Oh, for mercy’s sake. Holly.
Holly and what? Robin? Thrush?
Throstle. The taproom was called the Holly & Throstle.
I erased any person named Ollie from my mind and concentrated instead on locating the Buster person who supposedly lived there. It would cause a scene of consternation if I, an upper-class female, were to set foot in the doss-house or the taproom, but after consideration I went across the street and entered the dolly-shop, a dim little den piled high with battered tinware—everything from tumblers to an enormous spidery bronchitis kettle—a wooden laundry rack hung with tea balls and glass trinkets, and assorted earthenware bowls, bent forks, balls of string, all kinds of oddments. The proprietor was an oddment as well, a stunted, hollow-chested man wearing a red fez and matching smoking jacket, both quite mangy, with black astrakhan trim. He peered at me without smile or greeting when I came in, much as if he had been just about to close for the day, but I knew how to make him amiable. I seized at once upon a pudding mould and brightly asked, “How much is this? And do you have any fish tongs?” Eagerly browsing his motley wares, I accepted every price he named, and as my purchases accrued, so did his willingness to answer my questions: What sort of neighbors lived across the way, were there many beggars because of the doss-house, was the taproom noisy? Who owned it, someone named Buster?
He laughed in an odd way. “Oh, there’s a buster in it all right, but ’e don’t own nothin’ in a proper sense. A regular sneak and crib-cracker ’e is.”
“Really.” So Buster was not a name; “buster” was an occupation, that of burglar. “How would I find him?”
His eyebrows shot up so that they nearly knocked his fez off his head. “Whatever for, lydy?”
“I believe he has something I want back.”
With real concern on his rickety face he expostulated, “Lydy, yer don’t want ter tangle wit Black Billy! ’E don’t—”
“Black Billy?” I interrupted in quest of a physical description. “Why is he called that? Black hair?”
“Bald ’ead and a black ’eart! ’E’ll spit in yer face soon as talk wit’ you, big bully of a crimpin’ prig—”
“A tall man?” I interrupted again, having no idea what a crimping prig was.
“Tall? ’E’s a giant! ’E’ll break yer in half! But ye won’t see ’im in daylight. ’E comes out by night.” Then, with the haste and decision of one who feels he has talked too much, “Will there be anythin’ else, lydy?”
As there was nothing more to be got out of him, I paid for my purchases, bundled them into a string bag (everything packed nicely within the pudding mould!) and departed both the dolly-shop and the vicinity of the Holly & Throstle. Already the lamps were being lit, and I needed to find a change of clothes before I could put my plan into action. My skirt was dark enough, but my blouse was unfortunately white, and although I wore a shawl, I could not entirely cover it. However, under the eaves of someone’s hovel a couple of streets away, I spied a big, shabby black jacket on a washing line, and I appropriated it, leaving my entire string-bag of tinware in exchange. I also left my hat, putting my shawl over my head instead. Feeling only slightly guilty, I made my way back to the Holly & Throstle, approaching from the rear to slink into the narrow, dark passageway between the taproom and the doss-house. And there, in the shadows where I could watch all who came and went, I waited.
I knew I would have to wait for hours and hours. So at first, while there were many folk still on the street, I made myself approximately comfortable on the ground with my shoulders against one building and my knees against the other, and I ordered myself to rest. In this cramped way I dozed, but as soon as the children had come to lead their drunken fathers home from the taproom and the night became more silent, I gladly extricated myself and stood up to watch and listen.
Now and then a midden-picker passed, or some night-soil men, all trudging in the same direction: toward the city where their betters lived, to take away their stinking waste while they slept. But I was waiting for someone who wanted to take something else from the rich, and the wait was long. There was no obliging clock nearby to strike the hours, but I am sure it must have been well past midnight when finally I heard a door open and close, then footsteps. Past me strode a good-sized man with a dark lantern in one hand—I could smell hot metal—and a firm grip on the arm of a very thin boy with the other. In that ill-lit street, the man was merely a looming shadow to me, but some stray streetlight beam showed me a gleam of white piping up the sides of the child’s trousers. Indeed, as I had thought and hoped, it was Paddy, still wearing his boy-in-buttons uniform minus the buttons. His tousled head was bare—someone had stolen his absurd little cake of a hat—but the man wore a shapeless cap.
Once “buster” and Paddy were safely past, I slipped out of my hiding place and followed them—not the simplest thing to do, as I had to keep a safe distance yet not lose them in the dark. Luckily, I’d had much practice sneaking around London at night. Also luckily, Paddy made considerable noise: as he was being hauled along more than led, his feet scraped as he scrambled to keep up, and he started to whimper.
The big brute who had him growled, “Hush yer yammering or I’ll make yer dead instead o’ makin yer my snakeman.”
Not nakeman. Snakeman.
Snakeman? What on earth?
