by David Marcum
“Surely there are any number of thugs who might aid you instead,” said Holmes.
“Mere thugs would be insufficient to meet the level of threat I face. Trust is an issue too, for there is a mighty price upon my head, and the famed thickness amongst thieves is but a shilling wide. Allow me to explain. I am frequently in the employ of one Heinrich Gutterman. I trust you know of him, Mr. Holmes?”
“He dominates much of the East End’s criminal enterprise,” replied Holmes, consulting his index. “Ah, yes. Of Hessian extraction, from a long line of blackguards. A noted gambler, with a reputation for ruthlessness.”
“Correct on all accounts. Gutterman had fallen for a particularly vibrant Spaniard of the most breathtaking beauty by the name of Carmela. She was an intoxicating thing, gentlemen, a modern-day Zenobia with all the legendary fire of the Spanish race. I fell for her as madly as he did. The difference was that my feelings were reciprocated, for Gutterman has grown fat upon the proceeds of crime. Only fear kept my darling Carmela with that swine.
“As far as I was aware, none knew of our association,” he continued, “for my trade requires a patience and exactitude which also serves well in the prosecution of illicit affairs. Too, the knowledge that she was Gutterman’s woman was enough to make her one of the safest in London. And yet, I am told my love is dead.”
“You are told?”
“Indeed. Last night I was approached by Gutterman’s two senior enforcers, his everyday twisters and breakers of arms. They told me outright that Carmela was dead and, compounding my horror, that I was - was... responsible.” Thorn’s voice broke, and to my astonishment, I saw tears well in his eyes. Running down his cheeks, they carried with them remnants of his dark eye paint, recasting him as some sort of funereal mummer. No matter how debased a man might allow himself to become, it appeared nothing was more universal than an affair of the heart.
Holmes broke in upon the man’s grief. “Might they have been deceiving you?”
“No,” said Thorn, collecting himself. “There was no doubt in their voices as they made this pronouncement, and the men are no actors. The shock of it was so strong I could hardly think, but the sight of those two savages focused my attentions most thoroughly. Flinging a tin of powder in their faces, I managed an escape. I have been running ever since, with Gutterman’s men dogging my every step. I know little, other than that Carmela died by poison, and that all believe it is I who administered it.”
“And you did not?”
“And I did not. Believe what you wish, but even such as I are capable of love. And oh, how I loved her.” His voice trailed off, and some element of that impassive mask returned. “I wish you to prove my innocence, Mr. Holmes, though that is ultimately incidental. What matters is restoring my freedom of movement and thus allowing me to determine who truly did murder my darling. The sufferings of whoever extinguished that bright light will be exquisite, this I swear.”
The creak of the stairs told that Mrs. Hudson was returning, presumably with tea. Though the hour was late, after such a discussion I welcomed a cup, and I moved to open the door. As I turned the handle, Holmes sounded a warning, but it was too late.
Behind the door stood an extremely pale and nervous Mrs. Hudson, accompanied not by a tray but by three large and imposing brutes, bearing grins and Webleys. The lead, a giant even compared to his fellows, gestured with his weapon, and I cautiously retreated back into the room.
“Begging your pardon, your worships,” said the giant, a scarred and battered Scouse. “Thorn, you’ll be wanting to keep those pretty hands of yours in plain view.”
“I did not kill her, Dudley,” said Thorn.
“Now, Thorn, you know I don’t get paid for me smarts. But I’m thinking such a lovely woman as all that, poisoned, and you the master poisoner. Really though, it don’t matter if the archbishop said you was innocent. The boss wants you brought, so you’re getting brought.”
“Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, “I trust you are unharmed.”
“Yes, sir, no harm done,” she said shakily from the landing.
“And I’d like to keep it that way,” said Dudley, closing the door on her and one of his companions. “Those two will wait for us downstairs. But we’re after Thorn. If we get what we want, no one will be bothered beyond ol’ Beau Brummel here. We’ve no quarrel with the famous Sherlock Holmes.”
