“That is true, and we shall certainly present such a theory to Inspector Potter in due course,” Holmes replied laconically, and with less enthusiasm than I had hoped. “But does it not strike you as odd that Mr. McLachlan should choose to drag his elderly aunt across the city to kill her, rather than doing so in her own bedroom, even if he was so desperate to escape the shackles of his brother’s keeping that he could not wait a year or two for nature to take its inevitable course? And what motive do you assign him for implicating you in the murder? Is he perhaps a particularly dissatisfied patient?”
These were good questions. The first was of lesser significance, for had not Holmes and I many times found the plans of murderers to be convoluted and illogical? But I could conceive of no reason why any member of the McLachlan family should wish me harm, far less my disgrace and death. I had given the matter some thought while imprisoned, but had been unable to bring to mind a single occasion when our paths might have crossed.
“That said, he cannot be discounted altogether.” Holmes had obviously noted my disappointment, and was at pains to reassure me. “Even if he is not the killer, he might at least serve to distract Potter from his vendetta against you.”
Once more, what I had initially viewed as a breakthrough in the investigation seemed to be only a diversion, but I could not entirely convince myself that it meant nothing, and with that I would have to be satisfied for now. The next few days would, I hoped, see further and more concrete progress.
Chapter Fifteen
In fact, the next two days were wholly lacking in incident. Holmes set his legion of child helpers on the trail of the missing girl, and repeatedly took me over the events of that night, hoping to dislodge some new morsel from my tired mind, but with no success. Otherwise, we ate and drank, read, smoked and talked, just as we had always been wont to do. It was wonderfully relaxing, even if I could not always stop myself from worrying that the investigation had come to a halt.
On the morning of the third day, however, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway of our rooms, with a small, grubby figure largely hidden behind her skirts.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Holmes,” she announced disapprovingly, pulling the boy round by the collar and depositing him before us.
“Wiggins, come in,” said Holmes, beckoning the lad forward and shifting his long legs to one side so as to allow the heat of the fire to warm him. “You have news for me?” he asked eagerly.
“That I do, guv’nor,” agreed the little Arab, pulling himself up to his full height of, charitably, four foot ten. “The cove you’re lookin’ for? ’E’ll be at the rat fighting tonight behind O’Rourke’s pub.”
“Splendid!” Holmes cried, clapping his hands together in delight. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a shilling, which he flicked towards Wiggins, who expertly snatched it from the air.
“I can tell you where ’e is now, if that’d ’elp more?” he asked, glancing hopefully at Holmes’s waistcoat pocket.
“Somewhere in the depths of the worst part of London, I expect,” Holmes replied. “Not the sort of address I would care to investigate without half of the city’s constabulary behind me. No, Wiggins, your information regarding tonight’s activities is invaluable enough.”
He dismissed the boy, with a reminder to keep “the other matter” in mind, then reached for his pipe and settled himself comfortably in his chair. “We might as well take our ease for now, Watson, for we shall be doing nothing of note until this evening. Though if you would not mind sending a telegram to Lestrade, asking him to meet us at O’Rourke’s public house at ten o’clock, I would be obliged. Oh, and ask him to bring along Howie. We may need his strength.”
I needed to buy tobacco in any case – I had been smoking more than usual since my release, perhaps in reaction to the lack of nicotine in prison – so I shrugged on my jacket and headed out into the bright, cold street.
* * *
That night, Holmes and I approached O’Rourke’s public house disguised as labouring men. I admit I was not entirely comfortable in the efficacy of our subterfuge, for though Holmes looked every inch the rough costermonger, I felt sure I would be unmasked the second we encountered any of the genuine spectators.
I need not have worried. Nobody spared us a second glance, as we followed a thin stream of people along the side of the building, down a passageway enclosed on the other side by a high wooden fence. Once we had cleared the walls of the public house, the space opened up in a large area of waste ground. In the centre, a large group had gathered.
The crowd was arranged around a shallow dirt pit, lined with an assortment of warped wooden boards. To one side several wicker cages – too small for dogs – had been stacked two high; they moved slightly as I watched, though the night was still. My curiosity aroused, I edged my way round and peered inside, where something stirred in the shadows. Suddenly, the wire mesh at the front of the cage bulged as a large brown rat slammed itself against the metal. I stumbled backwards in fright and stepped on a loose stone. My ankle turned on the rock and I fell to the filthy ground, grateful for the first time that I was disguised and unrecognisable.
“Fir Gawd’s sake, if ye can’t handle yer drink, Bill, then don’t take none in the first place!”
A hand reached down and, grabbing the front of my jacket, pulled me to my feet. “It would be better, Watson, if you were to avoid drawing attention to yourself,” Holmes hissed in my ear, then led me by the elbow across to the dirt pit.
The event was obviously about to begin, for the crowd pressed tight around us, forcing us to the very edge of the pit. While we waited, I examined the people around me. To my surprise, they were not the homogenous criminal mob I had expected, but instead represented a wide spectrum of London life. Surly costermongers in patched trousers rubbed shoulders with top-hatted gentlemen, shoeless children darted among small groups of professional men, dipping a silk handkerchief where they could, while the worst type of drunken drab glared with a mixture of contempt and envy at the occasional society lady who hung off the arm of her escort and congratulated herself on her terrible daring.
