Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust

by James Lovegrove

  “And you’ve put several poor souls in the jug.”

  “I can be said to have been instrumental in the jailing of certain malefactors.”

  “Yes, it’s coming to me now,” said Starkey, and he produced a pistol from his pocket. “So give me one good reason why I should not shoot you where you stand.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE KING OF SHOREDITCH

  Starkey cocked the hammer of the gun. Holmes stayed my hand before it could dive to my pocket. His grip on my wrist, unobserved by Starkey, was brief but sent a clear instruction. I should wait. Better to keep the presence of my revolver a secret for now, since it might be advantageous to us later.

  “Mr Starkey,” my friend said, seemingly unperturbed by the firearm that was levelled at his chest. “I grant you that by your lights my death might seem warranted. I will not plead for my life. It would, I appreciate, be a futile exercise. What I crave, if I may, is an audience. Ten minutes of your time, that is all, no more.”

  Starkey frowned. “An audience? You make it sound like I’m royalty or something. What do you want to talk about?”

  “A man called Daniel Greensmith. You might know him better as Black Jack Corcoran.”

  Starkey’s expression soured and his grip on the pistol tightened. “That lying scoundrel. That wretched two-faced impostor. What about him? I don’t think there’s anything to discuss.”

  “You are under the impression that he is a police informant.”

  “I know full well he is!” Starkey snapped. “What else could he be?”

  “How have you arrived at that conclusion?”

  The gang boss bent his head to one side and scratched one protuberant ear. “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “What if I told you that you were labouring under a misapprehension?”

  “What if I told you that all this fancy talk of yours is making me want to put a bullet in you, simply so as you’ll shut up?”

  “Then we would seem to be at stalemate,” said Holmes. “But as I look into the room behind you, which appears to be your study or office, I note that atop the desk there sits a bottle of Tokay. I am rather partial to Tokay, and yours gives the impression of being a good one. A seventy-two Ausbruch Essence, is it not?”

  Starkey was thoroughly wrong-footed. “I have you at gunpoint, I’ve told you I’m going to shoot you – and you wish to share a drink with me?”

  “Are you not thirsty? I am. Positively parched, as a matter of fact.”

  The gang boss looked at Holmes as though unsure as to his sanity. “Either you have one hell of a nerve, Mr Holmes, or you’re as barmy as they come.” A smile that was half smirk crept across his face. “In either case I find that intriguing. Very well. Come on through and let us have a drink.”

  Much to my relief Starkey stowed away the pistol and ushered us into the room. The closing of the door shut out most of the rumpus below, which was also to my relief. We took our seat upon chairs that had seen better days but were not wrecks of the kind found elsewhere in the house. Starkey used his shirtcuff to wipe clean some grimy glasses, which he then charged to the brim with Tokay. The topaz-coloured sweet Hungarian wine has never been to my liking, nor to Holmes’s as far as I am aware, despite his avowals a few moments earlier. Even the few sips I took of it were so sickly that they turned my stomach. Starkey, however, emptied his glass at a gulp, and Holmes duly did the same. Then Starkey helped the two of them to a refill, and these second servings went the way of the first, no less swiftly.

  Around us the room was packed with valuables: porcelain ornaments, fob watches, ormolu clocks, portraits, cameos, carved ivory statuettes, elephant’s-foot umbrella stands, chinoiserie and more. They were piled to the rafters, all in a jumble, as though this were some bric-a-brac shop whose owner had abandoned any attempt at organisation. Whether the items were stolen goods or offerings paid in tribute to Starkey by the locals over whom he held sway, I could not adjudge. What was certain was that none of these possessions were his by right, else he would surely have displayed them with greater care and less haphazardly. We were in some sort of Aladdin’s Cave of loot, a treasure trove of ill-gotten gains.

  “So, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” said Starkey, “what’s all this about Corcoran not being a blower?”

  “I might counter that with a query of my own. What has led you to presume that he is?”

