“That is the last thing I would want!” My voice was shrill.
“Henry, surely you must know that I would not actually suggest...”
“Forgive me. Yes, I do know that. My nerves are...”
“Well, let us go—the infernal regions await us.” Sherlock turned down an alley.
Within a few yards, the rainy stinking darkness swallowed us up. The black walls rose on either side, only a window or two showing a flicker of light from within. The odor was a dreadful blend: human excrement, a rancid fatty smell, wood and coal smoke, something faintly rotten. I was glad I could not see what I was stepping in. These tenements had no plumbing; the refuse of the people packed into the dark cold rooms ended up in this foul alley. The frigid rain made a constant, gentle murmur.
“What a stench,” I said.
“You should try a visit in the summer. This is nothing.”
“What is it? It seems more than...”
“There is a rendering plant not half a mile from here, and next to it, a slaughterhouse.”
We came out of the narrow alley and turned onto a wider cobblestone street. Here and there a streetlamp cast a feeble halo of rainy light. The buildings were mostly brick, the windows smashed out or boarded up. A group of men huddled about near a lamp, and a few pedestrians, all men in groups of two or more, walked the streets. Somewhere above us I heard a woman wailing.
“This is better than that alley,” I murmured.
Sherlock’s beaked, blackened visage was grotesque in the dim light. “We were safer in the darkness there.”
The air was so damp that the rain seemed to come from every direction, to swirl from the side, to even fall upwards. My face was wet and very cold. I kept my hands in my pockets, my arms pressed to my side. The rain had penetrated the toes of my pathetic boots, and my stockings felt soggy.
Sherlock crossed the street to avoid passing too near any group of men; hence our path zigzagged back and forth. After about five minutes, I saw before us a particularly vile-looking man, much taller than his companions, a dilapidated top hat augmenting his height. His nose was bulbous, a mass of scar tissue covered his right cheek, and his complexion was sallow under the streetlight. I could imagine butter, rather than fat, filling that bloated, fleshy neck.
I turned away from that visage and was relieved (prematurely) when we had left behind us the man and his companions—four short, black, beetle-like creatures.
“’Ey, you two ugly crows! Come back ’ere!”
Something icy slithered up my spine, the muscles in my groin tightening.
“I mean you two stinkin’ turds! Come ’ere—now.”
“Damnation,” Sherlock muttered. With a sigh, he gazed up at the solid brick facade of a building, and then walked over to it. “Keep your back to the wall,” he whispered. “And do not use the revolver until I tell you to.”
I watched the big man and his four compatriots approach us. He had a horrible smile on his face. With them was a mangy little black dog. “I told you nice-like to come ’ere, didn’t I?” His malice was gleeful.
Sherlock’s mouth twitched, his eyes widening. “You stinkin’ lousy swine—you dirty fat pig—I’ll cut open yer stinkin’ rotten guts and feed ’em to yer dog, I will! By God, I will!” As he screamed these words, he withdrew an evil-looking knife, the blade over six inches long, and a leather-covered club.
The dog whimpered and retreated. The big man’s smile had vanished, and his companions backed away. “’Ere now, mate. I...”
“Don’t mate me!” Holmes yelled. “You want trouble—you can have it! Step closer and I’ll cut the fat off you—I’ll slice you wide open!”
I stared in horror at Holmes. His eyes were those of a madman, his face totally contorted with rage.
The big man took a step back. He had pulled a cosh from his own pocket, but it seemed more a defensive reflex that a threat. “Easy now, mate.”
“Call me mate again, and I’ll cut out yer liver and feed it to the rats.”
The big man smiled, his fear obvious. “Easy now.” He realized his friends had deserted him. “I’ll just be off.”
“Yer damn right you will! Get away, all of you—get away from me!” The other men and the dog fled, and their chief walked as rapidly as his massive bulk allowed. “Stinkin’ pig! Come back ’ere if you want trouble! I’ll make stinkin’ bacon strips of you!” Sherlock stepped forward.
“For God’s sake.” I seized his arm, convinced he was going after them.