“Capital!” cried Holmes, clapping his hands together. “Then you won’t mind if we accompany you to your destination.” Without any regard for the weapons levelled his way, he strode boldly to the rack and began gathering his coat and hat.
A hint of unease stole over the features of our Scouse visitor. He glanced at his compatriot.
“Come, come,” said Holmes. “We won’t be a bother. In fact, we may be able to assist. If you know of me, you know of my skills. I could be invaluable in proving Mr. Thorn guilty. Surely Herr Gutterman would desire that.”
Thorn now joined the other two in casting looks of bewilderment Holmes’s way. Dudley again silently conferred with his companion.
“I don’t know if I can be revealing where we’re headed to the likes of you. The boss might not like it.”
“Your place of assemblage has been known to me for quite some time. The cellar of the Chapel Arms Tavern will have plenty of room for an extra pair of visitors.”
Dudley pondered a moment before giving an almost Gallic shrug. “If you really want to see ol’ Guts, it’s your head. Georgie - you and Sam ride with Thorn. I’ll ride with these two. I warn you, Mr. Holmes, if you try anything foolish it will go badly for you and your friend here.”
I guardedly retrieved my coat, careful not to alarm our guests with any sudden or suspicious movements. Leaving a trembling Mrs. Hudson alone, we moved to the carriages awaiting us.
The journey across the city to Gutterman’s fiefdom in the East End was a long one, as Dudley’s revolver made for an awkward travelling companion. I fancied I could have taken its wielder unawares, but Holmes’s volunteering of our skills - and my presence - left me certain that there was a method to his apparent madness. To break the tension, I turned to my friend for some bit of conversation.
“You’ve obviously had dealings with this Gutterman fellow. Just how well do you know him?”
“Reasonably well. I sent his brother to the gallows.”
This was not the response I had hoped for.
“Surely you don’t expect him to welcome us with open arms, then. What if he views your arrival with Mr. Thorn as simply an opportunity to rid himself of two foes at once?”
Holmes merely gave an enigmatic smile and then, to my astonishment, leaned back and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was asleep.
Such relief was closed to me, for such was the state of nervous apprehension I found myself in that I could not even think of rest. Dudley was of no help, for no sooner had he assured himself that Holmes was asleep than he began bombarding me with questions as to the details of cases past. It had not occurred to me that criminals might have been just as interested in my tales as any honest citizen - more so, perhaps, as it was their partners and competitors in crime which were often involved. Dudley listened with rapt attention as I told him of our most recent East End adventures, chuckling as Holmes bested colleagues and rivals alike. I must confess that by the end I had almost forgotten the purpose of our journey, and had even begun to enjoy myself.
All that changed as our carriages clattered to a halt. Dudley respectfully prodded Holmes awake, and we stepped down in front of the questionable hospitality of the Chapel Arms. Joined by Thorn and his two escorts, together we journeyed through a guarded alleyway entrance into the den of thieves.
The cellar was packed near to bursting with a panoply of perfidy, an assortment of savagery, immorality, and debasement which only London could provide. I recognised none of the many and vari
ed carousers, but later I was to have ably illustrated the veritable rogue’s gallery which filled the room. There was Cutter Campbell, and Black-Eyed Charlie, and Amber Annie. To our left lounged The Fox, that legendary housebreaker, while atop a table Ned the Knife juggled daggers and bellowed an off-key, off-colour tune. Coiners and cardsharps, bandits and beggars, tricksters and trollops: These and representatives of a dozen trades more cavorted about in a stifling fog of smoke, musk, and foul exhalation.
Squatting like a loathsome toad at the heart of this Bedlam was its grotesque king. Seated on a raised chair at the end of the room opposite the door, Heinrich Gutterman seemed indifferent to the sybaritic carnival unfolding before him. He was as horrid a figure as Thorn had described, a once-powerful man gone to seed in an eruption of jowls, folds, and bloating. And yet, if he had allowed his body to become a physical manifestation of his obvious spiritual corruption, his mind remained alert. Noting us the moment we arrived, he stared fixedly at Thorn. I did not envy our client.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” bellowed Dudley, his voice bludgeoning through the cacophony. The gathered circus turned to face us, and the noise trailed off to a humming murmur. “We’re honoured tonight to have ourselves some visitors. I think most of you know this fancy lad here. I give you - Lord Julian Thorn!”