  “Ah well, you see, I’ve had my suspicions about the fellow for some while. Couldn’t put my finger on what was bothering me about him, but something just didn’t sit right. Bloke wanders about the East End all amiable and – what’s the word? Gregarious. Fond of a chat. Free with his cash. It isn’t natural. Nobody’s that nice, not unless he’s after something in return. I’d got to wondering whether he might be a missionary or the like. Gains your trust, then next thing you know, it’s all hallelujahs and ‘Have you been saved?’ But there seemed to be none of that with Black Jack Corcoran. Besides, he’s a dipper, right? No soldier of Christ is going to make a living from the wallet-lifting game, or even pretend to. So I started asking myself, what is he up to? Because there he is, coming the Rothschild with everyone he meets. It’s got to be a put-on, no?”

  “An understandable conclusion.”

  “Absolutely, sir. Absolutely. Corcoran just wasn’t kosher. So what I did, see, was next time he turned up in Shoreditch, I had one of my lads tail him. ‘Go where he goes,’ I said to the fellow. Phantom Phillips, that’s his moniker. Famously good at not being seen, is Phillips. Moves about like a ghost, hence the ‘Phantom’ part. ‘Find out what he does when he’s not playing Lady Bountiful,’ I said to him. So, come the end of the day, Black Jack Corcoran heads off west, and Phantom Phillips is with him, and at first he reckons Corcoran is going to Kensington or Covent Garden, somewhere where there’s crowds of toffs and rich pickings. But no, it’s to Southwark that he travels, and what does he do when he gets there but go into a house. It’s a fairly nice gaff, so says Phillips, small but well-appointed, and Corcoran saunters right in through the front door. Doesn’t go round the back and break a window or anything. So Phillips decides it must be Corcoran’s own house, and he hangs about outside for a time because he’s curious, and then what happens?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Phillips spies Corcoran in an upstairs window,” said Starkey, “only he’s all cleaned up now and he’s put on smartish clothes. And here’s the clincher: he’s not got that eyepatch on any more, and underneath there’s a perfectly good eye. Phillips swears to it. It’s not blank like a pearl. It’s not all red and oozing. It’s certainly not missing. It’s a match for its mate across the other side of his snout. Now who does that? Who dresses up in tatty schmatte and puts an eyepatch on and professes to be a pickpocket and gets people to open up to him? I’m no detective, Mr Holmes, but even I can put two and two together.”

  “The product of your arithmetic being that Corcoran must be reporting back to the police and getting paid for his tip-offs.”

  Starkey spread out his hands. “What else? In my world, everybody has some sort of fiddle going. Corcoran’s is snitching.”

  “So you acted.”

  “Of course I acted. I gathered my lads and I said, ‘You ever see that Black Jack Corcoran, you nab him. Next time he shows his face round these parts,’ I told them, ‘you bring him to me.’”

  “Why not simply instruct them to kidnap Corcoran from his house in Southwark? Surely that would be just as easy, if not easier.”

  “Ah well, you see, I have my turf, and there’s other gangs have their turf, and it doesn’t do for us to cross borders. That’s how trouble starts, isn’t it? Phillips on his own, nobody would notice, sly monkey that he is – but a handful of my men in Southwark? Even just two or three? That’d be considered an incursion, and there’s fellows down there who would definitely take it amiss. Besides, I knew Corcoran would be back round these parts eventually. Like the spider in its web, you wait long enough and you’re patient enough, and the fly will always
come your way in the end. It helped that I put a bounty on his head, a whole sovereign for the bloke who spotted him and dragged him back to the Hive. I told my boys I wanted him in one piece but he didn’t have to be in pristine condition, if you know what I’m saying.”

  I shot a sidelong glance at Holmes. He had been very lucky not to have run into any of Starkey’s mob when posing as Corcoran earlier. By the just perceptible pursing of his lips, I sensed he realised this.

  “Lo and behold,” Starkey continued, “not a day later, who should put in an appearance?”

  “So now Corcoran is your captive,” Holmes said.

  “He may be.”

  “There is no ‘may’ about it, unless you have already killed him.”