He brusquely shook me off, and then turned, a playful smile pulling at his lips. His eyes, however, did not appear quite normal. “Rather convincing, I trust?”
“Good Lord, yes!”
“Hurry, before they change their minds.” He pocketed his weapons and strode away.
My hands were still trembling. “Truly, I thought you had gone mad.”
“Excellent. That was the impression I wanted. Even a base ruffian fears a true lunatic, especially one with a knife. There is no predicting what such a man will do.”
The rain had let up, but the foggy mist still soaked us. A breeze assailed my nose with some fatty rancid odor, and I thought of the rendering plant and slaughterhouse.
“Is it much further?” I could not keep the desperation from my voice.
“We are nearly there, and you have done quite well.”
Holmes turned right at another alley. The walls were only ten feet apart, and the stench of excrement returned. I remembered Sherlock’s open-toed boot and shuddered. My feet were damp, but at least that could not get inside. High above us was a forlorn strip of grayish-red sky—even it appeared unclean—and ahead to our left a gas fixture hung from a bracket on the brick wall. The light shone on a sign for the Sporting Tavern.
Sherlock stopped to hand me the cosh and knife. “You may want to wave these about. Remember to appear truculent. Ratty knows me too well for me to play the lunatic with him.”
I shook my head. “He comes to a place like this for amusement?”
“Yes. A former denizen of Underton, he still has a sentimental fondness for the old neighborhood.”
Holmes opened the sturdy oaken door and went inside. The air was warm and so thick with smoke that one could have saved one’s own tobacco and simply inhaled deeply. The din was dreadful: loud talk, laughter, drunken singing, glasses being slammed down on tables, chairs scraped across the floor. The men were a rough lot, most wearing worn gray or black coats, bowlers or cloth caps. Sherlock had certainly dressed us appropriately; no one paid us any attention.
“Would you prefer...?” A curse drowned out his words, and he leaned closer and shouted, “Gin or beer—which would you prefer?”
“Neither.”
“I shall get you something for appearance’s sake. You need not drink it.” Sherlock clapped a coin on the counter. “Two pints of stout.” Behind the bar on the wall were photographs of several pugilists, many with faces as battered as the bartender’s. “Ratty will be upstairs,” Holmes said, handing me my glass.
We managed to cross the packed floor without spilling too much of our beer, then went up the rickety stairway to a big open room. At its center, a gas fixture with several branches and lamps hung from the ceiling illuminating the circus. The round wooden circus was painted white, its diameter about ten feet, its sides about three feet high. Men were crowded about, most of them talking, many holding small dogs. Several of the dogs barked or yapped, their voices generally high-pitched. To one side was a raised platform where several worthies sat. Two of them were so striking I knew at once who they must be.
“Ratty and Moley,” I murmured.
“Yes.” Sherlock weaved through the crowd toward them.
I brushed against a man; his dog—a nearly hairless white-and-black creature—gave a bark and snapped at my arm. “Watch yerself!” snarled his owner, equally vicious.
Holmes bent closer. “Stay as far from the dogs as you can. Most of them know what is to come, and they have worked thems
elves into a frenzy.”
Sherlock stepped up onto the platform. Another former pugilist—this one in a dark suit of a respectable cut and fabric—stood.
Ratty seized the man’s wrist. “Leave him be. They are friends.” He rose and extended a hand, the smile on his face turning my already queasy stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are looking well, but I can’t say much for your tailor.”
Holmes shook his hand. “Good evening, Ratty.” He nodded at the man behind Ratty who slowly stood, rising higher, ever higher.
Their nicknames were appropriate, although Moley was a monster mole, one closer in size to an elephant. He was as tall as Donald Wheelwright but terribly fat. He must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds, perhaps over four hundred. His face was oddly diminutive, and the thick lenses of his spectacles shrank his eyes, making them appear tiny. His head was quite bald, the curved pate narrower by far than his massive neck. He wore the only black frock coat in the room, one that must have taken yards of worsted.