One of Dudley’s companions gave the assassin a shove, and he was forced in front of us. The crowd erupted in howling and laughter as Thorn stumbled before them, and they began to pelt him with all manner of insults, refuse, and filth. He quickly recovered and faced his partners in crime with admirable composure, chin high, wearing his obvious contempt for them as a shield. For all that I condemned the man, I could not help but admire his stoicism.
“Now, now, me friends!” said Dudley, and the demeaning rain tapered off. “I think you’ll be wanting to save a bit of that ol’ vim and vigour. We’ve another special guest with us tonight, and I think many of you know him, too. Let’s have a warm welcome for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”
At the sound of the great detective’s name, the room went deathly silent. Holmes strode willingly to the fore, preempting any shove, and the attention of every last rogue and scoundrel was drawn inexorably towards him. He let his imperious, calculating gaze roam freely about the assembled host, and it stared daggers in return.
It is no secret that Holmes’s fame readily eclipses that of his chronicler. This has never bothered me overmuch, for I am a retiring man by nature, but never was I happier to be overshadowed as I was at that moment. One had only peer into the hate-filled eyes of that roomful of villainy to measure the effect Holmes’s long years of campaigning had had upon London’s criminal underworld.
Someone at the back cried, “I had the perfect mark, until you came along!” Elsewhere another sounded: “I spent six years in the clink thanks to you!” There were many more, the pent up frustrations of a dozen or so hardened men and women. Finally, a rat-faced, grizzled man stood, dagger in hand, and sloppily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “My brother is breaking rocks in Botany Bay because of this toff,” he said, pointing his dagger at Holmes. “I’ll gut him like a fish.”
A hearty cheer went up at the man’s bold words. Holmes seemed unperturbed. He stood with his hands loosely at his side as his attacker staggered towards him with murder in his heart.
A mug sailed through the air, smashing against a wall.
“Enough!” The guttural roar carried over the laughter and cries of vengeance, drawing even the drunkard to a halt. Heinrich Gutterman stood from his chair, surveying his twisted flock.
“I know you hate this man, and I share that. There’s none here who has greater cause to hate him. Sherlock Holmes sent my brother to the gallows. I swear, if any of you so much as touch him first, I’ll have you praying for the chance to break rocks.”
Gutterman’s eye roved over the crowd, daring any to defy him. The rat-faced man had apparently drunk past the point of prudence, for after a moment’s consideration he screamed and charged straight at Holmes, dagger slashing wildly.
Dudley’s immense form intercepted him. Slapping aside the blade, he seized the drunkard and lifted him over his head in one fluid movement, before hurling the writhing form through the air with almost childlike ease. The sot’s protestations were cut short as he slammed into a wall with terrible force.
“You should listen to the boss. After all, he’s the boss.” Dudley glanced casually about, awaiting any who might feel like challenging such ironclad logic. None did.
“Dudley, you and the boys have done me a great service this evening,” said Gutterman. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to trap this slippery eel, but to bring me Thorn and Sherlock Holmes too? You’ll be richly rewarded for this.”
“I came of my own accord,” spoke Holmes at last.
Gutterman began to laugh, a deep, liquid chuckle rolling forth from the depths of his bulbous frame. “Then you’re not half the genius everyone believes you to be. You must have known this place was death, after what you did to my poor brother.”
“Your poor brother slew a servant in the course of a robbery. I’ll weep no tears for him, and nor should you. But I have no interest in old business. Julian Thorn is my client and I have come to represent him, with the assistance of my companion here, Dr. Watson.”
