The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1)

by Robert Newman

  They had meat pies in Covent Garden for supper and returned to St. Giles just as it was getting dark, By now the courtyard and the rookery that surrounded it had become the place that Hogarth had drawn and painted: a self-contained night world that was noisy, garish and vibrant with life. Lights burned in the gin shops, and standing in front of one of them was the boy, Danny. When he saw Andrew, he whistled softly, and a burly man in soiled but flashy clothes came out of one of the gin shops. Danny jerked his head at Andrew, and the two of them advanced toward him.

  “Why are you stopping?” asked Ben.

  “That boy I fought with last night. There’s a man with him, and they’re coming this way.”

  “Ah,” said Ben. “Hold my fiddle.” He handed it to Andrew. “And what are you after?” he asked the burly man.

  “Your nipper,” said the man. “He bashed my brother.”

  “In a fair fight,” said Ben.

  “Fair or not, I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

  “You’re not,” said Ben.

  The man looked at him in surprise, then laughed.

  “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Out of the way. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “And you won’t,” said Ben quietly.

  Again the man looked at him. Then, as he raised a hand to push him aside, Ben—shortening his grip on his stick—drove the end of it just under his ribs. The man doubled up, gasping.

  “You sod!” he said when he had straightened up. “I’ll nobble you proper!”

  Reaching into a back pocket, he pulled out a blackjack.

  “No!” said Andrew, jumping in front of Ben. “Can’t you see that he’s blind? You can’t …”

  The man cuffed him, knocking him down. But, as he raised the blackjack, Ben swung his stick in a full-armed slash, striking the man across the knuckles and knocking the blackjack out of his hand. With a howl, the man staggered back, clutching his hand. Recovering, he bent down to pick up the cosh, but again, by sound or by instinct, Ben seemed to know exactly what the man was doing, and the stick shot out, pausing an inch from his face.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said, leave it.”

  Slowly the man straightened up, staring at Ben, who, grey-haired and sightless, had acted with a speed and decisiveness that were somehow frightening; much more frightening than if he had been young and had all his faculties.

  “I may be blind,” said Ben quietly, “but blind or not, I’m a match for you or any three like you. So don’t be trying it on again either with me or the boy.”

  The man looked at him for a moment longer, then leaving the blackjack on the ground, he walked off, followed by Danny.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ben as Andrew got to his feet.

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “And the fiddle?”

  Andrew had dropped it when he fell. Now he examined it.

  “All right too.”

  “Come, then.” And, tapping with his stick, he led the way through the awed and wondering crowd. When they were in the. room, Ben took the fiddle from Andrew, ran his fingers over it, played a few notes and, satisfied, put it down.

  “I don’t think he or the boy will bother you again,” he said.

  “I don’t either.”

  “It’s been a long day, but there’s something I must do later. Are you up to it or are you too tired?”

  Andrew studied him. Apart from his aunt, there had been few people during his entire life who had shown any real interest in him, ever given him help or comfort; only Jack Trefethen in Cornwall and more recently the Wigginses, particularly Screamer. But though they had been his friends, none of them—no one ever—had protected him, fought for him, as Ben had. He was a strange man, and Andrew still did not understand him, but there was no question as to how he felt about him.

  “I’m not too tired,” he said.

  “Good. Stretch out and rest then, and I’ll call you when it’s time.”

  It was probably around eleven o’clock—Andrew had been dozing and was not sure of the time—when Ben shook him gently. He got up, and they went down to the courtyard. Andrew had expected that they would leave the rookery but Ben tapped his way to one of the gin shops and pushed open the door.

  The room inside was large, low-ceilinged, and lit by candles. It was quite crowded and noisy, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. The babble of voices—mostly Irish it seemed to Andrew—died as they entered.

  “Is there a table?” asked Ben.

  “Yes. Over there,” said Andrew, moving toward one in the far corner.

  “Who is he?” asked someone as they sat down on a bench against the wall.

  “The blind fiddler that did down Big Danny, the rampsman.”

  “Ah,” said the first man, a navvy in rough, work-stained clothes. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Ben.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Sure and if you’re Irish yourself, you should know that.”

  “How would I know it?”

  “How do I know you’re from Shannon?”

  The navvy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve sharp ears,” he said. “You’re right.”

  “And I,” said the man with him, “where am I from?”

  “From Cork.”

  “Right again. You should be in a music hall.”

  “I’d rather be here,” said Ben.

  This drew a chuckle from those who were listening, but the navvy persisted.

  “Say something else, and let’s see if I can place where you’re from.”

  “Pogue ma hone!” said Ben.

  Andrew did not know what that meant, but it must have been at least mildly insulting for it raised, not just a chuckle, but a laugh, and the navvy grinned.

  “You’re all right, old man,” he said. “And with a tongue like that I’d say you were from Sligo.”

  “That’s close enough,” said Ben.

  “Will you take something, then?”