I was reminded of the fairs and circuses of my youth, though in corrupted form, a similarity only strengthened by a voice reminiscent of a ringmaster, which rang out across the yard from a position somewhere behind us. I turned to see who had issued this call for silence, but I need not have troubled myself as the crowd parted in front of a dark-skinned individual in a grease-stained jacket and grubby collarless shirt. He stepped over the wooden palisade that ringed the pit and moved to its centre.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s entertainment,” he shouted, waving a hand in the direction of two particularly disreputable-looking spectators. They pushed themselves away from the fence on which they had been leaning, and disappeared behind an outhouse. When they reappeared each was leading a dog on a length of rope.
The first dog was a grey-coated terrier, small and wiry in build, but with an inquisitive nature, which it demonstrated by sniffing at every person it passed and tugging eagerly on the rope. The other was a different sort of animal entirely. Jet black, with a single black eye through which it glared malevolently, it was of the bulldog breed, stocky and squat, with powerful jaws.
As they approached the pit, the crowd gave a cheer, and I took the opportunity to protest to Holmes.
“I must say, Holmes, I did not expect to be released from prison merely to spend my evenings watching dumb animals fight to the death. Should we not move around the crowd until we find our missing tramp, and then speak to him directly?”
Holmes tutted and shook his head. “Patience, Watson,” he chided. “I have already identified our man. He is one of a group of similar unfortunates, cavorting with several women of dubious morality on the other side of the pit.”
I looked across, but one group of drunken men appears identical to the next, and so I simply accepted that Holmes was correct. That being the case, our next step was obvious.
&nb
sp; “Can we not speak to him now, then?”
“That would prove difficult. We are, as you can see, hemmed in by the crowd on this side, and our quarry is similarly held in place on the other. We shall have to wait until a gap between bouts before any confrontation can take place.”
He had a point. I could barely move due to the crush of bodies around us, and as the little terrier was released into the pit, the spectators behind us pushed forward to see more clearly, further compacting us into the mob. There was no way for now that we could approach the tramp.
We did at least have an excellent view of the “sport” on offer, though in my opinion that was a distinctly mixed blessing. The terrier had been dropped into the sunken arena and had taken up a position in the exact centre, where it now stood, its head snapping back and forward as it waited for its prey to be released.
The little animal did not have long to wait. With a flourish, the “ringmaster” reached into one of the cages that I had examined earlier and pulled out a large brown rat, which he swiftly flicked into the pit alongside the dog. For a moment, the two animals eyed each other, then the rat (which was almost as large as the dog) rushed forward. The terrier sprang nimbly to one side in plenty of time, causing the rat to charge past and crash into a section of the wooden barrier. Again and again the terrier carried out the same manoeuvre, until the rat began to slow down under the weight of exhaustion and repeated self-inflicted blows. Suddenly, the terrier darted forward and, before the rat could react, grabbed it by the throat and began to worry it back and forth in its jaws. No more than five seconds elapsed before the little dog released its prey, now quite dead.
The same sequence of events was repeated half a dozen times, to a melody composed in equal parts of triumph and defeat from the gambling fraternity around us, before the dog was removed from the ring and the black bulldog deposited in its stead.
In the commotion that accompanied this change, Holmes tugged at my jacket and we pushed our way through the crowd, Holmes in character cursing loudly at anyone who stood in his way while I followed in his wake. We had travelled about a third of the way to our target when the “ringmaster” called again for silence and released the first rat. Unable to progress any further, we stopped and watched as the stocky bulldog, forbearing the trickery of the far nimbler terrier, simply allowed the rat to attack then, as soon as it came within range, snapped its massive jaws on the rodent’s head, cracking it like an egg.
“Too easy?” roared the ringmaster. “Let’s make it more exciting, shall we?” With that, he threw first one, then several more, handfuls of rats into the ring. A roar went up from the mob, who again surged forward, pressing so closely together in their excitement as to leave small gaps behind them, into which Holmes and I gratefully slipped.
We had closed to within ten feet of the tramp when he chanced to look directly at us pushing against the crowd and, alerted by some sixth sense, turned and dived among his nearest neighbours.
“He’s making a run for it!” I shouted to Holmes, but he had already spotted the movement. With a mighty heave, he pushed aside everyone who stood before him and emerged from the back of the crowd only a few feet from our quarry. I extracted myself a few moments later, just in time to see Holmes grab and miss the tramp’s collar. The miss caused him to overbalance and he slipped to one knee in the mud. He immediately righted himself, but the delay had allowed the tramp to stretch the gap between them to fifteen feet and as Holmes started off in pursuit again, he had only a short distance before he would be out of sight round the corner and free to hide himself in the surrounding rookeries. I quickened my pace, but a small group of spectators, losing interest in the sport on offer, crossed my path at the most inopportune moment and he was hidden from view until they passed.
