Just then, Mr. P. appeared, shushing himself as he entered, as if chastising his mouth for insubordination.
“Don’t mean to interrupt, but, Cyrus? Thought you’d be pleased that the customer what just left bought three cases of Glenlivet! And not just any Glenlivet! Mr. George Smith’s himself, may God rest his immortal soul!”
“Well played, Mr. P.,” Douglas said, though Mycroft could see that his attention was still fully on their conversation.
“Nice spoken,” Mr. P. went on, oblivious, “though he was Oriental! I helped put the spirits into ’is carriage, a fine landaulet of the most unusual hue! Bright yellow, it was!”
37
DOUGLAS GALLOPED OUT THE FRONT DOOR AND DOWN THE steps. Mycroft, reeling from the effects of the Punch Habana and lack of sleep, chose to remain and interrogate their only witness, though he was fairly certain it would come to naught, given that Mr. P. could hardly see past the length of his own arm.
Once Mr. P. had reiterated the catch-all word ‘Oriental,’ and clarified that the man had good manners, he had nothing to add but instead stared baffled at Mycroft, as if he could not imagine what more anyone could possibly require.
“Could you say how old he was, or how he was garbed?” Mycroft attempted.
“Oh, I can’t never judge age, you ask the missus if that in’t so, especially when they are not, well, like us, you see. Mrs. P., she believes she can tell,” he added, lowering his booming voice a notch. “Says the Chinamen always look younger. Or perhaps older.”
“Well? Did he look younger or older?”
Mr. P. shrugged. “I’d say younger than me and older than you!” he replied brightly.
Mycroft attempted to piece it together. A man associated with Deshi Hai Lin had come into Regent Tobaccos—that was no coincidence. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was a connection between Beeton and Madame de Matalin through Charles—Madame was the boys’ sponsor, and she “rescued” the brothers from Beeton. Further, there was a connection from de Matalin to William Angel, whoever he was. And there was yet another link between Deshi Hai Lin and Cainborn, though Mycroft was still in the dark as to what that could be.
And, given his brother’s expression when he’d laid eyes upon the dead body, Mycroft was nearly certain that there was a link between the latest copycat murder and Charles.
Moments later, Douglas re-entered, nearly as soaked as Mycroft had been. He had not even succeeded in getting a glimpse of the landaulet, for the heavy rain had created a curtain of water that impeded his view.
“Did this man come to cause mischief?” Mr. P. asked, noting Douglas’s distress. “Should I not have sold him the Glenlivet? He paid with good money!”
“No, Mr. P., you did your job to perfection,” Douglas replied. “But if he should come back at any point, whether I am here or not, you must get word to me immediately.”
“Did he leave a note or word for either of us?” Mycroft asked Mr. P.
“No, nothing like,” Mr. P. responded, puzzled.
“And how did he pay?” Mycroft asked.
“Sovereigns. Fine caliber gentleman, as I say!” Mr. P. added, a trifle defensively.
“May I see the coins?” Mycroft inquired.
Mr. P. looked to Douglas, who nodded approval. As he unlocked the strongbox, he muttered, “’Tis a working man’s nine-months wage,” in case anyone present was not cognizant of the price of a case of Glenlivet, multiplied by three.
“Just count out a dozen,” Mycroft said.
Mr. P. carefully did so and put them in Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft turned them over, then back again, comparing one to the next. “Australian,” he muttered.
“We are permitted to take Australian coin, are we not?” Mr.
P. interjected nervously, as if the law had perhaps altered from one moment to the next.
“Of course, Mr. P. Australia is part of the Empire, perfectly acceptable,” Douglas assured him. “They are counterfeit?” he asked Mycroft.
“No, no, quite sound,” Mycroft replied. “But they are unique, and rather rare. They happen to be from a mint that was established in Sydney in 1855… May I see the others?” he asked without looking up. Mr. P. dutifully counted out the remaining coins. “As I suspected, they are all of the same mint,” Mycroft declared upon examining the rest. “1857—and in that, quite special.”
“Why?” Douglas asked.
“That year, Australians got a bit… saucy. Have a look at the Queen’s head.”
