“Mycroft is so . . . so . . . wonderful.”
“Indeed he is.” He added softly. “It’s all rather different when you love someone, isn’t it Miss Belle? He becomes a real person instead of a label or a category.”
“I can’t believe it.”
His eyes met hers. “Miss Belle, life is hard. Do not deny anyone what love they can find in this life.” His silver grey eyes looked like clouds in sky. “They would never wish the same for you.”
She thought of how Mycroft had treated Evie, and knew it to be true.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
An Organization in Crisis
“Those who were better off tended to blame the poor for their own situations. As if anyone would choose to be poor. What people wanted was work.” –“Sherlock Holmes and the Chocolate Menace”
Sherlock looked behind the bars to see a child seated among the men. It sickened him. “Wiggins, I thought we had an agreement.”
“We did, sir. I wouldn’t steal anything, and you would keep me employed.”
“And I fulfilled my part of the bargain, didn’t I?”
“You did, Mr. ’Olmes.”
“And what were you doing when we met, Wiggins?”
“I was a chimney sweep for a’ while, but the twelve hour days and barely any food was makin’ me sick, so I looked for a new occupation.”
“I wouldn’t call thievery and occupation,” Sherlock said.
“It paid well, sir.”
“The pay has lured you back into the life of crime?”
“Oh no, sir, no! It ain’t nothin’ to do with the pay.”
“By your actions I conclude that you wish to go to the workhouse or the Foundling Hospital. Is that correct, Wiggins?”
“Oh no, guv’nor. I’d rather stay ’ere.” Wiggins looked appalled at the idea. “To be in jail is respectable.”
“And to be sent to the workhouse is the ultimate shame?”
“Yessir.”
“Then answer me, Wiggins. Why did you steal when you had employment? Above all, I must have loyalty from my employees. And to steal a bowler’s hat of all things. Of what possible use could you have for such a frippery?”
“It made me look like a gent.”
“I had no idea you wished to join the ranks of ‘gentleman’, Mr. Wiggins.” Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.
The child stubbed his toe into the dirt, still wearing his new shoes. “Miss Mirabella told me bein’ poor is what killed me parents.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” Sherlock frowned.
“Yep, maybe the disease killed ’em. Which maybe happened because they couldn’t have medicine or shoes or sane-sation.”
“Sanitation?”
Wiggins nodded agreement.
“That still doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Wiggins. You have an income. You have enough to eat. You have a far smaller income in jail, so it wasn’t about the money.”
“I don’t always have a place to sleep.”
“I had understood that you boys were sleeping in an abandoned warehouse. Don’t tell me my sources have failed me there as well.”
“Yeah. That’s right. But it ain’t a home.”
“It has four walls and a roof. Why is it not a home?”
“We’re never going to advance—or to get a home—without an education.”
“Miss Hudson, again?”
“Now don’t blame her, Mr. ’Olmes. She’s a nice lady. She just made me say what I was already thinkin’.”
“Yes, she has that effect.” Sherlock, for once, could not offer an argument.
“And we don’t always eat as fine as I would like. Sometimes all we have is bread.”
“I haven’t heard you complain before. And I guarantee you’ll receive a great deal less to eat at the workhouse—where you’ll be sent next due to your age—and a lot less blunt for your labor.” Sherlock grew impatient. “Enough of this foolishness and deceit. Answer me now. Why did you steal when you have the skill, the brains, and the wherewithal to earn your own income?”
“I dunno’ guv’nor. It was like somethin’ came over me. I got sad thinking about me parents, and, well, I just did it.”
“Do you plan to ‘just do it’ again, Mr. Wiggins? I need to know what to report back to your men. They are without leadership, you know. Tom is attempting to take over as the head of the organization.”
“The Baker Street Irregulars?” Wiggins exclaimed, standing up suddenly.
“How many organizations are you running?” Sherlock wasn’t certain he wanted the answer to that question.
“Tom?” Wiggins shook his head, disbelieving. “He couldn’t do it.”
“I agree. But if you don’t return, they’ll take what they can get. A vacuum will not long stay empty.”
“Alright,” Wiggins agreed, resolution crossing his expression. “I’m ready to go.” And indeed he did look ready. Sherlock had never before seen the young hoodlum looking so clean, like a shiny new sixpence.
“It’s not that easy. I would have to pull some strings with the constabulary. Which I won’t do if I don’t have your solemn vow you’ll never pull this stunt again.”
Wiggins looked down at the ground, his enthusiasm waning. “What do you think killed my parents then, Mr. Holmes? Was it not having enough blunt?”
“It’s never quite that simple, Mr. Wiggins. It’s always best to go forward. The point is your parents would want you to make something of yourself and to live a good life—and to right some of those wrongs. Perhaps you’ll end up in the London sanitation department, what would you think of that?” Sherlock had never known Wiggins to take a particular interest in sanitation before, but facts change, and he was not one to ignore the facts.
“You mean a real job, Mr. Holmes? Wearing a suit and a top hat to work?”
