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Holmes

Friday, April 27, 1821

A s the minutes passed and the Aquila neared Positano, Holmes felt himself growing sick with dread.

Imelda had been very quiet for the last fifteen or so minutes—Holmes wondered if she’d snuck out of the cabin again—and this left him to muse on his bleak future. Upon disembarkation, Matteo would come for him, then—what? Arrest, torture, death?

He wondered if he could talk his way out of things, if he could lie about his reason for cutting the lines. Better start thinking up a damned good story , he thought miserably to himself.

Footsteps . Imelda was back. There was a rustling above him and then a hollow grating sound, followed by a soft shower of wood dust.

“What are you doing?” he whispered as a serrated metal blade slid between the planks, coming dangerously close to the top of his head.

A saw. Had she snuck out just now to retrieve it?

Imelda continued to work, and after a few minutes, she had cut a hole in the planks wide enough for Holmes’s forearm. He coughed, sawdust lodged at the back of his throat.

Soon, their faces were only inches apart.

He wiped away a thin layer of grit on his lips, taking a good look at his new friend. She and Mari closely resembled each other: the sharp, sloped nose, the high cheekbones, the dip above their upper lips.

Imelda pulled her face away, and Holmes spotted what she held in her hand: a compass saw, tapered and narrow. “Help me,” she said. “Pull the blade in farther, just there.” She nodded to a tight gap between the next two planks.

Gripping the edge of blade with his thumb and forefinger, Holmes helped pull it into place. Imelda resumed her work. Within a few minutes, she had removed another section of plank. Holmes could now fit his entire arm through, even his shoulder.

His heart began to race. My God , he thought, she is helping me escape.

“Wait,” he said, breathing in air fresher than anything he’d breathed in days. “We must think through this. Before someone sees what you are doing.”

“We haven’t the time,” she hissed. “We will be there soon.”

His mind raced for an escape plan that felt feasible. Even if he emerged through this hole into the second mate’s cabin and slipped out of the louver, just as Imelda had been doing, he’d have to get to the main deck, somehow jump over the railing.

If he was spotted by one of the officers, he’d be shot.

For a brief moment, remaining imprisoned seemed the more fitting choice. To stay alive for the next few hours, at least.

“Imelda,” Holmes whispered, “how will I get out without being seen?”

She paused her sawing and wiped her upper lip with the edge of a blue scarf tied around her neck. “I am getting you out of this prison cell,” she said. “Admittedly, I have not considered the rest.” She began to saw again, harder this time.

“Even in disguise, there are so few of us on board,” he said, thinking out loud. There was no anonymity, no hiding. Not on the Aquila .

She ignored him, still working away. “Once you’re on the main deck, throw yourself overboard. We are not far from land. A ten-minute swim, if that.” She looked at him with a new intensity. “You must be quick about it, though, and swim harder than you’ve ever swam before.” She reached for his hand, clutching it. “Promise me you will swim as hard as you can.”

He hoped he would be so lucky. If he could even make it to the water, he knew he’d be free.

He nodded, his throat too tight to reply. Imelda was saving his life.

Soon, she had cut enough wood away for him to slip through. Using what little arm strength he could muster, Holmes heaved himself up and through the hole.

Finally, he found himself sitting right next to her, panting with the effort he’d just expended. A pair of glass prisms were installed in the cabin, which let in the faint morning light from above, on the main deck. “She looks so much like you,” he whispered.

“You should have seen Sofia,” Imelda replied, giving him a sad smile.

Holmes touched his chest, checking for his journal. It was still on him, snug in its oilskin pouch. Quickly, Imelda gave him some brandy and food—dried beef and the sweetest candied orange slices he’d ever tasted. As he ate, he looked around the cabin, finding it rather less interesting than he’d imagined all this while. A few sea chests. Spare clothing, used dishware. A rope ladder, neatly folded and set aside.

“Shall I put on different clothes?” he asked her, eyeing a pair of men’s trousers draped over a chair. His own clothes were bloodied, thanks to Quinto’s fist, and hung loosely off his body. He was barefoot, too, though there was no need for shoes. They would only weigh him down in the water.

“I see no use,” she said. “You won’t be on the main deck but for a few moments.” She put her ear to the door, listening for a moment, then she slid the louver’s privacy shield out of its track. Slipping her thin fingers between the slats, she took out the four wooden pegs affixing the louver to the door.

Then, very quietly, she removed the louver. The dark, gaping hole in the door—a perfect escape—lured Holmes forward. He knew the layout of the berthing deck well, knew exactly how to get to the main deck.

He turned to her. “Once I am safe, how can Mari and I find you?”

Imelda’s gaze was unreadable, but Holmes felt sure he saw sorrow. Grief, even. Perhaps she intended to keep working with the Fratelli Mazza. She’d turned herself over to them once; knowing that Mari’s life was now in danger, Holmes wouldn’t be surprised if Imelda tried some new tactic to keep Matteo happy.

Ignoring his question, Imelda checked her small pocket watch. “There is one more thing,” she said, handing him a glass flask, about six inches long and stoppered with a cork. It appeared to be filled with seashells. “Do not open it,” she instructed. “Give it to Mari when you find her again.” She glanced toward the gap in the door. “Go, Holmes.”

Holmes placed his hand on Imelda’s shoulder and looked her hard in the eye, seeing only Mari. Already, his thoughts had turned to her—finding her, protecting her, stealing her away to a place where they could not be discovered. “Thank you for saving me,” he said, then he dashed off, making straight for the gaping hole in the door. As he went, he unbuttoned one of his pockets, tucking the glass flask inside.

Outside the cabin, he went left. He rushed up the ladder, encountering no one, and emerged onto the main deck.

Imelda had been right: the shoreline was not far off. A thin mist hung in the air, giving the coast the appearance of a looming, dark shadow. The faintest tease of salvation.

He rushed toward the taffrail, ready to heave himself over. Yet as he took a long step, he slipped. The fog had left the deck slick, and Holmes went down hard, his right knee twisting beneath him. He heard a tiny pop within the joint. He wasn’t sure if he’d broken something or merely sprained the joint, but he didn’t have time to investigate.

He threw one leg over the railing, then the other. He sat on the taffrail for a moment, eyeing the shore, dreading the swim toward it on account of his throbbing knee.

Behind him, a shout. Then footsteps and the click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked.

Holmes did not turn around to see who held the gun.

At last, he jumped.