Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 7

  My pistol, my ability to stitch a wound, or my sangfroid? I wondered which he’d choose. My companionship, my fists? My contributions to our living situation?

  “—your proclivity for reading Mrs. Hudson’s periodicals. You are quite right: the woman who would wear that dress, and be painted by Copley, would not wear an ornament so out of place. I had attributed it to a quirk of colonial taste. But it is a clue.”

  I sighed. But he put his hand absently on my shoulder; I knew that gesture was all I should expect, in terms of a compliment, and took it as such.

  We turned back to Mr. Deering. “Has anyone else been here to see this, apart from Mr. Sewall?”

  “Just the other young gentleman,” he said. “Sent by Mr. Sewall.”

  “But we are surely his sole representatives?” I said to Holmes.

  “No, this was the paintings expert,” Mr. Deering explained. “Or rather, Mr. Attenborough’s son.”

  “Mr. Earnest Attenborough?” came the incredulous response from Holmes.

  “His son,” repeated the lawyer, who seemed to have no idea of the effect he’d just had on Holmes. “Said that his father was ill and confined to the house, and he was to make a sketch and bring it back to him. I was surprised by this, but Attenborough junior certainly knew what he was talking about and made an excellent copy, quickly, in crayon.”

  Holmes and I shared a look. “Can you describe this young man?”

  Mr. Deering finally understood that something was wrong. A sheen of sweat broke out on his bald pate. “Yes. He was well dressed, quiet, stout, red-haired. One of those soft, studious fellows. I was hoping to hear from Attenborough today—by now in fact.”

  “You will not.”

  I looked up from the portrait. “Holmes?”

  “Attenborough has no children,” Holmes said. “The young man probably forged that letter, and was sent to copy the painting for an interested party. Which means that you are in danger, Mr. Deering, for I am convinced there is wickedness at work. Send a message to Scotland Yard, tell them I said to post a guard of their least inept constables. You must make certain no one else who hasn’t the right sees this painting.”

  “I will, I will!”

  Holmes turned to me. “Watson, we need reinforcements.”

  As we crossed London, it was immediately apparent that we were being followed. That these fellows were so bold was worrying. And yet, almost instantly, I felt my body relax, my brow unfurrow, and my breathing become deep and regular. Knowing there would be a brawl made my heart light. I made as if to check my watch, and assured myself that my cosh was handy.

  “The next turning,” Holmes said quietly, and a little eagerly. “We shall see what these rough fellows want.”

  But there was another group of men down the next alley, clearly the confederates of those following us. Their clothing suggested they were foreigners, and I could hear them muttering in some guttural tongue. Four against two, I did not mind so much, but at nine against us . . . We had been very carefully herded to this place, by someone who knew how men of action—indeed, Holmes himself—might think.

  Holmes strode up to the man directly in front of us, feinted with a jab, and, whirling, kicked the man in the head. He was using that odd fighting style of his own invention, which he called “baritsu.” It was undeniably effective, though not at all gentlemanly.

  I let fly with my cosh upside one nasty fellow’s head, and caught another with my backhanded return. My legs were knocked out from underneath me and I cracked my head on the cobbles. At least two more fellows joined in to kick me.

  Holmes was on his own.

  I rolled over to one side, as if to protect my head, but pulled out my revolver. Firing into the leg of one of my attackers had the effect of scattering the men from around me, and eliciting screams from the busy street we’d just left. That would bring the police, I hoped.

  One brute running by stopped briefly to land one last kick to my jewels. As I doubled up in inexpressible pain, I watched with horror as he cut the throat of the man I’d shot, before escaping himself.

  It took us a moment to realize the fight was really over. Gasping, Holmes pulled himself up, dabbing gingerly at a nasty cut across his chin. “Watson, you have an absurd attachment to your firearms. I would tell you I am surprised you would bring a pistol to one of the most respected law offices in the City, but I suspect you bring it to the opera, as well.”

  I groaned as I hauled myself to my knees. “You may assume I’m armed when I visit the thunder-mug.”