“Ah. No black ribbon,” Douglas said. “It has been replaced by a sprig of… something.”
Mycroft nodded. “A sprig of banksia. Stunningly, no one noticed until last year when the design was unceremoniously revoked, the banksia removed, and the ribbon returned.”
“These with the banksia were taken out of circulation, then?” Douglas asked.
“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “However many could be found.”
“But they are still good?” Mr. P. fretted.
“Oh yes,” Mycroft murmured. “Quite good.”
“And what is a banksia?” Mr. P. asked.
“An Australian wildflower,” Mycroft responded, continuing to stare down at the face of the coin as if the answer to this mystery might be imbedded somewhere in its design.
“Not a pleasing name for a flower,” Mr. P. said, disapproving.
“No. It is meant to honor botanist Sir Joseph Banks,” Mycroft replied. “He collected the first specimens during Captain James Cook’s expedition in 1770. The question is, why?”
“Why what?” Mr. P. asked.
“Sorry,” Mycroft replied. “I have returned in my mind to the man who came to visit. He knew this to be your establishment, Douglas. Yet, if he wished to do us ill, he could have come into the back room and attempted it. Instead, he bought expensive whiskey and left Australian sovereigns of a very specific vintage, hoping you would discover… what, exactly?”
“No clue,” Douglas said, “for surely I do not have a reputation as a numismatist!”
“Nor do I!” Mr. P. chimed in. “For I do not even know what that is!”
“Someone who makes a study of coins,” Douglas explained.
“Strange…” Mycroft muttered, his focus still solidly on the coins.
“What now?” Douglas said.
“The dies they used in Sydney were of a slightly different makeup than those used at the newest mint in Melbourne.”
“Different how?” Douglas asked.
“All the coins minted in Sydney between 1855 and 1870 had a greater variation in color than the ones minted in Melbourne. In other words, the Melbourne coins, like those minted here in England, tend to be more uniform. But look at these,” Mycroft said, holding them out. “This one, versus this? Or this?”
He placed three coins in succession into Douglas’s hand, while Mr. P. put his head as close as he could manage without resting his nose upon them.
“Do you notice a difference in hue?” Mycroft asked.
“I am embarrassed to say I do not,” Douglas replied.
“Nor do I!” Mr. P. proclaimed.
“Because it is not there,” Mycroft murmured. “And yet should be.”
“You’re saying these sovereigns, though dated 1857, are more compatible with coins minted in the last two years?” Douglas asked, so as to clarify.
Mycroft nodded distractedly. “Remember when I mentioned that Deshi Hai Lin has a half interest in a ship, that he is a silent partner, but that Parfitt could not track it down?”
“Seeing as how you mentioned it not ten minutes ago?” Douglas parried. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“What happens when a ship runs aground?” Mycroft went on. “In terms of contracts and the like? I seem to recall that all legal matters, including passenger names, are removed from public view until owners and surviving passengers can be apprised of their losses, is that not so?”
“Often enough, yes,” Douglas replied. “As a courtesy. To preserve the privacy of those most a
ggrieved. But what made you think of the Royal Adelaide?”
“The coins. Australia. The Royal Adelaide had a route there, yes? And recently ran aground. Her links to proprietors and shipments were thus removed until interested parties could be fully apprised of their loss, which can account for Parfitt’s inability to glean information. I realize there are thousands of ships in our ports, but thankfully few have been shipwrecked in the last month, with loss of life and goods…”
“I am acquainted with the ship’s master,” Douglas said. “His name is William Hunter. We are familiar enough that, having a feasible reason to do so, he would provide me with the proprietor’s name.”
“Splendid. Kindly do so. And how quickly can ships travel from London to the Orient these days?” Mycroft asked.
“It depends upon the ship,” Douglas replied. “Sail-powered ships have a harder time of it. But steamships have become much faster. By the turn of the century, I am convinced they will make the run in under five days. But in the past year or so, by utilizing the Suez Canal, they can complete one leg in between twenty and thirty days…”
Suddenly Mycroft was no longer even fully cognizant of the coins in his hands. He was completely focused on Charles’s “once a month.”
