The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  This younger man, who had struck me as the more jittery of the two brothers, now lolled about, regarding me with drooping lids and a beatific expression. His patent leather coiffure was slightly awry, a black comma of glistening hair escaping onto his forehead.

  ‘Oh, it’s the doctor. Sorry, old man. Preparing for guests, what?’ he drawled. ‘So much work, so much hustle and bustle.’

  But not for you, I thought.

  ‘James,’ said Andrew Goodwin, ‘at least offer our guest some refreshment.’

  I noticed a sideboard on which stood several crystal decanters of citrine, topaz and ruby coloured libations, but instead James raised the lid of a carved wooden box and offered me one of the strangely shaped cigarettes from within. He giggled as he did so. ‘Very nice stuff, old man,’ said he.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied. I hold the medical opinion that recreational use of powerful intoxicants like cannabis, morphine and cocaine endanger those who indulge in them, hence my concern over my dear friend and his all too frequent use of the latter two. At least Holmes had never, to my knowledge, indulged in cannabis. James Goodwin’s groggy state suggested it would not suit my friend. Holmes chose either to dull his senses or to sharpen them, never to twist them like a corkscrew.

  Noticing my disapproval, Andrew Goodwin moved between us, offering me a whisky, which he had poured for me, unasked. I took it.

  ‘We are about to entertain a group of James’s university friends whose varying degrees of professional and social success make them a very mismatched crew,’ he said. ‘We are always challenged to integrate these friends in a harmonious fashion. This is enervating to my dear brother – unless he is suitably inured to the proceedings by his favourite smoke.’ Andrew Goodwin’s discourse seemed more for his own amusement than my edification. Both young men grinned at me.

  I took a sip of exceedingly tasty whisky and gathered my thoughts. I was here, after all, on a mission from Holmes.

  ‘An excellent whisky, thank you,’ I said. ‘Now, sirs, let me not keep you from your preparations. The additional names of Luminarians, if you would be so kind? Mr Holmes would be most appreciative.’ I set my whisky down on a polished table.

  ‘Ah, have you thought of any more, James?’

  ‘Wrote them down,’ murmured James, his eyes closed. ‘Desk there.’

  The top of the massive campaign desk was bare. The older brother sighed, then proceeded to open first one drawer than another. ‘James is known to stash things willy-nilly when receiving certain … er … visitors,’ said he.

  The younger brother grinned, sleepily. ‘Well, one can’t have Tillie seeing all our private information, can one?’

  Whoever Tillie might be, or what she had been doing in this room, I did not care to know, but I was determined in my mission.

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘Ah, yes, Dr Watson. Forgive me. Here it is.’ Andrew had located a sheet of paper and looked it over. ‘Hmm. I can think of only one or two more,’ said he, sitting down at the desk, and picking up a pen.

  His brother grinned up at me from his settee. ‘As you can see, we are not terribly organized. We are, perhaps, a bit spoiled in that regard.’

  In every regard, I thought.

  ‘I am quite hungry, I find,’ said James, suddenly rising unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Go, then! Go, James!’ said Andrew, shooing away his brother, who slithered from the room, trailing a perfume of ganja behind him. I glanced at my watch. It was after seven-thirty, and I was to meet Holmes at Simpson’s at eight. I hated to keep my friend waiting.

  ‘Thank you, but I must be off, Lord Goodwin,’ said I.

  ‘Here,’ said Andrew Goodwin, handing me a single sheet of paper. ‘Let me not detain you. Confidential, please. We have given our word of honour to keep the membership private.’

  ‘Why, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Some of them prefer to keep their philanthropy secret,’ he said with a shrug.

  Thanking him, I folded the list into a small square, and placed it in my waistcoat pocket for safekeeping.

  I arrived at Simpson’s on the Strand only five minutes late and was relieved when the maître d’ informed me that Mr Sherlock Holmes had not yet arrived. Unfortunately, the preferred private booths at the edge of the large dining-room were completely occupied and I was shown to a table in the centre of the room, very much on display to the other diners.

