by Carole Bugge
“I do, Miss Merriweather, although the world does not always make way for such people. And now, if you will excuse us,” he continued, looking at his watch, “Dr. Watson and I have a lead of some importance to follow which concerns this matter.”
“Oh, please don’t let me detain you,” she said, rising abruptly from her chair. “I am sorry if I have taken too much of your time already.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes, escorting her to the door. “I’ll let you know the moment there is anything to report.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, taking his hand in hers and holding it a moment longer than necessary.
When she had gone, the intoxicating scent of Golden Nights lingered after her. I now felt quite bewitched by the perfume. I sat there inhaling it as it grew fainter, then I tried my theory out on Holmes.
“She’s quite taken with you,” I said.
Holmes looked at me as though I were mad. “Nonsense! What on earth gives you that idea?”
“The way she looks at you when you aren’t watching.”
Holmes snorted. “Good heavens, Watson, next thing I know you’ll be writing gossip columns instead of fiction.”
“Really, Holmes, she’s smitten. You have your area of expertise; allow me mine. I know something more of women than you do, and I say the lady’s quite under your spell.”
Holmes sat down across from me. “Watson, what you are mistaking for infatuation is merely the hopeful attitude of a young woman who sees in me someone who may be able to help her. What you see as attraction is merely the expression of quite another kind of desire. She may look up to me as someone who can be of assistance—but, really, Watson, I need hardly remind you that her heart is quite engaged elsewhere.”
“Very well,” I said peevishly. “If you think a woman is incapable of being divided in her affection, you don’t know very much about women.”
“Did I ever claim to?” Holmes said with a sardonic smile.
I had to admit he had me there. Never has a man made a more public protest than Holmes of his distrust of the opposite sex. Still, I have always suspected he did protest too much, though I never would have said so to his face. He had lost interest in the topic, however, and disappeared into the bedroom only to return with a boxed chess set which he opened and began to lay out upon the sideboard.
“Now we must turn our attention to this information which came to you so mysteriously,” he said, studying the note which I had received earlier. “K.Kt.-B4, or king’s knight to Bishop Four... let me see. There is already a black knight abroad upon the board—”
“Who is that?”
“Why, the mysterious count who so conveniently jumped over you to capture the jewel.”
“Oh.”
“So perhaps this is another knight... and if he moves to Bishop Four,” Holmes said, turning to a map of London which he had spread out upon the coffee table, “then he should end up approximately here,” he said, pointing to the neighborhood of Spitalfields. “Ha!” he cried suddenly, peering at the map. “Of course! Why did I not think of that before?”
“What?”
“Wormwood, Watson, wormwood.”
“I don’t quite follow you, Holmes.”
“Watson, do you recall what lies at the intersection of Bishopsgate and Wormwood Street?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“Well, I have made it my business to know London as well as other men know their own sitting rooms—”
“Yes, yes, I know! But what lies at the intersection of those streets?” I cried, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
“A pub, Watson, but not just any pub: it is, in fact, the Lancelot Arms.”
“The Lancelot Arms? What’s that got to do with—?”
“Oh, Watson, don’t you see? King’s knight—Lancelot, in other words—to Bishop Four: The fourth street which intersects with Bishopsgate Road!” He looked at me and smiled.
“How’s your East End accent, Watson?”
“Well, I’m not quite the actor you are—”
“Yes, yes—but do you think you can pull it off?” he said impatiently.
I thought for a moment. “Aye s’pose aye can give it a try, what?” I replied, slurring my vowels wretchedly.
Holmes regarded me coldly, as though I were a laboratory animal and he the scientist. “I suppose it will do,” he said. “Just let me do most of the talking.” He then disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a pile of clothes.
“Here, Watson,” he said, tossing some at me. “Do your best to make yourself look disrespectable.”
I held up a pair of trousers and a workman’s coat, both of which looked as though they had seen better days.
“What are these for?”
“If we are going to be inconspicuous, we must dress as the natives do. Now hurry, Watson; we haven’t much time!”
A quarter of an hour later we emerged from the sitting room looking for all the world like a couple of laborers just off work at the docks. A smudge or two of dust and grime on our faces and the transformation was complete. We were about to close the door behind us when Holmes stopped and put his hand on my arm.
“Watson, do you still have your old service revolver?”
“Yes, it’s upstairs in my old bedroom.”
“You might want to bring it along—and see that it’s loaded.”
I went upstairs and got the gun from the closet where it had lain unused for quite some time. Apart from my adventures with Holmes, I had little use for it. I shoved it into my jacket pocket and followed Holmes out the door, still a little mystified by his reasoning.
“I hope you’ll be back for supper—I got a nice rack of lamb!” Mrs. Hudson called after us as we hurried out the door.
We quickly hailed a cab. The driver looked at us oddly when we climbed into the hansom—we didn’t look like the sort of men who were used to traveling by cab. A thin twilight crept over the cobblestones as we traveled east along Oxford Street.
“You see,” said Holmes, “king’s knight refers to Lancelot because he was in fact King Arthur’s knight... and I thought at the time our little trip to Cornwall was no coincidence. No, I am certain that whatever is going to happen, the Lancelot Arms will figure into it somehow.”