  “I’m not here for the fresh sea air.”

  The navvy nodded to the man behind the bar, and he brought Ben a glass of hot gin with a slice of lemon in it.

  “Slainte,” said Ben, raising his glass. There was a murmured response.

  “I see you’ve your fiddle with you,” said the man from Cork. “Would you play us something?”

  “For company like this, it’d be a pleasure,” said Ben. He took another sip of the hot gin, then tucked the fiddle under his chin and began to play. As far as Andrew could tell, everything he played was Irish; sometimes quick dance tunes like reels or jigs, sometimes slow and mournful ones and sometimes lilting ballads. When he stopped, there was stamping of feet and applause, and the man from Cork bought him another gin.

  They sat there for some time, Ben drinking his gin slowly and, when he had finished it, leaning back with his head against the wall. He looked as if he were asleep, but Andrew had the feeling that he wasn’t; that he was listening to the conversations that were going on around him as he had listened during the day in the streets. He wondered how long they were going to stay there, for while Ben may only have been pretending, Andrew himself was starting to get sleepy.

  The door opened and closed as it had several times before, and Andrew glanced casually through the smoky, half-darkness, then stiffened. This time the man who had come in was the cab driver with the broken nose who had taken Mr. Dennison away in the growler and chased and almost caught Andrew.

  Ben, as always, either felt or sensed his movement.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  “Someone I know just came in.”

  “Who?”

  “A cab driver.”

  “And you’re afraid of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Save it till later then, but watch him.”

  Broken Nose pushed his way to the zinc-covered bar, bought himself a drink, then turne
d and looked over the noisy company. He glanced at Ben, at Andrew, then sat down facing the door. If he had recognized Andrew with his head cropped and in his old, badly fitting clothes, he gave no indication of it.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Ben.

  “Sitting there. He seems to be waiting for someone.”

  Ben nodded. About fifteen minutes later the door opened again, but this time the man who came in and stood there looking around was someone quite different. He was young and slim and quite well dressed. His eyes met those of the broken-nosed cabby, then he turned and went out again. Almost immediately Broken Nose got up and went out also.

  “He’s going,” whispered Andrew.

  Again Ben nodded. Sitting up, he yawned, stretched, then rose and said, “Good night to you all.”

  He put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and let him lead the way to the door. When they got outside, Broken Nose was just disappearing into the alley.

  “Follow him,” said Ben. “But not too closely.”

  He put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder so he would not have to use his stick, and they went out through the alley. Broken Nose had turned left and was walking toward New Oxford Street. When he had crossed it, they hurried after him. About fifty feet further on, he turned left again into another alley. When they reached it, Andrew saw that it was almost as narrow as the one that led into the rookery. There was no sign of either the slim young man or Broken Nose, but the door of a large building that seemed to be an abandoned warehouse was just closing.

  “He’s gone into a big, old building,” said Andrew. “I think it’s a warehouse.”

  “Hold these,” said Ben, handing over his fiddle and stick. “And wait here.”

  His hand on the wall of the building, Ben went quietly down the alley, paused when he got to the warehouse door, put his ear to it and listened. Apparently he could not hear anything, for after a moment he went on and listened at a boarded up window. He remained there for some time, but apparently he could not hear anything there either for, with an impatient gesture, he turned and came back to where Andrew was waiting.

  “We’ll go back to the room now,” he said.

  They returned to the rookery in silence, and when they were in the room and Ben had lit the candle, he said, “Tell me about the man you were afraid of.”

  He listened while Andrew told him of his two encounters with the broken-nosed cabby.

  “You said Mr. Dennison was a master at the local school?”

  “Yes.”

  “You only knew him there?”

  “No. About two years ago my aunt made arrangements for him to teach me privately—tutor me. I didn’t like the idea—I knew there’d be trouble—but she insisted.”

  “What do you mean by trouble?”

  “With the other boys in Gorlyn.”

  “Of course. In a village like that they’d resent your doing anything different from what they did. I take it that Dennison was a university man.”

  “Yes. I believe he was at Oxford.”

  “And he was tutoring you so that you could get into one of the good public schools.”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he know London?”

  “He seemed to.”

  “Was he a good friend of your aunt’s?”

  “No. At least, not at first. He used to ask me questions about her and also about my parents—who they were. But I couldn’t answer because I don’t really know much about them. Then, when Aunt Agnes became ill, he began going to see her, talking to her.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, but I had the feeling that Aunt Agnes didn’t like it very much.”

  “And after she died, he took you in, took care of you?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to live with him, but there was no one else and Aunt Agnes told me I should—for a while at least.”

  “Ah! You say you know nothing about your parents?”

  “No. Aunt Agnes once told me that my father was a gentleman, but that was all.”

  “What about your mother? Didn’t you ever see her, get any letters from her?”

