There was one quick way to find out.
“Hardie,” I said loudly. “Bert Hardie, are you here?” It was not quite a shout, for I had no wish to bring any staff running, but loud enough to carry across the room. For a moment, silence prevailed. Then, to my delight, the already familiar, confident tones of my cellmate rang out in reply.
“John? Is that you?”
The voice had come from the bed directly in front of me. I hobbled over as quickly as I could in my untied shoes and pulled back the curtain. Hardie sat, propped up on a pillow folded in half, with his hands behind his head. His face was bruised from just below the left eye socket to the chin, and the right was closed completely in a puffy, purple bruise, but otherwise he appeared in no worse health than normal.
“I bet I look a pretty sight,” he grinned. “Better than you, though, I hope.”
Up until that point I had not considered the blows I had taken to my cheek, but now I reached up and touched the tenderest part, swiftly pulling my hand away with a wince as I felt the bone beneath the skin shift painfully.
“Yeah, best not to touch,” Hardie said sympathetically. “I asked the doctor about you when we got here, and he said we’d got off lucky. Just bruises for me, and a bust cheekbone and bashed ribs for you. I can tell you, I was glad to hear that.”
I was touched, I admit, that he had thought to enquire after me, especially since his own wounds were the result of our new friendship and thus, if only inadvertently, my fault.
He waved a hand at the base of his bed and I gratefully lowered myself onto it, ignoring the sharp pains brought on by the movement. I suspected we would not have long to talk before the doctor or, more probably, a guard, discovered I had left my own bed and escorted me back there.
“What happened?” I asked. I could remember nothing beyond the end of the attack, and the broad-shouldered prisoner who had come to our assistance. “How did we get here?”
“Another bit of luck,” said Hardie. “If you weren’t pals with Matty Galloway, I reckon things would’ve gone a damn sight worse.”
“Matty Galloway?”
“The big bloke who pulled Ikey Collins off you and sent his boys running.” He squinted up at me with his one good eye. “You telling me you don’t even know who it was saved us? You don’t know Matty Galloway?”
The name was naggingly familiar, but my head was heavy and sore, and I could bring no details to mind. Hardie caught my look of uncertainty and shook his head with a smile, evidently amused by my ignorance.
“Matty Galloway is the boss of the biggest gang of crooks in the country! The most dangerous man in London, I heard. And you say you’ve never heard his name?”
As he spoke my memory began to clear, and I realised that I did know something about Galloway after all. Any man with access to a newspaper would at least have heard of Matty Galloway in those days, and if his name is forgotten now, well, that is no cause for complaint. I called to mind the reports I had read of his exploits. He was suspected of ordering the deaths of over a dozen men, and of committing half as many murders again with his own hands. But why had so large a fish been deposited in so small a pond as Holloway Prison? And why had he come to my aid? I put both questions to Hardie, speaking quickly, for I could hear footsteps approaching our little nook.
“He’s to go on trial soon, I heard. Caught red-handed, they say. Not that that matters a jot.”
“But why would such a man help me – us? I’m certain I’ve never met him, and no criminal in London would be inclined to lift a finger to assist me.”
As soon as I spoke I realised I had said too much. The smile faded from Hardie’s face and, for the first time since we had met, he frowned.
“What makes you say that? Here, wait a mo. You’re not a lawyer, are you?”
With no good answer to hand, I grasped Hardie’s suggestion with enthusiasm.
“Something like that. I worked with the police on a few cases, at least. Let’s leave it at that.”
Hardie’s expression made it clear that he was not completely satisfied, but any further questions would have to wait. Hearing the footsteps stop outside the curtains, I pushed myself to my feet with a groan just as they were drawn back, revealing the guard Shapley.
“What do you think you’re up to, Watson? Who said you was allowed to go wandering about?”
He grabbed me by the arm and roughly pushed me back towards my own bed, taking no notice of the moan I was unable to suppress as my damaged ribs banged against his elbow.