As the crowd before me dispersed, I could see that Holmes would fail to lay hands on his quarry and I was quietly cursing our miserable luck when Constable Howie stepped into the tramp’s path and, with one quick blow, sent him sprawling on his back. Directly behind, Inspector Lestrade came running up and stopped, panting slightly, above the recumbent and groaning figure on the ground.
“Up you get, you,” he said as I reached the spot a step behind Holmes. Howie grabbed the tramp by the collar and heaved him to his feet. He was a little unsteady, which was to be expected, but I wondered if his senses had been addled by the blow, as he swayed from side to side and grinned at us like a fool.
“Martin Chilton-Smith, at your service, your honours,” he said with a bow, having first taken an unsteady look at each of us. “Once of the respectable classes, now brought low through drink and low living. Although you now have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?”
“Inspector Lestrade. And this gentleman is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
The effect was astonishing. Previously the little vagrant had been shuffling from foot to foot and grinning drunkenly, but as soon as Holmes’s name was spoken he stopped in his tracks and soberly extended a hand.
“I’d be honoured to provide any service I can to the famous Sherlock Holmes,” said he, ingratiatingly, but I could see Holmes was not fooled.
He stared at the tramp until he dropped his hand, unshaken. “You have already been of considerable disservice to me, Chilton-Smith,” he said coldly. “A disservice which, should it lead to any harm befalling my friend, will prove to be the worst day’s work you have done in your miserable life.”
Holmes had never explained in any detail why he was so interested in the disreputable figure who stood before us, but it was now clear that he believed him somehow to be involved in the plot which had led me to my current precarious position. The specific role he had played came as a surprise, however.
“You are the reporter who scribbled the scurrilous lies about my friend here, are you not?” he said, and Chilton-Smith visibly paled even through the filth ingrained on his face.
“What…?” he said, all the foolishness knocked out of him. “What?” he said again, then, in an entirely more cultured voice, “How the devil did you know I was a reporter?”
Rather than reply directly, Holmes suddenly grabbed the tramp by the collar and turned him round where he stood. As the little man struggled in his grip, he reached down and pulled his right ankle upwards, exposing the well-shod sole of his shoe.
“In my experience a man may coat his face in grime, rip his clothes and put up with the most horrific stench if he feels a disguise is necessary, but invariably that same man will baulk at wearing shoes with soles which let in water. Earlier, I was able to examine the ground where you and your two companions loitered the night Watson was falsely accused of murder. Two of the boot prints I discovered were as expected, holed and tattered and leaking scraps of cardboard where poor-quality patching had come to naught, but the smallest boots showed soles without a blemish. No genuine vagrant could ever afford such footwear.
“Additionally, while on the surface your jacket is as soiled as one would expect, the gin you have so carefully spilled on the arm and collar is an expensive one.
“Finally, I have always known that a newspaperman must have been in the vicinity at the time. I was able to quash all reporting of Watson’s arrest, and yet one report did appear, complete with details which could only have been known to someone with firsthand knowledge of events. The article was unattributed, but I’d happily wager that had there been, the name Martin Chilton-Smith would have appeared beside the text.”
“Enough, enough,” the little man said, waving one hand at Holmes. “So I wrote a piece on an arrest I happened to see. Is that a crime?”
“Not exactly a crime, but definitely unwise, I’d say,” Lestrade piped up. “It places you in the vicinity of a brutal murder, for one thing.”
“Now, wait a minute…” Chilton-Smith protested. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I had anything to do with it. I was just there and saw what happened. I never set foot in the house before the constable asked for my assistance, I swear.”
“You saw
what happened?” Holmes’s voice betrayed no eagerness, but I could tell from the way he leaned forward slightly as he spoke that he believed the reporter had information which would be of assistance to him. “Describe it to us, if you please.”
“Well, there’s not that much to tell. I’ve been working this area for a month or so, as background for a series of articles on the wicked failure of the government to do anything to help the London poor. It’s a decade since Booth created his maps, but still the lords and ladies who run the country spend more time setting their police dogs on the working man than—”
“Get to the point!” Lestrade interrupted angrily. “We’ve no interest in your socialist claptrap here. Just tell us what you saw.”
Chilton-Smith frowned, and seemed about to protest, but a glance at Holmes’s cold expression caused him to think better of it. With a cough, he went on in a quieter tone.
“Well, I was standing on the corner, chatting to a couple of unemployed men whose acquaintance I’d made, when I saw the constable here break into a run and disappear into one of the houses on the street, the one next to the scaffolding—”
This time it was Holmes who interrupted. “Earlier than that, if you would, Mr. Chilton-Smith. Tell us what you saw from the moment you took up position at the end of the street.”
“Earlier?” the reporter repeated, confusion obvious on his face. “Well, I saw the constable, for one thing. He slowed down and made sure we saw him as he passed on the other side of the road. That’s what I mean about the police harassing… but never mind that,” he trailed off, as Lestrade grunted in warning. “Like I said, the constable passed by on the other side and began to walk down the street. He was about halfway down when something caught his attention and he ran into the house. I reckoned there was something going on that I might be interested in, so my friends and I strolled after him, wanting to see what was occurring, if you see what I mean.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 12