  Andrew hesitated. He had never talked about his mother to anyone except his aunt, and he didn’t know why Ben was so interested in her, but since he clearly was …

  “No. I never got any letters from her, though I think Aunt Agnes did. But I remember her.”

  “She came to see you at Gorlyn?”

  “Yes. Twice. Once when I was very small and once when I was about four. I remember that she was very beautiful—she wore a big hat—and she hugged me and kissed me and cried and said that one day we’d be together for good and then she went away again.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since?” Ben’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

  “No.”

  “Well, who knows? One day you may.”

  He took the blankets from under the floor boards, gave one to Andrew and said, “It’s late and you must be tired. Go to sleep now.”

  “I will. Goodnight, Ben.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Andrew stretched out on the mattress and covered himself with the blanket. Ben remained where he was, sitting with his back to the wall. He seemed to be thinking—Andrew did not know about what—but somehow he did not feel as cold as he had the night before. Not only that, but for some reason—possibly because he had talked about things he had never talked about to anyone before—he felt less anxious and more hopeful than he had since his aunt died.

  10

  The Listener

  “Do you trust me, Andrew?”

  Andrew looked at the blind fiddler with surprise. He must know the answer to that, must know how Andrew felt about him, especially after everything that had happened the day before. But since he seemed to want a response, Andrew said, “Yes, Ben.”

  “Good. We’re going to do something that will seem odd to you, but I want you to do exactly what I tell you, and do it without asking any questions.”

  “All right, Ben.”

  They were standing in front of the Bazaar on Baker Street. Since it had been very late when they got to sleep, they had not gotten up as early as usual that morning. By the time they had had their breakfast at a coffee stall, it was a little after ten. Ben had played for a while in Soho, then they had walked west to Baker Street.

  Ben told him what he wanted to do and, though it certainly was rather strange, Andrew did not comment. Ben tucked his fiddle under his chin and began to play again, and Andrew, holding the wide brimmed black hat, stood beside him looking up the street.

  A few minutes after eleven, the heavy set man with the military mustache came out of 221B. He was wearing a top hat and carrying a small black bag as Ben had said he would.

  “He’s coming,” said Andrew quietly.

  Ben continued playing. Then, as the man came towards them, he lowered his fiddle and stepped forward, bumping into the man and knocking off his hat. Andrew, who had circled behind them, caught it. Tucked inside the hat was a stethoscope. Whipping it out, he hid it in his jacket, passed the hat to Ben, and hurried off up the street.

  Behind him he heard Ben saying, “I beg your pardon, sir. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  “Not at all,” said the man.

  Glancing back, Andrew saw Ben give the man his hat. He put it on without looking inside it, continued on to the curb, and waved to a hansom. Andrew paused, waiting for Ben to catch up with him.

  “Did you get it?” asked Ben.

  “Yes. He never noticed it was gone so I didn’t run.”

  “Good lad. We’ll get it back to him one of these days.” And smiling as he had the day the man gave him a shilling, he let Andrew lead him back down Baker Street and then east.

  When they got to Picadilly, a newsboy, papers under his arm, ran past them calling, “Dynamiters strike again!” and Ben paused abruptly.

  “Boy!” he called.

  He bought a paper and gave it to Andrew.

  “Tell me where the dynamiting was,�
� he said.

  Andrew skimmed the article, which took up most of the first column.

  “On Pall Mall, near one of the clubs.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. Some windows were broken, but that’s all.”

  “Ah,” said Ben. “Let’s have lunch.”

  They spent most of the afternoon around Leicester Square and in Soho and had dinner in a rather grubby restaurant near Seven Dials. Ben was strangely silent, as he had been most of the day, and when they had finished dinner, he said, “We’ve some more business to take care of tonight. We’d better go back to St. Giles.”

  When they were in the room, Ben said, “Stand at the window and tell me if you can see that gin shop we were in last night.”

  Andrew looked out. He found he could see about half of the courtyard, including the door of the gin shop.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, keep your eye on it and tell me if you see your cabby with the broken nose.”

  Andrew pulled his mattress over and sat down on it. During the next hour or so, he watched the courtyard come to life as it always did after dark; children played under the flaring gas jet, women with shawls went to the rusty pump to get water, and flashily dressed men and women came down the alley and went into the various gin shops. Finally:

  “There he is,” he said.

  “Did he go in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell me when he leaves.”

  Again they had to wait, but at last the cabby came out and stood there for a moment, looking around.

  “He just came out.”

  “We’ll go then. No need to hurry. We know where he’s going.”

  They went down and out through the alley. When they reached the street, the cabby was just crossing New Oxford Street. They waited until he had turned into the passage that led to the old warehouse, then followed. Again Ben told Andrew to wait while he went down the passage. Taking the stethoscope from his pocket, he put the earpieces in his ears, pressed the other end to the boarded-up window. He remained there for several minutes, listening, and from the expression on his face, Andrew knew that now he could hear what was going on inside. Abruptly he straightened up and came out.