Mycroft, his head still spinning, was attempting in vain to make sense of it until he realized there was no sense to be made.
He had barely resumed his seat when her inscrutably wooden butler cleared his throat.
“Madame?” he said, daring to interrupt her soliloquy in a tone that would broach no objections. “It is time for your midmorning restorative.”
“Ah yes!” she replied with a heartfelt sigh reserved for an angel of mercy whisking one away from a nightmare. “My restorative!”
She rose and addressed her guests with a charming smile that said all thoughts of demons had flitted away. “I am afraid I must leave,” she said as the men rose in turn. “Old women have their limits, do they not?”
She seemed to be waiting for a protest of empty flattery that neither of her guests was the sort to give. Appearing less than pleased, she added: “And, Mr. Douglas? Kindly inform Mr. Smythe that if Nickolus House is so careless as to lose a child, my business with him is done and my decision irrevocable.”
With that, Douglas and Mycroft were ushered out, with the footman closing the door resolutely behind them.
* * *
As they hurried down the front steps to the street, Douglas asked: “What in the world kept you? And why are you so pale?”
“She had fresh puncture marks on her wrist, Douglas,” Mycroft replied. “I gather she is a habitué,” he added vaguely.
“A drug addict, you mean,” Douglas corrected impatiently. “No use being mealy-mouthed about it. And as to my second question…?”
“Douglas, I am perfectly well. A tad under the weather, that is all. In that box she opened in the library,” he continued, “I spied kratom, a herb meant to—”
“I am familiar with it. Meant to aid opium addicts to ease off the drug. It can be quite effective, though if what you say is true, it did not work for her.”
“No, it did not,” Mycroft agreed. “In her bedroom I found a recently used opium pipe, a vial of laudanum, a syringe and spare needle, and six smudged calling cards from a certain Mr. William Angel. Does the name ring any bells?”
“None at all,” Douglas replied. “Smudged, you say?”
“A misleading term on my part. In fact, the friction ridges were quite clean…”
“Friction ridges?”
“All six cards had finger marks,” Mycroft clarified. “Small and distinct: two thumbs on the front, two index fingers on the back.”
“Mycroft, I am not following,” Douglas said.
“It was as if someone had purposely placed a thumb and index finger in soot, and pinched the card once, then again. I am no expert and had little time with them—frankly, none at all—but it seemed that, on each card, both sets of ridges were identical. But those same ridges seemed different from one card to the other—though I cannot even say if they were of the left hand or of the right.”
“Soot,” Douglas said, apparently trying to catch up. “Fireplace soot, you mean?”
“Yes of course fireplace soot. What else could soot refer to in this particular context?”
Douglas shook his head. “Madame is not the sort who would allow young sweeps into that spotless abode unless they entered chimney-first,” he said, “and left in the same manner.”
“And yet, there is a connection,” Mycroft sighed. “Just out of curiosity, I shall put my young assistant, Parfitt, on a quest for this Mr. Angel. If the man works in London, Parfitt should not have much trouble locating him. Let us see if a thread or two comes together. Whatever else, it pains me that you have lost a patroness.”
“I cannot say the same,” Douglas replied. “The entire time I was alone with her, I must admit I was unnerved. I cannot discern whether it was de Matalin herself or that oversized doll with the staring eyes…”
“No, I meant I would dearly love to have another gander at those cards!” Mycroft said, and Douglas laughed.
“I believe that ship has sailed,” he retorted.
“Has it?” Mycroft asked.
“You are sounding altogether too innocent, and yes,” Douglas stated in no uncertain terms, “it has. My days of breaking and entering are over. But, remaining on the subject of dolls, did I mention that I saw similar ones at the shipwreck of the Royal Adelaide? A half-dozen washed ashore, quite eerie.”
“Now there is a queer coincidence,” Mycroft declared. “Although, according to de Matalin, they are back in favor…”
“I cannot see why. I would think they would frighten any sensible little girl half to death.”