  Holmes laughed, wincing as he did. “And I am very glad of it.”

  I stood, shakily. “Who was that?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am not certain. Based on their dress and speech, I have a dreadful notion they were members of the Chercover gang. They are well organized and so ruthless they leave none of their own alive who might tell their secrets. I have no idea why that lot of anarchists might be interested in us.” He spat out a mouthful of blood. “If they are after the same treasure we are, we must be twice as vigilant.”

  “You take this, then,” I said, handing him my pistol. “I have another at home.”

  Holmes pocketed the gun. “Haste, now, Watson; we don’t want to waste time with police questions. The game is afoot.”

  I will admit to whistling in the street as we continued on our way.

  Holmes led me deep into Whitechapel, to a recently burned-down block that resembled one of the great ash heaps that still shame our city. Filthy men, women, and children sifted through the mounds, looking for something to sell.

  On the edge of this desolation, we arrived at the house—a shell, awaiting demolition—and from the shadows, an urchin emerged. No more than eight or nine years of age, with the flaxen locks and piercing gray eyes of an angel, this pitifully small child, as filthy a street arab as I had ever seen, was dressed in an outré costume of a faded and patched frock, boy’s shoes, and a man’s jacket that hung like a tent on her. She greeted us with suspicion.

  “Whatchu want?”

  “I’m here to see—” my friend began, but the girl had already passed judgment and found us wanting.

  “Wiggins, get out ’ere! I don’t like the looks of these ones!”

  “See here, what’s your name?” I asked. Holmes only regarded her with curiosity.

  She gazed at me with those wide gray eyes and hawked. Along with a considerable amount of tobacco juice, she spat out a curse so blue, so vile, I felt my face burning. She would have put a seasoned sergeant-major to shame.

  Before I could collect my wits, or indeed, close my gaping mouth, ginger-haired Wiggins arrived, the tallest and oldest of the troop of other raggedy children who followed on his heels. No matter how many times I saw them, it never failed to break my heart. In the center of the wealthiest, most powerful nation on earth, children went hungry and turned to the streets for survival. It was a bitter thing to see, returning from war: We wanted to bring peace and civilization to the world, but hardly had it at home.

  “All righ’ then, Éirinn?” Wiggins said. Then he saw who it was paying a call, and doffed his cap. The others did as well, straightening themselves.

  One nudged the poison-tongued little lookout. “Mind your manners, Éirinn Mitchell! That there’s Mr. ’Olmes! The Guvnor!”

  Miss Mitchell only crossed her arms, never dropping her venomous gaze. My shoulder blades itched; I would keep my back to the wall whenever this one was near.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. ’Olmes?” Wiggins asked, in polite tones.

  “I need two clerks, several spies, and runners to coordinate communication. Possibly a pickpocket.”

  The boy nodded. “It’ll cost you.”

  “Usual fee, a shilling per day, of course.”

  “Plus clothing, plus bribes.”

  “And a bonus if you get what I need in time.”

  It was negotiated with the efficiency of business transacted many times between trusted partners; Holmes and Wiggins s
hook gravely upon completion and stepped aside to discuss the particulars. Rather than be left alone with the little gang of pickpockets, thieves, and (I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn) cutthroats, and observing that Miss Mitchell had vanished, I ambled down to the corner and bought one of the racing rags. Holmes met me there, his meeting with the Irregulars concluded, and we were about to turn our steps homeward when I heard a shrill cry.

  “Oi! You! Guv—Mr. ’Olmes!”

  It was the little wretch from the burned-out house. Holmes paused. “Yes, Miss Mitchell?”

  Suddenly shy, she lurched into something along the lines of a curtsy. Perhaps Wiggins had scolded her into manners. Or perhaps she was tottering from drink; there was now the reek of gin emanating from her. “This come for yer. Mr. ’Olmes. Sir.”

  She handed him a scrap of folded paper. It was fine stock but, once pristine white, was now smudged by her grubby hand.

  “Who gave it to you?” Holmes asked, offering her a coin in exchange for the paper.