“This ain’t one of your cosy Knightsbridge clinics, Watson. Now get back in that bed before I tell the doctor that there’s nothing wrong with you that a night in a punishment cell wouldn’t cure.” He grinned with pleasure at the thought, exposing his large yellow teeth. “Might come to that anyway, if I know the governor. He don’t care for prisoners starting fights, not at all. If I was you I’d keep my head down and do exactly as I was told for the foreseeable. Maybe that way he’ll turn a blind eye. And maybe he won’t.”
With that he shoved me against my bed and, reaching down, pulled the shoes from my feet. He tucked them under his arm, with a final wide grin. “I’ll keep hold of these for now, shall I? Give them to the doctor to keep an eye on, just in case you take a fancy to another stroll.”
He stepped backwards, and pulled the curtains closed behind him. I was left alone again, but now there were several new mysteries to occupy my mind. Who was Ikey Collins, and why had he tried to kill me? And why had an infamous criminal saved my life? I wished that Holmes were beside me. More than ever, I had need of his great intellect.
Chapter Seven
My sojourn in the hospital was, unfortunately, all too brief. Within a few hours, Shapley reappeared alongside a man in a white coat, whom I assumed was a doctor, though as he spoke not a word in my direction, I could not be sure. Whoever he was, it seemed he had deemed Hardie and myself fit enough to return to our cell. Shapley took great delight in rousing us from our beds and, with a wicked grin that never left his face, attached shackles to our wrists (though, thankfully, not to our ankles). Thus encumbered, we passed out of the hospital building, which stood separate from the main buildings, and by a convoluted route made our way back to the cramped cell which was our home. We had missed dinner. Shapley ignored my request that some sustenance be found for us, and locked us in, still hungry. I saw his face in the glass door panel for a second, then he was gone. Hardie muttered a curse under his breath, and reached down to the hiding place he had made beneath his bunk.
“I don’t think he likes you,” he said.
“You may be right.” I pressed a hand against my aching ribs, and smiled weakly at the youngster. “Though he is by no means unique in that respect.”
“Never mind, eh? A drop of this’ll help.”
I received the offered jar gratefully, and took a long sip of the rough alcohol. My taste buds had been sufficiently numbed, so that it slipped down far better than I expected, and its warming glow was enough to dull both the pain in my chest and the hunger pangs in my stomach. I passed the half-empty jar back to Hardie and lay back on the hard bed, considering recent events.
“You said that our attacker’s name is Collins. Is that right?”
“That’s him. Waiting to be tried for fencing stolen watches down Whitechapel, I hear.”
The name was unfamiliar and, rack my brain as I might, I could think of no occasion when our paths had crossed. I was sure that I would have remembered so distinct a face, even had his name never come up. So why had he attacked me?
I said as much to Hardie, expecting no reply, but once again the boy surprised me.
“Paid to do it, as like as not,” he said with a peculiar look on his face, part concerned frown and part puzzled amusement. “Though who’d pay to knock off you, John? What with you being but an unfortunate fellow, innocent as the day is long and with a grudge against no man, and no man with a grudge against you?”
As he spoke, his ever-presen
t smile grew wider and wider. I confess I was becoming irritated by his attitude. What was there to smile about? Whatever the motive of Mr. Collins, it was clear that I would be in danger every moment I was outside my cell. Hardie, though, was not finished.
“But the famous Dr. Watson, though – now there’s a man who might have an enemy or two behind bars, eh? I bet him and his great pal Sherlock Holmes have placed a man or two behind these walls? And some of them might be willing to pay to have him knocked off, I reckon.”
Finally, he could contain his mirth no longer and a laugh, louder and deeper than I would have thought possible in such a young man, burst from his lips.
“You must think us all real fools, if you thought you could keep that hid for long. I knew as soon as you said about working with the police. Haven’t I seen your likeness in The Strand often enough?”
“You read The Strand?” The doubt in my voice would have been insulting in other circumstances, but Hardie seemed to take no offence, and instead laughed all the louder.