Four ships, each possibly making a staggered run so that each month, one would be in port and ready to disembark her wares?
It made all the sense in the world.
38
AT PRECISELY 3:55 P.M., SHERLOCK STOOD OUTSIDE THE Water Monkey, trying to contain his excitement. The morning at the docks had not gone well, but he had to lay all of that aside and concentrate on what came next. His aim was to show himself as good a lad as Charles, maybe better, so that he could quickly assume the dead boy’s duties and responsibilities. He would have to be streetwise but personable, intelligent but not so much that he was likely to cause trouble, and just educated enough to do the work at hand without interfering with the higher-ups or making them suspicious.
Thankfully, he had managed to hold on to Alvey Ducasse’s jacket and shoes solely because he had persuaded Mycroft that he would return them personally, with his sincerest apologies. As for his torn shirt, he had hoped to retain it even while being fitted for another. But Mycroft’s tailor had deemed it irreparable and, with Mycroft’s blessing, had quickly tossed it into the nearest bin, which had also contained the remnants of the man’s lunch. Each time Sherlock had tried to retrieve it, he’d had to contend with Mycroft’s eagle eye, or with the tailor’s measuring tape snapping this way and that as he worked.
“He has grown longer in the past several months! Longer torso! Longer arms! Longer neck! But still impossibly thin!” the little tailor had lamented, his bald pate perspiring. “Perhaps he fills out as he grows older, eh?” he added.
“Perhaps,” Mycroft had replied, sounding dubious.
The tailor was calculating the final measurements for two brand-new shirts and a jacket, and Mycroft was selecting two ready-made shirts that would “have to serve” until the bespoke clothes were delivered, when Sherlock saw his opportunity.
Plunging his hand into the bin, he dug out the old shirt and stashed it down the back of his trousers before his brother turned around.
Later, in the carriage, he’d had to convince Mycroft that he could not smell the faint but persistent odor of pig’s trotters and potatoes.
The two rotund Chinese women still sat on their wooden stools on either side of the entryway, silently staring straight ahead. In full view of them—for this time he had been beckoned and was therefore legitimate—Sherlock stamped his feet, patted his arms, and blew on his fingers as if he were impatient and cold. For Basil, the character he was inhabiting, would not keep his emotions perfectly in check at a time like this; surely fear and exhilaration would surface!
Sherlock was also keen to discover whether the women had any purpose other than to alert patrons inside that the law might be about. As he continued to fidget, the one on the right turned and looked directly at him, her irises enlarging, like those of a hooded snake.
She blinked once, slowly; then again.
“Basil. You go in now,” she commanded with a forward sweep of her hand.
Then she turned and her gaze went blank again.
Inside, the bar still displayed its limited array of spirits, but the tables and the men playing cards were gone. The room was bare, and Sherlock was alone. He stood there, barely breathing. He could feel his short staff pressing against his ribs. He listened for sounds from the floor above but heard nothing at all. A gas lamp hissing on the wall was the only sign that, whatever else, he had been expected.
Two sets of footsteps came traipsing down the unseen stairs and he knew, before anyone was yet visible, that neither would be Juju, for he was too light and nimble to make such sounds. Whoever was coming to meet him was heavy and flat-footed, with a weakened right side. The stairwell door opened, and he had surmised correctly.
The first to step through was the redheaded lad known as Gin. Though Sherlock had never laid eyes on him, he was exactly as McPeel and Ducasse had described him. His thick thatch of hair grew low on his forehead, and his blue eyes were bright as a child’s.
On his heels was a pockmarked hulk with a bovine expression. From the descriptions that Sherlock had filed away, this had to be Beeton’s son, name as yet unknown.
Neither looked surprised to see him. Both assumed a wide-legged stance as if ready to do battle, though Gin was clearly the leader. They glared at Sherlock as a matter of course.
“Wot’s your business ’ere, boy?” Gin demanded.
“I was summoned,” Sherlock replied.
“By who?” Gin asked with a snarl.
Sherlock took a moment. He could not be seen as weak, but neither could he be thought too dominant, and therefore hard to manage.