  The coin vanished quickly. “Young bloke. Not so much better off than us, maybe, but . . . in regular employ. Not sure ’e could’ve wrote it, though. Didn’t seem that smart. But he give me a hit off’n his flask, and a shilling besides.”

  “Thank you, Éirinn, those are excellent observations. Let me know if you see him again. Better yet, follow him, and find out who he works for, without getting caught, and there’ll be a guinea in it for you. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes lit up at the thought of such a fortune. She nodded, and without a word, ran off.

  I felt an overwhelming hopelessness in the face of such misery. “Is it fair, Holmes? To encourage them to spy and sneak and God knows what? They ought to be in school or in respectable service.”

  “Yes, but they are not. I give them a chance, Watson. To learn that paying attention to detail can be profitable. To learn that work for a wage can be an alternative to begging and thievery. I give them a chance, that is all.”

  “It is not much of one,” I said. How much money did I have in my pocket? Never much, but a king’s ransom wouldn’t cure what I saw around me.

  “It is considerably more than we were given,” he said darkly.

  “We?” Holmes and I seldom trespassed upon each other’s early lives; he took me off-guard, hinting he knew anything of my past or that we shared anything in common.

  He held up the note. I could see the tiny, cramped handwriting. It read, “Do not interfere with my investigation of Miss H.”

  “My brother Mycroft sends his regards.”

  I stared, agape. I had only met Mycroft Holmes a handful of times. A giant of a man, he had an intellect to scale, and while he claimed to be a minor clerk for the British government, I soon learned that he was a spymaster of the first order, with agents around the world who supplied him with a never-ending stream of information. Mycroft ignored me, for the most part, which made me grateful, for I have no shame in admitting that the man terrified me.

  I considered once again the radical ways in which Holmes and his brother lived. If one fairly wallowed in the criminal element and the other preferred to be secreted away, dealing at the highest levels of government, I didn’t dare guess what their early lives were like.

  Holmes pursed his lips, considering. “Watson, I must make inquiries. Clearly, Mr. Deering’s stout red-headed copyist is working for Chercover, or possibly Miss Hartley.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Go back to Baker Street. See what you can discover in my files about either of those parties. I suspect Chercover is the reason for Mycroft’s attention, so I’m surprised he said anything to us about Miss Hartley. There is much more going on here than we expected.”

  I nodded and departed. I knew that however obscurely Holmes’s brain might work, there was always a reason for his instructions. There was certainly no time to waste, because whatever Mycroft Holmes’s interest in Miss Hartley, it suggested danger to us all.

  As I rounded the corner on my way to Baker Street, I found myself accosted by two unpleasant, and all too familiar, toughs. One short and stout, the other tall and thin, like something from a music hall act. But they were not clowns.

  The short one said, “Doctor Watson. A word, with you.”

  I slowed, cursing under my breath. “Campbell, tell Dermody—”

  “Tell me what, Doctor Watson?” A third tough joined us from around the corner, shorter, leaner, and meaner than his messengers. “That you’ll have my money tomorrow? That you’re on to a sure thing? I’ve heard that song from you before.”

  “I have the money at home,” I lied, hoping for a chance to escape.

  “Let’s go get it,” Dermody suggested. “Together.”

  I had tried outrunning and outfighting his two men before this, and barely made it away. With three of them, I was lost.

  “Very well,” I said, affecting an air of unconcern. “You’ll save me the trip to see you tonight.”

  “Happy I could be of assistance. Now move.”

  This was bad. Dermody never showed up in person, had never had to. I had always paid my debts. Eventually. This time was taking a little longer, but still, I was confident we’d maintain our cordial association. His gambling den was by far the most honest of its sort around.

  I got to the door and paused. And patted my pocket. The cosh was gone, lost in the alley, and I’d given my pistol to Holmes. My curses of frustration were not an act; I desperately did not want to do what I now knew I must. “Lost my keys.”

  “Very careless of you. I’m sure you still have a maid?”

  “My landlady does.”

  “So what are we doing out here still?”