“Was that a name card on her wrist?” Mycroft asked, smiling, and Douglas nodded.
“It seems she is called Marguerite.”
Suddenly, Mycroft noticed a bright yellow landaulet parked nearby. At that exact moment, the driver flicked his whip and the horse threw himself forward directly into their path. He and Douglas managed to leap out of its way mere seconds before being struck. It whisked so closely by that they felt the breeze as the carriage shuddered past them, the beast neighing indignantly as it went.
Douglas caught his breath, shaken, as the two of them watched it canter away.
“I have seen that carriage before!” Douglas declared the moment he could speak again. “It was outside Nickolus House when you and Sherlock first arrived!”
Mycroft stared at him. “Why did you say nothing?”
“Why would I have?” Douglas replied, taken aback.
“No, no, you’re right of course; but I too have seen it!”
“When?” Douglas asked.
“It belongs to that Chinese gentleman Cainborn met on Shoreditch High Street! I could have mentioned it last night, I suppose, but it seemed trifling…”
“Not so trifling now,” Douglas muttered. “But what are you suggesting? That the Chinese gentleman is following you about, wanting to do mischief?”
“He was not in the carriage,” Mycroft said.
“How do you know?” Douglas said incredulously. “Please do not tell me you were able to scan the interior as it barreled past us!”
“Do not be absurd, Douglas, the blinds were pulled down—how could I have? No, it was the speed at which the horse set off from a dead stop. The added weight of even one person in the carriage would not have permitted the beast to come at us at quite that velocity. Further, the back wheels were weaving somewhat. The weight was all at the front, where the driver sat. It carried no one.
“Of course, the last time I could not see him at all,” Mycroft continued, “for the carriage was heading in the opposite direction. But this time, I saw a well-proportioned, mustached, bearded man, a hat drawn over his eyes so that it is a wonder he could see the road, his hands gloved when none of his ilk would steer a carriage with gloved hands…”
“But he did not even draw rein!” Douglas said, baffled. “How could you notice all that in the five seconds it took for him to very nearly put us under his wheels? I for one was too busy trying to remain upon my feet! And if he was bearded, he could not be either of the bodyguards you saw with Ai Lin, for you described them as clean-shaven.”
“I cannot know for sure,” Mycroft said. “But I believe the driver was Oriental. They are not known for their fulsome beards, therefore it was likely false.”
“So,” Douglas said. “You are saying the driver wore a disguise. He came alone in order to spy on us. When we spotted him, or perhaps on a whim, he came at us and set about to kill us.”
“I doubt that last,” Mycroft replied. “For, as you mentioned, he did not draw rein, yet he handily avoided us. No, he is a terribly efficient driver, quite skilled.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Douglas said. “Now I beg you, please do not tell me that we are once again to be beaten within an inch of our lives, as we were on the journey to Trinidad, without having the foggiest notion what sin we committed to provoke such treatment.”
Mycroft could not help himself: he laughed.
“And may I add,” Douglas said, “that before I met you, my days ma
y’ve been both joyous and difficult, and upon occasion even tragic—but I cannot say that mysteries made up any part of them.”
“Nor mine before you!” Mycroft declared.
“Yes, but to be fair, it was your star-crossed love that embroiled us in the last bit of bad business…”
“That I concede, but pray let us not speak of it now or in the near or far future. To my point: the driver drew as close as he could while avoiding harm to us. He wanted us to notice him, that was his intent.”
“And in that, he succeeded,” Douglas grumbled.
They heard the sound of rapidly approaching hoof beats and both turned in some alarm; only this time it was Huan at the reins of Mycroft’s carriage.
“Very sorry, Mr. Mycroft!” Huan called out as he halted near them. “There was much traffic!”
“Why would that be?” Mycroft asked as he and Douglas climbed in.
“Murder!” Huan announced. “Another body found not too far from here; I passed it when I come. People all over the street, gawking! Ah, but I forget this does not interest you!”