“You think a guttersnipe like me wouldn’t be able to read at all, don’t you? And even if I could, I’d stick to the penny dreadfuls and leave the rest to my betters. That’s the way of it, isn’t it, John?”
I half shook my head and half nodded, uncertain what to say. “Not at all,” I ventured at last. “In fact, I had noticed that you are quite well spoken for a…” I hesitated, for I had no wish to insult further the only friend I had in this benighted place.
“…a guttersnipe, like I said,” Hardie concluded for me, but I was relieved to see the smile never left his battered face. “And I reckon I am, too. Well spoken, that is. Or can be, when I need to be, which is as good as. Didn’t I tell you that I spread my wings after my pals all got locked up or left town?” He took a fresh sip from the jar, then handed it across to me. “One of the neighbours taught me to read when I was a kid, and it wasn’t hard to pick up the way the likes of you speak. I was going to go into the confidence game, like that Stone. Swell clothes and as much food and drink as you want, that’s the game for me. But,” he concluded with a shrug, “that copper put paid to that, didn’t he?”
There was no self-pity in Hardie’s voice, I was pleased to note. More than ever, I resolved to do what I could for the boy once my life had returned to normal. “I would not grieve that particular lost opportunity too much,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, the matter apparently of no genuine concern. “Either way, let’s figure out who in here would be most interested in having the famous Dr. Watson killed.”
“Who can say? I doubt there is a list of other prisoners readily available to us, but I shall definitely ask Holmes” – my voice dropped to a whisper as I mentioned his name – “to see if he can obtain one. Though if, as you suggest, Collins was hired to do the deed, then I must needs be cautious at all times and in all places.”
The thought was an unpleasant one, and I brooded in silence, considering how easily I had fallen from grace, and how little weight had been given to my good character and the assistance I had provided the authorities over the years.
Hardie’s voice interrupted these dark thoughts.
“I can ask around. Be the Watson to your Holmes.”
The offer was sincerely made, and the comparison made me smile, but it was one I knew I could never accept. Bad enough that someone wished me harm, far worse if Hardie too became a target. I said so to the youngster and he took the rebuff well enough, grumbling only a little before agreeing to be guided by me in the matter.
“With some luck – and the assistance of Holmes – I hope to be free of this place within a few days at most,” I reassured him. “In the meantime, I will keep to this cell as much as I can, and ensure that I am in sight of a warder at all times when I must be outside.”
He seemed to accept this, though I could tell he was not entirely happy. The night was drawing in and it was becoming difficult to make out even the approximate figure of my cellmate, not six feet distant. And so, wincing a little at my various aches, I lay back and waited for sleep to come.
Chapter Eight
The regulations of the prison were clear, and it was they that allowed me to speak with such confidence of staying clear of trouble. Prisoners were confined to their cells except at those times when they were engaged in official prison activities, which in reality meant time spent in the exercise area, the chapel or at interview. On every such occasion, a guard was detailed to escort the prisoner to the activity in question, and then to bring him back again. Hardie had hinted that there were ways around these strictures, but I had no intention of testing the limits of my freedom, or lack of it, and had resigned myself to spending the greater part of every day locked in the same small room.
When our cell door opened on the morning of the following day, therefore, I was a little surprised, but assumed I was to be taken to see the governor again, or something of that nature. I looked up as the door swung back, but in place of the guard I expected, there stood two men in prison uniform. Hardie gave a strangled cry and jumped to his feet, the empty bottle from the night before gripped in his hand like a club, but before he could so much as raise it in anger, one of the men – a tall, heavy-set individual with a tattoo of a dragon curling from his collar along the nape of his neck – took a step inside and twisted it from his grasp. He stood over the boy as the other came inside, to be followed by the unmistakable figure of Matty Galloway.
Precisely, Galloway half-turned and pressed the door closed.
He smiled at me coldly and indicated with a nod that I should be brought to my feet. The silent pair who held me obeyed unhurriedly but effectively, twisting my arms across my back as they levered me up.