“Called ’isself Juju,” Sherlock replied, swallowing.
Gin turned to the pockmarked boy. “You seen ’is mug before, Ned?” he asked.
“Never in me life,” Ned replied sourly. “Where you from, boy?”
“Old Pye,” Sherlock replied.
“Nicklas ’ouse,” Gin clarified, and Ned nodded.
“’Oo be your mates?” Ned asked, challenging.
“I got me lotsa mates,” Sherlock replied. “McPeel, Ducasse, Jackie Baldwin…”
“Never ’eard of ’em!” Gin said triumphantly.
“…Reg Carter, Billy Bishop, Miles Duchamp…” Sherlock went on, with boys whose names he had memorized for an entirely different purpose. He watched recognition flood Ned’s homely face as he reluctantly admitted that he knew two or three.
“Charlie was like a bruvver to me,” Sherlock concluded defiantly.
“But where do you ’ail from?” Ned demanded.
“Dover,” Sherlock replied without batting an eye—for he assumed they had never been more than a mile outside London proper and could therefore make no queries about it.
“Dover?” Ned repeated but then said nothing else. With Gin keeping an eye on Sherlock, he walked past and out through the front door.
As he did so, Sherlock confirmed what he had realized on the stairs: Ned’s right side was weaker than the left, from a lazy eye to a slight drooping of the mouth.
Just then, the front door opened again, and in walked Juju, followed by two of his henchmen, the roly-poly man who had referred to Sherlock as shòu-shòu, and the younger, moon-faced man who had been seated to Juju’s left at the card game.
So Roly-Poly and Moon Face were Juju’s steady companions! It explained why the carriage wheels had been overly weighted at the front. Moon Face had been driving, judging from the calluses on his fingers, while Roly-Poly sat next to him on the bench, leaving Juju inside with his victim.
Ned did not re-enter, and Gin quickly disappeared back up the stairs, closing the stairwell door behind him. Even so, Sherlock assumed both were standing at their respective posts, ready to assist if needed.
“It appears you overcame o
ur first hurdle,” Juju said, smiling benignly.
“And ’ow might that be, guv?” Sherlock said, smiling back, giving “Basil” a touch of bravado.
“Gin and Ned confirmed your residence at Nickolus House,” Juju said.
“Pleased to ’ear it,” Sherlock responded, for indeed he was.
“If we were to take you on,” Juju continued, “you and they would have no dealings unless I order it, is that understood?”
“Not to worry! There be nothin’ between me an’ them two!”
“Good. Now tell me, Basil. Did Charles describe the nature of the work to you?”
“In a manner of speakin’…”
“Explain what you know of it, then, for I am all ears.”
Sherlock was suddenly very thirsty. It felt as if every drop of moisture in his mouth had dissipated, and he wondered if he hadn’t walked into a trap. Should he mention the symbols and the quilted bag? If he said too little, that would not do at all. But so much as an extra word might prove deadly.
“He din’t, to tell the truth, guv,” Sherlock said. “But Charlie knowed me, and ’e knowed I’d take to it, as it be somethin’ I does regardless, if you catches my meanin’. He said I ’ad the correct con… con…”
“Constitution? Or perhaps construction?” Juju offered helpfully.
“Somethin’ like, guv!” Sherlock responded brightly.
“I see. But here is what puzzles me, Basil. The first is that Charles never mentioned you to me. Do you not think that highly unusual?”
With that, the two henchmen made a move for Sherlock, snatching him up by the arms. As they did so, his short staff clattered to the floor and rolled towards Juju’s feet.
Juju raised an eyebrow, leaned down and picked it up.
“Well, what have we here? You were not armed the last time we met.”
“Nossir, guv,” Sherlock said, swallowing hard. “Nor this time, neither, as I ’ad no bad intents with it, I swear!”
“Then why have it with you now, Basil?” Juju inquired. “And pray make it the truth. Or I will use this little staff of yours to splatter your brain matter all over this room. For we do not take kindly to liars and infiltrators in our midst.”
Mycroft and Sherlock Page 20