  I hesitated, then rang the bell, two short, one long.

  The new girl, Aggie, opened it, and gasped to see the four of us crowded on the step. “My goodness, Doctor Watson—”

  Panic flooded me; it should not have been Aggie at the door.

  “Well, well, you’re a fine bit of stuff, aren’t you?” Dermody pushed forward, prelude to grabbing Aggie and forcing her inside. I felt my blood boil and my vision went to pinpoint, smelling his onion breath as he shoved me aside. The panic that threatened me subsided, replaced by a killing rage. If he should hurt this poor girl . . .

  Then I saw the dear, dear face of Mags Hudson—and the even dearer sight of her shotgun. She had not become the astute London businesswoman she was without understanding that not all visitors were the polite sort.

  “Aggie, don’t you dare move!” came the brisk order.

  Aggie quailed; she turned her head and uttered a little shriek when she saw a shotgun resting on her shoulder.

  “Shut up, and don’t move, girl,” Mrs. Hudson growled. Slender, an upright posture, with dark brown hair, she was now the very picture of a Valkyrie. “I don’t want you to eat the hot load of birdshot I mean to serve to these gentlemen.”

  “Whoa, now, Missus,” Dermody said, still confident he could get past her. “No call for none of that! We’re all friends here.”

  The steely look in her eye and the equally metallic noise of both triggers being cocked convinced him.

  Dermody and his boys froze.

  “No, we’re not friends,” Margaret said. “And I don’t like the looks of you, so get yourselves gone.”

  “We’ll be back later,” Dermody said. His eyes were filled with rage. “Lads.”

  They backed off warily, almost falling off the step and onto the pavement, then hastened away.

  Only when Mrs. H was satisfied, did she remove the shotgun from the maid’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aggie, but you got here faster than you should. That’s the good doctor’s m’aidez signal, two shorts and a long. You’re new, else you would have known. My fault. I’m sorry, girl.”

  But Aggie heard nothing, still sobbing hysterically.

  Mrs. Hudson sighed. “All right, all right, no harm done. There’s a bottle in my desk drawer. Pour yourself a big glass of whisky, and get one for me too. Go
on, now.”

  The girl stumbled away, hiccuping.

  Mrs. H’s look suggested she wouldn’t mind shooting me: Aggie wasn’t going to last any longer than the last maid. “John, one day, you’ll be the death of us all!”

  I stepped toward her, closing the door behind me. “Mags, you’re wonderful.” I ran a hand along her slender waist. The romantic urge often follows hot on the heels of excitement or danger, I’ve found.

  She slapped me away, but not too hard. “Tch. None of that now. I thought you were behaving yourself. Are you short, again?”

  “Oh, no.”

  She shot me a look, and my grin faded. “Well, yes. A bit, but I have more than enough to keep Dermody happy until we get paid again.”

  Margaret sighed. She knew me far too well. “Let’s go get it, then. And you’ll go straight to pay him off, right? No trying to land a long shot on the horses?”

  “Of course.” I led her to the strongbox Holmes and I share, and found it opened. And empty, save for an IOU note in a familiar scrawl.

  “Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” she said, finally. “It’s a damned good thing I got last month’s rent.”

  I spent several elucidating hours with Holmes’s files; Scotland Yard ought to have as comprehensive a library of criminals and cases. Marcus Hannibal Chercover was as black a villain as they came. His criminal gang was the terror of Europe, aiding revolutionaries with guns and men for hire at a very steep price. His cunning was matched only by his unparalleled cruelty, and he grew wealthy on the warfare he helped create.

  One interesting addition to these notes was a new cable from Boston that arrived as I read. Among other items of interest, Holmes’s Boston investigator had confirmed that Habakkuk Sewall had recently been in Prague, the site of Chercover’s headquarters.

  When Holmes arrived home, he didn’t get two steps into the sitting room before I laid into him. “Where is it? The money you took—?”

  His face was vacant; he couldn’t understand the reason for my emotion. “I left a note saying I’d replace it.”

  “That’s not the same as replacing it. What did you spend it on?”