Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(21)
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.”