Traffic was light and we soon arrived at our destination. The Lancelot Arms had seen better days, but they were far behind it now. The wooden exterior was weatherbeaten and as careworn as an old face, the windows greasy with years of build-up of tallow and the grime from whale-oil lamps. A couple of drunks stood outside the saloon bar, talking loudly.
“Ay say ’e is; my brother is certain ’e saw ’im the other night!” one of the men was saying. He was tall and stringy and wore a coat which was several sizes too small for him. His greasy hair fell in lumps about his head, and his teeth had probably never seen the inside of a dentist’s office.
“So what if ’e is?” said the other, a little man with a florid face and short stubby hands.
“Nothin’,” said the tall stringy one. “It’s just strange, that’s all. There’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on, that’s all.”
“Oh, I get it, somethin’ fishy! That’s very good, that is—very good indeed,” said his companion, laughing. “Fishy, eh? Fishy, is it? Well, that’s well done, it really is,” he said, slapping his knee as if to wring every bit of amusement he could out of this jest. I personally couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but Holmes listened intently.
“Nothing is as it seems in this case, Watson,” he said.
I waited patiently for him to explain this cryptic remark, but he did not enlighten me; instead he said, “Mark, Watson, there’s more here than meets the eye.”
What met the eye inside the Lancelot Arms was a motley collection of working-class fellows: Some of them had the sunburned skin of sailors and dock workers, and others wore the natty red scarves which singled them out as costermongers. They were a rough lot, and I was glad of our disguises
, though I worried that we were not as inconspicuous as I would have wished. Holmes, as usual, was unconcerned, and he stepped up to the bar, sliding in between two red-scarved fellows. One of the men—already well in his cups—looked Holmes over and winked at his companion.
“’Ere now, maybe this gentl’man could solve it for us.”
Holmes turned to the man. “Solve what?” he said coolly.
The first costermonger smiled broadly, showing teeth yellowed by years of strong tobacco and cheap beer. “Well, guv’ner,” he said, exaggerating his accent facetiously, “me an’ my mate was wonderin’ why is it that there are suddenly so many more coppers wanderin’ about certain sections of town, shall we say, than there used to be.”
“’At’s a right good question,” said Holmes. “What’re ye drinkin’?”
“Purl,” answered the man.
“Oi, barkeep, another round for these fine fellers, an’ the same for me an’ my friend,” said Holmes.
“Much obliged to you, I’m sure,” said the costermonger with the yellow teeth. He was taller than his companion, and sported a tattoo of a mermaid on his hairy forearm.
“To yer health,” said his friend, lifting his glass to Holmes. He was of medium height and stocky, with a thick neck, a bullet-shaped head, and a dark stubble of beard upon his chin. A worn toothpick hung from his lips, which he never removed, even to drink. I feared he would swallow the toothpick along with the purl, but he was evidently accustomed to his strange habit, and took a long draught of hot purl without disturbing the toothpick.
“Cheers,” said Holmes, lifting his glass and drinking. I did the same, though reluctantly. I had never developed a taste for purl, a drink combining hot beer with gin, ginger, and sugar; for one thing, I didn’t like gin, which always tasted like medicine to me. But I lifted my glass all the same, following Holmes’ lead. I knew he wanted something from these men, though I had no idea what that might be. In spite of the sugar it contained, the drink was bitter, the gin stinging my taste buds with its medicinal aftertaste.
“Care to join us in a game of cribbage?” asked the yellow-toothed man, evidently the leader of the two.
Holmes looked at me. “Wha’ do ye say, John, shall we give it a go?”
I tried not to look surprised at his use of my Christian name; I supposed that it was Holmes’ attempt to hide our identity. I looked around the bar: through the thick haze of tobacco smoke it was difficult to tell, but I didn’t sense that anyone was paying us particular attention.
“I ’aven’t played in a while,” I said, “but I’m game enough.”
“Right,” said Mr. Yellow Teeth, producing a pack of soiled, dog-eared playing cards. “I believe there’s a table free over there in the corner.”
We followed him through the crowded, smoke-filled room over to a round, rough oak table which sat in the far corner of the saloon bar.
“Pull up some chairs for the gentl’men, won’t you, Cappy?” he said to his companion, who complied by seizing a chair in each hand and lifting them over his head. I was struck immediately by his strength; the oak chairs were thick and heavy but he handled them as though they were made of paper. I glanced at Holmes, but he was conversing with Yellow Teeth about the terms of the game.
It was said that costermongers did not get up in the morning without a bet placed on the exact hour the cock would crow. Everywhere they went, they gambled. They were a hardworking, hard-driving sort of man, and for a costermonger to play a game of cards without gambling was unthinkable. When Holmes and Yellow Teeth had come to terms over the stakes—high enough to please our host but not so high that he would be enraged if he lost—the game began.