“On the contrary,” Mycroft Holmes declared, “I have become very interested indeed. Let us make our way there quickly!”
25
IT HAD TAKEN SHERLOCK UNTIL WELL PAST NOON TO TRAVEL from Baker Street to Mansion House. Sixteen stops that would have taken Charles less than two hours had taken twice that. But, carved on the back of his vielle were fifteen sets of Chinese symbols. At least, he imagined that Chinese was their pedigree, but he preferred to be certain rather than to speculate, especially with a clue as vital as this one.
He disembarked from the third-class carriage at Mansion House as grimy with soot as any common worker of coal. And he was gratified to see that, waiting there, were Alvey Ducasse, his big, ruddy face flushed even redder from excitement, and dark-haired, wolf-eyed Joe McPeel.
“’Twas as you said!” Alvey greeted Sherlock the moment the latter stepped foot off the train.
Sherlock hushed him while pulling both boys away from the other passengers.
“’Twas as you said…” Alvey repeated under his breath, his voice not much quieter for the effort. “A ginger lad waitin’ ’ere since ’alf past ten! Short an’ thick! Then this uvver boy, a big ’un, with skin like sausage innards and staring eyes, ’e come up an’ whispers somethin’ in ’is ear, an’ they both runs off! But not to worry, guv! Joe ’ere give chase—”
“Did they see you?” Sherlock asked, addressing Joe McPeel.
When Joe shook his head, Alvey answered for him: “McPeel, ’e used to be a right fair barker! No one sees ’im unless ’e wants to be seen!” he added proudly.
McPeel grinned. “They both run a goodly way. I seen ’em go into a den—”
“A den?” Sherlock asked. “Do you mean an opium den?”
McPeel nodded. “That’s right, guv. The one with the buggy eyes an’ poxy skin, ’e come out, but the ginger, ’e stays put. I runs back ’ere to tell you…”
“You did well, Mr. McPeel,” Sherlock said with enthusiasm. “How long ago was that?”
“Can’t say as I knows, guv. But five trains came through while we waited!”
“Good. You’d best lead us back to this den.”
McPeel’s ice-blue eyes lit up mischievously. “You best try to keep up!” he said, taking off up the stairs to the street, with Alvey and Sherlock right on his heels.
* * *
Limehouse was yet another slice of what was known in common parlance as “savage” London. Far removed from the niceties of Regent Street or the grandeur of Cumberland House, and convenient perhaps to read about from the comfort of one’s armchair, it was of a different grit and odor when blundering through its narrow, rutted streets.
The poor seemed to be not so much gathered under its eaves and upon its stoops as cast off like crumbs from a stale loaf. Even during this fetid gray day, when rain had already made its presence known and the air felt like an amble through coarse wet wool, being outdoors was preferable to whatever mean, soiled quarters could be found inside, where people lived, ate, slept and died twenty to a room.
To ward off the cold, children were burdened down with an array of castoff garments. These smallest residents of the East End looked like heaps of rags tramping about, or sitting at their parents’ feet as if stunned that this soggy, inscrutable day was much like the one before or the one before that, and that they still had such a long way to go before their own lives were used up.
Sherlock, keeping a steady pace with his newly minted spy, Joe McPeel, had hooked his short staff into his belt like a baton and had the shaving tools in the pocket of his jacket. And though the vielle was cumbersome, it was precious, as it held the finest key to this mystery so far.
Though he could not halt, he made good use of his eagle-sharp eyes and keen sense of smell as he hurried past the closed-in buildings, their crumbling brickwork patched with plaster, like dozens upon dozens of yellowed bandages pressed upon a fighter already beaten beyond recognition.
McPeel, for his part, seemed to notice nothing save the road before him. Even winded and in need of rest, he seemed to savor the run. He had removed his shoes a mile back without breaking stride, and for convenience’s sake had inserted each hand into the openings so that when his arms pumped, it appeared as if his feet were galloping in thin air.
