“Captain, do please remove yourself,” Holmes requested, and Gent left us alone with her. Immediately, she grew calm and resumed her pacing.
“Vrouw Cookson,” Holmes entreated in Dutch, which I here shall translate. “Please tell us of your claim upon the royal family. We are here to help set things right.”
With alarming speed, she turned and grasped Holmes by his cloak, dragging him close. “The servant of Het Duivelsche Volk, of the Dark Things,” came her cracked and unsettling growl. “It comes to call. We are owed. We are owed at a terrible price!”
At her mention of the Dark Things, I was taken aback, first considering, then abandoning, the idea that she’d entertained dreams similar to my own.
“Who owes you?” Holmes cooed in a settling voice.
She released him and threw her arms in the air, raving, “They all do, the whole lot! Promises broken and blood let!”
“What promises, Miss Cookson? Whose blood let?”
“Yes, yes—she’ll come then. Blood from royal blood.”
Holmes took her roughly by the arm and twirled her toward him. “Who is she? I demand that you tell me!”
The old courtesan cackled. “Yes, she will be blood.”
It was then I took note of the object hanging round the woman’s neck, and shouted, “Holmes, the locket!”
Holmes grasped the thin cord and tore it from her throat, sending the madwoman into a swinging rage that forced us to withdraw from the room. The waiting Captain Gent slammed and bolted the door. Her face against the viewing grate, contorted to violent proportions, Cookson cried out, “Geef het Terug! Give it back! Give it back!”
Gent slammed the grate with his great fist, yelling, “Stand back or forfeit your life!”
“Outside,” Holmes ordered. “This hysteria’s contagious; we need to remove ourselves.”
We left swiftly, fleeing her taunting scream, “We’re promised she’s dead!” I was glad of daylight as we reached the sanatorium steps and regained our composure.
“Forgive me my outburst, Mr. Holmes,” the captain said.
“Understandable, Captain,” Holmes assured him, snapping open the locket and examining the villainess’s photograph within. We looked over his shoulders to view the image of a young girl. Although the quality was poor, her resemblance to the royal family was clear.
Gent’s ruddy cheeks went white. “That’s her,” he exclaimed. “Godverdomme, she’s real!” He stormed back into the building, returning minutes later with the attendant in tow.
“Do you know this girl?” Gent demanded. Holmes brought the photograph up for inspection.
“Yes,” the man replied, still on edge from Miss Cookson’s outburst. “It’s the daughter, Sarah. She visits her mother from time to time, the poor soul.”
“And where might we find her?” Holmes asked.
The orderly shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps the red-light district in Utrecht or Den Haag?”
“The apple falls close to the tree,” Gent said. “Come along, we shall find this young villainess!”
We sped back toward The Hague, where, with picture in hand and guldens to follow, we were soon directed to a guest house on red-light row. Gent entered the house with us tight on his heels. We whisked past enraged bruisers, held back by their distraught madame, to the rooms above, where Gent began kicking in doors and accosting each occupant as to the girl’s whereabouts. Scantily dressed women and their clients vacated the premises by all possible routes. Minutes later, Gent found her, alone and asleep. He barreled through the room, rousing her roughly.
It was indeed the girl in the photograph; as she rose up, struggling to retrieve her thin wrist from the captain, her resemblance to Princess Mina was unmistakable.
“What have I done, what’s the meaning of this?” she cried out, in obvious pain.
“Let her go, Captain,” Holmes insisted. “At least till we’ve made our inquiry.”
Gent grunted and released the girl. She rubbed her injured wrist and began to weep. “What have I done?” she repeated.
“Are you Sarah Cookson, daughter to Elisabeth Cookson?” Holmes asked.
“I am, sir,” she sobbed, her pale skin luminescent. I found myself taken with her.
“Have you been visiting the Palace Noordeinde?”
“Of course she has,” Gent answered for her. “I’ve seen her there with my own eyes.”
“Please, sirs,” the girl entreated, looking at us with tearful eyes that beamed, “I assure you I’ve never stepped foot in Noordeinde. I have no idea what you want of me.”
“Liar!” Gent shouted. “You are a whore and a murderer!”
That she was dumbfounded at his assertion was revealed in her breathtaking body, every inch of which trembled. She rose unsteadily from her bed and reached out clumsily to touch my hand. “Een Moordenaar?” she whispered. “I assure you, kind sir—though I am shamed by my profession, I—have never hurt a living soul.”
In that instant I believed her innocent with every fiber of my being.
“Save your charms, temptress,” Gent said, seizing her once more by the wrist and dragging her from the room in her bedclothes, ignoring Holmes’s entreaty that he stay his hand. Turning back, he called, “Gentlemen, I trust you’ll find your way to Noordeinde. The culprit is apprehended. I’m taking her to the guardhouse for questioning. Your service is much appreciated.”
We followed them out of the brothel as Gent coerced the girl into the coach and drove off.
As Holmes and I walked the cobblestones, asking directions, it began to rain, and for a time neither of us spoke. I broke the silence with, “Holmes, that girl was of royal descent or I’ll lay down my life.”
“Agreed, Wells—the resemblance is uncanny.”
“And here in this country it seems as if guilt is presumed without trial.”
“So it would seem,” Holmes agreed. “Though the man’s a reputed eyewitness.”
“Circumstance and convenience is all—” I stopped then, astonished by the implication of his statement, rain coursing down my face. “Then the case is concluded?” I asked.
Holmes lowered his head. “It would appear so.”
“Then an innocent girl is to be imprisoned and subjected to who knows what tortures, as a result of our diligence and your grave misjudgment of Jan Gent’s character. Blast it, Holmes, at this moment I’m quite sorry I joined you!”
Holmes said nothing as we packed our bags, save “Thank you” to the servant who attended us, and, “Do come along, Wells,” when we were summoned by the queen. So incensed was I at the conclusion to our investigation that I pleaded sudden indisposition and told Holmes to beg the queen’s pardon for my absence.
Once Holmes was gone, I cursed the captain and the royal family, sure in my belief that the poor sobbing girl was incapable of infiltrating these halls and perpetrating such crimes. Parting the curtains, I watched the rolling clouds submerge the final daylight in darkness. Surely there was foul intent amidst these walls, and I was powerless against it.
Suddenly a gentle footfall and an odd smell, like woodlands, caught my attention. I turned, and was astounded to behold the girl, Sarah Cookson. Her bare feet left dark tracks on the marble as she stepped before me, gowned in translucent white fabric, her cheeks ruddy, her dark eyes radiating youthful abandon. So excited was I by her presence, unshackled, that I failed to consider the absurdity of the situation. Before I could speak, she pressed one finger to her crimson mouth to gain my silence, then twirled about, displaying her charms. I watched her, transfixed, overcome by desire. Then, in a movement so swift it brought wind through my hair, she was in my arms, her lips against mine.