” Emily clapped her hands together in front of her, giving Arthur a scare. “We became fast friends. Funny how you can know someone for years and then all of a sudden something passes between you and you become inseparable. That’s how it was with us. And it was that way between Janet and me especially. She was by far the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She and I simply understood each other, from our first conversation onward, there wasn’t a moment of uncertainty or confusion between us. Sometimes people confuse me. I have trouble making out whatever it is that they’re saying. But never with Janet. Do you have a friend like that, with whom you can share absolutely anything, and nothing between you is forbidden?”