  “What do you take me for?” Starkey looked off ended. “The type who’d just casually bump off a man, easy as that?” He snapped his fingers. “You do me a disservice.”

  “No, I imagine that, like a cat, you like to play with your food before dispatching it.”

  “There you might have something.”

  “Is he here? In this building?”

  “What does it matter to you? Why are you so interested in the fellow? Have the coppers sent you to negotiate his release? Is that it? Wouldn’t dare come to fetch their pet themselves so they get a civilian to be their proxy.”

  “I am an independent contractor in this particular affair,” said Holmes. “You have my word on that.”

  Starkey studied him keenly. “A man’s word isn’t worth a breath of wind, not where I’m from.”

  “Where I am from, it is his bond.”

  “I know that, which is what inclines me to believe you. I consider myself a shrewd judge of character, Mr Holmes; and for all that we sit on opposite sides of the fence, morally-wise, I can’t help but think that you’re honest. What do you want Corcoran for anyway?”

  “Let me lay my cards on the table. Corcoran’s real name is Daniel Greensmith and he is instrumental in a case I am presently investigating. When he is not masquerading as Black Jack, he is a journalist. He has never, to the best of my knowledge, colluded with the police. His safe return would very likely enable me to unravel a baffling mystery and clear a woman’s name from suspicion.”

  “You’re asking me to hand him over to you.”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  That, I thought, was Starkey’s personal ethos summed up in a single sentence: what’s in it for me?

  “The opportunity to prove that you can be magnanimous,” said Holmes. “Starkey of the Hive lets a man go free after being persuaded that he has had him apprehended in error.”

  “That’d be admitting I’d made a mistake. Wouldn’t reflect well upon me. A man in my position has got a certain reputation to uphold.”

  “You do not rule this borough by fear alone, do you?”

  “Some would say I do.”

  “I have a feeling that you command a degree of respect amongst the locals. What is this hoard of items around us if not a sign that you are held in some esteem? Here are heirlooms. Here are cherished belongings. Some of them may not have come into the donors’ hands by reputable means, but still they were passed on to you.”

  “Given to me by folk when asking a favour or just hoping to curry favour. I prefer cash but will take valuables in lieu.”

  “You could sell them on but you have chosen not to. You surround yourself with them. They are mementoes. They serve as a daily reminder that you are the king of Shoreditch, with loyal subjects in whose admiration you are happy to bask.”

  “The king of Shoreditch.” Starkey rolled the phrase around his tongue. I could see he liked the sound of it. “Your point being that every once in a while I should prove myself deserving of my crown.”

  “By showing wisdom and clemency,” said Holmes. “No monarch should be Herod all the time. A little Solomon now and then does not go amiss.”

  “Oh, Mr Holmes.” His Royal Highness shook his head, amused. “Don’t think I don’t know a soft-soap job when I see one. You hope that if you keep this up, I’m going to roll over and let you tickle my belly. That’s not my style.”

  “Very well. How about a more tangible incentive then?”

  “Money? You’d buy Corcoran’s life?”

  “Name your price.”

  Starkey weighed the prospect up and rejected it. “I’m not short of money. I have all I could want and more.”

  “Then I can offer a quid pro quo.”

  “I said I’m not short of money.”

  “It is not that kind of quid. Think how I bested your man Maynard.”

  “It is remarkable that you took on an ox like him and triumphed. I’d like to have seen it.”

  “Those fighting skills of mine that he found so confounding,” said Holmes, “I would be willing to pass on to him and the rest of your gang.”

  Starkey inclined his head from side to side in a manner that made me think of a magpie whose eye has been caught by some sparkly object. “Now then, sir. That is a most intriguing proposition. Most intriguing. My boys are a pretty effective lot, as is. Brute force yields results. It’s never a bad thing to have an edge, though. Sometimes we get into clashes with other mobs. Can’t help it, even though we try to respect the boundaries, like I said. We’ve got the Stratford Angels over to the east and the Hackney Butchers up north, both trying to make inroads into our territory. We can see them off, but they outnumber us and they keep coming.” He paused for a moment. “All right then, Mr Holmes. Teach the lads a few of your tricks, and Corcoran – or Greensleeves, or whatever his real name is – is yours.”

