Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(64)

Tilly perched on the end of the bed. On other mornings, she would quickly run through the events of the previous night in the score of houses owned and controlled by Madam Kitten: the number of guests, the amount of food, drink, laudanum, and opium consumed, the most popular girls and boys—and, the all-important profit at the end of the night. Tilly would also report if the services of Mickey, or one of the twenty men under his command, had been called upon.

“Well, it cannot be too bad,” Katherine said, “at least you’ve not killed someone tonight.”

“Not tonight,” he rasped. “How did you know?”

“You’re still wearing your work clothes and boots. And there’s no blood on them. You’ve not washed your hands, and your knuckles are not bruised.”

The big man looked down at his hands and grinned. “Could have used a shillelagh,” he suggested. He carried a short length of iron-hard blackthorn tucked into his belt.

“You like using your hands, Mickey.” Katherine looked from Mickey to Tilly. “Problem with one of the girls . . . or guests?”

“No. All in all, a quiet night,” Tilly said, with just the hint of her Cockney upbringing audible under a flat Dublin accent.

“So, there is no problem, but there is a situation?” Katherine said.

“There’s been a robbery,” Mickey whispered.

Katherine’s lace nightdress slipped off one shoulder. “Were we robbed?” she asked quickly, a touch of disbelief in her voice.

Tilly and Mickey shook their heads.

“A client . . . a girl?”

“No,” Tilly said, a broad smile curling her lips. “No one would dare.”

“Enough with the teasing . . .”

“The Crown Jewels,” Mickey rasped. “Someone’s only gone and nicked the Irish Crown Jewels.”

Katherine started to smile at the thought, but then it faded as she worked through the ramifications. “Who did it? Anyone we know?”

Mickey shook his head. “I shook down everyone this morning. They all deny it and you know none of them would even think about lying to me. This is not a local crew. And none of the fences have been offered the stones.”

“This will be bad for business,” Katherine said slowly. “Very, very bad. The king was due to wear those jewels next month when he came over from London.”

“He’s already taken a personal interest in the case,” Mickey said. “My sources tell me that Scotland Yard is sending an Inspector Kane to investigate. He’s got a fearsome reputation.”

“The police will be after every fence and jewel thief in the city. Sooner or later one of them will mention me.”

“No secret that Madam Kitten likes her jewelry,” Tilly said, “and will pay a good price for them.”

Katherine sat back into the pillows and drew her knees up to her chest, then wrapped her arms around her shins and dropped her chin onto her kneecaps. In that moment, she looked at least a decade younger than her twenty-seven years. “You know I’ve often thought about snatching them,” she said softly. She glanced over at Mickey. “We looked into it a couple of years ago.”

“We did. Would have been a piece of piss, too.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tilly wondered.

“I have nicer pieces—certainly much more valuable pieces—although the thought of wearing the Crown Jewels of Ireland really appealed to me. But I knew that something like this would put us under a spotlight.” She smiled, and her entire face lit up. “And we do prefer the shadows.”

Mickey suddenly turned and padded silently across the room, then snatched the door open to reveal a startled-looking housemaid, with her hand raised to knock. She ignored the huge man and looked across to the woman in the bed. “Begging your pardon ma’am, but you’ve a visitor.”

Katherine and Tilly looked at one another. Visitors to the four-story house on Gloucester Street were strictly by appointment, and always under cover of darkness.

“He asked for Madam Kitten by name,” the housemaid said a little breathlessly.

“And did he give you a name in return?” Katherine asked.

The housemaid handed a card to Mickey, who carried it over to Katherine. She turned it over in her hands. “Unexceptional paper.” She brought it to her nose and breathed in. “No smell of tobacco or snuff and just a hint of carbolic soap. God, I hope it’s not one of the Legion of Mary again!” The staunchly Catholic organization had recently moved into the brothel-lined street and begun a campaign to save the fallen women. Katherine held the card up and tilted it to the light. “Dermot Corcoran, Esq.,” she read. “A rather conventional font on medium paper stock. Interesting: there is neither title nor address.” She turned it over. “Ah. Our visitor has added something in a neat copperplate hand. Insp. DMP.”

Mickey started. “Inspector, Dublin Metropolitan Police.”

“One of ours?” Katherine asked.

Tilly shook her head. “No one by that name on our payroll.”

Katherine looked at the maid. “And he asked for me by name?”

“He did, ma’am. I gave him all the usual excuses, but he simply stepped into the Morning Room and said he’d wait.”

“Did he come in a cab?” Mickey asked.