I am unsure if it was Holmes’s affront or his cheek which enraged Gutterman the more, but he waddled over to us with a look of terrible fury, the crowd parting in haste as he worked his great bulk across the floor. Up close, the distended crime lord was even more revolting, reeking of stale sweat and staler wine.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have Dudley break the necks of you and this fool doctor and be done with it,” he demanded.
“Did you love Carmela?” asked Holmes.
The question took Gutterman aback. “Yes I did!” he roared. “What business is that of yours?”
“I believe Julian Thorn to be innocent of the crime which you have accused him of. If you truly loved Carmela, your greatest desire must be justice, not callow violence. I can aid in that.”
“My lover’s killer has hired my brother’s, and I am supposed to be convinced? It was Thorn, plain as a pikestaff. When he could not steal Carmela away, he denied her to all.”
“And the evidence you possess for this conjecture?”
But Gutterman had had enough. “Look here, you meddler, I’ll not be questioned by the likes of you! Make your peace with God, Holmes, for your life ends here and now.”
“You are a gambling man as I recall, Herr Gutterman.”
“What of it?” he snapped.
“You want my life. Let me wager it against my certitude that Mr. Thorn did not murder your love.”
“I already hold your life within my hands, sir. You have nothing with which to bargain.” And yet the prospect clearly tempted him.
“Ah, but this would be ever so much more sporting. Think of the pleasure you would derive from not just my death but my defeat, here in front of so many witnesses. And consider the possibility that it was some other which murdered your love. Could you truly sleep at night, when perhaps someone in this very crowd silently mocks you, secure in the knowledge that they have slain that which you held dearest, forever beyond retribution?”
Gutterman slowly wheeled about, appearing to see his followers in a new light. The mob shrank from his dreadful wrath.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I accept your wager. Prove to me that Thorn did not murder Carmela and you may all leave unharmed.” His voice deepened and became thick with menace. “However, should you fail, they’ll be fishing the lot of you out of the Thames. You have until dawn.” He addressed his minions.
“Holmes and his friend have a free run of the place! They may not leave, but otherwise let none hinder them. If they require anything of you, you are to comply completely and without hesitation. Toni
ght, anyone that crosses Holmes crosses me! Is that understood?”
Nervous mutters of acquiescence told that the message had been received.
“We may for once be grateful for the winter season,” said Holmes, glancing at his watch. “Sunrise in some eight hours. Hostile witnesses, the pressures of the clock, and no sleep to recharge our faculties: The odds are stacked against us, Watson, but the game is afoot all the same.”
My friend and I stood to one side of the dank cellar, accompanied by Thorn, who busily groomed himself like some especially fastidious cat. As Holmes pondered the matter, I could not help but dwell on the death sentence now looming above our heads. None knew our whereabouts. Should we fail, there would be no rescue, no intervention. The crowd in turn eyed us warily but slowly returned to its business, if in somewhat subdued a fashion, once it became clear that the detective was not about to arrest them all in one fell swoop or whatever nonsense they expected.
“We have a long night ahead,” spoke Holmes after some minutes, “and it is essential all be done in the proper order. You there,” he said, pointing at the nearest ne’er-do-well.
“Whaddya want?”
“I require a new pipe - cherry-wood, I should think - and an ounce of decent shag.”
The greasy, sallow crook appeared ready to advise Holmes as to various anatomical impossibilities, before glancing over at Dudley and doubtless recalling Gutterman, his commands, and the implied penalties for disobedience.
“Where in the blazes am I going find a new pipe at such an hour?” he grumbled sullenly.
“You are a criminal, in a house full of criminals. I shall trust in the boundless depths of human ingenuity.”
Some ten minutes later, Holmes was puffing intently away from a fine bit of cherry-wood. “I have questions for your former employer, Mr. Thorn. Let us have a chat with Herr Gutterman.”
We caught him in a shabby side chamber with a pair of underlings. The obese crime lord was none too pleased to see us so soon, nor I him, for the stench of him in that enclosed space was a powerful one. Faced with such putrescence, Thorn withdrew a perfumed handkerchief from his coat and sniffed at it pointedly.