  “I have your word on that?” said Holmes.

  “You do.”

  “Yet you have just told us that round here a man’s word is valueless.”

  “Others’ maybe. Not mine.”

  Holmes weighed it up. “Very well. Just know this. Watson and I are both of the sort whose absence would be noted, were we to go missing for some mysterious reason.”

  “I’ll keep that under consideration,” said Starkey.

  “Also,” said Holmes, “there is one condition.”

  “You’re haggling with me?”

  “Simply negotiating the terms of the deal.”

  “Which is another way of saying haggling.”

  “If that is how you care to look at it. I want to see Greensmith first. I want to be sure that you do have him and that he is still alive.”

  “Bless me!” Starkey clapped hand to breast in mock-offence. “It’s as though you do not trust me, even still.”

  “I never purchase goods sight unseen.”

  Starkey chuckled. “That is a sensible philosophy and does you credit. In some respects you are a man after my own heart. Yes, I think I can see my way to doing as you require, but I need a guarantee from you in return that you will honour your side of the bargain.”

  “I promise I shall. A lesson on the finer points of baritsu will be given to any of your men who care to attend.”

  “I’m after a little more than just a promise. Let me put it plainly. Fail to deliver, and the life of your friend here is forfeit.”

  “Unacceptable,” stated Holmes flatly. “My life perhaps, but not Watson’s.”

  “I don’t think you’re the sort who’s too bothered about putting his own neck on the line. The neck of a friend, on the other hand…”

  Holmes looked at me. “Watson, I realise it is asking a lot, but would you be agreeable?”

  “To serve as collateral?” I said. “You can understand I am none too eager.”

  “You will be in no danger. Mr Starkey’s men will have their baritsu lesson; we will gain custody of Greensmith. What can possibly go awry?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MAN IN THE CHAIR

  Out of the Hive we trooped, Holmes, Starkey and I, as the chimes of midnight struck.

  We three were attended by a contingent of Starkey’s men, some dozen of them, all told, march
ing in two groups to the fore and at the rear. These were the least drunk in Starkey’s household, the ones whom their leader could count on to do as ordered without delay or demurral. We must have looked a motley procession to those passers-by who chanced to see us straggling through the night-time streets, and I did my best to maintain a dignified bearing so that, although I was clearly in the company of Starkey and his troops, no one would mistake me for their peer.

  Starkey felt confident enough in his ascendancy over us that he had returned his pistol to his pocket. My service revolver sat snug in mine, nudging against my hip. Starkey remained ignorant of the fact that I was armed, which gave me an ace up my sleeve. I hoped I would not have cause to play it, yet I was all too mindful of the fact that should the situation develop in a way that was to our detriment, I would be first in the firing line.

  Our journey’s end was a warehouse not far from the Hive. Admission was obtained by dint of Starkey letting out a distinctive pattern of knocks which prompted the opening of a door from within by yet another of his men.

  The interior of the building was dusty, draughty and virtually empty, with here and there a lantern affording fitful illumination. I could only infer that Starkey did not use the warehouse for the purposes of storage – at least not the storage of goods and chattels.

  We filed through the building until we came to a kind of cabin at its centre, a crude subsidiary structure thrown together from timber offcuts. It had no windows and was accessible via a door with a lintel so low that out of the three of us who passed through it – Holmes and I, followed by Starkey – only Starkey was not obliged to stoop.

  The cabin’s purpose, as I soon discovered, was to provide additional privacy and sound-proofing, for inside we found a man who was tied to a chair and had been very badly treated. I could only assume this was Daring Dan Greensmith, and he did not look too intrepid just then. His head sagged, and were it not for the ropes binding him he would surely have slumped to the ground in a heap. Bloodstains spattered the floorboards all around him, some old, some fresh, and from what I could see of his face it was a mass of bruises.