“Hats again, is it? Why didn’t you tell me you had such a particular interest in hats, Wiggins? I would have procured one for you.”
“No sir, it ain’t the hat. It’s havin’ an important job.”
“I see. Being a policeman or detective—which you already are—is as important as a sanitation officer. Either way you’re cleaning up the city.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, Mr. ’Olmes.”
“That is apparent. But I have no objection to any profession you choose to pursue and I pledge my allegiance to assisting you—provided it is a legal occupation. You’ll have to decide.”
Wiggins placed his finger on his chin, seeming to consider Sherlock’s words. “I guess you couldn’t very well assist me in bein’ a criminal, no matter how good I was.”
“No, indeed. Personally, I would like to see you taking over my business someday, Mr. Wiggins.”
“Me? Take over your business?” A tenderness filled his eyes, as if this was beyond anything he’d ever hoped for. “Like I was your son?”
“I couldn’t hope for a better son,” Sherlock said softly.
“But me, I ain’t educated or well born.”
“That isn’t the measure of a man. For my part, I look to bravery, brains, and a desire for justice.”
“But what if you was to have a son of your own, Mr. Holmes?”
“A remote possibility as I’m unmarried and unlikely to become so.”
“What about Miss Mirabella?”
“What about her?” Sherlock felt his posture stiffen.
“You could marry her,” Wiggins said, even though he clearly believed this to provide some competition for his future employment.
Sherlock chuckled. “Whatever put such a foolish idea into your head, Wiggins?”
“She’s awfully pretty. And smart too. You wouldn’t wanna’ have dumb kids.”
“To be sure.”
“Then why don’t you? Marry her?”
“She wouldn’t have me, I assure you,” Sherlock said softly, surprised at the disappointment in his own voice.
“Hmmm,” Wiggins considered. “You might be right.”
Sherlock laughe
d. “There’s a bit of confidence for you.”
“So you could train me? Someday, that is.”
“That remains to be seen. And only on the condition that you stay out of jail. I’ll not hand my business over to a common criminal.”
The boy stood up. “I’ll do my best to make you proud, Mr. Holmes. And me parents.”
“Good boy.” Sherlock considered the young man before him, little more than a child. “There’s something else, isn’t there, Wiggins?”
The boy looked away momentarily. “You’ll think I ain’t manly if I tell you.”
“I certainly will not. You’re worth ten of the average man on the street.” In an instant realization hit. “For God’s sake, Wiggins, what a fool I’ve been! Don’t tell me you got yourself locked up in order to get a bath?”
“Keep your voice down, guv’nor! Those are the kind o’ words what can make me the laughing stock o’ the place.” Wiggins blushed, looking frantically about him. “How did you know, Mr. ’Olmes?”
“Quite simple, actually. I should have seen it before. In the first place, you’re too smart to end up in this jail cell unless you wanted to be here. That is what has perplexed me since I arrived: why would you want to end up in jail? I don’t see anyone in this cell you would wish to question, which would be my primary objective were I in your shoes.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen meaner types in the Bank of England.”
“Then I observed the red marks on your ankles from the vermin,” Sherlock added.
“The itch was something awful, Mr. ’Olmes.”
“It would be. And you couldn’t use any of your blunt to purchase a night in a decent lodging house: you’re too honorable to take away anything from the other boys. You knew you wouldn’t be admitted into the jail without a bath, so you waited until a Bobby was watching—and then did something to put you here.”
Wiggins lowered his head sheepishly. “There weren’t no other way.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “The workhouse might have achieved the same end, however. Then you could have escaped at the earliest opportunity.”
“The workhouse?” Wiggins exclaimed. “There’s no honor in that!”
“Whereas there is in the jail?”
Wiggins shook his head adamantly. “Anybody can walk into the workhouse. I had to do something to earn me place here.” He beamed with pride.
“Not to mention the jail leaves you with a record.”
“It’s the price ‘o honor.”
“I might ask why you didn’t steal the Persian powder instead of the hat,” Sherlock posed. It was a well known fact that even fashionable guests took Persian powder with them to hotels and boarding houses, sprinkling the sheets and the pillows with the powder in the event of unwanted visitors.
Wiggins’ face fell. “I didn’t think of that, sir.”
“Perhaps you might consult with me before resorting to desperate measures, Wiggins. We might be able to come up with a solution satisfactory to us both.”
“I take pride in solving me own problems, Mr. ’Olmes.” Wiggins raised his chin.
“And I take pride in having an unblemished work force,” Sherlock said without compromise.
“Yes, sir. I’m telling you, though, where we is at the warehouse, sometimes the vermin is so thick they fall from the ceiling on our heads.”
“I can see why you needed the hat.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize your accommodations were not acceptable to you, Mr. Wiggins.”
“I said you’d think me a sissy.” Wiggins bowed his head with shame.
“Not at all. Watson and I are frequent customers of the Turkish baths.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And though I don’t approve of the outcome, your method was most ingenious. I would have expected nothing less, Wiggins. You had a problem and you solved it. And yet, we now have a bigger problem. How to get you out of here and to keep you out of the workhouse.”