Black Billy gave Paddy a shake. “Stop yer whinging,” he warned with so much menace in his low voice that it chilled me, and silenced Paddy at once. He remained mute as his captor led him into the city and up the broad avenues of a wealthy neighborhood, where houses like so many mansions sat much, much closer together than mansions should. Still trailing behind them, I kept my distance until the “buster” ducked between two of the tall and stately homes, but then I ran on tiptoe to catch up, venturing quite close to them in the utter darkness between buildings, mouth open to silence my breathing so that I could hear theirs. And I could hear small sounds of movement, and smell the dark lantern.
There was a faint metallic sound as Black Billy set it down, and I flattened myself against the wall. He slid the lantern open on one side only, and there he stood, luckily with his back to me, not ten feet away. And there beside him stood poor, trembling Paddy in front of a beveled-glass window behind ornate iron bars.
Black Billy picked him up by the waist and set his feet on the windowsill. Paddy grabbed the bars and started to writhe his thin, thin body between them.
Like a snake. No wonder they had cut off his buttons; they would have made a tremendous racket on the cast iron.
His appointed task, I surmised, was to slither through the bars, open the window, and then slip into the house and unlock a door, from the inside, for Black Billy.
Almost before I finished thinking this, I moved with great velocity to do five things nearly simultaneously:
I threw my shawl over Black Billy’s ugly head, blanketing him to his waist, and gave him a hard shove to send him staggering.
I said, “Paddy, it’s Enola,” and took hold of the poor boy, pulling him out of the window.
With a clatter, I kicked the lantern over to create total darkness.
I whistled fit to summon a constable.
And (thing number five), tucking Paddy under one arm and hoisting my skirt with the other hand, I ran.
Out the way we had come in and then down the street I sprinted. I am a splendid runner, if I do say so myself, and I love doing it. Once I was certain we had left Black Billy well and truly behind, I found myself laughing with glee.
* * *
Once I finally stopped running, I paused for breath and set Paddy on his feet. “Miss Meshle, um, Jacobson, um, ’Olmes!” he bleated.
“Yes. Let us get you home.”
“Miss Meshe, um, Jacobson, um, ’Olmes!”
I questioned him, trying to ascertain whether he was hurt or hungry or both, but he seemed incapable of any more sensible utterance. So I offered my hand, but he latched onto my skirt, and we walked off at a hampered pace. S
ilent and stoic, Paddy dragged his feet, so evidently done in that I picked him up again and carried him in my arms; he laid his head on my shoulder and slept.
This slowed me down considerably, so that by the time we reached Aldgate Pump it was already dawn, and folk were up and about. Feeling a bit done in, I set Paddy on the kerb, laboured to pump the great handle, then bent to wash my face and hands in the resultant gush of water. After a moment, Paddy got up and did the same. Then, still mute, as if tugged by a kind of inward gravitational force, he trudged toward his home.
I tarried a little to make various purchases from hucksters heading for market, so I missed seeing the reunion of mother and child. When I reached the tenement room, I found Paddy and Joddy and their mother and the other children all in a single tearful embrace, so that I slipped in unnoticed with my arms full of bread and pears and meat pies and the like, leaving them on the bare table and turning to go before anyone noticed.
But Joddy saw. “Miss Meshle!” he yelped, ricocheting toward me.
“Miss Enola Holmes,” I corrected gently, standing very erect and proper to keep him from embarrassing himself by embracing me. “Joddy, I see you still have a dreadful cold. You and Paddy must both take time off until I can have a new uniform made up. But I have not yet paid either of you.” I pressed a generous sum of money into his hands, then at once took my leave.
Perhaps an hour later, safe in my much superior lodging, I sank gratefully into my comfortable bed, feeling quite entitled to miss my classes for the day. But I could not immediately sleep, for my mind was busy with thoughts of Paddy … Joddy and Paddy … purchase two new uniforms, hire them both … raise their pay to feed the family … see to it that they got some education …
Also by Nancy Springer
The Enola Holmes Mysteries:
The Case of the Missing Marquess
The Case of the Left-Handed Lady
The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan
The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline
The Case of the Disappearing Duchess
Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche
About the Author
NANCY SPRINGER is the author of the nationally bestselling Enola Holmes novels as well as more than fifty other books for children and adults. She has won many awards, including two Edgar Awards, and has been published in numerous countries. She lives in Florida. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Also by Nancy Springer
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Inspired by characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, with special thanks to the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd.
www.conandoyleestate.com
ENOLA HOLMES AND THE BOY IN BUTTONS. Copyright © 2021 by Nancy Springer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-83890-2 (ebook)
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover art: London © Getty; silhouette © KateChe/Shutterstock
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First Edition: 2021
eISBN 9781250838902
Enola Holmes and the Boy in Buttons Page 2