  As I waited for Holmes, I was eager to peruse the list, but did not feel comfortable consulting it in such a public place. Simpson’s, originally a chess club, now offered the finest roast beef in London, and as such, attracted a notable clientele. Absolutely anyone in the city could be seated next to me, and the room was filled to capacity. I sat for a time, nursing an aperitif. At last I could not resist, and I pulled it from my pocket for a quick peek. Almost immediately I felt the eyes of a man on me from at a neighbouring table and quickly tucked it back into my pocket.

  I awaited Holmes for nearly an hour, ordering first one, then a second glass of wine, and eventually gave in to ordering dinner. I enjoyed a wonderful roast beef from the silver trolley, which carvers in elegant uniforms rolled through the dining-room.

  I took my time, but still no Holmes. As it got on to nine, then ten, and finally ten-thirty, and I was finishing dessert and an after-dinner port, I could not shake my vague sense of foreboding. Holmes frequently went missing for hours at a time while on a case. But he would not make such a specific appointment for a dinner in his favourite restaurant and not show up without sending word.

  I paid and left. A slow dread had crept over me.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Snake and Drum

  I passed by 221B and ascertained that Holmes had not returned. I began to worry in earnest. I knew only that he had gone to fetch Hephzibah O’Malley, called Heffie, and that she could be found round about Spitalfields. Even the police refused to venture alone into some of that London neighbourhood’s darker alleyways and rookeries. Though I knew first hand of Holmes’s prodigious boxing and singlestick skills, I nevertheless worried.

  I regretted now that I had not insisted on accompanying him. How would I trace his movements? Perhaps it was the good French wine I had enjoyed at dinner in combination with the other libations of the late afternoon that emboldened my next choice.

  I remembered that he had said the police made regular use of Heffie’s talents. But with the late hour and what I knew of the changes afoot at Scotland Yard, it was to Inspector Lestrade’s own home that I decided to pursue the question.

  I arrived in a small street in Pimlico and knocked at the door of a two-storey older structure, modest but in good repair, as sturdy as its occupant. In a moment, Lestrade, groggy and in nightclothes, faced me blearily at his front door.

  Alarm flashed across his sharp features as he recognized me. ‘Dr Watson! What brings you at this hour?’

  ‘Terribly sorry to disturb you but I need some information from you, Lestrade.’

  ‘Nothing has happened to Mr Holmes, has it?’ His concern was genuine, and I liked the man for it.

  ‘He left some time ago on an errand and has not returned as promised. I need an address.’

  Lestrade was now fully awake and charged with energy. ‘I shall do my best!’

  ‘He went to retrieve Hephzibah O’Malley. I need to know where you think she may be found.’

  ‘Heffie! Why the girl is almost always at the Snake and Drum, down Spitalfields way. She sleeps in a rented room at a brothel close by. You’re not thinking of going there now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would not send a man alone there, especially this time o’ night. And certainly not dressed as you are, Doctor.’

  I felt a flash of embarrassment. I was still in my best clothes for my visit to the Goodwins, including the gold watch Holmes had found so pretentious.

  ‘Please, the address, Lestrade?’

  He wrote it down for me, then with further warnings
offered, bless him, to accompany me. I refused. He did not realize that the more fearsome he made the place sound, all the more was I in a rush to get there.

  It took three tries before I could find a driver who agreed to take me to the Snake and Drum, and he demanded payment in advance. En route, I removed my new watch from my waistcoat and stashed it in an inner pocket.

  As we approached our destination, the streets became narrower and darker, streetlights shattered or missing, and tall, tilted houses crowded together, with broken windows covered only by fabric. Derelict creatures dressed in rags sat shivering on the pavement in the freezing cold. Just as the grand champagne party going on at this moment near Grosvenor Square was not a London I knew well, neither was this sad and extreme opposite.

  Eventually the driver let me off in front of the Snake and Drum, which had once been, if not grand, at least respectable. Its ancient sign had traces of gold on it, long since given over to the elements, and it creaked on rusty chains in the chill wind that had come up. Refuse and soaked rags littered the wet street, and I became aware of the sounds of shouting from one house, and a baby crying from another. These sounds blended with the whistle of the wind through the narrow streets and the dull drip of water on tin lean-tos that had been added on in various yards and alleys.