“Beggin’ leave, guv, I ain’t used to ’em!” was his explanation to Sherlock, his small criticism leavened by a lopsided grin.
A pair of shoes is about as useful to a boy like that as a box of chocolates is to a cat, Sherlock thought.
Further behind them, and losing steam, was flame-haired Alvey Ducasse. Running did not appear to be second or even third nature. His ruddy forehead was beaded with sweat that trickled from underneath his flat cap. Once in a while he would muster up enough energy to swat at the bothersome trickle mere seconds before it fell into his eyes.
Nevertheless, the three kept at it until they reached the docks where the smell of mildew lingered in the air, along with the heavier aromas of raw meat and horse dung, courtesy of a butcher’s shop. Beside that was a horse stall with a few ancient nags, ready for lease. Every other shop was either a cheap lodging house, or sold gear for seafaring vessels and sailors, its dirty windows crowded with brass sextants, compasses, and chronometers.
The boys were very nearly at Shadwell Basin when McPeel finally halted and pointed.
Sherlock, who had read accounts of opium lairs with a skeptical eye, half expected the wretched hole of despair described in novels; but there was nothing remotely exotic about this lair of vice, at least from the outside. If anything, it seemed rather like a proper small business that had been constrained to make do in a less than salubrious neighborhood.
The two-story edifice was squeezed in between a former grocer’s and a small pub with the out-of-place name Hart & Hound, though it appeared to be closed.
The den of vice, on the other hand, seemed open to customers, judging by the many footprints in the mud that led to the door, and freshly gouged tracks of carriage wheels. Sherlock could not tell if the ruts had been made by two carriages that had come and gone, or by one that had made several trips back and forth—though he did note in passing that it was a private vehicle and not a cab, for the wheels were set further apart than the typical London hansom.
What seemed more interesting at the moment was that the establishment itself had only a discreet sign that read: THE WATER MONKEY.
Seated upon squat wooden stools on either side of the front door were two rotund Chinese women of middle age, dressed like field workers and staring straight ahead, paying the passersby no attention. Sherlock recalled from his readings that these guards of opium lairs were intent upon one thing only: to alert customers to the presence of the law in the area. The establishment might be legal, but some of the habitués less so, and would be most grateful for a tipoff and a head start.
But, although not the law, three British lads of uncertain
pedigree could not suddenly barge into an opium den without creating a small ruckus.
Sherlock ascertained that the boys were out of the women’s sightline, should they deign to turn their gaze on them. He gave Alvey his vielle and short staff, which Alvey received with awe, along with Sherlock’s jacket in exchange for Alvey’s own, which was as rough as the hair of a wild goat, along with Alvey’s sweat-soaked cap. He also borrowed Alvey’s shoes, workmanlike and slightly too large for his feet, which would better fit the impression he wished to make.
Newly attired, Sherlock bid the boys wait outside. He turned up his collar, pulled Alvey’s cap down over his eyes, and strutted past the guardians. As the women continued to stare straight ahead like two plaster lions, he pushed open the front door of The Water Monkey and walked inside.
26
THE FRONT ROOM OF THE DEN WAS AS ORDINARY AS THE outside. The windows had been covered over so that no natural light could enter. Three oil lamps swung from the ceiling, with two more on the wall, and all were turned down low.
There was another door besides the entryway, most likely opening onto a staircase to the upper floor. Sherlock saw a long wooden bar with the usual assortment of rum and whiskey to be found at any dockside pub. The only other furnishings consisted of three tables, with four chairs at each. Upon them sat a dozen Oriental men.
They were playing a game that utilized narrow, rectangular cards in colors of yellow, green, orange, and white. They were betting with what looked like small flat silver ingots that had been heated and marked with a mold. It seemed they had a substantial number of ingots, considering that most of the cards were still in the players’ hands. From what Sherlock could tell, of the four players at each table, three held a fan of twenty cards, while one held twenty-one. It took practice to hold a fan of cards that large. These were seasoned players.
Mycroft and Sherlock Page 13