Ratty was only slightly over five feet tall. The outspread ears, the pronounced overbite, the thin face with its pointed chin, and above all, the small, malevolent eyes did create the impression of a large rodent. He wore a brown tweed suit and a black bowler. Brownish-gray curls fluffed out from under the brim, vainly attempting to conceal his enormous ears. His companions, except for Moley, also wore dark suits and bowlers; but none had so fine a suit, or a hat so spotless, the nap so new.
Ratty gestured at the wooden chairs. “Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. And who is your friend here?”
“This is Herr Heinrich Verniger, originally of Berlin. He is a talented man with a knife or cosh. I brought him along as a precaution.”
Ratty squinted at me, a smile baring his slender, sharp teeth. “Have a seat, Mr. Vinegar.”
For a native of Underton, Ratty’s diction was fairly good—he must have had some coaching from a teacher of elocution—but the German “Verniger” was too much for him.
We sat in the front row, the place of honor, surrounded by Ratty’s gang. Holmes was next to Ratty, and beyond loomed Moley’s massive bulk, his bald head rising above all else like the dome of a church.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it has been a while. It is good to see you under more pleasurable circumstances.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes. My note suggested the reason for my visit. I wished to discuss any unusual activities you may have noticed.”
“That’s why I’m only too happy to see you. I was hoping you could tell me what’s what. Someone’s out there, Mr. Holmes. Someone’s stirring up things and causing trouble, especially with the whores. My peers...” He seemed to relish the irony of this word so much that he repeated it. “My peers and I generally get along, and we have our ways of knowing what each other is up to, but some new bloke has entered the game, some sly devil. Can you tell me who he is?”
Holmes shook his head brusquely. “No. Unfortunately I cannot.”
Ratty leered. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Do you know about the girl connected with Lord Harrington’s death?”
“Of course. Stupid little baggage. Auntie Carlson was the brains behind that—or the front for the brains, anyway.”
“Does Auntie Carlson have a large and intimidating presence?”
“She surely does. She’s the one what was living with her two ‘nieces.’”
“And do you know what has become of her?”
Ratty gave a sharp laugh, inhaling through his nose as he did so. “Now that is the interesting part. In general, if I want to find someone—especially someone as obvious as Auntie Carlson—I can. But she’s vanished.”
“Have you also heard of the theft of George Herbert’s diamond necklace?”
Ratty nodded. “Same kind of business. The housekeeper’s also vanished, but the necklace itself is for sale. The dealer is hoping to find someone who will buy it as is. It’d be a shame to cut up such a beauty. Must be some swell willing to keep it locked up, secret like, only take it out once in a while to admire. Maybe put it and little else on his doxie.” He laughed again, and I had the irrational, suicidal urge to strike him. “I tried to find the housekeeper. Thieving is a dangerous occupation, not fit for an old woman. She could fall prey to all sorts of villains with such a trinket. I could offer her my protection.” Again he relished the irony of a word. “I’d’ve given her a fair cut, but someone beat me to it.”
“How do you know that?”
“How else would it’ve got to a dealer so fast? Many servants steal things, then realize they don’t know how to dispose of the merchandise. They’re shocked when they find they can get back only a fraction of the value. This old lady was with the Herberts twenty years or so. Where’s she going to make the contacts to unload a hot necklace? She’s not, but it was up for sale two days later. Some clever bloke planned the whole thing. A nice bit of business that—very professionally done. No breaking and ent’ring, no stupid cracksmen having at the safe. From what I hear, if it wasn’t for you, Herbert wouldn’t even know the necklace was gone.”
“That is so.” Sherlock’s voice revealed his pride.
“You and me, Mr. Holmes, we know better than to leave valuables lying about the house. I keep my money and any special goods in the bank.”
The crowd of men began to cheer, while the dogs simultaneously barked or howled. Approaching the ring was a man holding before him an enormous wire cage some three feet tall. Inside, packed to the top, was a writhing, shifting mass of small gray, brown, and black forms. He set the cage into the ring, then swung his legs over the wall. I watched in horror as he unfastened some latches and raised the top, letting the rats swarm into the small circus. Some ran about; others washed at their whiskered snouts with tiny paws. Some stood against the walls seeming to reflect on how they might escape. Many must have come from the sewers, for the stench was terrible.