  I shuddered with a combination of cold and dread, my woollen overcoat failing to cut out the dampness that somehow seemed worse in this dark street than it had on Baker Street and in Mayfair. Through the pub’s thick windows, I saw nothing like the cheery glow of the establishments near us in Marylebone, but rather dim pools of light from oil lamps and candles. I could make out dark figures within, and hoped Holmes was there.

  The sound of drunken laughter suddenly poured from the door as two inebriated roughs spilled from it and onto the street, where one of them retched and vomited into the gutter. His battered hat fell off his head into the filthy stream, as his companion barely managed to hold him from falling into it himself. I moved past them and entered.

  I found myself in a foul den populated by perhaps thirty ragged figures. A quick glance around revealed neither my friend nor any female at all. An ominous silence fell over the bleary and lank-haired patrons who all looked up from their drinks and their cards and their drunken tête-à-têtes to regard with hostility this vastly overdressed interloper. For the second time today, it was as though I had stepped into another city altogether. Even the names of London’s varied locales were evocative of their character – Mayfair, with its lightness and beauty, and Spitalfields, where men vomited and fought and shouted at each other in the rank and filthy streets.

  I knew at once I had better make my move and do so confidently. I strode to the bar and stood next to a very old man whose long white hair, enormous nose and bent, thin frame slumped over a small glass of half-drunk beer made it seem like he had sat there for a lifetime nursing his one drink.

  I attempted to get the barman’s attention with no luck. I took a half shilling from my pocket and rapped it sharply upon the oak bar. The entire room went silent. That was my first mistake.

  ‘Glass of, er, what do you have?’ I asked. There were guffaws all around.

  With a sneer, the barman informed me I could have ‘Ale or beer. Or, beer or ale. Take yer pick. Or gin.’ He then moved away.

  Irritated, I signalled again with my coin.

  The old man leaned in close to me. ‘Not ’ere, matey. Joe’ll ’ave you for breakfast if ye try to hurry ’im along.’ I turned for an uncomfortably close view of the wizened old man with his enormous nose reddened by drink, yellowed teeth, and a jacket patched of rags and rough wool.

  ‘Holmes?’ I said, softly.

  The man’s mouth widened into a clown-like grin. What a remarkable set of false teeth, I thought, wondering where Holmes had procured them.

  ‘All right, enough,’ I whispered. ‘Have you had no luck here? No sign of Heffie?’

  He stared at me, then his eyes appeared to roll back in his head and he suddenly pitched forward, landing in my arms. I just caught him before his head hit the bar. What could my friend intend with this strange show?

  A moment later, his tall, inert form was stretched upon the floor. An excellent simulation, I thought, of someone who had been drinking for days. I leaned in close to whisper something but there was no response. I touched his face and to my surprise, I discovered that the nose was real.

  This was not Sherlock Holmes.

  I backed away from him as his friends gathered round, laughing, to lift him up and ply him with hot water and gin. Apparently this was an oft-repeated event.

  My stomach lurched. Where was Holmes, then? I turned again to my task. Finally capturing the barman’s attention, I paid for an ale, and tipped generously. I asked after Heffie.

  ‘Left here two hours ago with a tall gentl’man,’ said he, friendlier now that his palm had been greased and he had witnessed me save a regular customer from a concussion.

  I took a sip of my drink, thanked him and turned to leave.

  ‘Jest a wee minute, sir. ’Tain’t the part o’ London to be wanderin’ alone ’ere. You’ll be needing protection. Yer friend declined it, much to ’is sorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘’E were set upon jus’ outside by a gang o’ four. Armed wi’ sticks and a chain, mean ’uns. After ’is wallet, I s’pose.’

  ‘What happened? Was he … were they hurt?’

  The men around me guffawed. ‘Naw, he ’ad protection. Heffie!’ one said.

  ‘She’s a little hellfire, she is,’ said another.