“Simple. I’ll run away.”
“And you’ll be in hiding for the rest of your life now that you’re on the books. No, that will never do.”
“What then?”
“The Sergeant owes me a favor.” Sherlock tipped his hat to Wiggins. “I do hope I can resolve this issue before Tom runs the Baker Street Irregulars into the ground.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A Good Deed Borne in Tragedy
“Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but, I hope, into a better shape.”– Charles Dickens, “Great Expectations”
“I hope you don’t mind my coming, Mr. Fairclough,” Mirabella said. He looked like a man who had been crying for days. “I must be a terrible reminder of Florence’s death. I’m so sorry. I never wished it to end that way.”
“The only person I blame is myself.”
“You mustn’t, Mr. Fairclough. No matter how good a parent is, sometimes a child is bent and determined to follow a wrong path. At the same time there are those children who don’t have anyone and are ever so grateful for the slightest attentions.”
“I would have done anything for Florence.” He stifled a sob. “I loved her.”
“You were an exemplary father, sir.” Mirabella added wistfully, “She might have been a lady pharmacist—in London, no less. To be perfectly honest, I envy the life you offered her.”
“Her heart had turned so black. She lost all ambition.”
Oh, she had plenty of ambition, believe me.
“You do so much good, sir. You mustn’t dwell on it.” She added softly, “Ultimately we are only responsible for our own actions.” Mirabella felt a bit hypocritical, tending to assume responsibility for the deeds of others herself.
“Perhaps this is a bad time, Mr. Fairclough, but I wonder if I might ask a favor?” She swallowed hard. “I mean, not for myself, but for someone else in need.”
“And who might that be?”
“I believe one of your cottages has opened up?”
“Several,” he said sadly. “I was betrayed on more than one level.”
“I know some very good people who need a home through no fault of their own.”
“There are still good people in the world.”
“I assure you there are. I speak of a band of orphan boys. Mr. Holmes can vouch for them, as can I.”
Disapproval crossed Fairclough’s expression.
“Before you say ‘no’, they are very good boys. They will keep the grounds clean in exchange.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Miss Hudson, those cottages are for families.”
“They are definitely a family of sorts. And they’re so used to sleeping in an abandoned warehouse—with one of them awake and on guard—that they would very likely all sleep together in the same room.”
“They’re currently sleeping in a warehouse?”
“Yes. It’s not a good place for children at all.” She swallowed hard. “Or anyone for that matter.”
“That can’t be safe.”
“Not at all. One of the boys has to stay awake all night and keep guard. And the place is . . . filthy.”
Fairclough’s expression softened, for an instant forgetting his broken heart. “How many are there?”
She swallowed hard. “Twelve.”
“Oh my goodness.” He knit his eyebrows. “How old are they?”
“Between the ages of six and thirteen.”
“They would have to attend school.”
She smiled. “Yes, sir. Of that they are well aware. It is the price of a good night’s sleep.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Promises were meant to be Broken
“A very little key will open a very heavy door.” – Charles Dickens
“That must be Mr. Kingsley.” Mirabella heard footsteps in the hallway heading to the third floor flat.
“He seems to be settling in. I believe Kingsley will be quite useful.” Satisfaction crossed Sherlock’s expression.
“A man more grateful for his position one could not find. And he gets along famously with Mr. Uladimov. Mr. Kingsley calls him ‘Uli’, who doesn’t appear to take the slightest offense.” She giggled.
“Kingsley has a conversational manner which is agreeable to people, so they confide in him. He appears to be perfectly harmless, being an older gentleman.” Sherlock’s lips formed a quivering smile, indicating intellectual amusement. “Quite misleading.”
“But he is genuinely kind.”
Sherlock’s grey eyes turned cloudy as he focused them on her. “One shouldn’t confide in everyone. One’s secrets have a way of surfacing in the most unexpected places.”
She felt a sudden alarm. He knows something. Or, more likely, everything.
“I want you to stop seeing Moriarty, Miss Hudson.”
Sherlock was not one to mince words so it was common for an element of shock to accompany them. But this gave her true cause for alarm. “Oh. How did you find out about that, Mr. Holmes?”
“How I know is of no consequence. It skirts the issue.” His gaze looked like it might swallow her whole. “You should no longer be in my employ, you know.”
She did know. Please, please, anything but that. “It is all work-related, I assure you, Mr. Holmes.” The fear that he would kick her out on her ear took hold of her. Six months ago, he would not have hesitated.
He laughed a dark, sinister laugh. “Secretly meeting with my arch-enemy? Explain that to me, Miss Hudson.”
“The professor is a useful contact. You have always said to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“Moriarty is the exception. He is far too dangerous. He is pulling you into his web, or did that fact escape you?”
She shook her head. “No. It didn’t.”
“It is never advisable to enter into an arrangement with someone depraved who then has expectations of you. If you disappoint them, which you invariably will when you follow your conscience, they enact their revenge. Better to never be part of their schemes.”
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