Ratty leaned forward. “They’re about to begin. Nothing like the good old sport. Care to place a bet, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am not familiar enough with the dogs to make a wager.”
“I could give you some good counsel. It’s only for small stakes here—a pound or two is a big bet. And it’s all honest and above reproach, more so than with the horses.”
Holmes shrugged, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a sovereign.
Ratty turned to his companion who had been listening silently but attentively to the conversation. “What do you say, Moley? Which dog will it be?” He put his hand briefly on the other man’s thigh then quickly withdrew it. I had an odd sensation at the back of my neck.
Moley’s voice was a rolling basso profundo which contrasted with Ratty’s shrill tenor. “Curly is the favorite, but Prince Albert is ’ere tonight and looks ’ungry. I says Albert.”
Ratty nodded. “Albert it is.” He took two gold coins from his coin purse and beckoned to the burly former pugilist. “Put these three sovereigns on Prince Albert, Jack.”
The pugilist nodded, stepping into the crowd.
“Tell me,” Sherlock said, “earlier you mentioned something about prostitutes.”
Ratty frowned and nodded. “Someone’s stirring them up. I own several houses myself, as you know. There’s no man neither rich nor poor in London that can’t get a bit of satisfaction. If a bloke has only five shillings, there’s a place not half a mile from here, and if he’s got a few pounds, well, I’ve got nice clean, high-class girls. They’ll give him a night he’ll never forget, and all in well-furnished, respectable homes in the West End.” He shifted his glance from Holmes to me. “If your German friend here would care for a bit of gratification...”
Outraged, I gave him a look of absolute disgust, which he severely misinterpreted. “Of course, if you’re of the other persuasion, I could...”
“I am a married man!” I exclaimed.
Holmes frowned, and I tried to get hold of myself. The smoke and the din made my head hurt, and Ratty and Moley were like two creatur
es from a bad dream.
“I mean... Ich... I have a... weibchen, my kleine weibchen, who is... very dear.” I struggled to produce a German accent.
Holmes nodded. “Mr. Verniger is newly married, so he reluctantly declines your generous offer. He comes from a very respectable background for a person of his occupation.”
Ratty nodded. “Ah. Well, he’s lucky then. I’ve had to work hard to pass in more respectable circles, and they still look down on me—and especially Moley. I don’t care anymore. I’ve finally understood that they’re no better than me. Let them loiter in their finery at Ascot. The boys and I know how to have a bit of fun at a fraction of the cost. Nothing like a night of drinking and ratting, huh, lads?” He clinked glasses with Moley, and all his henchmen voiced their cheery agreement. “As for you, Mr. Holmes, my offer still stands: a night at my very best house with my star performer, a veritable legend—Miss Jeanne du Baisers. It’s an offer worth a good hundred pounds.”
Holmes face stiffened, but he forced a smile even as he shook his head. “No. As I have told you before, I have certain moral scruples.”
Ratty shook his head sadly. “A pity that. I must admit I cannot understand moral scruples, but I respect them all the same.”
“We have wandered off the subject. You said someone is stirring up the prostitutes.”
Ratty frowned and nodded. “Someone is putting most peculiar ideas in their heads, telling them that they shouldn’t work for men like me—that it’s a disgusting profession because men are disgusting—or worst yet, that they should set aside their earnings and retire as soon as possible! All sorts of oddities. Then there’s all the blackmailing.”
Holmes nodded emphatically. “Ah—there has been an increase.”
“Most assuredly! Such news travels fast, and it’s very bad for business indeed. Your police and the average citizen don’t understand, but running a brothel is like running any other business. Why, I don’t mean to boast, but I am one of the largest employers in London. Do you know how many women would be starving in the streets if not for me?” He must have noticed the expression on my face. “Think what you will, Mr. Vinegar. I treat my girls far better than most employers. Visit one of those textile mills if you doubt me—machines going day and night, with all those poor females working as hard and fast as they can for the paltriest of wages! If one of my girls is good at her trade, she can move up the ladder to a better house. Why, one of my best girls took up with a royal relation and retired happily! I was sorry to lose her, but...”
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