  More laughter. I was not sure of their meaning.

  ‘The two of ’em took on the four,’ said the barman. ‘Beat ’em sound, they did. Though they took something for their pains. ’E got knocked about a bit, savin’ ’er. Poor gentl’man. There were blood.’

  ‘I think ’e kept ’is wallet, though,’ said another.

  ‘’Less Heffie took it off ’im later,’ said a third, and everyone laughed.

  I got up to leave.

  The barman cleared his throat and, catching my eye, nodded to my left. I followed his gaze and noticed that several large and dangerous-looking men stood between me and the door and were staring at me with less than friendly interest.

  ‘A shilling will see you to your cab safely,’ he whispered. ‘Be smarter than your friend.’ He grinned, showing a horror of rotten and missing teeth. ‘You ain’t got Heffie to proteck you.’

  I spent no time ruminating and duly paid the barman. On his signal, two of the intimidating thugs relaxed their menacing stares, broke into smiles, and proceeded to convey me safely to a cab.

  As it transpired, it was a costly evening. In the cab, I discovered that my new watch was missing from my inner pocket.

  The old man, of course. Damn me for a fool.

  PART THREE

  ALLIES AND OTHERS

  ‘Let’s plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will – it’s only action that can make a man.’

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust

  CHAPTER 11

  Heffie

  It was nearly one in the morning by the time I returned to 221B, and with great relief I saw the lights on upstairs and the silhouette of my friend in the window. Feeling chagrined for my fool’s errand and for the utter naïveté that lost me my watch, I was nevertheless glad to find my keenest worries unfounded.

  Holmes, clothed in his dressing gown and with pipe in hand, paced back and forth in front of the fire as I entered the room. I immediately noticed a swelling and small cut on his forehead with several stitches in it.

  ‘Holmes! What happened to you?’

  He glanced up at me, frowned and said, ‘Watson, you really should have more faith in me! Spitalfields, alone at midnight? And dressed like that? You are a stalwart fellow but even so, that was foolish.’

  ‘Says the man with a cut on his forehead! Let me see
that wound!’

  ‘What did you mean by going to the Snake and Drum by yourself? And how did you know to go there?’

  ‘Lestrade. I was worried – and apparently with reason! Who attacked you?’

  ‘Common thugs, Watson. Heffie and I prevailed, obviously. But, dear fellow, you should not have gone alone. Surely, Lestrade warned you?’

  ‘He did.’ I had moved closer and was taken aback at what I saw. ‘Whoever did these stitches, Holmes, was a rank amateur, ‘I exclaimed.

  ‘I did ’em,’ said a female voice with a distinct East End accent.

  I turned and was astonished to see, settled cross-legged in front of the fire, what first appeared to be a bundle of rags, at the top of which emerged the round, freckled face of a girl. Brow furrowed, with a face smudged with dirt and a halo of frizzled blondish red curls frothing out in a circle all around it, she resembled a small lion. I guessed her to be around fifteen.

  She stared up at me with frank resentment.

  ‘Hephzibah O’Malley. Dr John Watson,’ said Holmes, formally.

  The filthy creature took a noisy sip from one of Holmes’s cut crystal whisky glasses, and peered at me over its gleaming facets, her pale green eyes fixed in a challenging stare. Despite her slovenliness, I could see the pretty young woman this urchin could become, and the spirit underneath.

  ‘S’wrong wit’ them stitches?’ she demanded to know.

  ‘They are too big, too few, and uneven,’ I said.

  ‘So?’ said she.

  Those eyes were older than her years. Despite her rudeness, I read into them a keen intelligence and sensitivity.

  Holmes intervened. ‘Heffie, Dr Watson is an army surgeon.’

  She shrugged, unimpressed. ‘I done stitches dozens o’times,’ she declared.

  I sighed. Holmes had been regarding all this with amusement. ‘Ah, you are jealous, Watson. I am sorry, for all of it. A trifling wound, but you know how minor cuts on the head will bleed. I hope you at least enjoyed your roast beef at Simpson’s?’