“Good day, Dr. Watson,” Galloway said. His voice was quiet, almost reserved, as though he were speaking in a church or a library, but there was nothing timorous about him. He held himself with the confidence of a leader, secure in a place of his choosing and under his control, without arrogance but also without undue humility. This prison was his kingdom and I was an outsider. I knew that I was in greater danger at that moment than I had been at any point since the commencement of this whole nightmarish affair.
“Good morning,” I replied, after a moment. “Mr… Galloway?”
“You phrase that as a question, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Would you have me believe you don’t know my identity? Have I so misjudged my own fame, would you say, that I expect my name at least to be known to all inside this establishment?”
He leaned forward, until his face was mere inches from my own. “Is my delusion so great, Doctor?” he asked, his breath hot on my cheek.
There was nothing I could think to say, and the silence grew uncomfortably long. I tensed the muscles in my arms and rocked backwards as I had been taught, determined to give some account of myself at least, when Galloway broke the tension by laughing.
He straightened and nodded once more at the men who held me. I felt the pressure on my arms slacken. I relaxed a little, but remained vigilant.
“You have pluck, I’ll give you that,” Galloway smiled, with genuine warmth, I fancied. “Intended to go down swinging, did you? I admire that in a man; ask anyone here. Give me pluck in the face of certain doom over brains or cunning any day. You always know where you stand with a plucky man.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit two gaspers and handed me one, indicating to my two minders that I might now be released entirely.
“Sit down, Dr. Watson. You and I, we need to have a chat. Thing is, it seems to me that I’ve reason to thank you, and because of that, in return you might say, I’m going to explain some things to you. Things which might come in handy, if you hope to survive in this place.”
Oddly, he reminded me now of Holmes at a crime scene, intent only on the matter at hand, but aware of everything around him – every breath of air, every discarded object, every human being – which might prove of importance. The two men who had
held me might as well not have been there at all. At that moment, in that place, there was only Matty Galloway and myself.
“The problem you have, Doctor, is a certain blindness when it comes to the criminal classes. I’ve followed your cases, you see, read every edition of The Strand, every newspaper report, even had my lads outside ferret out bits and pieces which don’t ever get written down. And it seems to me that you and your Mr. Sherlock Holmes only recognise two types of criminals. Just two. First, you’ve got your thug, your lumpish brute, straight out the rookeries and the slums, cosh in one hand and knife in the other. No brains, only brawn, so not often of interest to gents such as yourselves, but at least you recognise their existence. That sort’s your muggers and your bug-hunters, your lurkers and your bludgers. Second are the ones you do take an interest in. Gents – or near as, from where I’m standing. Educated fellows, with nice houses and nicer manners, but with something missing inside, something that stops the others from turning bad. That’s your blackmailers and your magsmen, Dr. Watson, your fraudsters and confidence men – the sort that Mr. Holmes eats up for breakfast and again for tea.”
I tried to interject, to ask what he was leading up to, but he held up a hand and his companions again gripped my arms painfully.
“Let me finish, if you don’t mind, Doctor. You will have your chance to ask questions. Indeed, I hope you shall, for as I say, I do feel that I owe you a good turn, and I’d like to give you all the information you need.” He inhaled deeply from his cigarette then flicked the half-smoked remnant into a dark corner. “Don’t get me wrong, though. I say you only admit of two types of criminal but there are other… singular souls out there who, I’m sure, must have crossed your path. I do not speak of them, for each of those must be judged on his own specific talents – and besides, there are none such in here, nor ever likely to be. Men like that don’t allow themselves to be imprisoned.” He sighed, and seemed to lapse into meditation for a period. Then, “No, what you need to know, what you need to recognise, is a final class of criminal, one you will most likely meet in this place. Indeed, one you are meeting at this very moment. For that matter, our paths have crossed before now, though you didn’t know it. I am of that type, Dr. Watson. For me, crime is neither a thuggish display of strength, nor a matter of cruelty and deception. For me crime’s a business. There’s no anger in what I do, just a desire to do what’s best for me and those who work for me. If a label is needed, then think of me as a… shopkeeper.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 6