I could tell that Holmes was playing well enough to hold his own, but that he was not trying to win. I followed his lead, and let our companions slowly but surely rack up steady winnings. I didn’t know what Holmes’ game was, but I was certain that it was not cribbage. I said very little, lest my less-than-perfect accent give me away. However, after several hands and several more rounds of drinks, our hosts had loosened up considerably, and I doubt they would have noticed. Yellow Teeth became downright garrulous, and his stocky companion—whom he continued to address as Cappy—relaxed his muscular neck and let his bullet-shaped head loll back in his chair. Cappy was evidently a man of few words, but in between hands he began to converse with Yellow Teeth in the curious cryptic language of coster mongers, a language I had heard of but which I had never witnessed.
“Skod tienoot,” said Yellow Teeth.
“Leereel?” answered Cappy.
“Net Kolko,” replied Yellow Teeth.
“Lawcalb?”
“Tire.”
During this exchange Holmes was jotting down the score on a piece of paper.
“Well,” he said, holding up the paper, “it looks as though you’ve just about cleaned us out. Yer a couple a good players, you are,” he continued, rising from his chair. “And now aye think we’d better be gettin’ along now.”
“Oh, don’t go just yet, guv’ner,” said Yellow Teeth, “the cards are bound to turn your way sooner or later... don’t you think so, Cappy?” Cappy nodded his assent, chewing on his toothpick.
“Maybe another time,” said Holmes, “but my mate and me ’ave to be gettin’ on.”
“Oh really?” said Yellow Teeth. “Something important, then?”
“Naw,” said Holmes, ignoring the fixed stare from Cappy, “but I ’spect someone’d be mad if we didn’t show.”
“Well, then, per’aps another time, as you say,” said Yellow Teeth evenly. “That would be nice, don’ ye think, Cappy?”
Cappy nodded and shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. His implacable face made me uneasy, and my hand closed around the revolver in my jacket pocket. Holmes, though, acted totally unconcerned.
“Well, then, thank ye, mates,” he said breezily, and I followed him out through groups of dock workers, street hawkers, and ship’s mates, all drinking, smoking, laughing, and gambling. Out on the street Holmes turned to me.
“I wasn’t sure they’d let us away so easily,” he said.
“But you didn’t seem worried. Do you mean to say—?”
“Well, it was touch and go for a moment there. Never mind, though, Watson, we’ve no time to lose!” he said urgently, and set off at a fast pace toward the river.
“Where are we going?” I called after him.
“To the West India Docks!”
The temperature had dropped and a freezing rain had begun to fall, and cabs were hard to come by. We did close to a mile on foot before Holmes finally flagged one down on Cable Street.
“West India Docks as fast as you can,” Holmes said to the driver, who turned his horse down onto Aspen Way at a canter. Holmes looked at his watch. “I am afraid Mrs. Hudson will be upset with us; it is far past dinnertime. However, I am far more concerned that we may already be too late for something much more important than dinner.”
As we were being jostled about inside the cab, I noticed the burning sensation in my esophagus which was the result of hot gin on an empty stomach. I thought of Mrs. Hudson’s rack of lamb with mashed potatoes, and I am ashamed to admit that at that moment I couldn’t imagine anything more important than dinner. I decided to try to take my mind off of my stomach.
“Who were those men, and how did you know—?” I began.
Holmes smiled, the pallid light from the streetlamps falling upon his long face. “You remarked of course the red silk neckerchiefs that mark the costermonger as a member of his profession?”
“Yes, of course I noticed that the men wore the red neckerchiefs, but I—”
“Did you also know that they refer to their scarves as king’s men?”
“Well, I’ll be!” I exclaimed. “So that’s how you knew they were—”
“—the king’s men; in other words, the king’s knights. They are more than costermongers, Watson; they are also smugglers.”
“Smugglers!”
“I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “I don’t know, Holmes, sometimes you frighten me.” Just then the cab hit a pothole, throwing me to the floor, and I swore.
Holmes reached a hand out to me. “Steady on, Watson,” he said, chuckling softly. “I suppose you’re also wondering about that curious language they spoke,” he continued when I had regained my seat.
“Yes, now that you mention it, what on earth was that?”
“Ah, that was very careless of them. Costermongers often exchange information which they wish to keep secret in a kind of cryptic code which often involves the ability to pronounce words backwards. Do you remember that I was keeping score during the game? Well, I simply copied down what they said—pretending that I was keeping score—and reversed the order of the sounds to find out what they were really saying.” He held up the slip of paper which he had used during the scoring of the game. I peered at it and could barely make out the words in the dim light:
“Docks tonight. Really? Ten o’clock. Blackwall? Right.”
“That was their biggest mistake,” he replied. “They underestimated my ability to crack their code. And really I wouldn’t have been able to if I had not been listening for it. Some years ago a case took me to the East End; I learned a lot about the various tradesmen then, and it has always stood me in good stead.”
I shook my head in amazement. “Really, Holmes,” I said, “I am quite impressed.”
“Don’t be, Watson, until we see if we accomplish our most important task tonight.”
I was dying to ask Holmes why we were rushing toward the river at such a breakneck pace, but now the gin was making me sleepy and I was lulled into a kind of stupor by the swaying motion of the cab. I sat gazing out of the window the rest of the way. When we arrived at our destination Holmes sprang from the cab, paid the driver, and asked the man to wait, slipping him a guinea. The man looked at the coin in his hand and then he laughed.